29022	----	images generously made available by Internet Archive (http://www.archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 29022-h.htm or 29022-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/29022/29022-h/29022-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/29022/29022-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See http://www.archive.org/details/mrpunchawheelhum00londuoft MR. PUNCH AWHEEL. The Humours of Motoring and Cycling. Illustration: MR PUNCH AWHEEL * * * * * PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR Edited by J. A. HAMMERTON Designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself, the cream of our national humour, contributed by the masters of comic draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to "Punch," from its beginning in 1841 to the present day. MR. PUNCH AWHEEL * * * * * Illustration: _Owner of violently palpitating motor car._ "There's no need to be alarmed. It will be all right as soon as I've discovered the what-d'ye-call-it!" * * * * * MR. PUNCH AWHEEL. The Humours of Motoring and Cycling. As Pictured by PHIL MAY, L. RAVEN HILL, BERNARD PARTRIDGE, TOM BROWNE, A. S. BOYD, H. M. BROCK, C. E. BROCK, GUNNING KING, CHARLES PEARS, G. D. ARMOUR, G. H. JALLAND, FRED PEGRAM, F. H. TOWNSEND, G. L. STAMPA, LANCE THACKERAY, AND OTHERS. With 120 Illustrations Published by Arrangement with the Proprietors of "Punch" The Educational Book Co. Ltd. * * * * * THE PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR _Twenty-five volumes, crown 8vo, 192 pages fully illustrated._ LIFE IN LONDON COUNTRY LIFE IN THE HIGHLANDS SCOTTISH HUMOUR IRISH HUMOUR COCKNEY HUMOUR IN SOCIETY AFTER DINNER STORIES IN BOHEMIA AT THE PLAY MR. PUNCH AT HOME ON THE CONTINONG RAILWAY BOOK AT THE SEASIDE MR. PUNCH AFLOAT IN THE HUNTING FIELD MR. PUNCH ON TOUR WITH ROD AND GUN MR. PUNCH AWHEEL BOOK OF SPORTS GOLF STORIES IN WIG AND GOWN ON THE WARPATH BOOK OF LOVE WITH THE CHILDREN * * * * * EDITOR'S NOTE. Among the characteristics which are essentially British, is the tendency to receive almost any innovation, be it a new style of dress or a new method of locomotion, with some degree of distrust which shows itself in satirical criticism; to be followed soon after by the acceptance of the accomplished fact and complete approval. In this trait of our national character, as in all others, MR. PUNCH proves himself a true born Britisher. When the bicycle was first coming into popularity, he seemed rather to resent the innovation, and was more ready to see the less attractive side of cycling than its pleasures and its practical advantages. So, too, with the automobile. Only recently has MR. PUNCH shown some tendency to become himself an enthusiast of the whirling wheel. This diffidence in joining the ranks of the cyclists or the motorists is due entirely to MR. PUNCH'S goodness of heart and his genuine British love of liberty. The cycling scorcher and the motoring road-hog are two abominations which he most naturally holds in the greatest contempt. Against them he is never tired of directing his most scathing satire; but while this is entirely praiseworthy it tends a little to give a false impression of his attitude towards two of the most delightful sports which modern ingenuity has invented. After all, the scorcher and the road-hog are the least representative followers of the sports which their conduct brings into question, and it is very easy to over-estimate their importance. For that reason, in the compiling of the present volume the editor has endeavoured to make a selection which will show MR. PUNCH in his real attitude towards motoring and cycling, in which, of course, it is but natural and all to our delight that he should see chiefly their humours, so largely the result of misadventure. But as he has long since ceased to jibe at the lady who cycles or to regard male cyclists as "cads on castors,"--in the phrase of Edmund Yates,--and ceased also to view the motor car as an ingenious device for public slaughter, his adverse views have not in the present volume been unduly emphasised. * * * * * MR. PUNCH AWHEEL ENTERPRISING PRO-MOTOR. One of our special correspondents started out to try the effect of taking notes from his motor-car whilst proceeding at top-speed. The experiment took place in June; but we have only just received the following account of the result. "Started away and turned on full head of smell--steam, I mean. Over Southwark Bridge, fizz, kick, bang, rattle! Flew along Old Kent Road; knocked down two policemen on patrol duty ('Knocked 'em in the Old Kent Road'); fizzed on through New Cross and Lewisham at awful nerve-destroying, sobbing pace, 'toot toot-ing' horn all the way. No good, apparently, to some people, who would not, or possibly _could_ not, get out of the way. Cannoned milk-cart entering Eltham village, ran into 'bus, but shot off it again, at a tangent, up on to the footpath, frightening old lady into hysterics. Onwards we went, leaping and flying past everything on the road, into open country. Ran over dog and three chickens, and saw tandem horses take fright and bolt; dust flew, people yelled at us and we yelled at people. Came round sharp corner on to donkey standing in road. 'Boosted' him up into the air and saw him fall through roof of outhouse! Whirr-r-up! bang! rattle! fizz-izz--Bust!" "Where am I?--Oh, in hospital--oh, really?--Seems nice clean sort of place.--How long----? Oh, been here about six weeks--have I, really? And what----? Oh, _both_ arms, you say?--and left leg? Ah--by the way, do you know anyone who wants to buy a motor----? What, no motor left?--By Jove! that's funny, isn't it?--Well, I think I'll go to sleep again now." * * * * * _Ethel_ (_with book_). "What's an autocrat, Mabel?" _Mabel._ "Person who drives an auto-car, of course, silly." * * * * * THE BEST LUBRICANT FOR CYCLES.--Castor oil. * * * * * Illustration: "Wouldn't yer like ter 'ave one o' them things, Liza Ann?" "No. I wouldn't be seen on one. I don't think they're nice for lidies!" * * * * * MOTOR QUESTIONS What rushes through the crowded street With whirring noise and throbbing beat, Exhaling odours far from sweet? The motor-car. Whose wheels o'er greasy asphalte skim, Exacting toll of life and limb, (What is a corpse or so to _him_)? The motorist's. Who flies before the oily gust Wafted his way through whirling dust, And hopes the beastly thing will bust? The pedestrian. Who thinks that it is scarcely fair To have to pay for road repair While sudden death lies lurking there? The ratepayer. Who as the car goes whizzing past At such law-breaking stands aghast, (For forty miles an hour _is_ fast)? The policeman. Who hears the case with bland surprise, And over human frailty sighs, The while he reads between the lies? The magistrate. * * * * * Illustration: FICKLE FORTUNE "And only yesterday I was fined five pounds for driving at excessive speed!" * * * * * Illustration: IN DORSETSHIRE _Fair Cyclist._ "Is this the way to Wareham, please?" _Native._ "Yes, miss, yew seem to me to ha' got 'em on all right!" * * * * * SO UNSELFISH!--"Oh yes, I gave my husband a motor-car on his birthday." "But I thought he didn't like motor-cars!" "He doesn't. But I _do_!" * * * * * _Q._ Why is the lady bikist of an amorous disposition? _A._ Because she is a sigh-cling creature. * * * * * Illustration: CROWDED OUT.--_Stage-struck Coster_ (_to his dark-coloured donkey_). "Othello, Othello, _your_ occupation 'll soon be gone!" * * * * * HINTS FOR BIKING BEGINNERS 1. Insure your life and limbs. The former will benefit your relations, the latter yourself. 2. Learn on a hired machine. The best plan is to borrow a machine from a friend. It saves hiring. Should the tyre become punctured, the brake be broken, the bell cracked, the lamp missing, and the gear out of gear, you will return it as soon as possible, advising your friend to provide himself with a stronger one next time. 3. Practise on some soft and smooth ground. For example, on a lawn; the one next door for choice. A muddy road, although sufficiently soft, is not recommended--the drawbacks are obvious. 4. Choose a secluded place for practising. It may at first sight appear somewhat selfish to deprive your neighbours of a gratuitous performance which would be certain to amuse them. Nevertheless, be firm. 5. Get someone to hold you on. Engage a friend in an interesting conversation while you mount your bicycle. Do you remember _Mr. Winkle's_ dialogue with _Sam Weller_ when he attempted skating? You can model your conversation on this idea. Friend will support you while you ride and talk. Keep him at it. It will be excellent exercise for _him_, physically and morally. Also economical for _you_; as, otherwise, you would have to pay a runner. 6. Don't bike; trike. * * * * * A NEW TERROR.--_Johnson._ Hullo, Thompson, you look peekish. What's wrong? _Thompson._ The vibration of motor-carring has got on my liver. _Johnson._ I see, automobilious! * * * * * ON THE BRIGHTON ROAD.--_Cyclist_ (_to owner of dog over which he has nearly ridden_). Take your beast out of my way! What right has he here? _Owner._ Well, he pays seven and sixpence a year for the privilege of perambulation, and _you_ pay nothing! * * * * * THE VERY OLDEST MOTOR-CAR.--The whirligig of time. * * * * * Illustration: "Hi! Whip behind!" "Yah! 'E ain't got none!" * * * * * Illustration: ADDING INSULT TO INJURY.--_Tramp Photographer._ "Now, sir, just as you are for a shillin'!" [_And little Binks, who prides himself upon his motor driving, is trying his best to get his wife to promise not to tell anyone about the smash._] * * * * * A QUESTION OF ETIQUETTE Dear Mr. Punch,--Knowing you to be a past master in the art of courtesy, I venture to submit the following hard case to your judgment. The other morning, being a none too experienced cyclist, I ventured into the Park on my "wheel" at an early hour, thinking to have a little practice unobserved. Judge of my horror when, as I was wobbling along, I was suddenly confronted by the Duchess of Xminster and her daughters, all expert riders! Her Grace and the Ladies Wiseacre bowed to me in the most affable way, but, afraid to leave go of the handles of my machine, I could only NOD in return. And I have always been renowned for the elegance with which I remove my _chapeau_! These noble ladies have since cut me dead. I cannot blame them, but I venture to suggest, for your approval, that the raising of the right elbow, such as is practised by coachmen, gentle and simple, should be adopted by all cyclists. I think that I could manage the movement. Yours in social despair, AMELIUS AMBERGRIS _Bayswater._ * * * * * Illustration: _Cow-boy_ (_to young lady who has taken refuge_). "Would you mind openin' the gate, miss? They're a-comin' in there." * * * * * An admirable improvement in motor-cars is about to be introduced by one of our leading firms. Cars are frequently overturned, and the occupants buried underneath. In future, on the bottom of every car made by the firm in question there will be engraved the words, "Here lies----," followed by a blank space, which can be filled up by the purchaser. * * * * * _He._ "Do you belong to the Psychical Society?" _She._ "No; but I sometimes go out on my brother's machine!" * * * * * Illustration: WHEEL AND WOE.--A Brooklyn inventor has patented a cycle-hearse. * * * * * Illustration: UNLICENSED PEDALLERS.--Cyclists. * * * * * TO MARIE, RIDING MY BICYCLE Brake, brake, brake On my brand-new tyre, Marie! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fishmonger's boy That his tricycle's mean and squalid; O well for the butcher lad That the tyres of his wheel are solid! And the reckless scorchers scorch With hanging purple heads, But O for the tube that is busted up And the tyre that is cut to shreds. Brake, brake, brake-- Thou hast broken indeed, Marie, And the rounded form of my new Dunlop Will never come back to me. * * * * * A SUGGESTION IN NOMENCLATURE.--The old name of "Turnpike Roads" has, long ago, with the almost universal disappearance of the ancient turnpikes, become obsolete. Nowadays, bicycles being "always with us," why not for "Turnpike Roads" substitute "Turn-bike roads"? This ought to suit the "B. B. P.," or "Bicycling British Public." * * * * * Illustration: "Oh, did you see a gentleman on a bicycle as you came up?" "No; but I saw a man sitting at the bottom of the hill mending an old umbrella!" * * * * * THAT BICYCLE LAMP The other Sunday afternoon I rode over on my bicycle to see the Robinsons. They live seven miles away. Tomkins and others were there. People who live in remote country places always seem pleased to see a fellow creature, but Robinson and his wife are unusually hospitable and good-natured. After I had had some tea, and thought of leaving, a hobnail was discovered in the tyre of Tomkin's bicycle. He, being very athletic, was playing croquet, a game which requires vast muscular strength. However, he said that his tyres were something quite new, and that in one minute one man, or even one child, could stick one postage-stamp, or anything of the sort, over that puncture and mend it. So all the rest of us and the butler, principally the butler, who is an expert in bicycles, went at it vigorously, and after we had all worked for nearly an hour the tyre was patched up, and Tomkins, having finished his game, rode coolly away. I was going to do the same, but Robinson wouldn't hear of it--I must stay to dinner. I said I had no lamp for riding home in the dark. He would lend me his. I said I should have to dine in knickerbockers. That didn't matter in the country. So I stayed till 9.30. The next Sunday I rode over again. I started directly after lunch, lest I should seem to have come to dinner, and I gave the butler that lamp directly I arrived. But it was all no good, for I stayed till 10, and had to borrow it again. "Bring it back to-morrow morning," said Robinson, "and help us with our hay-making." Again dined in knickerbockers. On Monday I resolved to be firm. I would leave by daylight. Rode over early. After some indifferent hay-making and some excellent lunch, I tried to start. No good. Robinson carried me off to a neighbour's tennis-party. After we returned from that, he said I must have some dinner. Couldn't ride home all those seven miles starving. Knickerbockers didn't matter. Again dined there and rode home at 10.30. So I still have Robinson's lamp. Now I want to know how I am going to get it back to his house. If I have it taken by anybody else he will think I don't care to come, which would be quite a mistake. Have vowed that I will not dine there again except in proper clothes. If I cross his hospitable threshold, even before breakfast, I shall never get away before bedtime. Can't ride seven miles in evening dress before breakfast even in the country. Besides, whatever clothes I wore, I should never be able to leave by daylight. I should still have his lamp. Can't take a second lamp. Would look like inviting myself to dinner. So would the evening clothes at breakfast. What is to be done? * * * * * Illustration: THE RETORT CURTEOUS.--_Motorist_ (_cheerfully--to fellow-guest in house party_). "What luck? Killed anything?" _Angler_ (_bitterly_). "No. Have you?" * * * * * Illustration: _Vicar's Daughter._ "Oh, Withers, your mistress tells me you are saving up to take a little shop and look after your mother. I think it is such a sweet idea!" _Withers._ "Well, yes, miss, I did think of it; but now I've got the money I've changed my mind, and I'm going to buy myself one of these 'ere bicycles instead!" * * * * * Illustration: A STORY WITHOUT WORDS * * * * * Illustration: THE INFERENCE.--_Giles_ (_who has been rendering "first aid" to wrecked motor-cyclist_). "Naw, marm, I doan't think as 'e be a married man, 'cos 'e says _this_ be the worst thing wot 'as ever 'appened to un!" * * * * * Illustration: SAVING THE SITUATION _Effie_ (_to whom a motor-brougham is quite a novelty_). "Oh, mummy dear, look! There's a footman and a big coachman on the box, and there isn't a horse or even a pony! What _are_ they there for?" _Mummy dear_ (_not well versed in electricity and motor-mechanism_). "Well, you see, Effie dear--the--(_by a happy inspiration_) but, dear, you're not old enough to understand." * * * * * The _Daily Mail_ has discovered that the "Motor-Cough" is "caused by the minute particles of dust raised by motor-cars which lodge themselves in the laryngeal passage." If people _will_ use their gullets as garages, what can they expect? * * * * * Illustration: _Horsey Wag_ (_to Mr. and Mrs. Tourey, who are walking up a hill_). "And do you always take your cycles with you when you go for a walk?" * * * * * IN EAST DORSETSHIRE.--_Cyclist (to Native)._ How many miles am I from Wimborne? _Native._ I dunno. _Cyclist._ Am I near Blandford? _Native._ I dunno. _Cyclist (angrily)._ Then what do you know? _Native._ I dunno. [_Cyclist speeds to No Man's Land in the New Forest._ * * * * * OUR BARTERERS BICYCLE.--Thoroughly heavy, lumbering, out-of-date machine, recently doctored up to look like new, for sale. Cost, second-hand, six years ago, £4. Will take £12 for it. Bargain. Would suit a dyspeptic giant, or a professional strong man in want of violent exercise. SAFETY CYCLE.--Pneumatic tyres. A real beauty. Makers well known in Bankruptcy Court. Owner giving up riding in consequence of the frame being thoroughly unsafe, and the tyres constantly bursting. Would exchange for one of Broadwood's grand pianos or a freehold house in the country. * * * * * Illustration: THE ? OF THE DAY.--Should there be a speed (and dust) limit? * * * * * THE QUEEN'S HIGHWAY.--_Infuriated Cyclist_ (_after a collision with a fast-trotting dog-cart_). I shall summon you to-morrow! I've as much right on the road as you, Jehu! _Irate Driver._ And I shall summon _you_! This thoroughfare's mine as well as yours, let me tell you, Scorcher! _Pedestrian_ (_who has been nearly killed by the collision, and is lying prostrate after being cannoned on to the path, very feebly_). And what about me, gentlemen? Have I any right of way? * * * * * The constant strain of driving motor-cars is said to be responsible for a form of nervous break-down which shows a decided tendency to increase. One certainly comes across a number of cars afflicted in this way. * * * * * "PIKES AND BIKES" (_By a "riding Poet"_) In years gone by our sires would try To abrogate the highway "pikes." No tolls to-day, can bar the way, But freeing of the road brought "bikes"; And there are many Northern Tykes, Who would prefer the "pikes" to "bikes." * * * * * Illustration: _Old Lady_ (_describing a cycling accident_). "'E 'elped me hup, an' brushed the dust orf on me, an' put five shillin' in my 'and, an' so I says, 'Well, sir, I'm sure you're _hactin'_ like a gentleman,' I says, 'though I don't suppose you are one,' I says." * * * * * A motor-car, proceeding along the High Street the other evening, took fright, it is supposed, at a constable on point-to-point duty, and exploded, blowing the occupants in various directions over the adjoining buildings. The policeman is to be congratulated upon averting what might have been a serious accident. * * * * * A well-known motorist has been complaining of the campaign waged against motor-cars by humorous artists, who never seem to tire of depicting accidents. "One common and ludicrous error in many drawings," he said, "is the placing of the driver on the wrong side of the car." But surely, in an accident, that is just where he would find himself. * * * * * _Sympathetic Lady._ "I hope you had a good holiday, Miss Smith." _Overworked Dressmaker._ "Oh yes, my lady. I took my machine with me, you know!" _S. L._ "What a pity; you should give up needle and thread when you're out for a----" _O. D._ "Oh, I don't mean my sewing machine! I refer to my bicycle!" * * * * * Illustration: SCENE--_A remote district in the Wolds._ _Driver of Motor-car_ (_who has just pulled up in response to urgent summons from countrywoman_). "Well, what's the matter? What is it?" _Countrywoman._ "Hi, man, look! You've been an' left yer 'oss on the 'ill!" * * * * * THE CYCLING GOVERNESS I no longer teach my classes Their Shakespeare and the glasses, And the uses of the globes, as was my custom; But all they'll learn from me Is to ride the iron gee-- All other lessons utterly disgust 'em! The girls no more will meddle With the painful piano-pedal, They'll only touch the pedal of their "Humber"; Like their grannies, they begin At an early age to "spin," But the road it is their spinning-wheels encumber. So wheeling now my trade is, And finishing young ladies In the proper kind of bicycling deportment; _I_'m nearly finished, too, And battered black and blue, For of falls I've had a pretty large assortment! * * * * * WOE ON THE WHEEL. There was a "scorching" girl, who came down an awful purl, And scarified her nose, and scarred her forehead. She thought, when first she rode, biking very, _very_ good, But now she considers it horrid! * * * * * Illustration: _Winny_ (_one mile an hour_) _to Annie_ (_two miles an hour_). "Scorcher!" * * * * * THE FAVOURITE OF THE MOTOR-CARS.--_Pet_roleum. * * * * * In England, says a French writer, motoring is not considered a sport because it does not involve killing anything. This is but one more example of Continental aspersion. * * * * * As a result of his trip over the Gordon-Bennett course, the Roman Catholic Archbishop of Dublin now recommends the motor-car for pastoral visits. This will be no new thing. For years past some people have looked on the motor-car in the light of a visitation. * * * * * CYCLING CONUNDRUM.--_Q._ What article of the cyclist girl's attire do a couple of careless barbers recall to mind? _A._ A pair of nickers. * * * * * Motorists are still expressing their indignation at a recent disgraceful incident when one of their number, because he could not pay a fine at once, was taken to prison, and forced to don ugly convict garb in the place of his becoming goggles and motor coat. * * * * * Illustration: _Engineer._ "There's certainly a screw loose somewhere." _Simple Simon_ (_with gleeful satisfaction_). "He-he! I knaws where 't be too!" _Car Owner_ (_intensely interested_). "What do you mean, boy?" _Simple Simon._ "He-he! Why I've got 'un! All the folks say as 'ow I've got a screw loose somewheres!" * * * * * WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS _Dialogue between two Young Gentlemen, dressed in Knickerbocker Suits, Gaiters, and Golf caps. They have the indescribable air which proclaims the votary of the "Bike"._ _First Young Gentleman._ Yes; I certainly agree with the French view of it. Cycling shouldn't be indulged in without care. _Second Y. G._ They say in Paris that no one should become an habitual cyclist without "medical authorisation." _First Y. G._ Yes. Quite right. Then, when you are permitted, you ought to travel at a moderate pace. About five miles an hour is quite enough for a beginner. _Second Y. G._ Enough! Why, too much! You can't be too careful! Then, if you break off for a time, you ought to begin all over again. You should "gradually acquire speed"; not rush at it! _First Y. G._ Certainly. I read in the _Lancet_ only the other day that merely increasing the pace of a bike a couple of miles an hour was sufficient to send up the normal pulse to 150! _Second Y. G._ Most alarming! And yet I can see from your costume you are a cyclist. _First Y. G._ Not at all. I am pleased with the costume, and, like yourself, have adopted it. Now do not laugh at me. But, between ourselves, I have never been on a bicycle in my life! _Second Y. G._ No more have I! [_Curtain._ * * * * * Illustration: "ENOUGH IS AS GOOD AS A FEAST."--_Nervous Lady Cyclist._ "I hope it isn't very deep here." _Ferryman._ "Sax hunderd an' fefty-nine feet, Miss." * * * * * The provincial journal which, the other day, published the following paragraph:--"Private letters from Madagascar state that two cyclists have visited the island, causing the loss of 200 lives and immense damage to property," and followed it up with a leader virulently attacking motor-cyclists, now informs us that the word should have been "cyclones." The printer has been warned. * * * * * "Anti-Motor" writes to point out that one advantage of holding motor races like those that have just taken place in Ireland is that after each race there are fewer motors. * * * * * THE TRAIL OF THE MOTOR.--"COLLECTOR. Young man wants collecting."--_Advt. in Provincial Paper._ * * * * * Illustration: _Old Farmer Jones_ (_who has been to a local cattle-show, and seen a horseless carriage for the first time_). "Mosher carsh may be all very well--(_hic!_)--but they can't find 'er way home by 'emshelves!" * * * * * SHOULD MOTORISTS WEAR MASKS? ["Plus de lunettes spéciales pour MM. les chauffeurs. Ils devront conduire comme les cochers ordinaires à yeux nus ou avec les lunettes ordinaires de myopes ou de presbytes. Nos sportsmen déclarent que ces lunettes de motoristes favorisent l'anonymat. Ces lunettes sont de véritables masques. On fait sous ce masque ce qu'on n'oserait pas faire à visage découvert. En France il est défendu de se masquer en dehors du temps de carnaval ... si le masque tombe, la vitesse des motors deviendra fatalement normale."--_M. N. de Noduwez in the "Times."_] MR. PUNCH has collected a few brief opinions upon the subject of the above-quoted letter. MR. KIPLING writes: "Through dirt, sweat, burns, bursts, smells, bumps, breakdowns, and explosions I have attained to the perfect joy of the scorcher. I have suffered much on the southern British highways. My Tibetan devil-mask shall therefore add to their terrors. Besides, I wore gig-lamps at school. What do they know of Sussex who only Burwash know?" MR. BEERBOHM TREE telephones: "The most beautiful of all arts is that of make-up. We cannot all resemble _Caliban_, but why should not the motorist aspire in that direction? Life is but a masque, and all roads lead to 'His Majesty's.'" Miss MARIE CORELLI telegraphs: "I am all for anonymity and everything that tends to the avoidance of advertisement. If people must ride in motors, let them have the decency to disguise themselves as effectually as possible, and shun all contact with their kind." Mr. JEM SMITH, cabdriver, in the course of an interview, said: "Masks? Not 'arf! Let 'em out on the Fifth of November, and throw a match in their oil-tanks--that's what _I_'d do! _I_'d anonymous the lot of 'em!" POLICEMAN XX. (in the _rôle_ of a labourer behind a hedge on the Brighton road): "'Oo are you a-gettin' at? Do you see any mote in my eye? If you want to know the time, I've a stop-watch!" * * * * * Illustration: DIVISION OF LABOUR.--It is not the business of ducal footmen to clean the family bicycles. The ladies Ermyntrude and Adelgitha have to do it themselves. * * * * * _Enthusiastic Motorist_ (_to Perfect Stranger_). _I_ swear by petrol, sir; always use it myself. Now what, may I ask, do _you_ use? _Perfect Stranger._ Oats! * * * * * Illustration: JUGGERNAUTICAL.--_Unfortunate Cyclist_ (_who has been bowled over by motor-car_). "Did you see the number?" _Jarge._ "Yes, there was three on 'em. Two men and a woman." * * * * * Illustration: EXPECTATION.--The Browns welcoming the Robinsons (awfully jolly people, don't you know,) from whom they have had a letter saying that they will arrive early in the day by motor. * * * Illustration: REALISATION.--The Browns, when the arrivals have removed their motor glasses, etc., disclosing not the Robinsons, but those awful bores, the Smiths. * * * * * THERE WAS A NEW WOMAN (_Neo-Nursery Rhyme_) There was a New Woman, as I've heard tell, And she rode a bike with a horrible bell, She rode a bike in a masculine way, And she had a spill on the Queen's highway. While she lay stunned, up came Doctor Stout, And he cast a petticoat her "knickers" about, To hide the striped horrors which bagged at the knees. When the New Woman woke, she felt strange and ill at ease; She began to wonder those skirts for to spy, And cried, "Oh, goodness gracious! I'm sure this isn't I! But if it is I, as I hope it be, I know a little vulgar boy, and he knows me; And if it is I, he will jeer and rail, But if it isn't I, why, to notice me he'll fail." So off scorched the New Woman, all in the dark, But as the little vulgar boy her knickers failed to mark, He was quite polite, and she began to cry, "Oh! Jimmy doesn't cheek me, so I'm sure this _isn't_ I!" * * * * * THE PACE THAT KILLS Have a care how you speed! Take the motorist's case:-- On his tomb you can read, "Requiescat in pace." * * * * * Illustration: LIFE'S LITTLE IRONIES.-- _Motorist._ "Conductor! How can I strike the Harrow road?" _Conductor._ "'Arrer road? Let's see. Second to right, third to--it's a good way, sir. I tell 'ee, sir. Just follow that green bus over there; that'll take you right to it!" * * * * * WONDERS ON WHEELS (_By an Old Beginner_) Wonder if my doctor was right in ordering me to take this sort of exercise. Wonder whether I look very absurd while accepting the assistance of an attendant who walks by my side and keeps me from falling by clutches at my waistbelt. Wonder whether it would have been better to go to Hyde Park instead of Battersea. Wonder whether the policeman, the postman, the nurse with the perambulator, the young lady reading the novel, and the deck passengers on the passing steamboat are laughing at me. Wonder whether I shall keep on now that my attendant has let go. Wonder whether the leading wheel will keep straight on until we have passed that lamp-post. Wonder whether the next spill I have will be less painful than the last. Wonder why mats are not laid down by the County Council in the roads for the comfort of falling cyclists. Wonder why the cycle suddenly doubled up and landed me in the gutter. Wonder whether the pretty girl in the hat, whose face is hidden by a novel, smiled at my misadventure. Wonder whether the person who has just come to grief over yonder is using good language or words of an inferior quality. Wonder whether my attendant is right in urging me to remount and have another try. Wonder whether I look well wobbling. Wonder whether the elderly spinster with the anxious manner and air of determination is really enjoying herself. Wonder whether, when I have completed my first hour, I shall want another. Wonder whether the imp of a boy will run with me. Wonder whether my second fall in five minutes beats the record. Wonder, considering the difficulty of progressing half a dozen paces in as many minutes, how those marvellous feats are performed at Olympia. Wonder if I shall ever advance upon my present rate of speed, _i.e._, three-quarters of a mile an hour. Wonder, finally, if the placards warning cyclists in Battersea Park against the dangers of "furious riding" can possibly be posted for my edification. * * * * * THE SCORCHER He travels along at the top of his speed, You might think that his life was at stake; To beauties of nature he never pays heed, For the record he's trying to break. He stiffens his muscles and arches his back As if he were still on the cinder-path track. He races regardless of life and of limb, Caring naught for the folk in his way; For chickens and children are nothing to him, And his mad career nothing can stay; So wildly he wheels as if urged by a goad; By coachmen he's christened "the curse of the road." He'll pass on the left and he'll ride on the right, For the rules of the road caring naught; His lamp he will not take the trouble to light Till a pretty smart lesson he's taught. But lecture and fine him as much as you will, The trail of the scorcher is over him still. * * * * * RHYME FOR RECORD-MAKERS Rattle-it, rattle-it, "Biking" man; Make us a "record" as fast as you can; Score it, and print it as large as life, And someone will "cut" it ere you can say knife! * * * * * Illustration: Unwilling to give up horses altogether, Captain Pelham effected a compromise. His first appearance in the park created quite a sensation. * * * * * Illustration: FLATTERY--WITH AN OBJECT _Jocasta_ (_with an axe of her own to grind, ingratiatingly_). "Oh yes, papa, it does suit you. I never saw you look so nice in anything before!" * * * * * Illustration: MEMS FOR MOTORISTS.--If your car suddenly appears to drag heavily, you may be sure there is something to account for it. * * * * * Illustration: "Have you ever tried riding without the handles? It's delightfully easy, all but the corners." * * * Illustration: !!! So it seems! * * * * * BROKEN ON THE WHEEL _First Lesson._--Held on by instructor, a tall, muscular young man. Thought it was so easy. Cling for dear life to handle, as beginners in horsemanship cling to the reins. Instructor says I must not. Evidently cannot hold on by my knees. Ask him what I am to hold on by. "Nothing," he says. How awful! Feel suspended in the air. That is what I ought to be. At present am more on ground; anyway one foot down. Even when in movement position of feet uncertain. Go a few yards, supported. Muscular instructor rather hot and tired, but says civilly, "You're getting on nicely, sir." At this get off unexpectedly, and, when I am picked up, reply, "Very likely," only my feet were off the pedals all the time. Then rest, and watch little children riding easily. One pretty girl. Wonder whether she laughed at me. Probably. Shall have another try. _Second Lesson._--Held on by another instructor, who urges me "to put more life into it." Hope it won't be the death of me. Work in a manner which even the treadmill, I imagine, could not necessitate, and get the wheel round a few times. Painful wobbling. Instructor says I must pedal more quickly. Can't. Rest a minute. Panting. Awfully hot. Observe little children going round comfortably. Pretty girl here again, looking as fresh and cool as possible. Suddenly manage to ride three yards unsupported. Then collapse. But am progressing. Shall come again soon. _Third Lesson._--Endeavour to get on alone. Immediately get off on other side. Nearly upset the pretty girl. Polite self-effacement impossible when one is at the mercy of a mere machine. After a time manage better. And at last get started and ride alone for short distances. Always tumble off ignominiously just as I meet the pretty girl. Instructor urges me to break the record. Hope I shan't break my neck. Finally go all round the ground. Triumph! Pretty girl seems less inclined to laugh. Delightful exercise, bicycle riding! Shall come again to-morrow. _Fourth Lesson._--High north-east wind. Hot sun. Regular May weather. Clouds of coal-dust from track. Pretty girl not there at all. Start confidently. Endeavour to knock down a wall. Wall does not suffer much. Start again. Faster this time. The pretty girl has just come. Will show what I can do now. Career over large hole. Bicycle sinks, and then takes a mighty leap. Unprepared for this. Am cast into the air. Picked up. Can't stand. Something broken. Doctor will say what. Anyhow, clothes torn, bruised, disheartened. Dare not catch the eye of pretty girl. Carried home. Shall give up bicycle riding. Awful fag, and no fun. * * * * * In its "Hints for Bicyclists," _Home Chat_ says: "A little fuller's earth dusted inside the stockings, socks and gloves, keeps the feet cool." Nothing, however, is said of the use of rubber soles as a protection against sunstroke. * * * * * OVERHEARD AT A MOTOR MEETING.-- _Inquirer._ "I wonder what they call those large, long cars?" _Well-informed Friend._ "Those? Oh, I believe those are the Flying Kilometres, a French make." * * * * * People who are in favour of increasing the rates--Motorists. * * * * * Illustration: THE PERILS OF CYCLING.--(_A sketch in Battersea Park._) _Angelina._ "Come along, dear!" * * * * * Illustration: MOTORING PHENOMENA--AND HOW TO READ THE SIGNS * * * * * Illustration: _The Squire._ "But I tell you, sir, this road is private, and you shall not pass except over my prostrate body!" _Cyclist._ "All right, guv'nor, I'll go back. I've done enough hill climbing already!" * * * * * THE MORAL BIKE _Truth_ has discovered that temperance is promoted, and character generally reformed, by the agency of the bicycle--in fact, the guilty class has taken to cycling. That is so. Go into any police-court, and you will find culprits in the dock who have not only taken to cycling but have also taken other people's cycles. Ask any burglar among your acquaintance, and he will tell you that the term Safety Bicycle has a deeper and truer meaning for him, when, in pursuit of his vocation, he is anxious not to come in collision with the police. Look, too, at the Scorcher on his Saturday afternoon exodus. Where could you have a more salient and striking example of pushfulness and determination to "get there" over all obstacles? He is, in fact, an example of Nietzsche's "Ueber-mensch," the Over-man who rides over any elderly pedestrian or negligible infant that may cross his path. Then the Lady in Bloomers. She is a great reforming agent. She looks so unsightly, that if all her sisters were dressed like her flirtation would die out of the land and there would be no more cakes and ale. Think also of all the virtues called into active exercise by one simple puncture: Patience, while you spend an hour by the wayside five miles from anywhere; Self-control, when "swears, idle swears, you know not what they mean, swears from the depth of some divine despair rise in the heart and gather to the lips," as Tennyson has so sympathetically put it; Fortitude, when you have to shoulder or push the Moral Agent home; and a lot of other copy-book qualities. Lastly, the adventurer who proceeds without a light within curfew hours, the sportsman who steals a march on the side-walk, and the novice who tries a fall with the first omnibus encountered--are all bright instances of British independence, and witnesses to _Truth_. Truly, the bike is an excellent substitute for the treadmill and the reformatory! * * * * * Illustration: "AS OTHERS SEE US."-- _Obliging Motorist._ "Shall I stop the engine?" _Groom._ "Never mind that, sir. But if you gents wouldn't mind just gettin' out and 'idin' behind the car for a minute,--the 'orses think it's a menagery comin'." * * * * * Illustration: THE MILTONIC CYCLIST * * * * * WAKE UP, ENGLAND! ["British lady motor-drivers," says _Motoring Illustrated_, "must look to their laurels. Miss Rosamund Dixey, of Boston, U.S.A., invariably has her sweet, pet, fat, white pig sitting up beside her in the front of her motor car."] We are losing our great reputation Our women are not up-to-date; For a younger, more go-a-head nation Has beaten us badly of late; Is there nowhere some fair Englishwoman Who'd think it not too _infra dig._ To be seen with (and treat it as human) A sweet--pet--fat--white--pig? There is no need to copy our Cousins, A visit or two to the Zoo Will convince you there must be some dozens Of animal pets that would do, With a "grizzly" perched up in your motor, Just think how the people would stare, Saying, "Is that a man in a coat or A big--grey--tame--he--bear?" Think how _chic_ it would look in the paper (_Society's Doings_, we'll say), "Mrs. So-and-so drove with her tapir, And daughter (the tapir's) to-day. Mrs. Thingummy too and her sister Drove out for an hour and a half, And beside them (the image of Mr.) A dear--wee--pink--pet--calf!" * * * * * Illustration: "Did you get his number?" "No; but I saw exactly what she was wearing and how much she paid for the things!" * * * * * THE MOTORS' DEFENCE UNION A Pedestrians' Protection League is being formed to uphold the rights of foot-passengers on the highways. As no bane is without its antidote, an opposition union is to be organised, having in view the adoption of the following regulations:-- 1. Every pedestrian must carry on his front and back a large and conspicuous number as a means of easy and rapid identification. 2. No foot passenger shall quit the side-walk, except at certain authorised crossings. In country lanes and places where there is no side-walk the ditch shall be considered equivalent to the same. 3. Each foot-passenger about to make use of such authorised crossings shall thrice sound a danger-signal on a hooter, fog-horn or megaphone; and, after due warning has thus been given, shall traverse the road at a speed of not less than twelve miles an hour. The penalty for infringement to be forty shillings or one month. 4. Any pedestrian obstructing a motor by being run over, causing a motor to slow down or stop, or otherwise deranging the traffic, shall be summarily dealt with: the punishment for this offence to be five years' penal servitude, dating from arrest or release from hospital, as the case may be. 5. Should the pedestrian thus trespassing on the highway lose his life in an encounter with a motor-car, he shall not be liable to penal servitude; compensation for shock and loss of time, however, shall be paid from his estate to the driver of the car, such amount being taxed by the coroner. 6. All cattle, sheep, pigs, swine, hares, rabbits, conies, and other ground game, and every goose, duck, fowl, or any animal whatsoever with which the motor shall collide shall, _ipso facto_, be confiscated to the owner of the motor. 7. Any comment, remark, reflection, sneer or innuendo concerning the shape, speed, appearance, noise, smell, or other attribute of a motor-car, or of its occupants, shall be actionable; and every foot-passenger thus offending shall be bound over in the sum of £500 to keep the peace. * * * * * The Scotchman who tumbled off a bicycle says that in future he intends to "let wheel alone." * * * * * Illustration: _Mabel's three bosom Friends_ (_all experts--who have run round to see the Christmas gift_). "Hullo, Mab!. Why, what on earth are you doing?" _Mab_ (_in gasps_). "Oh--you see--it was awfully kind of the Pater to give it to me--but I have to look after it myself--and I knew I should _never have breath enough to blow the tyres out_!" * * * * * Illustration: AN ACCOMMODATING PARTY.--_Lady Driver._ "Can you show us the way to Great Missenden, please?" _Weary Willie._ "Cert'nly, miss, cert'nly. We're agoin' that way. 'Op up, Joe. Anythink to oblige a lady!" * * * * * Among the correspondence in the _Daily Mail_ on the subject of "The Motor Problem," there is a letter from a physician, who exposes very cynically a scheme for improving his practice. "I am," he says, "a country doctor, and during the last five years have had not a single case of accident to pedestrians caused by motor car.... As soon as I can afford it I intend to buy a motor." * * * * * Illustration: HOW NOT _Bikist._ "Now then, Ethel, see me make a spurt round this corner." * * * Illustration: TO DO IT _First Villager._ "What's up, Bill?" _Second Villager._ "Oh, only a gent awashin' the dust off his bike." * * * * * It is a bad workman who complains of his tools, yet even the best of them may be justly annoyed when his spanner goes completely off its nut. * * * * * "Motor cycle for sale, 2-3/4 h.-p., equal to 3-1/4 h.-p." _--Provincial Paper._ Discount of 1/2 h.-p. for cash? * * * * * SONG OF THE SCORCHER. (_After reading the Protests and Plans of the Cyclophobists_) I know I'm a "scorcher," I know I am torcher To buffers and mivvies who're not up to date; But grumpy old geesers, and wobbly old wheezers, Ain't goin' to wipe me and my wheel orf the slate. I mean to go spinning and 'owling and grinning At twelve mile an hour through the thick of the throng. And shout, without stopping, whilst, frightened and flopping, My elderly victims like ninepins are dropping,-- "So long!" The elderly bobby, who's stuffy and cobby, Ain't got arf a chance with a scorcher on wheels; Old buffers may bellow, and young gals turn yellow, But what do I care for their grunts or their squeals? No, when they go squiffy I'm off in a jiffy, The much-abused "scorcher" is still going strong. And when mugs would meddle, I shout as I pedal-- "So long!" Wot are these fine capers perposed by the papers? These 'ints about lassos and butterfly nets? To turn scorcher-catchers the old pewter-snatchers In 'elmets must take fewer stodges and wets! Wot, treat _hus_ like bufflers or beetles! The scufflers In soft, silent shoes, turn Red Injins? You're wrong! It's all bosh and bubble! I'm orf--at the double!-- "So long!" * * * * * Illustration: _Owner_ (_as the car insists upon backing into a dike_). "Don't be alarmed! Keep cool! Try and keep cool!" [_Friend thinks there is every probability of their keeping VERY cool, whether they try to or not!_ * * * * * Illustration: _Village Constable_ (_to villager who has been knocked down by passing motor cyclist_). "You didn't see the number, but could you swear to the man?" _Villager._ "I did; but I don't think 'e 'eard me." * * * * * Illustration: THE JOYS OF MOTORING.--No, this is not a dreadful accident. He is simply tightening a nut or something, and she is hoping he won't be much longer. * * * * * SUGGESTED ADDITIONAL TAXATION _£_ _s._ _d._ For every Motor Car 4 4 0 If with smell 5 5 0 Extra offensive ditto 6 6 0 Motor Car proceeding at over ten miles an hour, for each additional mile 1 1 0 For every Bicycle used for "scorching" 0 10 0 * * * * * THE ORIGINAL CLASSICAL BICYCLIST.--"Ixion; or, the Man on the Wheel." * * * * * MY STEAM MOTOR-CAR (1) Monday.--I buy a beautiful steam motor-car. Am photographed. (2) Tuesday.--I take it out. Pull the wrong lever, and back into a shop window. A bad start. (3) Wednesday morning.--A few things I ran over. (4) Wednesday afternoon.--Took too sharp a turn. Narrowly escaped knocking down policeman at the corner. Ran over both his feet. (5) Thursday morning.--Got stuck in a ditch four miles from home. (6) Thursday evening.--Arrive home. Back the car into the shed. Miss the door and knock the shed down. (7) Friday.--Ran over my neighbour's dog. (8) Saturday.--Silly car breaks down three miles from home. Hire a horse to tow it back. (9) Sunday.--Filling up. Petrol tank caught fire. Wretched thing burnt. Thank goodness! * * * Illustration: MY STEAM MOTOR-CAR * * * * * MODERN ROMANCE OF THE ROAD ["It is said that the perpetrators of a recent burglary got clear away with their booty by the help of an automobile. At this rate we may expect to be attacked, ere long, by automobilist highwaymen."--_Paris Correspondent of Daily Paper._] It was midnight. The wind howled drearily over the lonely heath; the moon shone fitfully through the driving clouds. By its gleam an observer might have noted a solitary automobile painfully jolting along the rough road that lay across the common. Its speed, as carefully noted by an intelligent constable half-an-hour earlier, was 41.275 miles an hour. To the ordinary observer it would appear somewhat less. Two figures might have been descried on the machine; the one the gallant Hubert de Fitztompkyns, the other Lady Clarabella, his young and lovely bride. Clarabella shivered, and drew her sables more closely around her. "I am frightened," she murmured. "It is so dark and cold, Hubert, and this is a well-known place for highwaymen! Suppose we should be attacked?" "Pooh!" replied her husband, deftly manipulating the oil-can. "Who should attack us when 'tis common talk that you pawned your diamonds a month ago? Besides, we have a swivel-mounted Maxim on our machine. Ill would it fare with the rogue who--Heavens! what was that?" From the far distance sounded a weird, unearthly noise, growing clearer and louder even as Hubert and his wife listened. It was the whistle of another automobile! In a moment Hubert had turned on the acetylene search-light, and gazed with straining eyes down the road behind him. Then he turned to his wife. "'Tis Cutthroat giving us chase," he said simply. "Pass the cordite cartridges, please." Lady Clarabella grew deathly pale. "I don't know where they are!" she gasped. "I think--I think I must have left them on my dressing-table." "Then we are lost. Cutthroat is mounted on his bony Black Jet, which covers a mile a minute--and he is the most blood-thirsty ruffian on the road. Shut off steam, Clarabella! We can but yield." "Never!" cried his wife. "Here, give me the lever; we are nearly at the top of this tremendously steep hill--we will foil him yet!" Hubert was too much astonished to speak. By terrific efforts the gallant automobile arrived at the summit, when Clarabella applied the brake. Then she gazed down the narrow road behind her. "Take the starting-lever, Hubert," she said, "and do as I tell you." Ever louder sounded the clatter of their pursuer's machine; at last its head-light showed in the distance, as with greatly diminished speed it began to climb the hill. "Now!" shrieked Clarabella. "Full speed astern, Hubert! Let her go!" The automobile went backwards down the hill like a flash of lightning. Cutthroat had barely time to realise what was happening before it was upon him. Too late he tried to steer Black Jet out of the way. There was a yell, a sound of crashing steel, a cloud of steam. When it cleared away, it revealed Hubert and Clarabella still seated on their machine, which was only slightly damaged, while Cutthroat and Black Jet were knocked into countless atoms! * * * * * Illustration: GREAT SELF-RESTRAINT.--_Lady in pony-cart_ (_who has made several unsuccessful attempts to pass persevering beginner occupying the whole road_). "Unless you soon fall off, I'm afraid I shall miss my train!" * * * * * Illustration: "These trailers are splendid things! You must really get one and take me out, Percy!" * * * * * Illustration: THE RIVAL FORCES. (Scene--_Lonely Yorkshire moor. Miles from anywhere._) _Passing Horse-dealer_ (_who has been asked for a tow by owners of broken-down motor-car_). "Is it easy to pull?" _Motorist._ "Oh yes. Very light indeed!" _Horse-dealer._ "Then supposin' you pull it yourselves!" [_Drives off._ * * * * * Illustration: _The Owner_ (_after five breakdowns and a spill_). "Are y-you k-keen on r-riding home?" _His Friend._ "N-not very." _The Owner._ "L-let's l-leave it a-and _walk_, s-shall we?" * * * * * Illustration: SUNDAY MORNING.-- _Cyclist_ (_to rural policeman_). "Nice crowd out this morning!" _Rural Policeman_ (_who has received a tip_). "Yes, an' yer can't do with 'em! If yer 'ollers at 'em, they honly turns round and says, 'Pip, pip'!" * * * * * Illustration: _Rustic_ (_to beginner, who has charged the hedge_). "It's no good, sir. They things won't jump!" * * * * * THE UNIVERSAL JUGGERNAUT.--"Anyone," says the _Daily Telegraph_, "who has driven an automobile will know that it is quite impossible to run over a child and remain unconscious of the fact." _Any one who has driven an automobile!_ Heavens! what a sweeping charge! Is there none innocent? * * * * * Illustration: "'Tain't no use tellin' me you've broke down! Stands to reason a motor-caw goin' down 'ill's _bound_ to be goin' too fast. So we'll put it down at about thirty mile an hour! Your name and address, sir, _hif_ you please." * * * * * URBS IN RURE ["When every one has a bicycle and flies to the suburban roads, the suburban dwellers will desert their houses and come back to crowded London to find quiet and freedom from dust."--_Daily Paper._] Time was desire for peace would still My footsteps lure to Richmond Hill, Or to the groves of Burnham I, Much craving solitude, would fly; Thence, through the Summer afternoon, 'Mid fragrant meads, knee-deep in June, Lulled by the song of birds and bees, I'd saunter idly at mine ease To that still churchyard where, with Gray, I'd dream a golden hour away, Forgetful all of aught but this-- That peace was mine, and mine was bliss. But now should my all-eager feet Seek out some whilom calm retreat, "Pip, pip!" resounds in every lane, "Pip, pip!" the hedges ring again, "Pip, pip!" the corn, "Pip, pip!" the rye, "Pip, pip!" the woods and meadows cry, As through the thirsty, fever'd day, The red-hot scorchers scorch their way. Peace is no longer, Rest is dead, And sweetest Solitude hath fled; And over all, the cycling lust Hath spread its trail of noise and dust. So, would I woo the joys of Quiet, I see no more the country's riot, But the comparatively still Environment of Ludgate Hill. There, 'mongst the pigeons of St. Paul's, I muse melodious madrigals, Or loiter where the waters sport 'Mid the cool joys of Fountain Court, Where, undisturbed by sharp "Pip, pip!" My nimble numbers lightly trip, And country peace I find again In Chancery and Fetter Lane. * * * * * VEHICULAR PROGRESSION.--_Mr. Ikey Motor_ (_to customer_). Want a machine, sir? Certainly, we've all sorts to suit your build. _Customer._ It isn't for me, but for my mother-in-law. _Mr. Ikey Motor._ For your mother-in-law! How would a steam roller suit her? [Mr. I. M. _is immediately made aware that the lady in question has overheard his ill-timed jest, while the customer vanishes in blue fire._ * * * * * EXPERTO CREDE.--What is worse than raining cats and dogs?--Hailing motor omnibuses. * * * * * Illustration: COMPREHENSIVE.--_Owner_ (_as the car starts backing down the hill_). "Pull everything you can see, and put your foot on everything else!" * * * * * Illustration: _Farmer_ (_in cart_). "Hi, stop! Stop, you fool! Don't you see my horse is running away?" _Driver of Motor-car_ (_hired by the hour_). "Yes, it's all very well for you to say 'stop,' but I've forgotten how the blooming thing works!" * * * * * Illustration: SIMPLE ENOUGH _Yokel_ (_in pursuit of escaped bull, to Timmins, who is "teaching himself"_). "Hi, Mister! If yer catch hold of his leading-stick, he can't hurt yer!" * * * * * ANTI-BICYCLIST MOTTO.--Rather a year of Europe than a cycle of to-day. * * * * * MOTTO FOR THOSE WHO "BIKE."--"And wheels rush in where horses fear to tread." * * * * * Illustration: A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY.-- _Major Mustard_ (_who has been changing several of his servants_). "How dare you call yourself a chauffeur?" _Alfonsoe._ "Mais non! Non, monsieur! Je ne suis pas 'chauffeur.' J'ai dit que je suis le chef. Mais monsieur comprehend not!" * * * * * CYCLES! CYCLES!! CYCLES!!! SOMETHING ABSOLUTELY NEW THE LITTLE HANDLE-BAR SPRING NO MORE ACCIDENTS! NO MORE STOLEN CYCLES! All our bicycles are fitted with the Little Handle-Bar Spring, which, when pressed, causes the machine to fall into 114 pieces. Anyone can press the spring, but it takes an expert three months to rebuild it, thus trebling the life of a bicycle. We are offering this marvellous invention at the absurd price of 50 guineas cash down, or 98 weekly instalments of 1 guinea. [Special reductions to company promoters and men with large families.] We can't afford to do it for less, because when once you have bought one you will never want another. ADVICE TO PURCHASERS Don't lose your head when the machine runs away with you down the hill; simply press the spring. Don't wait for your rich uncle to die; just send him one of our cycles. Don't lock your cycle up at night; merely press the spring. Don't be misled by other firms who say that their machines will also fall to pieces; they are only trying to sell their cycles; we want to sell YOU. NOTE.--We can also fit this marvellous Little Spring to perambulators, bath-chairs, and bathing machines. We append below some two out of our million testimonials. The other 999,998 are expected every post. _July, 1906._ Dear Sirs,--I bought one of your cycles in May, 1895, and it is still as good as when I received it. I attribute this solely to the Little Handle-Bar Spring, which I pressed as soon as I received the machine. P.S.--What do you charge for rebuilding a cycle? _August, 1906._ Gentlemen,--Last month I started to ride to Barnet on one of your cycles. When ascending Muswell Hill, I lost control of the machine, but I simply pressed the spring, and now I feel that I cannot say enough about your bike. I shall never ride any other again. P.S.--I should very much like to meet the inventor of the "Little Handle-Bar Spring." * * * * * Illustration: _Friend._ "Going about thirty, are we? But don't you run some risk of being pulled up for exceeding the legal pace?" _Owner._ "Not in a sober, respectable-looking car like this. Of course, if you go about in a blatant, brass-bound, scarlet-padded, snorting foreign affair, like _that_, you are bound to be dropped on, no matter how slow you go!" * * * * * Illustration: AN AMBUSCADE.--Captain de Smythe insidiously beguiles the fair Laura and her sister to a certain secluded spot where, as he happens to know, his hated rival, Mr. Tomkyns, is in the habit of secretly practising on the bicycle. He (Captain de S.) calculates that a mere glimpse of Mr. T., as he wobbles wildly by on that instrument, will be sufficient to dispel any illusions that the fair Laura may cherish in her bosom respecting that worthy man. * * * * * Illustration: _Our own Undergraduate_ (_fresh from his Euclid_). "Ha! Two riders to one prop." * * * * * Illustration: INSULT ADDED TO INJURY.--_Wretched Boy._ "Hi, guv'nor! D'yer want any help?" * * * * * THE PERFECT AUTOMOBILIST [_With acknowledgments to the Editor of "The Car"_] Who is the happy road-deer? Who is he That every motorist should want to be? The Perfect Automobilist thinks only of others. He is an Auto-altruist. He never wantonly kills anybody. If he injures a fellow-creature (and this will always be the fellow-creature's fault) he voluntarily buys him a princely annuity. In the case of a woman, if she is irreparably disfigured by the accident, he will, supposing he has no other wife at the time, offer her the consolation of marriage with himself. He regards the life of bird and beast as no less sacred than that of human beings. Should he inadvertently break a fowl or pig he will convey it to the nearest veterinary surgeon and have the broken limb set or amputated as the injury may require. In the event of death or permanent damage, he will seek out the owner of the dumb animal, and refund him fourfold. To be on the safe side with respect to the legal limit, the Perfect Automobilist confines himself to a speed of ten miles per hour. He will even dismount at the top of a steep descent, so as to lessen the impetus due to the force of gravity. If he is compelled by the nature of his mission to exceed the legal limit (as when hurrying, for instance, to fetch a doctor in a matter of life or death, or to inform the Government of the landing of a hostile force) he is anxious not to shirk the penalty. He will, therefore, send on a swift messenger to warn the police to be on the lookout for him; and if he fails to run into any trap he will, on returning, report himself at all the police-stations on his route, or communicate by post with the constabularies of the various counties through which he may have passed. At the back of his motor he carries a watering-cart attachment for the laying of dust before it has time to be raised. Lest the noise of his motor should be a cause of distraction he slows down when passing military bands, barrel organs, churches (during the hours of worship), the Houses of Parliament (while sitting), motor-buses, the Stock Exchange, and open-air meetings of the unemployed. If he meets a restive horse he will turn back and go down a side road and wait till it has passed. If all the side roads are occupied by restive horses he will go back home; and if the way home is similarly barred he will turn into a field. He encourages his motor to break down frequently; because this spectacle affords an innocent diversion to many whose existence would otherwise be colourless. It is his greatest joy to give a timely lift to weary pedestrians, such as tramps, postmen, sweeps, and police-trap detectives; even though, the car being already full, he is himself compelled to get out and do the last fifty or sixty miles on foot. He declines to wear goggles because they conceal the natural benevolence of the human eye divine, which he regards as the window of the soul; also (and for the same reason he never wears a fur overcoat) because they accentuate class distinctions. Finally--on this very ground--the Perfect Automobilist will sell all his motor-stud and give the proceeds to found an almshouse for retired socialists. * * * * * Illustration: _Obliging Horseman_ (_of riverside breeding_). "Ave a tow up, miss?" * * * * * Illustration: _Cyclist._ "Why can't you look where you're going?" _Motorist._ "How the dickens could I when I didn't know!" * * * * * Illustration: _Middle-aged Novice._ "I'm just off for a tour in the country--'biking' all the way. It'll be four weeks before I'm back in my flat again." _Candid Friend._ "Ah! Bet it won't be four hours before you're flat on your back again!" * * * * * THE LAST RECORD (_The Wail of a Wiped-out Wheelman_) AIR--"_The Lost Chord_" Reading one day in our "Organ," I was happy and quite at ease. A band was playing the "_Lost Chord_," Outside--in three several keys. But _I_ cared not how they were playing, Those puffing Teutonic men; For I'd "cut the record" at cycling, And was ten-mile champion then! It flooded my cheeks with crimson, The praise of my pluck and calm; Though that band seemed blending "Kafoozleum" With a touch of the Hundredth Psalm. But my joy soon turned into sorrow, My calm into mental strife; For my record was "cut" on the morrow, And it cut _me_, like a knife. A fellow had done the distance In the tenth of a second less! And henceforth my name in silence Was dropt by the Cycling Press. I have sought--but I seek it vainly-- With that record again to shine, Midst crack names in our Cycling Organ, But they never mention mine. It may be some day at the Oval I may cut that record again, But at present the Cups are given To better--_or_ luckier--men! * * * * * Illustration: THE MOTOR-BATH _Nurse._ "Oh, baby, look at the diver!" * * * * * A SONG OF THE ROAD Tinkle, twinkle, motor-car, Just to tell us where you are, While about the streets you fly Like a comet in the sky. When the blazing sun is "off," When the fog breeds wheeze and cough, Round the corners as you scour With your dozen miles an hour-- Then the traveller in the dark, Growling some profane remark, Would not know which way to go While you're rushing to and fro. On our fears, then, as you gloat (Ours who neither "bike" nor "mote"), Just to tell us where you are-- Tinkle, twinkle, motor-car. * * * * * "Motor Body."--"One man can change from a tonneau to a landaulette, shooting brake, or racing car in two minutes, and, when fixed, cannot be told from ANY fixed body."--_Advt. in the_ "_Autocar._" The disguise would certainly deceive one's nearest relations, but as likely as not one's dog would come up and give the whole show away by licking the sparking plug. * * * * * Illustration: _Chauffeur._ "Pardon, monsieur. This way, conducts she straight to Hele?" _Major Chili Pepper_ (_a rabid anti-motorist and slightly deaf_). "Certainly it will, sir if you continue to drive on the wrong side of the road!" * * * * * Illustration: "FACILIS _Bikist_ (_gaily_). "Here we go down! down! down! down!" * * * Illustration: DESCENSUS!" _The same_ (_very much down_). "Never again with _you_, my bikey!" * * * * * Should Motors Carry Maxims?--Under the title "Murderous Magistrate," the _Daily Mail_ printed some observations made by a barrister who reproves Canon Greenwell for remarking from the Durham County Bench that if a few motorists were shot no great harm would be done. The same paper subsequently published an article headed, "Maxims for Motorists." Retaliation in kind is natural, and a maxim is an excellent retort to a canon. But why abuse the canon first? * * * * * So many accidents have occurred lately through the ignition of petrol that a wealthy motorist, we hear, is making arrangements for his car to be followed, wherever it may go, by a fully-equipped fire-engine, and, if this example be followed widely, our roads will become more interesting than ever. * * * * * Are there motor-cars in the celestial regions? Professor Schaer, of Geneva, has discovered what _he_ describes as a new comet plunging due south at a rate of almost 8 degrees a day, and careering across the Milky Way regardless of all other traffic. * * * * * Illustration: OUR ELECTION--POLLING DAY _Energetic Committeeman._ "It's all right. Drive on! He's voted!" * * * * * THE MOTOCRAT I am he: goggled and unashamed. Furred also am I, stop-watched and horse-powerful. Millions admit my sway--on both sides of the road. The Plutocrat has money: I have motors. The Democrat has the rates; so have I--two--one for use and one for County Courts. The Autocrat is dead, but I--I increase and multiply. I have taken his place. I blow my horn and the people scatter. I stand still and everything trembles. I move and kill dogs. I skid and chickens die. I pass swiftly from place to place, and horses bolt in dust storms which cover the land. I make the dust storms. For I am Omnipotent; I make everything. I make dust, I make smell, I make noise. And I go forward, ever forward, and pass through or over almost everything. "Over or Through" is my motto. The roads were made for me; years ago they were made. Wise rulers saw me coming and made roads. Now that I am come, they go on making roads--making them up. For I break things. Roads I break and Rules of the Road. Statutory limits were made for me. I break them. I break the dull silence of the country. Sometimes I break down, and thousands flock round me, so that I dislocate the traffic. But I _am_ the Traffic. I am I and She is She--the rest get out of the way. Truly, the hand which rules the motor rocks the world. * * * * * MOTOR CAR-ACTERISTICS (_By an Old Whip_) Jerking and jolting, Bursting and bolting, Smelling and steaming, Shrieking and screaming, Snorting and shaking, Quivering, quaking, Skidding and slipping, Twisting and tripping, Bumping and bounding, Puffing and pounding, Rolling and rumbling, Thumping and tumbling. Such I've a notion, Motor-car motion. * * * * * Illustration: ADDING INSULT TO INJURY _Cyclist_ (_to Foxhunter, thrown out_), "Oi say, Squoire, 'ave you seen the 'ounds?" * * * * * Illustration: TRUE PHILOSOPHY.--_Ploughman._ "Ah, things be different like wi' them an' us. They've got a trap wi' no 'osses, an' we 'm got 'osses wi' no trap." * * * * * Illustration: THE RECKLESS ONE _Wife of Injured Cyclist_ (_who, having found considerable difficulty in getting on his bicycle, and none whatever in coming off, has never ventured to attempt more than three miles in the hour_). "Well, I do believe he's had a lesson at last! I warned him about 'scorching.' I said to him, what have _you_ got to do with the 'record'?" * * * * * Illustration: AN INOPPORTUNE TIME Jones, while motoring to town to fulfil an important engagement, has the misfortune to get stuck up on the road, and has sent his chauffeur to the village for assistance. In the meantime several village children gather around and sing, "God rest you, merry gentleman, let nothing you dismay," etc. * * * * * The Great Motor Mystery.--At Lancaster two motorists were fined, according to the _Manchester Evening News_, "for driving a motor-car over a trap near Carnforth, at twenty-nine and thirty-four miles per hour respectively." We are of the opinion that the action of the second gentleman in driving at so high a speed over the poor trap when it was already down was not quite in accordance with the best traditions of English sport. * * * * * Illustration: BREAKING IT GENTLY.-- _Passer-by._ "Is that your pork down there on the road, guv'nor?" _Farmer._ "Pork! What d'ye mean? There's a pig o' mine out there." _Passer-by._ "Ah, but there's a motor-car just been by." * * * * * Illustration: EXCLUSIVE.-- _Fair Driver._ "Will you stand by the pony for a few minutes, my good man?" _The Good Man._ "Pony, mum? No, I'm a motor-minder, I am. 'Ere, Bill! 'Orse." * * * * * CRAZY TALES The Duchess of Pomposet was writhing, poor thing, on the horns of a dilemma. Painful position, very. She was the greatest of great ladies, full of fire and fashion, and with a purple blush (she was born that colour) flung bangly arms round the neck of her lord and master. The unfortunate man was a shocking sufferer, having a bad unearned increment, and enduring constant pain on account of his back being broader than his views. "Pomposet," she cried, resolutely. "Duky darling!" (When first married she had ventured to apostrophise him as "ducky," but His Grace thought it _infra dig._, and they compromised by omitting the vulgar "c.") "Duky," she said, raising pale distinguished eyes to a Chippendale mirror, "I have made up my mind." "Don't," expostulated the trembling peer. "You are so rash!" "What is more, I have made up yours." "To make up the mind of an English Duke," he remarked, with dignity, "requires no ordinary intellect; yet I believe with your feminine hydraulics you are capable of anything, Jane." (That this aristocratic rib of his rib should have been named plain Jane was a chronic sorrow.) "Don't keep me in suspense," he continued; "in fact, to descend to a colloquialism, I insist on Your Grace letting the cat out of the bag with the least possible delay." "As you will," she replied. "Your blood be on your own coronet. Prepare for a shock--a revelation. I have fallen! Not once--but many times." "Wretched woman!--I beg pardon!--wretched Grande Dame! call upon Debrett to cover you!" "I am madly in love with----" "By my taffeta and ermine, I swear----" "Peace, peace!" said Jane. "Compose yourself, ducky--that is Plantagenet. Forgive the slip. I am agitated. My mind runs on slips." The Duke groaned. "Horrid, awful slips!" With a countenance of alabaster he tore at his sandy top-knot. "I have deceived you. I admit it. Stooped to folly." A supercilious cry rent the air as the Duke staggered on his patrician limbs. With womanly impulse--flinging caste to the winds--Jane caught the majestic form to her palpitating alpaca, and, watering his beloved features with Duchessy drops, cried in passionate accents, "My King! My Sensitive Plant! Heavens! It's his unlucky back! Be calm, Plantagenet. I have--been--learning--to--_bike_! There! On the sly!" The Duke flapped a reviving toe, and squeezed the august fingers. "I am madly enamoured of--my machine." The peer smoothed a ruffled top-knot with ineffable grace. "Likewise am determined _you_ shall take lessons. Now it is no use, duky. I mean to be tender but firm with you." The Potentate gave a stertorous chortle, and, stretching out his arms, fell in a strawberry-leaf swoon on the parquet floor, his ducal head on the lap of his adored Jane. * * * * * Illustration: THE FREEMASONRY OF THE WHEEL.--"Rippin' wevver fer hus ciciklin' chaps, ain't it?" * * * * * Illustration: BROTHERS IN ADVERSITY _Farmer._ "Pull up, you fool! The mare's bolting!" _Motorist._ "So's the car!" * * * * * Illustration: QUITE RESPECTFUL _Fair Cyclist._ "Is that the incumbent of this parish?" _Parishioner._ "Well, 'e's the _Vicar_. But, wotever some of us thinks, we never calls 'im a _hencumbrance_!" * * * * * Illustration: _Gipsy Fortune-teller_ (_seriously_). "Let me warn you. Somebody's going to cross your path." _Motorist._ "Don't you think you'd better warn the other chap?" * * * * * THE SCORCHER (_After William Watson_) I do not, in the crowded street Of cab and "'bus" and mire, Nor in the country lane so sweet, Hope to escape thy tyre. One boon, oh, scorcher, I implore, With one petition kneel, At least abuse me not before Thou break me on thy wheel. * * * * * Illustration: A motorist wishes to point out the very grave danger this balloon-scorching may become, and suggests a speed limit be made before things go too far. * * * * * THE MUGGLETON MOTOR-CAR; OR, THE WELLERS ON WHEELS _A Pickwickian Fragment Up-to-date_ As light as fairies, if not altogether as brisk as bees, did the four Pickwickian shades assemble on a winter morning in the year of grace, 1896. Christmas was nigh at hand, in all its _fin-de-siècle_ inwardness; it was the season of pictorial too-previousness and artistic anticipation, of plethoric periodicals, all shocker-sensationalism sandwiched with startling advertisements; of cynical new-humour and flamboyantly sentimental chromo-lithography. But we are so taken up by the genial delights of the New Christmas that we are keeping Mr. Pickwick and his phantom friends waiting in the cold on the chilly outside of the Muggleton Motor-car, which they had just mounted, well wrapped up in antiquated great coats, shawls, and comforters. Mr. Weller, Senior, had, all unconsciously, brought his well-loved whip with him, and was greatly embarrassed thereby. "Votever shall I do vith it, Sammy?" he whispered, hoarsely. "Purtend it's a new, patent, jointless fishing-rod, guv'nor," rejoined Sam, in a Stygian aside. "Nobody 'ere'll 'ave the slightest notion vot it really is." "When are they--eh--going to--ahem--put the horses to?" murmured Mr. Pickwick, emerging from his coat collar, and looking about him with great perplexity. "'_Osses?_" cried the coachman, turning round upon Mr. Pickwick, with sharp suspicion in his eye. "'_Osses?_ d'ye say. Oh, who are you a-gettin' at?" Mr. Pickwick withdrew promptly into his coat-collar. The irrepressible Sam came immediately to the aid of his beloved master, whom he would never see snubbed if _he_ knew it. "There's vheels vithin vheels, as the bicyclist said vhen he vos pitched head foremost into the vatchmaker's vinder," remarked Mr. Weller, Junior, with the air of a Solomon in smalls. "But vot sort of a vheel do you call that thing in front of you, and vot's its pertikler objeck? a top of a coach instead o' under it?" "This yer wheel means Revolution," said the driver. "It do, Samivel, it do," interjected his father dolorously. "And in my opinion it's a worse Revolution than that there French one itself. A coach vithout 'osses, vheels instead of vheelers, and a driver vithout a vhip! Oh Sammy, Sammy, to think it should come to _this_!!!" The driver--if it be not desecration to a noble old name so to designate him--gave a turn to his wheel and the autocar started. Mr. Winkle, who sat at the extreme edge, waggled his shadowy legs forlornly in the air; Mr. Snodgrass, who sat next to him, snorted lugubriously; Mr. Tupman turned paler than even a Stygian shade has a right to do. Mr. Pickwick took off his glasses and wiped them furtively. "Sam," he whispered hysterically in the ear of his faithful servitor, "Sam, this is dreadful! A--ahem!--vehicle with no visible means of propulsion pounding along like--eh--Saint Denis without his head, is more uncanny than Charon's boat." "Let's get down, Sammy, let's get down at once," groaned Mr. Weller the elder. "I can't stand it, Samivel, I really can't. Think o' the poor 'osses, Sammy, think o' the poor 'osses as ain't there, and vot they must feel to find theirselves sooperseeded by a hugly vheel and a pennorth o' peteroleum, &c.!" "Hold on, old Nobs!" cried the son, with frank filial sympathy. "Think of the guv'nor, father, and vait for the first stoppage. Never again vith the Muggleton Motor! Vhy, it vorse than a hortomatic vheelbarrow, ain't it, Mr. Pickwick?" "Ah, Sammy," assented Mr. Weller, Senior, hugging his whip, affectionately. "Vorse even than vidders, Sammy, the red-nosed shepherd, or the Mulberry One hisself!" * * * * * A bear in a motor-car attracted much attention in the City last week. It had four legs this time. * * * * * The _Motor Car_ declares, on high medical authority, that motoring is a cure for insanity. We would therefore recommend several motorists we know to persevere. * * * * * Illustration: GENTLE SATIRE--"I say, Bill, look 'ere! 'Ere's a old cove out record-breaking!" * * * * * Illustration: MOTOR MANIA.-- _The Poet_ (_deprecatingly_). "They say she gives more attention to her motor-cars than to her children." _The Butterfly._ "Of course. How absurd you are! Motor-cars require more attention than children." * * * * * Illustration: SOUR GRAPES _First Scorcher._ "Call _that_ exercise?" _Second Scorcher._ "No. _I_ call it sitting in a draught!" * * * * * Illustration: NOT TO BE CAUGHT.-- _Motorist_ (_whose motor has thrown elderly villager into horse-pond_). "Come along, my man, I'll take you home to get dry." _Elderly Villager._ "No, yer don't. I've got yer number, and 'ere I stays till a hindependent witness comes along!" * * * * * Illustration: _Pedestrian._ "I hear Brown has taken to cycling, and is very enthusiastic about it!" _Cyclist._ "Enthusiastic! Not a bit of it. Why, he never rides before breakfast!" * * * * * Illustration: GROTESQUERIES _Words wanted to express feelings_ When your motor refuses to move, twenty miles from the nearest town. * * * * * Illustration: SO INCONSIDERATE "Jove! Might have killed us! I must have a wire screen fixed up." * * * * * BROWNING ON THE ROAD. Round the bend of a sudden came Z 1 3, And I shot into his front wheel's rim; And straight was a fine of gold for him, And the need of a brand-new bike for me. * * * * * Illustration: "IF DOUGHTY DEEDS MY LADY PLEASE" "Mamma! Mr. White says he is longing to give you your first bicycle lesson!" * * * * * A WISH (_By a Wild Wheelman. A long way after Rogers_) Mine be a "scorch" without a spill, A loud "bike" bell to please mine ear; A chance to maim, if not to kill, Pedestrian parties pottering near. My holloa, e'er my prey I catch, Shall raise wild terror in each breast; If luck or skill that prey shall snatch From my wild wheel, the shock will test. On to the bike beside my porch I'll spring, like falcon on its prey, And Lucy, on _her_ wheel shall "scorch," And "coast" with me the livelong day. To make old women's marrow freeze Is the best sport the bike has given. To chase them as they puff and wheeze, On rubber tyre--by Jove, 'tis heaven! * * * * * THE BIKER BIKED Henpeck'd he was. He learnt to bike. "Now I can go just where I like," He chuckled to himself. But she Had learnt to bike as well as he, And, what was more, had bought a new Machine to sweetly carry two. Ever together now they go, He sighing, "This is wheel _and_ woe." * * * * * Illustration: "WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS," &c. _He_ (_alarmed by the erratic steering_). "Er--and have you driven much?" _She_ (_quite pleased with herself_). "Oh, no--this is only my second attempt. But then, you see, I have been used to a _bicycle_ for years!" * * * * * Illustration: MISUNDERSTOOD _Donald_ (_who has picked up fair cyclist's handkerchief_). "Hi! Woman! Woman!" _Fair Cyclist_ (_indignantly_). "'Woman'! How _dare_ you----" _Donald_ (_out of breath_). "I beg your pardon, sir! I thought you was a woman. I didna see your _trews_." * * * * * Automobile dust-carts, says the _Matin_, are to be used in Paris henceforth. We had thought every motor-car was this. * * * * * Illustration: ENGLISH DICTIONARY ILLUSTRATED.--"Coincidence." The falling or meeting of two or more lines or bodies at the same point. * * * * * REFLECTIONS OF A MOTOR-RACER Two A.M.! Time to get up, if I'm to be ready for the great Paris-Berlin race at 3.30. Feel very cold and sleepy. Pitch dark morning, of course. Moon been down hours. Must get into clothes, I suppose. Oilskins feel very clammy and heavy at this hour in the morning. Button up tunic and tuck trousers into top boots. Put on peaked cap and fasten veil tightly over face, after covering eyes with iron goggles and protecting mouth with respirator. Wind woollen muffler round neck and case hands in thick dogskin gloves with gauntlets. Look like Nansen going to discover North Pole. Or Tweedledum about to join battle with Tweedledee. Effect on the whole unpleasing. Great crowds to see us off. Nearly ran over several in effort to reach starting post. Very careless. People ought not to get in the way on these occasions. Noise appalling. Cheers, snatches of _Marseillaise_, snorts of motors, curses of competitors, cries of bystanders knocked down by enthusiastic _chauffeurs_, shouts of _gendarmes_ clearing the course. Spectators seem to find glare of acetylene lamps very confusing. Several more or less injured through not getting out of the way sufficiently quickly. At last the flag drops. We are off. Pull lever, and car leaps forward. Wonder if wiser to start full speed or begin gently? Decide on latter. Result, nearly blinded by dust of competitors in front, and suffocated by stench of petroleum. Fellow just ahead particularly objectionable in both respects. Decide to quicken up and pass him. Can't see a foot before me on account of his dust. Suddenly run into the stern of his car. Apologise. Can't I look where I'm going? Of course I can. Not my fault at all. Surly fellow! Proceed to go slower. Fellow behind runs into _me_. Confound him, can't he be more careful? Says he couldn't see me. Idiot! Put on speed again. Car in front just visible through haze of dust. Hear distant crash. Confound the man, he's run into a dray! Just time to swerve to the right, and miss wreck of his car by an inch. Clumsy fellow, blocking my road in that way. At last clear space before me. Go up with a rush. Wind whistles past my ears. Glorious! What's that? Run over an old woman? Very annoying. Almost upset my car. Awkward for next chap. Body right across the road. Spill him to a certainty. Morning growing light, but dust thicker than ever. Scarcely see a yard in front of me. Must trust to luck. Fortunately road pretty straight here. Just missed big tree. Collided with small one. Knocked it over like a ninepin. Lucky I was going so fast. Car uninjured, but tree done for. Man in car just ahead very much in my way. Shout to him to get out of the light. Turns round and grins malevolently. Movement fatal. He forgets to steer and goes crash into ditch. What's that he says? Help? Silly fellow, does he think I can stop at this pace? Curious how ignorant people seem to be of simplest mechanical laws. Magnificent piece of road here. Nothing in sight but a dog. Run over it. Put on full speed. Seventy miles an hour at least. Can no longer see or hear anything. Trees, villages, fields rush by in lightning succession. Fancy a child is knocked down. Am vaguely conscious of upsetting old gentleman in gig. Seem to notice a bump on part of car, indicating that it has passed over prostrate fellow citizen, but not sure. Sensation most exhilarating. Immolate another child. Really most careless of parents leaving children loose like this in the country. Some day there will be an accident. Might have punctured my tyre. Chap in front of me comes in sight. Catching him up fast. He puts on full speed. Still gaining on him. Pace terrific. Sudden flash just ahead, followed by loud explosion. Fellow's benzine reservoir blown up apparently. Pass over smoking ruins of car. Driver nowhere to be seen. Probably lying in neighbouring field. That puts _him_ out of the race. Eh? What's that? Aix in sight? Gallop, says Browning. Better not, perhaps. Road ahead crowded with spectators. Great temptation to charge through them in style. Mightn't be popular, though. Slow down to fifteen miles an hour, and enter town amid frantic cheering. Most interesting. Wonderfully few casualties. Dismount at door of hotel dusty but triumphant. * * * * * Illustration: _First Cyclist_ (_cross-eyed_). "Why the dickens don't you look where you're going?" _Second Cyclist_ (_cross-eyed_). "Why don't you go where you're looking?" * * * * * Illustration: QUITE IMPOSSIBLE.--_Motorist._ "What! Exceeding the legal limit? _Do_ we look as if we would do such a thing?" * * * * * Illustration: THE INTERPRETATION OF SIGNS _Custodian._ "This 'ere's a private road, miss! Didn't yer see the notice-board at the gate, sayin' 'No thoroughfare'?" _Placida._ "Oh yes, of course. Why, that's how I knew there was a way through!" * * * * * Illustration: AFTER THE ACCIDENT "Toujours la politesse." * * * * * Illustration: QUITE A LITTLE HOLIDAY _Cottager._ "What's wrong, Biker? Have you had a spill?" _Biker._ "Oh, no. I'm having a rest!" * * * * * Illustration: WHATS IN A NAME? _Old Gent_ (_lately bitten with the craze_). "And that confounded man sold me the thing for a safety!" * * * * * _Motoring Illustrated_ suggests the institution of a Motor Museum. If we were sure that most of the motor omnibuses at present in our streets would find their way there, we would gladly subscribe. * * * * * PROTECTION AGAINST MOTOR-CARS Sir,--I recently read with interest a letter in the _Times_ from "A Cyclist since 1868." In it he announced his intention of carrying a tail-light in order to avoid being run into from behind. The idea is admirable, and my wife and I, as Pedestrians since 1826 and 1823 respectively, propose to wear two lamps each in future, a white and a red. We are, however, a little exercised to know whether we should carry the white in front and the red behind, or _vice versâ_. For in walking along the right side of a road we shall appear on the wrong side to an approaching motor-car. Would it not therefore be better for us to have the tail-light in front. Your most humble and obedient servant, LUX PR�POSTERA. P.S.--Would such an arrangement make us "carriages" in the eye of the law? At present we appear to be merely a sub-division of the class "unlighted objects." * * * * * CURE FOR MOTOR-SCORCHERS (_suggested as being even more humane than the proposal of_ Sir R. Payne-Gallwey).--Give them Automobile Beans! * * * * * Illustration: SLOW AND SURE _John._ "I've noticed, miss, as when you 'as a motor, you catches a train, not _the_ train!" * * * * * HOW THE MATCH CAME OFF A HARMONY ON WHEELS (_Miss Angelica has challenged Mr. Wotherspoon to a race on the Queen's highway._) _Fytte 1._ _Mr. W._ Fine start! (Faint heart!) _Miss A._ Horrid hill! (Feeling ill!) _Fytte 2._ _Mr. W._ Going strong! Come along! _Fytte 3._ _Miss A._ Road quite even! Perfect heaven! _Fytte 4._ _Mr. W._ Goal in view! Running true! _Miss A._ Make it faster! Spur your caster! _Fytte 5._ _Mr. W._ Fairly done! _Miss A._ Match is won! [_They dismount. Pause._ _Mr. W._ What! Confess! _Miss A._ Well then--yes! * * * * * Illustration: _Motor Fiend._ "Why don't you get out of the way?" _Victim._ "_What!_ Are you coming back?" * * * * * MOTOROBESITY (_A Forecast_) In the spring of 1913 St. John Skinner came back from Africa, after spending nine or ten years somewhere near the Zambesi. He travelled up to Waterloo by the electric train, and the three very stout men who were in the same first-class compartment seemed to look at him with surprise. On arriving at his hotel he pushed his way through a crowd of fat persons in the hall. Then he changed his clothes, and went round to his Club to dine. The dining-room was filled with members of extraordinary obesity, all eating heartily. In the fat features of one of them he thought he recognised a once familiar face. "Round," said he, "how are you?" The stout man stopped eating, and gazed at him anxiously. "Why," he murmured, after a while, in the soft voice that comes from folds of fat, "it must be Skinner. My dear fellow, what is the matter with you? Have you had a fever?" "I'm all right," answered the other; "what makes you think I've been ill?" "Ill, man!" said Round, "why you've wasted away to nothing. You're a perfect skeleton." "If it's a question of bulk," remarked Skinner, "I'm much more surprised. You've grown so stout, every fellow in the Club seems so stout, everyone I've seen is as fat as--as--as you are." "Heavens!" exclaimed Round, "you don't mean to say I've been putting on more flesh? I'm the light weight of the Club. I only weigh sixteen stone. No, no, you're chaffing, or you judge by your own figure." "Not a bit," said the other; "you and I used to weigh about the same. What on earth has happened to you all?" "Well," said Round, "perhaps you're right. It's very much what the doctors say. It's the fashionable complaint, motorobesity. Sit down, and dine with me, and I'll tell you what the idea is. You see, it's like this. For ten years or so everybody who could afford a motor of some sort has had one. We've all had one. Not to have a motor has been simply ridiculous, if not disreputable. So everybody has ridden about all day in the fresh air, never had any exercise, and got an enormous appetite. Besides, in the summer we've always been drinking beer to wash down the dust, and in the winter soup, or spirits, or something to warm us. My dear fellow, you can't think what an appetite motoring gives you. I had an enormous steak for my lunch at Winchester to-day, and a great lump of plum cake with my tea at Aldershot, and my aunt, the General's wife, made me bring a bag of biscuits to eat on the way up, and yet I'm so hungry now that I should feel quite uncomfortable if the thirst those biscuits, and the dust, gave me didn't make me almost forget it. I suppose everyone is really getting fat. One notices it when one does happen to see a thin fellow like you. Why, in all the Clubs they've had to have new arm-chairs, because the old ones were too narrow. However, I've talked enough about motoring. So glad to see you again, old chap. Of course you'll get a motor as soon as possible." "Well," said Skinner, "I rather think I shall buy a horse." "My dear fellow," cried Round, "what an idea! Horse-riding is such awfully bad form. Besides, you can't go any pace. Look at me. I wouldn't get on a horse, and be shaken to pieces." "I should think not," said Skinner, "but I think I should prefer that to motorobesity." * * * * * An advertisement in _The Motor_ quotes the testimony of a gentleman from Moreton-in-the-Marsh, who states that he has run a certain car "nearly 412,500 miles in four months, and is more than pleased with it." As this works out (on a basis of twenty-four hours' running _per diem_) at about 143 miles per hour, we have pleasure in asking what the police are doing in Moreton-in-the-Marsh and its vicinity. * * * * * Noticing an advertisement of a book entitled "The Complete Motorist," an angry opponent of the new method of locomotion writes to suggest that the companion volume, "The Complete Pedestrian," had better be written at once before it becomes impossible to find an entire specimen. * * * * * MAXIM FOR CYCLISTS.--"_Try_-cycle before you _Buy_-cycle." * * * * * Illustration: Motorist (a novice) has been giving chairman of local urban council a practical demonstration of the ease with which a motor-car can be controlled when travelling at a high speed. * * * * * Illustration: LOVE'S ENDURANCE _Miss Dolly_ (_to her fiancé_). "Oh, Jack, this _is_ delightful! If you'll only keep up the pace, I'm sure I shall soon gain confidence!" [_Poor Jack has already run a mile or more, and is very short of condition._ * * * * * Illustration: TU QUOQUE.--_Cyclist_ (_a beginner who has just collided with freshly-painted fence_). "Confound your filthy paint! Now, just look at my coat!" _Painter._ "'Ang yer bloomin' coat! _'Ow about my paint?_" * * * * * Illustration: NOTE TO THE SUPERSTITIOUS It is considered lucky for a black cat to cross your path. * * * * * Illustration: WAITING FOR _A Study of Rural_ "W'y, I remembers the time w'en I'd 'ave stopped _that_ for furious drivin', an' I reckon it's only goin' about a paltry fifteen mile an hour!" * * * Illustration: BIGGER GAME _Police Methods_ "_Ar!_ Now them cyclists is puttin' on a fairish pace! Summat about twenty mile an hour, I s'pose. But 'tain't no business o' mine. _I'm_ 'ere to stop _motor-caws_. Wot ho!" * * * * * LOVE IN A CAR ["I have personal knowledge of marriages resulting from motor-car courtships."--The HON. C. S. ROLLS.--_Daily Express._] When Reginald asked me to drive in his car I knew what it meant for us both, For peril to love-making offers no bar, But fosters the plighting of troth. To the tender occasion I hastened to rise, So bought a new frock on the strength of it, Some china-blue chiffon--to go with my eyes-- And wrapped up my head with a length of it. "Get in," said my lover, "as quick as you can!" He wore a black smear on his face, And held out the hand of a rough artisan To pilot me into my place. Like the engine my frock somehow seemed to mis-fire, For Reginald's manner was querulous, But after some fuss with the near hind-wheel tyre We were off at a pace that was perilous. "There's Brown just behind, on his second-hand brute, He thinks it can move, silly ass!" Said Reggie with venom, "Ha! Ha! let him hoot, I'll give him some trouble to pass." My service thenceforth was by Reggie confined (He showed small compunction in suing it) To turning to see how far Brown was behind, But not to let Brown see me doing it. Brown passed us. We dined off his dust for a league-- It really was very poor fun-- Till, our car showed symptoms of heat and fatigue, Reggie had to admit he was done. To my soft consolation scant heed did he pay, But with taps was continually juggling, And his words, "Will you keep your dress further away?" Put a stop to this incipient smuggling. "He'd never have passed me alone," Reggie sighed, "The car's extra heavy with you." "Why ask me to come?" I remarked. He replied, "I thought she'd go better with two." When I touched other topics, forbearingly meek, From his goggles the lightnings came scattering, "What chance do you give me of placing this squeak," He hissed, "when you keep up that chattering?" At that, I insisted on being set down And returning to London by train, And I vowed fifty times on my way back to town That I never would see him again. Next week he appeared and implored me to wed, With a fondly adoring humility. "The car stands between us," I rigidly said. "I've sold it!" he cried with agility. His temples were sunken, enfeebled his frame, There was white in the curls on his crest; When he spoke of our ride in a whisper of shame I flew to my home on his breast. By running sedately I'm certain that Love To such passion would never have carried us, Which settles the truth of the legend above-- It was really the motor-car married us. * * * * * Illustration: _Miller_ (_looking after cyclist, who has a slight touch of motor mania_). "Well, to be sure! There do be some main ignorant chaps out o' London. 'E comes 'ere askin' me 'ow many 'orse power the old mill ad got." * * * * * Illustration: _Cyclist_ (_whose tyre has become deflated_). "Have you such a thing as a pump?" _Yokel._ "'Ees, miss, there's one i' the yard." _Cyclist._ "I should be much obliged if you would let me use it." _Yokel._ "That depends 'ow much you want. Watter be main scarce wi' us this year! Oi'll ask feyther." * * * * * Illustration: _Smart Girl_ (_to keen motorist_). "My sister has bought a beautiful motor-car." _Keen Motorist._ "Really! What kind?" _Smart Girl._ "Oh, a lovely sage green, to go with her frocks." * * * * * Illustration: _Mrs. Binks_ (_who has lost control of her machine_). "Oh, oh, Harry! Please get into a bank soon. I must have something soft to fall on!" * * * * * Illustration: _Miss Heavytopp._ "I'm afraid I'm giving you a lot of bother, but then, it's only my _first_ lesson!" _Exhausted Instructor_ (_sotto voce_). "I only hope it won't be my _last_!" * * * * * Illustration: SORROWS OF A "CHAUFFEUR" _Ancient Dame._ "What d'ye say? They call he a 'shuvver,' do they? I see. They put he to walk behind and shove 'em up the hills, I reckon." * * * * * A CYCLE OF CATHAY.--_The Yorkshire Evening Post_, in reporting the case of a motor-cyclist charged with travelling at excessive speed on the highway at Selby, represents a police-sergeant as stating that "he timed defendant over a distance of 633 years, which was covered in 64 secs." The contention of the defendant that he had been "very imperfectly timed" has an air of captiousness. * * * * * "Many roads in the district are unfit for motorists," is the report of the Tadcaster surveyor to his council. We understand the inhabitants have resolved to leave well alone. * * * * * At a meeting of the Four Wheeler's Association, a speaker boasted, with some justification, that a charge which is brought every day against drivers of motor-cars has never been brought against members of their Association, namely, that of driving at an excessive speed. * * * * * Rumour is again busy with the promised appearance of a motor-bus which is to be so quiet that you will not know that there is one on the road until you have been run over. * * * * * Illustration: AN UNPARDONABLE MISTAKE.--_Short-sighted Old Lady._ "Porter!" * * * * * Illustration: NOSCE TEIPSUM.--_Lady Cyclist_ (_touring in North Holland_). "What a ridiculous costume!" * * * * * Illustration: _Sporting Constable_ (_with stop-watch--on "police trap" duty, running excitedly out from his ambush, to motorist just nearing the finish of the measured furlong_). "For 'evin's sake, guv'nor, let 'er rip, and ye'll do the 220 in seven and a 'arf!" * * * * * MY MOTOR CAP [Motor-caps, we are informed, have created such a vogue in the Provinces, that ladies, women and factory girls may be seen wearing them on every occasion, though unconnected, in other respects, with modern methods of locomotion.] A motor car I shall never afford With a gay vermilion bonnet, Of course I _might_ happen to marry a lord, But it's no good counting on it. I have never reclined on the seat behind, And hurtled across the map, But my days are blest with a mind at rest, For I wear a motor cap. I am done with Gainsborough, straw and toque, My dresses are bound with leather, I turn up my collar like auto-folk, And stride through the pitiless weather; With a pound of scrag in an old string bag, In a tram with a child on my lap, Wherever I go, to shop or a show, I wear a motor cap. I don't know a silencer from a clutch, A sparking-plug from a bearing, But no one, I think, is in closer touch With the caps the women are wearing; I'm _au fait_ with the trim of the tailor-made brim, The crown and machine-stitched strap; Though I've neither the motor, the sable-lined coat, nor The goggles--I wear the cap. * * * * * Illustration: No, this isn't a collection of tubercular microbes escaping from the congress; but merely the Montgomery-Smiths in their motor-car, enjoying the beauties of the country. * * * * * LINES BY A REJECTED AND DEJECTED CYCLIST You do not at this juncture Feel, as I, the dreadful smart, And you scorn the cruel puncture Of the tyre of my heart! But mayhap, at some Life-turning, When the wheel has run untrue, You will know why I was burning, And was scorched alone, by you! * * * * * Illustration: FINIS BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE 
49831	----	from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) [Illustration: "ASPETTI!" _Page 172._] TWO PILGRIMS' PROGRESS BY JOSEPH AND ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL AUTHORS OF "_A CANTERBURY PILGRIMAGE_" BOSTON ROBERTS BROTHERS LONDON SEELEY & CO. 1887 _Copyright, 1886_, BY ROBERTS BROTHERS. University Press: JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE. TWO Pilgrims' Progress FROM FAIR FLORENCE, TO The eternal City of ROME: Delivered under the Similitude of a RIDE Wherein is Discovered, The manner of their setting out, Their Dangerous Journey; And safe Arrival at the Desired City. _And Behold they wrought a Work on the Wheels._ _IER.18.3_ By _Joseph & Elizabeth Robins Pennell_. Licensed and Entred according to Order. _And_ _Published By_ ROBERTS BROS. BOSTON MDCCCLXXXVI _A FRIEND'S Apology_ _For this Booke._ _By CHARLES G. LELAND._ _Loe! what is this which Ime to sett before ye? It is, I ween, a very pleasant Story, How two young_ Pilgrimes _who the World would see, Did Wheele themselves all over Italy. One meant to write on't, whence it may be said That for the Nonce hers was the Wheelwright's trade; Which is a clever Crafte, for yee have heard What flits about as a familiar Word Which in a Workshopp often meets the Eare, "Bad Wheelwright maketh a good Carpentere," If of a bad one such a Saying's true, Oh what, I pray, may not a good one do? For by Experience I do declare 'Tis easier to make Books than build a Chaire._ Experto crede--I _have tried them Both, And sweare a Book is easier--on my Oathe!_ _He who with her a Pilgriming did go,--_ That was her Husband. As this Book doth show, _Rare skill he had when he would Sketches take, And from those Sketches prittie Pictures make. She with the Pen could well illuminate, He with the Pencil Nature illustrate. Oh, is't not strange that what they did so well In the Pen way meets in the Name Pen-nell? By which the Proverb doth approved appeare,_ Nomen est Omen,--_as is plain and cleere. Which means to say that every Soule doth Bear A Name well suited to his charactere._ _Now, when this Couple unto Mee did come, And askt me iff I'de write a little Pome, That Tale and Picture as they rouled along Might have some small Accomp'niment of Song, I set my Pen to Paper with Delighte, And quickly had my Thoughts in Black and White. Even as_ JOHN BUNYAN _said he did of yore, So I, because I'd done the like before. Since I was the first man of modern time Who on the bycicle e'er wrote a Rime, How I a Lady in a Vision saw Upon a Wheel like that of Budda's Law, Which kept the Path and went exceeding fast; Loe! now my Vision is fulfilled at last, In this brave writer who with ready Hand Hath guided well the Wheel ore many a Land, Showing the World by her adventurous Course How one may travel fast as any Horse, Without a Steed, and stop where'er ye will, And have for oats or stable nere a Bill._ _Now, for the Book I something have to say (Pray mark Mee well, good Reader, while_ you _may)._ They _say that in the Publick some there bee Who'll take it ill 'cause it doth Parody_ JOHN BUNYAN'S Progress. _That can ne'er be said By any who_ JOHN BUNYAN'S _Booke have read, Since he himself protests against the Whim Of those who said the selfsame thing of him, And thought he lightly treated solemn Things. List the Defence which to this Charge he brings: "This Book will make a Traveler of_ Thee, _If by its Councill_ thou _wilt guided be. And it is writ in such a Dialect As may the Minds of listless Men affect. It seems a_ NOVELTY, _and yet contains Nothing but sound and honest Gospel Strains."_ _Now I can make no more Apologie Than Honest_ JOHN _did make for himself, d'ye see; As for the Rest--if you but cast your Eye Upon the Pictures ere the Booke ye buy, And if of Art you are a clever Judge, The Price for it you'll surely not begrudge. Now, Reader, I have praysed this Booke to Thee, I trust that Thou wilt scan Itt carefullie; 'T will set before thee Portraiture of Townes, Castles and Towres, antient Villes and Downs, How rowling Rivers to y^e Ocean hast, Of Roadside Inns and many a faire Palast, Served up, I ween, with so much gentle Mirthe, Thoulte fairly own thou'st gott_ thy _Money's Worth. If thou art Cheated Mine shall bee the Sinn,-- Turn o'er the Page, my Lady, and Begin!_ * * * * * _Loe! Vanity Faire!--the Worlde is there, Hee and his Wife beside. Ye may see it afoot, or from the Traine, Or if on a Wheel you ride._ _To CHARLES GODFREY LELAND, Who is responsible for our First Work Together, & Who has been the Great-Heart of many a Pilgrimage taken in his Company, We dedicate this Book._ CONTENTS. PAGE THE START 11 IN THE VAL D'ARNO 14 AT EMPOLI 22 THE ROAD TO FAIR AND SOFT SIENA 25 AT POGGIBONSI 34 IN THE MOUNTAINS 36 FAIR AND SOFT SIENA 45 AN ITALIAN BY-ROAD 61 MONTE OLIVETO 81 THROUGH THE WILDERNESS TO A GARDEN 94 WE ARE DETAINED IN MONTEPULCIANO 101 IN THE VAL DI CHIANA 109 LUCA SIGNORELLI'S TOWN 118 TO PERUGIA: BY TRAIN AND TRICYCLE 122 AT PERUGIA 128 ACROSS THE TIBER TO ASSISI 134 AT ASSISI 138 VIRGIL'S COUNTRY 142 TERNI AND ITS FALLS 155 IN THE LAND OF BRIGANDS 157 A MIDDLING INN 164 ACROSS THE CAMPAGNA 166 THE FINISH 173 * * * APPENDIX 175 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. * * * PAGE OVER THE PONTE VECCHIO 14 IN THE SUNLIGHT 18 LASTRA 20 A PERUGINO LANDSCAPE 24 ON THE ARNO--NEAR EMPOLI 36 A SLIGHT OBSTRUCTION 40 NOONTIME 42 BY THE RIVER 50 CHIUSURE 68 MONTE OLIVETO 84 AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS 96 LEAVING MONTEPULCIANO 106 CORTONA 118 ON THE HILL 126 THE BRONZE PONTIFF'S BENEDICTION, PERUGIA 134 A FROWN OF DISAPPROVAL, ASSISI 136 GATHERING LEAVES 146 "PIPING DOWN THE VALLEY" 160 FROM VIA FLAMINIA, NEAR PONTE MOLLE 170 "ASPETTO!" 172 TWO PILGRIMS' PROGRESS. TWO PILGRIMS' PROGRESS. THE START. "_They are a couple of far-country men, and, after their mode, are going on Pilgrimage._" We stayed in Florence three days before we started on our pilgrimage to Rome. We needed a short rest. The railway journey straight through from London had been unusually tiresome because of our tricycle. From the first mention of our proposed pilgrimage, kind friends in England had warned us that on the way to Italy the machine would be a burden worse than the Old Man of the Sea; porters, guards, and custom-house officials would look upon it as lawful prey, and we should pay more to get it to Italy than it had cost in the beginning. It is wonderful how clever one's friends are to discover the disagreeable, and then how eager to point it out! Our first experience at the station at Holborn Viaduct seemed to confirm their warnings. We paid eight shillings to have the tricycle carried to Dover, porters amiably remarking it would take a pile of money to get such a machine to Italy. Crossing the Channel, we paid five-and-sixpence more, and the sailors told us condolingly we should have an awful time of it in the custom-house at Calais. This, however, turned out a genuine seaman's yarn. The tricycle was examined carefully, but to be admired, not valued. "That's well made, that!" one guard declared with appreciation, and others playfully urged him to mount it. To make a long story short, our friends proved false prophets. From Calais to Florence we paid only nine francs freight and thirty-five francs duty at Chiasso. But unfortunately we never knew what might be about to happen. We escaped in one place only to be sure the worst would befall us in the next. It was not until the cause of our anxiety was safe in Florence that our mental burden was taken away. But here were more friends who called our pilgrimage a desperate journey, and asked if we had considered what we might meet with in the way we were going. There was the cholera. But we represented that to get to Rome we should not go near the stricken provinces. Then they persisted that our road lay through valleys reeking with malaria until November at least. We should not reach these valleys before November, was our reply. Well, then, did we know we must pass through lonely districts where escaped convicts roamed abroad; and in and out of villages where fleas were like unto a plague of Egypt, and good food as scarce as in the wilderness? In a word, ours was a fool's errand. Perhaps it was because so little had come of the earlier prophecies that we gave slight heed to these. They certainly made no difference in our plans. On October 16, the third morning after our arrival, we rode forth _sans_ flea-powder or brandy, _sans_ quinine or beef-extract, _sans_ everything our friends counselled us to take,--and hence, according to them, right into the jaws of death. IN THE VAL D'ARNO. "_Now their way lay just upon the bank of the river; here, therefore, Christian and his companion walked with great delight._" The _padrone_ who helped to strap our portfolio and two bags to the luggage-carrier, our coats to the handle-bars, and the knapsack to J.'s back, and Mr. Mead, the one friend who foretold pleasure, stood at the door of the Hotel Minerva to see us off. The sunlight streamed over the Piazza of Santa Maria Novella and the beggars on the church-steps and the cabmen who good-naturedly cried "No carriage for you," as we wheeled slowly on, over to the Via Tornabuoni, past Doni's, by Viesseux's, up the Lung' Arno to the crowded Ponte Vecchio where for this once at least we were not attacked by the little shopmen, by the Via de' Bardi, then back through the Borgo San Jacopo, again along the Lung' Arno, and then around with the twisting street-car tracks, through the Porta San Frediano, and out on the broad white road which leads to Pisa. [Illustration: OVER THE PONTE VECCHIO. _Page 14._] But even before we left Florence we met with our first accident. The luggage-carrier swung around from the middle to the side of the backbone. The one evil consequence, however, was a half-hour's delay. Beyond the gate we stopped at the first blacksmith's. Had either of us known the Italian word for "wire," the delay might have been shorter. It was only by elaborate pantomime we could make our meaning clear. Then the blacksmith took the matter in his own hands, unstrapped the bags, and went to work with screw-driver and wire, while the entire neighborhood, backed by passing pedlers and street-car drivers and citizens, pronounced the tricycle "beautiful!" "a new horse!" "a tramway!" When the luggage-carrier was fastened securely and loaded again, the blacksmith was so proud of his success that he declared "nothing" was his charge. But he was easily persuaded to take something to drink the _Signore's_ health. After this there were no further stops. Our road for some distance went over streets laid with the great stones of the old Tuscan pavement,--and for tricyclers these streets are not very bad going,--between tall gray houses, with shrines built in them, and those high walls which radiate from Florence in every direction, and keep one from seeing the gardens and green places within. Women plaiting straw, great yellow bunches of which hung at their waists, and children greeted us with shouts. Shirtless bakers, their hands white with flour, and barbers holding their razors, men with faces half shaved and still lathered, and others with wine-glasses to their lips, rushed to look at this new folly of the foreigner,--for ours was the first tandem tricycle ever seen in Italy. At Signa, on the steep up-grade just outside the town, we had a lively spurt with a dummy engine, the engineer apparently trying to run us down as we were about to cross the track. After this we rode between olives and vineyards where there were fewer people. There was not a cloud in the sky, so blue overhead and so white above the far hill-tops on the horizon. The wind in the trees rustled gently in friendliness. Solemn, white-faced, broad-horned oxen stared at us sympathetically over the hedges. One young peasant even stopped his cart to say how beautiful he thought it must be to travel in Italy after our fashion. All day we passed gray olive-gardens and green terraced hillsides, narrow Tuscan-walled streams dry at this season, and long rows of slim straight poplars,--"white trees," a woman told us was their name. Every here and there was a shrine with lamp burning before the Madonna, or a wayside cross bearing spear and scourge and crown of thorns. Now we rode by the fair river of Arno, where reeds grew tall and close by the water's edge, and where the gray-green mountains rising almost from its banks were barren of all trees save dark stone-pines and towering cypresses, like so many mountains in Raphael's or Perugino's pictures. Now we came to where the plain broadened and the mountains were blue and distant. Mulberries the peasants had stripped of their leaves before their time, but not bare because of the vines festooned about them, broke with their even ranks the monotony of gray and brown ploughed fields. Here on a hill was a white villa or monastery, with long, lofty avenue of cypresses; there, the stanch unshaken walls and gates of castle or fortress, which, however, had long since disappeared. It is true, all these things are to be seen hastily from the windows of the railway train; but it is only by following the windings and straight ways of the road as we did that its beauty can be worthily realized. Later in the afternoon, with a turn of the road, we came suddenly in view of Capraia, high up above, and far to the other side of the river,--so far, indeed, that all detail was lost, and we could only see the outline of its houses and towers and campanile washed into the whitish-blue sky. And all the time we were working just hard enough to feel that joy of mere living which comes with healthy out-of-door exercise, and, I think, with nothing else. Sometimes we rode seeing no one, and hearing no other sound than the low cries of a cricket in the hedge and the loud calls of an unseen ploughman in a neighboring field; then an old woman went by, complimenting us on going so fast without a horse; and then a baker's boy in white shirt and bare legs, carrying a lamb on his shoulders. But then, again, we met wagon after wagon, piled with boxes and baskets, poultry and vegetables, and sleeping men and women, and with lanterns swinging between the wheels,--for the next day would be Friday and market-day, and peasants were already on their way to Florence. There were pedlers, too, walking from village to village, selling straw fans and gorgeous handkerchiefs. Would not the _Signora_ have a handkerchief? one asked, showing me the gayest of his stock. For answer I pointed to the bags on the luggage-carrier and the knapsack on J.'s back. "Of course," he said; we already had enough to carry; would the _Signora_ forgive him for troubling her? And with a polite bow he went on his way. [Illustration: IN THE SUNLIGHT. _Page 18._] We came to several villages and towns,--some small, where pots and bowls, fresh from the potter's wheel, were set out to dry; others large, like Lastra, with heavy walls and gates and old archways, and steps leading up to crooked, steep streets, so narrow the sun never shines into them; or like Montelupo, where for a while we sat on the bridge without the farther gate, looking at the houses which climb up the hillside to the cypress-encircled monastery at the top. Women were washing in the stream below, and under the poplars on the bank a priest in black robes and broad-brimmed hat walked with a young lady. But whenever we stopped, children from far and near collected around us. There were little old-fashioned girls, with handkerchiefs tied over their heads in womanly fashion, who kept on plaiting straw, and small boys nursing big babies, their hands and mouths full of bread and grapes. If, however, in their youthful curiosity they pressed upon us too closely, polite men and women, who had also come to look, drove them back with terrible cries of _Via, ragazzi!_ ("Go away, children!") before which they retreated with the same speed with which they had advanced. [Illustration: LASTRA. _Page 20._] Just beyond Montelupo, when a tedious up-grade brought us to a broad plateau, a cart suddenly came out a little way in front of us from a side road. A man was driving, and on the seat behind, and facing us, were two nuns, who wore wide straw hats which flapped slowly up and down with the motion of the cart. When they saw us, the younger of the two covered her face with her hands, as if she thought us a device of the Devil. But the other, who looked the Lady Abbess, met the danger bravely, and sternly examined us. This close scrutiny reassured her. When we drew nearer she wished us good-evening, and then her companion turned and looked. We told them we were pilgrims bound for Rome. At this they took courage, and the spokeswoman begged for the babies they cared for in Florence. We gave her a few sous. She counted them quite greedily, and then--but not till then--benevolently blessed us. They were going at jog-trot pace, so that we soon left them behind. "_Buon viaggio_," the Abbess cried; and the silent sister smiled, showing all her pretty white teeth, for we now represented a temptation overcome. AT EMPOLI. "_The pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber whose window opened towards the sunrising; the name of the chamber was Peace; where he slept till break of day._" We put up that night at Empoli. The Albergo Maggiore was fair enough, and, like all large Italian inns, had a clean spacious stable in which to shelter the tricycle. The only drawback to our comfort was the misery at dinner of the black-eyed, blue-shirted waiter at our refusal to eat a dish of birds we had not ordered. He was very eager to dispose of them. He served them with every course, setting them on the table with a triumphant "_Ecco!_" as if he had prepared a delicious surprise. It was not until he brought our coffee that he despaired. Then he retired mournfully to the kitchen, where his loud talk with the _padrona_ made us fear their wrath would fall upon us or the tricycle. But later they gave us candles, and said good-night with such gracious smiles that we slept the sleep which knows neither care nor fear. The next morning their temper was as unclouded as the sky. They both watched the loading of the tricycle with smiling interest. He had seen velocipedes with two wheels, the waiter said, but never one with three. And that a _Signora_ should ride, the _padrona_ added, ah! that indeed was strange! Then she grew confidential. Only occasionally I caught her meaning, for my knowledge of Italian was small. She had had seven children, she said, and all were dead but one. And I, had I any? And where had I bought my dress? She liked it so much; and she took it in her hand and felt it. Should we stay long in Italy? and sometime we would come back to Empoli? Her son, a little fellow, was there too. He had been hanging about the machine when we came down to breakfast, and ever since. He stood speechless while J. was by, but when the latter went away for a few minutes,--less shy with me, I suppose, because he knew I could not understand him as well,--he asked what might such a velocipede cost? as much perhaps as a hundred francs? But J. coming back he was silent as before. They all followed us out to the street, the _padrona_ shaking hands with us both, and the boy standing by the tricycle to the very last. [Illustration: A PERUGINO LANDSCAPE. _Page 24._] THE ROAD TO FAIR AND SOFT SIENA. "_They went till they came into a certain country whose air naturally tended to make one drowsy._" "_Let us not sleep as do others, but let us watch and be sober._" It was good to be in the open country again, warming ourselves in the hot sunshine. The second morning of our ride was better than the first. We knew beforehand how beautiful the day would be, and how white and smooth was the road that lay before us. The white oxen behind the ploughs, and the mules in their gay trappings and shining harness seemed like old acquaintances. The pleasant good-morning given us by every peasant we met made us forget we were strangers in the land. A little way from Empoli we crossed the Ponte d'Elsa, and then after a sharp turn to the right we were on the road to "fair and soft Siena." It led on through vineyards and wide fields lying open to the sun, by sloping hillsides and narrow winding rivers, by villas and gardens where roses were blooming. In places they hung over the wall into the road. We asked a little boy to give us one,--for the _Signora_, J. added. But the child shook his head. How could he? The roses were not his, he said. Once we passed a wayside cross on which loving hands had laid a bunch of the fresh blossoms. Sometimes we heard from the far-away mountains the loud blasting of rocks, and then the soft bells of a monastery; sometimes even the cracking of the whip of a peasant behind us, driving an unwilling donkey. Then we would pass from the stillness of the country into the noise and clamor of small villages, to hear the wondering cries of the women to which we were already growing accustomed, the piercing yells of babies, who well secured in basket go-carts could not get to us quickly enough, and the sing-song repetition of older children saying their lesson in school, and whom we could see at their work through the low windows. About noon we rode into Certaldo,--Boccaccio's town. I know nothing that interferes so seriously with hero-worship as hunger. I confess that if some one had said, "You can go either to see Boccaccio's house or to lunch at a _trattoria_, but both these things you cannot do," our answer would have been an immediate order for lunch. We went at once to a _trattoria_ on the piazza where Boccaccio's statue stands. I doubt if that great man himself ever gathered such numbers about him as we did. Excited citizens, when the tricycle was put away, stood on the threshold and stared at us until the door was shut upon them. Then they pressed their faces against the windows and peered over piles of red and yellow pears; and every now and then one, bolder than the rest, stealthily thrust his head in and then scampered off before he could be captured. This gave a spice of novelty and excitement to our midday meal. We ordered a very simple lunch,--soup, bread and cheese, coffee and vermouth. But the _padrona_ had to send out for everything. Her sister, a young girl as fair as an Englishwoman, was her messenger. We were scarcely seated before she came back with coffee and a large bottle that she set before us. This, of course, was the vermouth, and we half filled our glasses and at once drank a little. The two women stared with a surprise we could not understand. The fair girl now disappeared on a second foraging expedition, and stayed away until we had finished our soup. "_Ecco_, vermouth!" she said on her return, putting another bottle in front of us. Then we knew the reason of their wonder. We had swallowed, like so much water, the not over-strong cognac intended only to flavor our coffee. Presently the _padrona_ entered into conversation with us. We were English, she supposed. No; Americans, we told her. At this there was great rejoicing. They had a brother in America. He lived in a large town called Buenos Ayres, where he kept a _trattoria_. Like theirs it was the _Trattoria_ Boccaccio. They were glad to see any one from the same country, whether from north or south. Was it not all America? The _padrona_ went upstairs to bring down his picture that we might see it. Her sister pointed to the purple woollen jersey she wore, and said with pride her brother had sent it to her. It too was American. They even called in their old mother, that she might see her son's fellow-countrymen. We spent an hour wandering through the old town, on top of the hill, in which Boccaccio really lived. The sun was shining right down into the streets, in which the gay kerchiefs of the women, the bunches of straw at their waists, and their cornstalk distaffs made bright bits of color. Though we left the tricycle at the _trattoria_, our coming made a stir in the little place. Our clothes were not like unto those of the natives, and J.'s knee-breeches and long black stockings made them wonder what manner of priest he might be. As we stood looking at the _loggia_ and tower and arched doorway of Boccaccio's house, the custodian, with a heavy bunch of keys, came to take us through it. But we declined his services. We cared more for the old streets and walls and palaces, which, though their greatness has gone, have not been changed since mediæval times, than for an interior, however fine, whose mediævalism dates from to-day. The old man turned rather sulkily. J., seeing there had been some mistake, explained we had not sent for him. Then his face cleared. The women had said we wanted him, else he would never have disturbed us; and he took off his hat, and this time went away with a friendly _à rivederle_. The Palazzo Communale, at the highest point of the town, is still covered with the arms and insignia of other years, of the Medici and Piccolomini, of the Orsini and Baglioni. Its vaulted doorway is still decorated with frescos of the Madonna, and saints and angels. But everywhere the plaster is falling away, and in the courtyard grass grows between the bricks of the pavement; and instead of pages and men-at-arms, we there saw only a little brown-faced ragged child climbing cat-like over the roofs, and a woman scolding him from below. We left the town by the frescoed gateway, through which we saw the near hills, gray, bare, and furrowed, the long lines of cypresses, the stretches of gray olives, the valley below with its vineyards, and the far mountains, purple and shadowy, the highest topped with many-towered San Gimignano. It is better not to be jocund with the fruitful grape in the middle of the day when one is tricycling. The cognac we had taken at lunch, weak as it was, and the vermouth made us sleepy and our feet heavy. I sympathized with the men who lay in sound slumbers in every cart we met. But their drowsiness forced us into wakefulness. Of the ride from Certaldo to Poggibonsi, I remember best the loud inarticulate cries of J. and his calls of "_Eccomi!_" as if he were lord of the land, to sleeping drivers. The Italian cry of the roads, rising to a high note and then suddenly falling and ending in a low prolonged one, which is indispensable to travellers, is not easy to learn. J.'s proficiency in it, however, made him pass for a native when he limited himself to howling. But often donkeys darted into ditches and oxen plunged across the road before the peasants behind them awoke. Like Sancho Panza they had a talent for sleeping. Once, after we had climbed a short but steep hill and had passed by several wagons in rapid succession, we stopped under the shade to rest. It was a pleasant place. We looked over the broad valley, where the vines were festooned, not as Virgil saw them, from elm to elm, but from mulberry to mulberry, and up to San Gimignano, beginning to take more definite shape on its mountain-top. A peasant in peaked hat and blue shirt, with trousers rolled up high above his bare knees, crossed the road and silently examined the tricycle. "You have a good horse," he then said; "it eats nothing." We asked him if they were at work in his vineyard. No, he answered; but would we like to look in the wine-press opposite? And then he took us through the dark windowless building, where on one side the grape-juice was fermenting in large butts, and on the other fresh grapes had been laid on sets of shelves to dry. He picked out two of the finest bunches and gave them to me. When I offered to pay him he refused. The _Signora_ must accept them, he said. As the road was now a dead level and lumpy into the bargain, we were glad when Poggibonsi was in sight. We drew up on a bridge where a man was standing, to ask him if he knew of a good inn. He recommended the Albergo dell' Aquila. "It is good," he went on, "and not too dear. This is not a town where they take one by the neck," and he clutched his own throat. So to the Albergo dell'Aquila we went. We had only to ride through the wide avenue of shady trees, past a row of houses, out of one of which a brown-robed monk came, to rush back at sight of us, past a washing-place surrounded by busy chattering women, and we were at the door of the inn. AT POGGIBONSI. "_Then she asked him whence he was come and whither he was going; and he told her. She asked him also how he got into the way; and he told her. And last she asked his name._" The Albergo dell' Aquila was even more comfortable than the Maggiore in Empoli. We dined in a room from whose walls King Humbert and his Queen smiled upon us, while opposite were two sensational and suggestive brigands in lonely mountain passes. The _padrona_ came up with the salad, and she and the waiter in a cheerful duet catechised us after the friendly Italian fashion, and then told us about the visit to their house of the American consul from Florence; of the hard times the cholera had brought with it for all Italy; of the bad roads to San Gimignano and the steep ones to Siena, along which peasants never travelled without bearing in mind the old saying, _All' ingiù tutti i santi ajutano; ma all' insú ci vuol Gesù_,--"Going down hill, call upon the saints; but going up, one needs Jesus." Before long J. joined in the talk, and the duet became a trio. Never had I been so impressed with his fluent Italian. Even the _padrona_ was not readier with her words than he with his. When I spoke to him about it afterwards, he said he supposed it was wonderful; he had not understood half of it himself. After dinner and in the twilight we walked through the lively crowded streets and into the church, where service was just over. A priest in white surplice left the altar, and another began to put the lights out when we entered. But in the unlit nave many of the faithful still knelt in prayer. The town grew quieter as night came on. But just as we were going to sleep some men went along the street below our window singing. One in a loud clear tenor sang the tune, the others the accompaniment like a part song, and the effect was that of a great guitar. Their song was a fitting good-night to a day to whose beauty there had been not a cloud. IN THE MOUNTAINS. "_He saw a most pleasant mountainous country, beautified with woods, vineyards, fruits of all sorts, flowers also with springs and fountains, very delectable to behold._" Though we left Poggibonsi in the beginning of the morning, a large crowd waited for us at the door of the inn. The _padrona_ said farewell with many good wishes; men and women we had never seen before called out pleasantly _à rivederle_, two _carabinieri_ watched us from the other side of the piazza, the railroad officials at the station cried "_Partenza! Partenza!_" and then we were off and out of the town. It would be _su_, _su_, _su_, all the way they told us at the inn, but for several miles we went fast enough, so that I felt sure the peasants we passed were still only calling on the saints. The ascent at first was very gradual, while the road was excellent. There were down as well as up grades, and for every steep climb we had a short coast. Now we came out on villas which but a little before had been above us, and now we reached the very summit of hills from which we looked forth upon mountain rising beyond mountain,--some treeless and ashen gray, others thickly wooded and glowing with golden greens and russets, and still others white and mist-like, and seeming to melt into the soft white clouds resting on their highest peaks. All along, the hedges were covered with clusters of red rose-berries and the orange berries of the pyracanthus. The grass by the roadside was gay with brilliant crimson pinks, yellow snapdragons and dandelions, and violet daisies. Once we came to a vineyard where the ripe fruit still hung in purple clusters from the vines, and where men and women, some on foot and others on ladders, were gathering and filling with them large buckets and baskets. At the far end of the field white oxen, their great heads decorated with red ribbons, stood in waiting. Boys with buckets slung on long poles were coming and going between the vines. In all the other vineyards we had passed the vintage was over, so we waited to watch the peasants as, laughing and singing, they worked away. But when they saw us, they too stopped and looked, and one man came down from his ladder and to the hedge to offer us a bunch of grapes. [Illustration: ON THE ARNO--NEAR EMPOLI. _Page 36._] The only town through which we rode was Staggia, where workmen were busy restoring the old tower and making it a greater ruin than it had ever been before. One town gate has gone, but from the battlements of the other grass and weeds still wave with the wind, while houses have been built into the broken walls. It is a degenerate little town, and its degeneracy, paradoxical as it may sound, is the result of its activity. For its inhabitants have not rested content like those of Lastra with the mediævalism that surrounds them. They have striven to make what is old new by painting their church and many of their houses in that scene-painting style which to-day seems to represent the art of the people in Italy. Often during our journey we saw specimens of this vile fashion,--houses with sham windows and shutters, churches with make-believe curtains and cords,--but nowhere was it so prominent as in Staggia. Beyond Monteriggione, whose towers alone showed above its high walls, the road began to wind upward on the mountain-side. It was such a long, steady pull that although the surface was perfect we gave up riding and walked. Our machine was heavily loaded, and not too easy to work over prolonged up-grades. Besides, we were not time nor record makers, nor perambulating advertisements, and we had the day before us. We were now closed in with woods. On either side were chestnuts and dwarf-oaks and bushes, their leaves all "yellow and black and pale and hectic red." And occasional openings showed near mountain-tops covered with downy gray grass and a low growth like heather, and here and there were groups of dark pines. For an hour at least we were alone with the sounds and silence of the mountains. The wandering wind whispered in the wood and black swine rooted in the fallen leaves, but of human life there was no sign. Then there came from afar a regular tap-tap, low at first, but growing louder and louder, until, as we drew closer to it, we knew it to be the steady hammering of stone-breakers. There were two men at work in this lonely pass, and as we stood talking to them two more came from under the chestnuts. These had guns on their shoulders, and wore high boots and the high-crowned conventional brigand hats. Ever since we left Florence we had seen at intervals in the fields and woods a notice with the words, "_� vietata la bandita_," which we interpreted as a warning against the bandits or convicts for whom our Florentine friends had prepared us. And now we seemed to have come face to face with two of these brigands. But it turned out that there was little of the bandit about them save their appearance. Their guns were for birds, and later on we learned that the alarming signs were merely to forbid the trespassing of these very gentlemen. [Illustration: A SLIGHT OBSTRUCTION.] A mile or two farther on, the road began to go down again. We were both glad to be on the machine after our walk. We could see to the bottom of the hill, and there was no one in sight. J. let go the brake. None but cyclers know the delight of a five-minutes coast after hours of up-hill toiling. They, however, will sympathize with our pleasure in the mountains near Siena. But when it was at its fullest, and the machine was going at the rate of about twenty miles an hour, and neither brake nor back-pedalling could bring it to a sudden halt, a man (or the foul fiend himself) drove a flock of sheep out from the woods a few feet in front of us. When we reached them only the first had crossed the road; of course, all the rest had to follow. They tried to go on right through the wheels, but only succeeded in getting under them, setting the machine to pitching like a ship in a heavy sea. But I held on fast; J. stood on the pedals and screwed the brake down; the little wheel scattered the sheep like the cow-catcher of an engine, and we brought up in the gutter. Before we stopped, J. began a moral lecture to the shepherd, and was showing him how, if the machine had gone over, the consequences would have been worse for us than for his flock. The lecture ended rather _im_morally with _accidente voi_, and _imbecile_, the deadliest of all Italian maledictions, punishable in places by imprisonment. The shepherd looked as if he was ready to curse us in return, but before he had time we were out of hearing, though we first made sure that no sheep were injured. We were none the worse for the accident, and the tricycle was unhurt, save for a deep dent in the dress guard. The rest of our way was divided between walking and riding. The woods with their solitude and wildness, but not the good road, came to an end. Once beyond them, we wheeled out by fields where men and women were at work, their oxen whiter than any we had yet seen, by contrast with the rich red of the upturned earth. In olive-gardens peasants were eating their midday meal; men with white aprons, women with enormous Sienese hats, and dogs and oxen were all resting sociably together. By the roadside others were making rope, the men twisting and forever walking backwards, a small boy always turning at the wheel. Scattered on the hill-tops and by the road were large red-brick farm-houses, instead of the white ones we had seen near Florence. [Illustration: NOONTIME. _Page 42._] At one, where there was a well on the other side of the wall, we asked for a glass of water. A man brought it to the gate, where he was joined by three or four others. They stared inquiringly at the tricycle, at the bags, and at us, while J. squeezed lemon-juice into the water. Then one opened his mouth very wide and pointed to his teeth: "The little sir," he asked, "is he a dentist?" It was noon when we first saw Siena, and we were then at the very walls. In the old days it was always said, "More than her gates, Siena opens her heart to you!" But the heart of him who sat in office by the city gate was shut against us. When we rode past him he bade us descend. To our "_Perchè?_" he said it was the law. Oh the vanity of these Sienese! Through the streets of Florence and over the crowded Ponte Vecchio we had ridden undisturbed; but in this mountain town, which boasts of but two hacks, and where donkeys and oxen are the only beasts to be frightened, we were forced to get down. The dignity of the law-makers of the city must be respected. So we two weary pilgrims had to walk along the narrow streets, between the tall palaces, while tanners in red caps, and women in flowered, white-ribboned _festa_ hats, and priests and soldiers stared, and one man, with a long push-cart, kept close to us like an evil genius in a dream. He was now on one side, and now on the other, examining the wheels, asking endless questions, and always getting in the way. At all the street corners he hurried on before, and with loud shouts called the people to come and see. Then he was at our heels again, shrieking his loud, shrill trade-cry into our very ears. J. as a rule is not ill-tempered; but there is a limit to all things. The stupid sheep, the watchful guard, and now this plague of a flower-pedler brought his patience to an end, and on our way through the town he said much in good plain English which it was well the citizens could not understand. FAIR AND SOFT SIENA. "_For there where I go is enough and to spare._" "_Read it so, if you will, in my Book._" Even pilgrims of old on their way to Rome sometimes tarried in castle or village. We could not pass through Siena, discourteous though her first welcome had been, as we had through smaller and less fair towns. So for a day or two we put away our tricycle and the "cockle-shells and sandal shoon" of our pilgrimage. We went to a _pension_, one at which J. had stayed before, and which he liked. I admit it was better in many ways than the inns in which hitherto we had slept and eaten. There was carpet on the floor of our room, and in it easy-chairs and a lounge. There were elaborate breakfasts at one, and still more elaborate dinners at six, and there was always a great plenty,--as the Englishwoman who sat next me, and who I fear had not always fared so well, said when she urged me to eat and drink more of the fruit and wine set before me. "You can have all you want in this house," she finished with a sigh, as if her crown of sorrow was in remembering unhappier things. But we both thought regretfully of the dining-rooms with the bad prints on the walls, and the more modest dinners of our own ordering. I think too we had found more pleasure in the half-understood talk of _padroni_ and waiters than we did now in the elegant and learned conversation of our fellow-boarders, for they were all, it seemed, persons of learning and refinement. There was the retired English major-general who sat opposite and who had written a book, as he very soon let us know. He recognized us as Americans before we opened our mouths to speak, which fact he also let us know by his reminiscences, addressed not to us but to our neighbors. He had travelled in Spain with Mr. Fillmore, the ex-President, "the most courteous of gentlemen;" he said he well knew Mr. Marion Crawford, the talented novelist, and his uncle, "dear old Sam Ward;" he had counted among his best friends _Bay_ard Taylor, "as you remember I have said in my book." This same book which made the major so communicative appeared to have crushed the spirit out of his wife; she sat silent during dinner, fortifying herself at intervals with weak whiskey and water. Then there was the elderly English lady travelling abroad with her daughter "who has just taken up architecture;" she informed us, "she has always painted heads till now, but she is fascinated by her architectural work. Then I, you know, am _so_ fond of water-colors." And there was the Swedish lady, who could talk all languages, speaking to us in something supposed to be English, and who was as eager in her pursuit of food for the body as for the mind. I count the way in which she greedily swallowed the _vino santo_ in her glass, when our host passed round the table the second time with his precious bottle, one of the wonders of our visit to Siena. It was pathetic too to see her disappointment when he turned away, just before he reached her, his bottle empty. And there were still others who knew much about pictures and palaces, statues and studios, and no doubt we might greatly have profited thereby. But we liked it better upstairs, where we were alone and there was less culture. Our window overlooked a high terrace in which marigolds and many-colored chrysanthemums were blooming, the gardens of the Piccolomini Palace full of broad-leaved fig-trees and pale olives, and the wide waste of mountain and moorland stretching from the red city walls to the high, snow-capped Apennines on the horizon. All the morning the sun shone in our windows, and every hour and even oftener we heard the church bells, and the loud, clear bugle-calls from the barracks, once a monastery, whose mass of red and gray walls rose from the near olives. They say it snows in Siena in the winter-time, and that it is cold and bleak and dreary; but I shall always think of it as a place of flowers and sunshine and sweet sounds. But best of all were the hours when we wandered through the town, up and down dark alley-ways and flights of steps, under brick arches, along precipitate narrow streets where we had to press close to the houses, or retreat into an open door, to let the wide-horned oxen pass by with their load; now coming out at the very foot of La Mangia, on the broad, sunny piazza; now by the tanneries where little streams of brown water trickled down towards the washing-place at the foot of the hill, and where the walls were hung with dripping brown skins, probably just as they were when the little Catherine--her visions already beginning--and Stefano walked by them and towards home in the fading evening light, from a visit to the older and married sister Bonaventura. One hour we were with the past in the shadowy aisles of the Duomo, where Moses and Trismegistus, Solomon and Socrates, Sibyls and Angels looked up at us from the pavement, and rows of popes kept watch from above the tall black and white pillars, while in the choir beyond priests chanted their solemn psalms. Next we were with the present in the gay Lizza, under the acacias and yellow chestnuts, by flower-beds full of roses and scarlet sage, and walls now covered with brilliant Virginia creepers; and out on the fort above to see a golden sky, and the sun disappearing behind banks of purple, golden-edged, and red clouds, and pale, misty hills, and to look back across the hollow to the red town climbing up from low olive-gardens towards the Duomo on its hill-top, and tall La Mangia towering aloft from its own little hollow beyond. From every side came the voices of many people,--of soldiers in the barracks, of women and children under the trees, of ball-players in the old court below, and of applauding lookers-on lounging on the marble benches. [Illustration: BY THE RIVER. _Page 50._] The tall unfinished arch of the Duomo that rises above houses and churches, and indeed above everything but the lofty La Mangia and the Campanile, tells the story of greatness and power and wealth suddenly checked. But the deadly plague, which carried off so many citizens that not even enough were left to make their city beautiful as they meant it should be, could not take away the great beauty it already had, nor kill the joyousness of its people. There are no Spendthrift Clubs in Siena now, nor any gay Lanos like him Dante met in the _Inferno_. But there are still laughter and song loving Sienese who in their own simple fashion go through life gathering rosebuds while they may. It seemed to me a very pretty fashion when I saw them holiday-making on Sunday afternoon, peasants, priests, officers, townspeople, all out in their Sunday best, and when on the Via Cavour, near the _Loggia_, we met two wandering minstrels singing love-songs through the town. One played on a mandolin which hung from his neck by a wide red ribbon, and as he played he sang. His voice was loud and strong and very sweet, and like another Orpheus he drew after him all who heard his music. His companion sold copies of the song, printed on pink paper, gay as the words. He went bowing and smiling in and out of the crowd,--from the women whose broad hats waved as they kept time to the singing, to the men who had stuck feathers in their soft felts worn jauntily on one side; from demure little girls holding their nurses' hands, to swaggering soldiers. Then when the first singer rested he, in his turn, sang a verse. There was with them a small boy who every now and then broke in in a high treble, so that there was no pause in the singing. Wherever we went that afternoon, whether by the Duomo or out by the Porta Romana, on the Lizza or near San Domenico, we saw large written posters, announcing that at six in the evening there would be, at No. 17 Via Ricasoli, a great marionette performance of the _Ponte dei Sospiri_. Apparently this was to be the event of the day, and to it we determined to go. When a little before the appointed hour we came to the Via Ricasoli, we half expected to see a theatre ablaze with light. What we did find after much difficulty was a low doorway on the ground floor of a many-storied palace, and before it a woman by a table, lighting a very small lamp, to the evident satisfaction of half a dozen youngsters. Over the open doorway was a chintz curtain; behind it, darkness. This was not encouraging. But presently a woman with a child came to buy tickets. One of the groups of youthful admirers was then sent up and a second down the street, and after they had come back with mysterious bundles another lamp was produced, lit, and carried inside, and the first two of the audience followed. It was now five minutes of six, so we also bought our tickets, three _soldi_, or cents, for each, and the curtain was drawn for us. A low crypt-like room with vaulted ceiling; at one end two screens covered with white sheets; between them a stage somewhat larger than that of a street Punch, with a curtain representing a characteristic Sienese brick wall enclosing a fountain; several rows of rough wooden benches, and one of chairs,--this was what we saw by the dim light of one lamp. We sat on the last bench. The audience probably would be more entertaining than the play. But the humble shall be exalted. The woman on the front row bade us come up higher. The small boy who acted as usher told us we might have two of the chairs for two _soldi_ more. The ticket-seller even came in, and in soft pleading tones said that we might have any places we wanted; why then should we choose the worst? But we refused the exaltation. The audience now began to arrive in good earnest. Five ragged boys of the _gamin_ species, one of a neater order with his little sister by the hand, two soldiers, a lady with a blue feather in her bonnet, and her child and nurse, two young girls,--and the benches were almost filled. Our friend the ticket-seller became very active as business grew brisk. She was always running in and out, now giving this one a seat, now rearranging the reserved chairs, and now keeping the younger members of the audience in order. _Ragazzini_, she called the unruly boys who stood up on the benches and whistled and sang, so that I wondered what diminutive she gave the swells on the front row. This was amusing enough, but our dinner-hour was half-past six. J. looked at his watch; it was a quarter past. The ever-watchful keeper of the show saw him. "Ah, the _Signore_ must not be impatient. _Ecco!_ the music was about to begin." Begin it did indeed, to be continued with a persistency which made us fear it would never end. The musicians were two. A young man in velveteen coat and long yellow necktie played the clarionet, and another the cornet. They knew only one tune,--a waltz I think it was meant to be,--but that they gave without stint, playing it over and over again, even while the ticket-seller made them move from their chairs to a long, high box by the wall; and when a third arrived with a trombone they let him join in when and as it best pleased him. When we had heard at least the twenty-fifth repetition of the waltz, had looked at the scuffling of the _ragazzini_ until even that pleasure palled, had seen the soldiers smoke _sigaro Cavour_ after _sigaro Cavour_ so that the air grew heavy, and had watched the gradual growth of the audience until every place was filled, our patience was exhausted. Behold! we said to the woman with the gentle voice, it was now seven. The play was announced for six. Was this right? In a house not far off every one was eating, and two covers were laid for us. But here we were in this dark room in our hunger, waiting for marionettes whose wires for aught we knew were broken. She became penitent. The _signorini_ must forgive her. The wires were not broken, but he who pulled them had not arrived. There was yet time. Would we not go and dine and then come back? She would admit us on our return. And so we went and had our dinner, well seasoned with polite conversation. The ticket-agent was true to her word. When we reappeared at her door, the curtain was pulled at once. In the mean time the musicians had been suppressed, not only out of hearing but out of sight. The room was so crowded that many who had arrived during our absence were standing. Indeed, there must have been by this time fully five francs in the house. All were watching with entranced eyes the movements of four or five puppets. The scene represented an interior, which I suppose, was that of the prison to one side of the Bridge of Sighs. That it was intended for a cell also seemed evident, because the one portable piece of furniture on the stage was a low, flat couch of a shape which as every one who has been to the theatre, but never to prison, knows is peculiar to the latter. It was impossible to lose sight of it, as the _dramatis personæ_ made their exits and entrances over it. It was rather funny to see the villain of the piece after an outbreak of passion, or an elegant long-haired page in crimson clad, after a gentlemanly speech, suddenly vault over it. We could not discover what the play was about. Besides the two above-mentioned characters there was a puppet with a large red face and green coat and trousers who gave moral tone to the dialogue, and another with heavy black beard and turban-like head-dress, and much velvet and lace whom we took to be a person of rank. As they came in and out by turn, it was impossible to decide which was the prisoner. With the exception of the jumps over the couch, there was little action in the performance. Its only two noticeable features were--first, the fact that villain, page, moralist, and magnate spoke in exactly the same voice and with the same expression; and, secondly, that they had an irrepressible tendency to stand in the air rather than on the floor, as if they had borrowed Mr. Stockton's negative-gravity machine. The applause and laughter and rapt attention of the audience proved the play to be much to their liking. But for us inappreciative foreigners a little of it went a great way. As nothing but talk came of all the villany and moralizing and grandeur and prettiness,--which may have been a clever bit of realism of which the English drama is not yet capable,--and as there was no apparent reason why the dialogue should ever come to an end, we went away after the next act. The ticket-seller was surprised at our sudden change from eagerness to indifference, but not offended. She thanked us for our patronage and wished us a _felice notte_. With the darkness the gayety of the town had increased. In the large theatre a play was being performed by a company of amateurs. Having had tickets given us, we looked in for a few minutes, but found it as wordy as that of the puppets. In a neighboring piazza the proprietor of a large van, like those to be seen at country fairs at home, was exhibiting a man, arrayed in a suit of rubber, with a large brass helmet-like arrangement on his head, who, it seemed, could live at the bottom of the sea, along with Neptune and the Naiads, as comfortably as on dry shore. _Ecco!_ There was the tank within, where this marvel could be seen,--a human being living under the water and none the worse for it! Admission was four _soldi_, but _per militari e ragazzi_ ("for the military and children") it was but two! So it seems that the soldiers who abroad are to strike terror into the enemy, at home are ranked with the young of the land, since like them their name is legion! There were about a dozen in the crowd, and, all unconscious of the sarcasm, they hurried up the steps and into the show, while an old man ground out of a hand-organ the appropriate tune of "_O, que j'aime les militaires!_" But dramas and shows were not the only Sunday-evening amusements. The _caffès_ were crowded. Judging from the glimpses we had into little black, cavern-like wine-shops, another Saint Bernardino is needed to set makers of gaming-tools in Siena to the manufacture of holier articles. And more than once, as we walked homewards in the starlight, we heard the voices of the three minstrels singing of human passion in the streets where Catherine so often preached the rapture of divine love. If swans were now seen in visions by fond Sienese matrons, they would wing their way earthward and not heavenward, as in the days when Blessed Bernardo's mother dreamed dreams. AN ITALIAN BY-ROAD. "_And the name of the going up the side of the hill is called Difficulty._" "_Is not the place dangerous? Hath it not hindered many in their pilgrimage?_" We left Siena the morning after the marionette exhibition. The major, when he heard at breakfast that we were going, asked us point blank several questions about Boston publishers, his book probably being still uppermost in his thoughts. Later he sent his card to our room to know at what hour we started; he wished to see us off. The young lady of architectural proclivities shook hands and bade us good-by, saying she had often ridden a sociable with her cousin in England. After all, there was not much for the major to see. We could not ride through the streets, and so could not mount the machine for his benefit. But he was interested in watching us strap the bags to the luggage-carrier, and pleased because of this opportunity to entertain us with more American reminiscences. I am afraid his amusement in Siena was small. In return for the little we gave him he asked us to come and see him in Rome, where he would spend the winter, and added that if we expected to pass through Cortona he would like to write a card of introduction for us to a friend of his there, an Italian who had married an English lady. Cortona was a rough place, and we might be glad to have it. He had forgotten his friend's name, but he would run upstairs and his wife could tell him. In a minute he returned with the written card. We have had many letters of introduction, but never one as singular as the major-general's. As he knew our names even less well than that of his Cortona friends, he introduced us as "an American lady and gentleman riding a _bicycle_!" Only fancy! as the English say. Our parting with him was friendly. Then he stood with Luigi and Zara until we disappeared around the corner of the street. What a ride we had from Siena to Buonconvento! This time the road was all _giù_, _giù_, _giù_. It was one long coast almost all the way, and we made the most of it. We flew by milestone after milestone. Once we timed ourselves: we made a mile in four minutes. The country through which we rode was sad and desolate. On either side were low rolling hills, bare as the English moors, and of every shade of gray and brown and purple. Here rose a hill steeper than the others, with a black cross on its summit; and here, one crowned with a group of four grim cypresses. Down the hillsides were deep ruts and gullies, with only an occasional patch of green, where women were watching sheep and swine. Once we came to where three or four houses were gathered around a small church, but they were as desolate as the land. We heard voices in the distance, but there was no one in sight. When on a short stretch of level road we stopped to look at this strange gray land, the grayer because dark clouds covered the sky, we saw that above the barrenness the sun shone on Siena, and that all her houses, overtowered by the graceful La Mangia and the tall Duomo Campanile, glistened in the bright light. About five miles from the city the desolation was somewhat relieved, for there were hedges by the roadside, and beyond sloping olive-gardens and vineyards. Poplars grew by little streams and sometimes we rode under oaks. On the top of every gray hill, giving it color, was a farm-house, rows of brilliant pumpkins laid on its red walls, ears of yellow corn hung in its _loggia_, and gigantic haystacks standing close by. There were monasteries too, great square brick buildings with tall towers, and below spire-like cypresses. But between the farms and fertile fields were deep ravines and dry beds of streams. The road was lonely. Now and then flocks of birds flew down in front of the tricycle, or large white geese came out from under the hedge and hissed at us. For a few minutes a man driving a donkey-cart made the way not a little lively. He did not see us until we wheeled by him. Then he jumped as if he had been shot. "_Dio!_" he exclaimed, "but you frightened me!" He laughed, however, and whipping up his donkey rattled after us as if eager for a race, talking and shouting all the while until we were out of hearing. One or two peasants passed in straw chariot-shaped wagons, and once from a farm-house a woman in red blouse and yellow apron, with a basket on her head and a dog at her heels, came towards us. It was in this same farm-house we met a Didymus. We stopped, as we had a way of doing when anything pleased us, and he came out to have a better look at the _tramway_. And how far did we expect to go to-day? he asked. To Monte Oliveto, we told him, for, like pious pilgrims, we thought to make a day's retreat with the monks there. "To Monte Oliveto! and in a day, and on that machine!" and he laughed us to scorn. "In a week, the _Signore_ had better say." Later a stone-breaker's belief in us made some amends for the farmer's contempt. We were riding then. "_Addio!_" he cried, even before we reached him. I shall always remember a little village through which we rode that morning, because it was there we saw the first large stone-pine growing by the roadside, which showed we were getting farther south, and because of the friendliness of a peasant. It was a poor place. The people were ragged and squalid and sickly, as if the gloom of the hills had fallen upon them. We asked at a shop for a lemon, but there was not one to be had. "Wait," cried a woman standing close by, and she disappeared. She returned almost immediately with a lemon on whose stem there were still fresh green leaves. "_Ecco!_" she said, "it is from my garden." "How much?" asked J., as she handed it to him. "Oh, nothing, sir," and she put her hands behind her back. We made her take a few coppers, for the children we told her. As far as it lay in her power I think she was as courteous as those men in a certain Italian town who, in days long past, fought together for the stranger who came within their gates, so eager were they all, not to cheat him, as is the way with modern landlords, but to lodge him at their own expense, so that there were no inns in that town. Before we reached Buonconvento the sun came out and the clouds rolled away. It had rained here earlier in the morning. The roads were sticky and the machine ran heavily, and trees and hedges were wet with sparkling raindrops. There is an imposing entrance to the little town, a pointed bridge over a narrow stream, with a Madonna and Child in marble relief at the highest point, an avenue of tall poplars with marble benches set between, and then the heavy brick walls blackened with age, and the gateway, its high Gothic arch decorated with the old Sienese wolf and a more recent crop of weeds. We rode from one end to the other,--a two minutes' ride,--without finding a _trattoria_. At length we appealed to the crowd. Where was the _trattoria_? No one understood; and yet that very morning J. had been asked if he were not a Florentine! Perhaps _monsieur_ speaks French? and a little Frenchman in seedy clothes jauntily worn, and with an indescribable swagger, came forward, hat in hand. The effect of his coming was magical. For unknown reasons, when it was found that J. could speak French after a fashion, his Italian was all-sufficient. The inn was here; we were directly in front of it, and the _padrone_, who had been at our elbows all the time, led the way into it. The Frenchman gallantly saw us through the crowd to the room where we were to dine. It was the best _trattoria_ in the place, but poor enough, he said. Such bread and cheese! horrible! and he shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands to heaven in testimony thereof. He did not live in Buonconvento, not he. He came from Paris. Then he complimented J. on his Italian, to make up in some measure for the failure of the people to appreciate it, and with a bow that might have won him favor at court, and a "I salute you, _monsieur_ and _madame_," he politely left us before our dinner was served. He was a strolling actor, the _padrone_ said; he and his troupe would give a performance in the evening. [Illustration: CHIUSURE. _Page 68._] The fact that we were going to Monte Oliveto annoyed the _padrone_. The monastery is a too successful rival to his inn. Few travellers, except those who are on their way to Monte Oliveto, pass through his town, and few who can help it stay there over night. His list of the evils we should have to endure was the sauce with which he served our beefsteak and potatoes. We must leave the post road for one that was stony and steep. Our velocipede could not be worked over it. It would take hours to reach the monastery, and we had better not be out after dark, for there were dangers untold by the way. But when he had said the worst he became cheerful, and even seemed pleased when we admired his kitchen, where brass and copper pots and pans hung on the walls, and where in one corner was a large fireplace with comfortable seats above and a pigeon-house underneath. But when we complimented him on the walls of his town, Bah! he exclaimed, of what use were they? They were half destroyed. They would be no defence in war-times. He was right. The walls, strong by the gate, have in parts entirely disappeared, and in others, houses and stables have been made of them. It is on the open space by these houses that the men have their playground. They were all there when we arrived, and still there when we left. Young men, others old enough to be their fathers, and boys were, each in turn, holding up balls to their noses, and then, with a long slide and backward twist of the arm, rolling them along the ground, which is the way Italians play bowls. Before the afternoon was over we cursed in our hearts the Tuscan politeness we had heretofore praised. About a mile from Buonconvento the road to Monte Oliveto divided. We turned to the right. But two peasants with ox-teams called out from below that we must not go that way. It was all bad. But to the left it was good, and _piano_, ascending but gently, and we had much better take it. In an evil moment we did. That it ill behooves a wise man to seek counsel in every word spoken to him, we found to our cost. In the first place the ascent was not gentle,--we had not then learned that an Italian calls every hill that is not as straight up and down as the side of a house, _piano_,--and in the second place the road was not good, but vilely bad. Unfortunately, for half a mile or perhaps more it was fair enough. But when we had gone just so far that we were unwilling to turn back we discovered our mistake. The road we had not taken was that built by the monks hundreds of years ago; we had chosen the new and not yet finished by-way. It was heavy with dust and dirt, and full of ruts and loose stones. Over it we could not ride or even push the tricycle without difficulty. It was in keeping, however, with the abomination of desolation lying to each side. For we were now in a veritable wilderness, a land of deserts and of pits, where few men dwell. All around us were naked, colorless chalk-hills, abrupt precipices and ravines. A few chestnut-trees, a rose-bush covered with red berries growing from the gray earth, were the only green things we passed for miles. It was weary and slow work, and the sun was low on the hill-tops before we came to the point where the two roads met. At some distance above us we saw a large red building surrounded by cypresses, and we knew this must be Monte Oliveto Maggiore. So we took heart again. But our trouble was not over. The road was better only by comparison, and it was still impossible to ride, and hard work to push or pull the tricycle. It was built of bricks, which lay as if they had been carelessly shot out of a cart and left where and how they fell. A little farther on it divided again. A woman was walking towards us, and J. asked her which was the road to the convent (_il convento_). "You must go back," she said; "it lies miles below,--Buonconvento." "These peasants are fools," said J. in angry English to her very face; but she, all unconscious, smiled upon us. We went to the left, which fortunately was just what we ought to have done. But it was provoking that instead of getting nearer to the monastery, we seemed to be going farther from it. With one turn of the road it appeared to be above, and with the next below us. Now it was on one side and now on the other, until I began to feel as if we were the answer to the riddle I had so often been asked in my childhood, the mysterious "What is it that goes round and round the house and never gets in?" Soon the sun set behind the hills, and the sky grew soft and golden. We met several peasants bearing large bundles of twigs on their heads. There were one or two shrines, a chapel, and a farm-house in front of which a priest stood talking to a woman. But on we went without resting, J. pushing the machine and I walking behind, womanlike shirking my share of the work. The road grew worse until it became nothing but a mass of ruts and gullies washed out by the rain, and led to a hill from which even Christian would have turned and fled. But we struggled up, reaching the top to see the gate of the monastery some sixty or seventy feet below. Finally we came to the great brick gateway which in the dull light--for by this time the color had faded from the sky--rose before us a heavy black pile, beyond whose archway we saw only shadow and mystery. As we walked under it our voices, when we spoke, sounded unnatural and hollow. On the other side the road wound through a gloomy grove of cypresses, growing so close together that they hedged us about with impenetrable darkness. Once several silent figures, moving noiselessly, passed by. Had we, by mischance, wandered into a Valley of the Shadow of Death? The cypress grove, after several windings, brought us face to face with the building at which we had already so often looked from the distance. Even in the semi-darkness we could see the outline distinctly enough to know we were standing in front of the church, and that the detached building a little to our left was a barn or stable. But not a light shone in a window, not a doorway was in sight. I recalled my convent experience of bygone years, and remembered that after eight o'clock in the evening no one was admitted within its walls. Was there a rule like this at Monte Oliveto, and was six the hour when its bolts and bars were fastened against the stranger? As we hesitated where to go or what to do next, three or four workmen came from the stable. J. spoke to them, and one offered to show him the entrance to the monastery while I waited by the tricycle. It was strange to stand in the late evening and in the wilderness alone, with men whose speech I barely understood and whose faces I could not see. For fully five minutes I waited thus while they talked together in low voices. But at last I heard one cry, _Ecco!_ here was the _padrone_; and they all took off their hats. A dog ran up and examined me, and then a man, who I could just make out in the gloom, wore a cassock and the broad-brimmed priestly hat, joined the group. "_Buona sera_," he said to me. Could I speak to him in French, I asked. Yes, he assented, what was it I wanted? When I told him we wished to stay in the monastery, he said he had not expected us. We had not written. "But," I exclaimed, "we thought strangers were allowed to stay here." "Yes," he answered; "there is a _pension_ in the monastery, but it is for artists." "And my husband is an artist," I interrupted eagerly, for from his manner I feared he would refuse us admission. After all, what did he know about us except that, vagrant-like, we were wandering in the mountains at a most unseasonable hour? Indeed, when later I reflected on the situation, I realized that we must have seemed suspicious characters. At this critical moment J. returned. His guide had led him to a small side-door beyond the church. There he rang and rang again. The bell was loud and clear, and roused many echoes within, but nothing else. The guide, perplexed, then led him back. I told him with whom I was speaking, and he continued the conversation with the _padrone_. Had they talked in Italian only, or in French, they might have understood each other; but instead they used a strange mixture of the two, to their mutual bewilderment. If this kept on much longer we should undoubtedly spend the night in the open air. In despair I broke in in French: "But, my father, cannot we stay this one night?" "Certainly," he said, fortunately dropping all Italian. "That is what I was explaining to _monsieur_. You can stay, but of course we have nothing prepared. We will do our best." If he had said he would do his worst, provided we were rid of the tricycle for the night, and were ourselves taken indoors where we might sit down, we should have been thankful. The bags were unstrapped and given into the care of one of the men, a place was made for the machine in the stable, and then we followed the _padrone_ or _Abate_--for this was his real title--to the door where J. had rung in vain, and which he opened with his key. Within it was so dark that we groped our way through a hall and a small cloister. Then we came to a flight of steps, where at the bidding of the _Abate_, as if to reassure us that we were not being led to secret cells or torture-chambers, the man carrying our bags struck a solitary match. By this feeble light we walked up the broad stone stairs and through many passage-ways, not a sound breaking the stillness but our foot-falls and their loud echoes, to a door where the _Abate_ left us, and at the same time the match burnt out. But the next minute he reappeared with a lighted taper, and at the end of the hall opened another door, lit a lamp on a table within, and showed us four rooms, which he said were at our disposal. The beds were not made, but they would be attended to immediately. He had now to say Office, but at nine supper would be served. Here was a very comfortable solution to the mystery into which the massive gateway seemed to lead. The Valley of the Shadow of Death had turned out to be a Delectable Land! It was still more comfortable later, when, his Office said, the _Abate_ came back and sat and talked with us. Now he could examine us by a better light I think he concluded we were not dangerous characters, probably only harmless lunatics. However that may be, after half an hour, when the supper-bell rang and we started off for the refectory, again by the light of his taper, we were the best of friends. The long corridor, thus dimly seen, seemed interminable. We went down one stairway to find the door locked against us, then up and down another. Here the light went out, leaving us in a darkness like unto that of Egypt. The _Abate_ laughed as if it were the best of jokes. He took J.'s hand and J. took mine, and thus like three children we went laughing down the stairway and along more passages, and at last into a long refectory, at the farther end of which was a lamp, while a door to one side of that by which we entered opened, and a second monk in white robes, holding a lighted taper, came in, and when he saw us made a low bow. As there were no other visitors, we were to eat with him and his brother monk, the _Abate_ said; and then he gave me the head of the table, asking me if I were willing to be the Lady Abbess. If we had been two prodigals he could not have been kinder than he was now he had given us shelter. If we had been starving like the hero of the parable, he could not have been more anxious to set before us a feast of plenty. Nor would any fatted calf have been more to our taste than the substantial supper prepared for us. We must eat, he said; we needed it. He had seen us coming up the hill as he talked with a peasant by the roadside; but _monsieur_ was push-pushing the velocipede and looking at nothing else, and _madame_ was panting and swinging her arms, staring straight in front of her, and before he had time, we had passed. We must drink too; the wine was good for us. We must not mix water with it; it was Christian, why then should it be baptized? The white-robed brother spoke little, but he never allowed J.'s plate to remain empty. When the meat was brought in we were joined by Pirro, a good-sized dog with no tail to speak of, and Lupo, an unusually large cat, and his numerous family, who all had to be fed at intervals. But even while Pirro jumped nimbly into the air after pieces of bread thrown to him, and Lupo scratched, and his progeny made mournful appeals to be remembered, and we talked, I looked every now and then down the long narrow table to where it was lost in deep shadow. The cloth was laid its entire length, as if in readiness for the banished brothers whenever they might return. I should not have been surprised then to see the door open to admit a procession of white-robed monks, all with tapers in their hands. The _Abate_ must have realized that to a stranger there was something uncanny in his dark, silent, deserted monastery, and his last word as he bade us good-night was, that we were to fear nothing, and sleep in peace. _To_ _THE ABATE DI NEGRO,_ _Of Monte Oliveto Maggiore,_ _We would say a Word of Thanks for the Golden Days passed in his House Beautiful, and for The Great Kindnesses shown us in our farther Journeying._ MONTE OLIVETO. "_But, oh, what a favor is this to me, that yet I am admitted entrance here!_" "_But they are to me golden hours in which such things happen to me._" The days we spent at Monte Oliveto were golden days. For we not only slept there one, but several nights, and the _Abate_ declared we could remain as long as we might care to. Nothing could be more melancholy and wild than the country into which we had come. It is the most desolate part of all that strange desolation which lies to the southeast of Siena. The mountain on which the monastery is built is surrounded on every side but one by deep, abrupt ravines. Behind it rise higher mountains, bare and bleak and gray, like gigantic ash-piles, and on the very highest peak is the wretched little village of Chiusure. The other hills around are lower, and from the road by the convent gateway one can see Siena, pale and blue on the horizon, and southward, over the barren hill-tops, Monte Amiata. But Monte Oliveto, with its gardens and orchards and vineyards, is a green place in the midst of the barrenness. The mountain-sides are terraced, and olives and vines grow almost to the bottom of the ravine. It was said in old times that the Bishop of Arezzo was commanded in a vision to call the monastery after the Mount in Jerusalem. Now-a-days sceptics say the trees on the terraces explain the name, forgetting that in its beginning this hill was as bare as the others. Why cannot it be believed, for the legend's sake, that the olives were planted afterwards because of the name? The first morning, the _Abate_ took us to see the frescos representing the life of Saint Benedict, painted on the walls of the large cloister. I will be honest, and confess that they disappointed us. I doubt whether the artists were very proud of them. Luca Signorelli, before he had finished the first side of the cloister, gave up the work, as it is not likely he would have done had he cared much for it. Sodoma, when he took his place, was at first so careless that the then abbot took him to task, but the artist calmly told him more could not be expected for the price that was paid him. Certainly with neither were these frescos a labor of love, and this one feels at once. One wonders if this could have been the same Sodoma who painted the Saint Sebastian in Florence, and yet there is more charm in his pictures than in those of Signorelli. But what we cared for most were his portraits of himself, with heavy hair hanging about his face, and wearing the cloak the Milanese gentleman, turned monk, had given him, and of his wife and child; and the pictures of the raven and the other pets he brought with him to the monastery, to the wonder of the good monks. It is a pity every one cannot look at these frescos with such loving, reverential eyes as the _Abate_. He had shown them probably to hundreds of visitors; he had seen them almost every day for the many years he had been at Monte Oliveto; but his pleasure in them was as fresh as if it dated but from yesterday. He told the story of each in turn,--of how in this one the great Saint Benedict had set the devil to flight, and how in that he had by a miracle recalled an erring brother; and once he pointed to a palm-tree in a background. Sodoma, he said, had seen and admired a palm in the garden of the monastery, and so, after his realistic fashion, had painted it in just as he had his pets. That very tree was in the garden still; he would show it to us if we liked. [Illustration: MONTE OLIVETO. _Page 84._] There never was such another garden! It is close to the large brick house or palace by the gateway, where in old times lay visitors were lodged, and beyond which no woman was ever allowed to pass. It is small, but in it the monks only raised the rarest trees and plants. Here grew the precious herbs out of which in the pharmacy, whose windows overlook the quiet green enclosure, they prepared the healing draughts for which people came from far and near. The pharmacy is closed now. There is dust in the corners and on the quaint old chairs. Cobwebs hang from the ceiling. But brass scales are still on the heavy wooden counter, and pestle and mortar behind it, and glass retorts of strange shapes in the corners and above the doors. Majolica jars all marked with the three mountains, the cross, and the olive-branch,--the _stemma_ of the monastic order,--are ranged on the brown shelves, many of the large ones carefully sealed, while from the smaller come forth strange odors of myrrh and incense and rare ointments. As in the refectory, everything here is in order for the monks when they return. But they will find more change in the garden below. The rare plants, the ebony and the hyssop, the cactuses and the palm (which made us think less of Sodoma's frescos than we had before), the pomegranates and the artichokes, are all there. But weeds grow in the paths, and by the old gray well, and in among the herbs; roses have run riot in the centre of the garden and turned it into a wild tangled growth. To us it seemed the loveliest spot in Monte Oliveto. The hours spent in it were like a beautiful idyl of Theocritus or Shelley. The sun shone and the air was filled with sweet spicy scents. To one side was the gray mountain, to the other dense cypresses, and above a blue, cloudless sky. The roses were still in bloom, and as we lingered there, the _Abate_ went from bush to bush and picked for me a large bunch of fragrant buds. I hope if the monks ever do come back that, while they throw open the windows of the pharmacy and let the light in again upon the majolica and the dark woodwork, they will leave the gates of the garden locked. It is fairer in its confusion than it ever could be with weeded paths and well-clipped bushes. The _Abate_ took us everywhere,--through the empty guest-chambers of the palace to the tower, now a home for pigeons, from the top of which one has a wide view of the country, which with its squares of olives and its gray hills and fields marked by deep furrows, as if by boundary lines, looks like a large map or geological chart,--through the monastery, with its three hundred rooms with now but three monks to occupy them; its cloisters, for there are two besides the large frescoed one; its _loggie_, where geraniums and other green plants were growing; its great refectory, beyond the door of which fowl or flesh meat never passed, and which is now used no longer; and its library, at the very top of the house, where rows of white vellum volumes are ready for the students who so seldom come. Then he led us to the church, where there are more altars than monks to pray before them, and a wonderful choir with inlaid stalls; and in and out of little chapels, one of which contains the grotto where blessed Bernardo Tolomei, the founder of the order, lived for many years after he came to the wilderness, while another was the first church used by the brotherhood, and the Virgin with angels playing to her on harps and mandolins, above the altar, was painted long before Signorelli and Sodoma began their work. Then there was the lemon-grove to be seen, where the _Abate_ filled our pockets with the ripe fruit which we were to keep, he said, in case we might be thirsty on the road some day when there was no wine or water near by to drink. And after that there was still to be visited the wine-press, with its deep shadows and dark corners and long subterranean passage to the room below, where men were filling small casks from large butts, and then carrying them off on their shoulders to be weighed and stored above. We had to taste the wine, and I think it, together with the sunshine and the flowers, must have gone to our heads that morning and stayed there so long as we were at Monte Oliveto, for everything about us seemed to belong less to the actual world than to a dreamland full of wonder and beauty, and sometimes of pathos. It was the same in the afternoon, when the _Abate_ had gone about his work,--for he is a busy man, like the centurion with many under him,--and J. and I wandered alone over the gray hills up to Chiusure. Life with its hardships must be real enough to the people of this little village, in which seeds of pestilence sown hundreds of years ago still bear the bitter fruit of wretchedness. It seems as if the brick walls which could not keep out the plague have ever since successfully barred the way to all prosperity, for generation after generation is born within them but to live and die in poverty. We saw melancholy figures there,--old hags of women, with thin white hair and bent almost double under heavy bundles of wood, toiling up steep stony streets with bare feet, and others crouching in the gloom opposite open doorways. Even the little priest, who, in his knee-breeches and long frock-coat and braided smoking-cap with tassels dangling in his eyes, was humorous enough to look at, was pathetic in his way. For after he had shown us his church with its decorations, poor as the people who worship in it, and offered us a glass of wine in his own parlor, he spread on the table before us some broken pieces of glass easily put together, on which a picture was painted. Was it of value? he asked, so eagerly that he told without further words the story of wants but ill supplied. He was willing to sell it, but he did not know what it was worth. Could we tell him? No, we could not, we said, for we really knew nothing about it, though we feared the hopes he had set upon it would never be realized. And then sadly he gathered together the pieces and put them away again in their newspaper wrapping. It was more cheerful outside the gateway. There, in the late afternoon, the gray olives by the way were more clearly defined against the sky, and the gray ravines below more indistinct. Beyond, the hills, now all purple and soft, rolled away to the horizon and to the brilliant red sky above. One or two lights were lit in distant farm-houses, and once we heard a far-off bell. Before us the white road led by one green hill on whose top was a circle of cypresses, and in its centre a black cross, as in so many old pictures. But the strangest part of this dream-life was the friendship that sprung up between us and the monks. I should not have been more surprised if Saint Benedict and Blessed Bernardo had come back to earth to make friends with us. It was not only that the _Abate_ acted as our guide through the monastery,--this he does for every visitor who comes, since the Government took possession of it and turned it into a public art-gallery and _pension_ for artists,--but he came to our room early in the morning to drink his coffee with us, and in the evening, after he had said his Office, for a little talk. And when we had finished our supper we sat together long over our wine, talking now in French, now in English, now in Italian, and occasionally understanding each other. Like all good fellows, we too had our jokes. But the _Abate's_ favorite was to tell how he had seen us coming up the mountain, _monsieur_ push-pushing the velocipede and _madame_ puff-puffing behind him. Even Dom Giuseppe, the other monk,--the third was away,--relaxed from the dignity with which he had first met us, and took part in the talk and the laughter. Unreal as seemed these late suppers in the long refectory in the dim light, with Pirro forever jumping after choice morsels, while Lupo and his family growled with rage and envy from under the table, we strayed even farther into Wonderland the second day after our arrival, when both monks went out for a ride on the tricycle along the mulberry walk and by Blessed Bernardo's grotto. The last day of our stay a number of visitors arrived,--a priest from Perugia, two nuns, and two English ladies. They were not expected, and dinner had to be prepared for them. The _Abate_ is never pleased when guests come without giving him warning. When we met him in the refectory a little after twelve, we could see his patience had been tried. We must pardon him for being late, he said, but he had had to find something to eat for all these people. Were they to dine with us? we asked. No, indeed, was his answer; they were not members of the community. This confirmed our doubts as to whether we might not be monks without knowing it; for the first morning the _Abate_ had given us a key of the great front door by which we could let ourselves in at all hours, without any ringing of bells or calling of porters; so that we felt as if we belonged to the convent. These visitors were the thorns in his present life, the _Abate_ continued, and we were his roses. Then he brought out a bottle of the _vino santo_ which he makes himself and prizes so highly that he never sells it as he does the other wines, and a plate of grapes for which he had sent a great distance. And when dinner was over he bade the servant put all that was left of grapes and wine away. They were for the community, and not for common folk. He introduced us to the Perugian priest, who might possibly, he said, be of use to us in Perugia. The latter almost embraced J. in his protestations of good-will, and came running back several times to press his hand, and say in a French of his own invention that we must call often during our stay in his city. THROUGH THE WILDERNESS TO A GARDEN. "_Now he bethought himself of setting forward._" "_Here, also, they had the city itself in view, and they thought they heard all the bells therein to ring to welcome them thereto._" We left the monastery the next morning. It took courage on our part; but we knew it was best to go quickly. Every day we fell more under the dreamy influence of the place and became less willing for action. We must hasten from Monte Oliveto for the very reason which led Blessed Bernardo to it,--to flee temptation. The _Abate_ was in our room by half-past seven. Dom Giuseppe was in the church saying Mass, but had sent his farewells. He himself had not yet said Mass, so he could not drink his coffee with us, but he sat by while we had ours. We should not reach San Quirico till noon, he feared, and we must have something in our pockets to eat in the mean time; and he went to his room and came back with two cakes. He brought besides two letters he had written introducing us to monks at San Pietro in Perugia. Then he came downstairs and out to the stable, though he was fasting, and the morning was wet and cloudy and cold. We did not get on the tricycle at once. We remembered the road too well. The _Abate_ walked by our side, now and then patting J. on the back and calling him affectionately "Giuseppe, Giuseppe;" and he kept with us until, at some little distance from the gateway, we mounted the machine. After he had said good-by, he stood quietly watching us. Then there came a turn in the road which hid him from us, and when we saw him again he was walking on the footpath below the cypresses, with two little boys who had come out with him. He was on his way to take Dom Giuseppe's place at the altar. And then we went on sadly, for we knew we should not come to another resting-place where there was such perfect relief for pilgrims that are weary and faint in the way. As the road was difficult going up, so was it dangerous coming down, and again we had to walk. To add to our discomfort, before long it began to rain, and it was so cold we had to blow on our fingers to keep them warm. During the night it had snowed on the far mountain-ranges. Beyond Buonconvento, when we returned to the post-road we went fast enough; but only for a while. There were more mountains to cross, up which J. could not go very fast because of the burden, or knapsack, that was on his back. Out of very shame I took my share in pushing and pulling the tricycle. Once or twice we had long coasts; but in places the road was sandy, and in descending wound as often as a small St. Gothard railway. Coasting would have been too great a risk, especially as I never could back-pedal going down hill, though on upgrades J. but too often complained that, like Dante on the hillside, my firm foot ever was the lower. [Illustration: AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS. _Page 96._] The way still lay between and over hills of chalk, and we rode for miles through monotonous barrenness. It rained at intervals, but at times the sun almost broke through the clouds that followed it in long gray sweeps from the white masses on the snow-capped mountains bounding the horizon. To our right, Monte Amiata, bare and rugged, and with white top, was always in sight; and once above it the clouds rolled away leaving a broad stretch of greenish blue sky. There were many crosses by the wayside, and they were different from any we had yet seen. On each, over spear and sponge and crown of thorns, was a black cock, rudely carved to look as if it crowed. Just before we came to San Quirico, and towards noon, we saw at the foot of one of these crosses an old weary-looking peasant, with head bowed as if he listened for the Angelus. We were prepossessed against San Quirico before we reached it. Olives with vines hanging from them in defiance of Virgil, brown fields, and red and yellow trees, could not reconcile us to the long climb up the mountain. It was worth our trouble, however, if only to see the cathedral. We left the tricycle at the _trattoria_, and at our leisure looked at the portal and its pillars, with quaintly carved capitals of animals and birds, and at those others, joined together with a Celtic-like twist and resting on leopards, and then at the two sea-monsters above. And while we wondered at the grotesque gargoyles on the walls, and the two figures for columns, and the lions on the south doorway, two _carabinieri_ from a neighboring window examined us as if we were equal curiosities. This fine building is an incongruity in San Quirico, which--for our first impressions proved right--is at best but a poor place. We were cheated in it as we had never been before. When we went back to the _trattoria_ four men were eating their dinner inside the fireplace in the kitchen. But we were ushered into what I suppose was the best room. It was dining-room and bed-chamber combined. On one side was a long table, on the other the bed. The dressing-table served as buffet, and the _padrona_ brought from its drawers the cheese and apples for our dessert. In the garden below--for we were in the second story--weeds like corn grew so tall that they shaded the window. What happened in that room, and the difference that arose between the _padrona_ and ourselves, are facts too unpleasant to recall. But I am sure the next foreigners who went to San Quirico heard woful tales of the evil doings of the two _Inglesi_ who came on a velocipede. After San Quirico there was the same barrenness, and only indifferent roads over rolling country. Until within half a mile of Pienza, where the hedges began again, not a tree grew by the roadside, and the only signs of vegetation were the reeds in the little dark pools dotting the gray fields. It was still bitterly cold, and my fingers tingled on the handles. Once we passed a farm-house where a solitary woman watched a herd of black swine, and once we met the diligence; that was all. We rode into Pienza, though our way lay to one side of it. But we were curious to see the cathedrals and palaces Pius II. built there in the vain hope of turning his native village into an important town. Of all the follies of proud popes, I think this was the greatest. As well might he have hoped by his single effort to cover the _creta_, or chalk, with roses, as to raise a prosperous city in its midst. We saw the great brown buildings marked with the fine crescents of the Piccolomini and the papal tiara and keys, as out of place in Pienza as the cathedral seemed in San Quirico; we looked closer at the old stone well and its beautiful wrought-iron work. J. made a sketch of a fine courtyard, and then we were on the road again. Near Montepulciano we came to a thickly wooded country, riding for several miles between chestnuts and oaks. There were open places, too, from which we saw far below the fair Val di Chiana, and in the distance Lake Thrasymene, pale and silvery, and close by olive-gardens, through whose gray branches we looked at the purple mountains and their snowy summits. Above were broad spaces of bright sky, for the dark clouds were rolling away beyond the lake, and those that floated around Monte Amiata were now glistening and white. We had left the wilderness for a garden. All the bells rang out as if in welcome when, after working up the long road, so winding that at times the city was completely hidden, we wheeled into the now dark and cold streets of Montepulciano. WE ARE DETAINED IN MONTEPULCIANO. "_They were therefore here in evil case, and were far from friends and acquaintances._" "_Why, truly, I do not know what had become of me there, had not Evangelist happily met me._" It was in this high hill town that one of the pilgrims fell by the way. For two days J. was too ill to ride, and we feared our pilgrimage had come to an end. We stayed at the Albergo Marzocco. It was on the fifth floor of an old palace, and the entrance was through the kitchen. The _padrone_ and his family were very sociable. Almost immediately his wife wanted to know the trade of the _Signore_. "Ah! an artist. _Ecco me!_ I am a washerwoman!" She was also cook. From the dining-room we could watch her as she prepared our meals. When she kept us waiting too long we had only to step into the kitchen and stand over her until the dish we had ordered was ready. We could look too into an adjacent room where during our stay one daughter of the house forever ironed table-cloths, while a second added up endless accounts. But friendly as these people were, they were stupid. The _padrone_ had a _pizzicheria_, or pork-shop, across the street. When anything was wanted at the Albergo it was brought from the shop. Every time I went to my window I saw messengers on their way between the two establishments. But no man can serve two masters; the _pizzicheria_ drove a more thriving trade, and the Albergo suffered in consequence. It was left in the charge of a youth of unparalleled stupidity, who seldom understood what we asked for, and when he did, declared it something not to be had. But a friend was sent to us in our need. It happened in this way. The first morning we went out for a walk. As we started, and were passing the palace with the Etruscan inscriptions on the heavy stones of its lower wall, a Harlequin newly painted in red and white struck nine from a house-top near by. In the Via dell' Erbe women, their heads covered with gay handkerchiefs or wide-brimmed, high-crowned felt hats, were selling vegetables and fruit. Just in front of us, walking hand in hand, were three beggars, two blind and one lame, and an old brown monk with a wine-cask on his shoulder. At almost every turn we saw through an archway the three far-away lakes of Montepulciano, Chiusi, and Thrasymene. But it was now J. began to feel ill, and we went to a _caffè_ and called for cognac. As we sat there the door opened and a young Italian dressed _à l'Anglaise_, even to his silver-headed cane, came in. He took a seat at the table next to us. When his coffee was brought he asked the waiter if he had seen the English lady and gentleman who arrived the evening before on a velocipede. No, the waiter had not; he knew nothing of these foreigners. There was a pause, while the young Italian sipped his coffee. But presently he turned to us and said in good English, but with a marked accent:-- "I beg pardon, sare, but was it not you who came to Montepulciano on a tricycle?" "Yes," said J., but rather curtly, for he was just then very miserably. "Ah, I thought so!" continued the Italian, well satisfied with the answer. "I have seen it,--a Humber. It is a beautiful machine. I myself do ride a bicycle,--the _Speecial Cloob_. You know it? I do belong to the Cyclists' _Touring Cloob_ and to the _Speedvell Cloob_. All the English champions do belong to that _Cloob_. I did propose some one for director at the last meeting; you will see my name on that account in the papers. Here is my card, but in the country around Montepulciano all call me Sandro or Sandrino. I have ridden from Florence to Montepulciano in one day. I have what you call the wheel fever,"--and he smiled apologetically and stopped, but only to take breath. We were fellow-cyclers, and that was enough. He was at once our friend, though our greeting in return was not enthusiastic, and our record would have disgusted the _Speedvell Cloob_. He could sympathize. He was feeling _vary bad_ himself, because the day before he had gone on his bicycle as far as Montalcino with a gun to _keel the leetle birds_. It was too far even for a champion. But he had taken the waters--Janos: he had great faith in the waters. The cognac by this time had made J. better, and we started to leave the _caffè_. Sandrino, to give him his Montepulciano name, insisted on paying for everything. We must let him have that favor, he said, and also another. He was not a native of the town,--he was a Roman, as he supposed we could see by his nose,--but still he would like to do us the honors of the place. He would take us to see so fine a church we could not but be pleased with it; it was only a step. Foolishly we went. The step was a long one. It took us half-way down the mountain-side to the Madonna di San Biagio. But J. was now really too wretched to look at anything, and we turned back at once. As we walked slowly up again, Sandrino explained that he had lived in England several years; and it turned out that he had the English as well as the wheel fever. All his clothes were from London, he said, even his flannels; and he pulled down his sleeve that we might see. He smoked English tobacco,--a friend sent it to him; and he showed us the small paper box tied with a string in which he kept it. And most of his news was English, too. His friends wrote him. He had just had a letter--see--and he opened it. There had been fearful riots in England. He cared much for the politics of the country. But the refrain of all he said was praise of cycling. He offered to ride with us when we left Montepulciano. He could go any day but the next, which was his twenty-first birthday, when he was to have a great dinner and many friends and much wine. He would call, if we would allow him; and with profession of great friendship he left us at the door of the Albergo. [Illustration: LEAVING MONTEPULCIANO. _Page 106._] He was true to his word. Indeed, I do not know what had become of us but for his kindness. After our return from our walk, J. was unable to leave his room. We were both depressed by this unlooked-for delay, and Sandrino not only helped to amuse, but was of practical use to us. He came twice the following day. The first time he stopped, he said, to tell us he did hear from friends in Castiglione del Lago, who, if we should ride to-morrow, would be glad to see us at lunch. "There will be nothing much," he concluded; "they will make no preparations. It will be some _leetle_ thing." Though in the first glory of his twenty-one years, he went with me to a druggist's to act as interpreter. But I think he was repaid by his pleasure in carrying back a bottle of his favorite waters. The boy, when he saw it, with his usual cleverness followed into the room bringing three glasses. If we had asked for three he doubtless would have brought one. Sandrino's second visit was in the evening after he had eaten his great dinner and drunk much wine, which had again made him feel _vary bad_. Had we ever tasted the famous Montepulciano, "king of all wine"? he asked. No? Well, then, we must before leaving the town. It was not to be had anywhere else, and indeed even in Montepulciano could not be bought in the _caffè_ or shops. He had been presented with many bottles. He repeated his invitation to lunch in Castiglione, and it seemed that other friends in a villa near Cortona would also be charmed to see us, and to give us wine if we were tired. IN THE VAL DI CHIANA. "_Thy company, O sweet Evangelist, how desirable it is to us poor pilgrims._" "_Then I saw in my dream they went very lovingly on together._" The next morning J. was much better, and we decided to ride. Sandrino arrived at half-past seven and breakfasted with us. In the uniform of the _Speedvell Cloob_, its monogram in silver on his cap, he was even more English than he had been the day before. Our last experience at the Albergo was characteristic. The waiter, overcome by Sandrino's appearance, became incapable of action. We called for our coffee and rolls in vain. Finally we all, our guest included, made a descent upon the kitchen and forced him to bestir himself. It was Sunday morning, and the news of our going had been noised abroad. The aristocracy as well as the people turned out to see us off. Many of Sandrino's friends lingered in the barber-shop across the street; others waited just without the city gate with his mother and sister. When Sandrino saw the crowd here, he sprang upon his _Speecial Cloob_, worked with one foot and waved the other in the air, rode to the little park beyond and back, and then jumped off, hat in hand, at his mother's side, with the complacent smile of a champion. Indeed, the whole ride that day savored of the circus. He went down hills with his legs stretched straight out on either side. On level places he made circles and fancy figures in the road. Whenever we passed peasants,--and there were many going to church,--he shrieked a warning shrill as a steam-engine whistle. No wonder he said he had no use for a bell! He spoke to all the women, calling them his "beautiful cousins." And in villages the noise he made was so great that frightened people, staring at him, could not look behind, so that several times we all but rode over men and women who walked backward right into our wheels. And all the while J., like the ring-master, kept calling and shrieking, and no one paid the least attention to him. Our way was through the beautiful Val di Chiana, no longer pestilential and full of stenches as in Dante's day, but fresh and fair, and in places sweet with clematis. There were no fences or hedges, and it stretched from mountains to mountains, one wide lovely park. About half-way to Castiglione we came to the boundary line between Tuscany and Umbria,--a canal with tall poplars on its banks, throwing long reflections into the water below, where a boat lay by the reeds. We stopped there some little time. Sandrino was polite, but I could see he did not approve. What would the _Speedvell Cloob_ have thought? Farther on, when we waited again near a low farm-house under the oaks, he wheeled quickly on. But presently he came back. "Oh," he said, "I thought you must have had an accident!" There could be no lovelier lake town than Castiglione del Lago. The high hill on which it stands projects far into Lake Thrasymene. The olives which grow from its walls down the hillside into the very water are larger and finer, with more strangely twisted trunks, than any I have ever seen. As we came near the town we rode between them, looking beneath their silvery-gray branches out to the pale blue lake beyond. A woman came from under their shade with a bundle of long reeds on her head; a priest passed us on a donkey. We left our machines in a stable at the foot of the hill and walked through the streets. Here Sandrino's invitation came to nought; his friends were away. Whatever _leetle thing_ we had must be found elsewhere. So we went to a _trattoria_, where another of his friends, a serious, polite young man who, we learned afterwards, owns the town and all the country thereabout, sat and talked with us while we ate our lunch. Poor Sandrino! He had to pay for his English clothes and foreign friends! The _padrona_, backed by her husband from the kitchen below, asked him no less than five francs for our macaroni and wine. A dispute, loud because of the distance between the disputants, followed; but in the end Sandrino paid four francs, though half that sum would have been enough. It was some consolation for us to know that, _forestieri_ as we were, we had never been cheated so outrageously, not even in San Quirico. It was pleasant wandering through the town, with the grave young man as guide, to the Palazzo Communale, where the red and white flag of the Duke of Cornia waving outside was the same as that painted in the old frescos within, and where councilmen holding council bowed to us as we passed; and then to the old deserted castle which, with its gray battlemented walls and towers, was not unlike an English ruin. But it was pleasanter when, Sandrino having kissed his friend, we were on the road again, riding between yellow mulberries by the side of the lake. Sheep were grazing on the grassy banks; donkeys and oxen were at rest in the meadows. But the peasants, Mass heard, were at work again. Women on ladders were stripping the mulberries of their leaves; men on their knees were digging in the fields. At the villa, Sandrino's friends were at home. At the gate the gay bicycler gave his war-cry. A young lady ran out between the roses and chrysanthemums in the garden and by the red wall where yellow pumpkins were sunning, to welcome him. Then her mother and sister came and also gave him greeting. They received us with courtesy. We were led into the drawing-room, a bare, barn-like place with cold brick floor, where there were three or four chairs, a table, an old piano, faded cretonne curtains hung on rough sticks at the windows, and small drawings pinned on the walls. A man in blue coat and trousers, such as the peasants wear, followed us in and sat down by the young ladies. He was one of her men, the _Signora_ explained. Then we had the wine Sandrino promised, and we became very friendly. One of the daughters knew a little English, but when we spoke to her she hid her face in her hands and laughed and blushed. She never, never would dare to say a word before us, she declared. She was very arch and girlish. One minute she played a waltz on the piano; the next she teased Sandrino, and there was much pleasantry between them. The mother spoke French after a fashion, but when she had anything to say she relapsed into Italian. She lived in Rome, she said. We must come and see her there. But would we not now stay at her villa all night, instead of in Cortona? Then she squeezed my hand. "_Vous êtes bien sympathique_," she said, and I think she meant to compliment me. Her husband, it seems, was a banker in Rome, and would be pleased, so she told us through Sandrino's interpretation, to do anything and everything for us. Mother and daughters, men and maids, all walking amiably together, came to the garden gate with us. The _Signora_ here squeezed my hand a second time. The skittish young lady said "good-by" and then hid behind a bush, and her sister gave us each some roses. It was here too we were to part with Sandrino. He must be back in Montepulciano by six; more friends were coming. Would we write him postal cards to tell him of the distance and time we made? And that map of Tuscany we said we would give him, would we not remember it? He was going to take some great rides, and it would help him. Then we turned one way, and he, riding his best for the young ladies, the other, to be seen by us no more. It was roses all the way to Cortona. They grew in villa gardens and along the road up the mountain; there were a few even among the olives, on the terraces whose stone embankments make the city from below look as if it were surrounded by many walls instead of one only. Near the town we met two young lovers, their arms around each other's waists, and a group of men who directed us in our search for the inn up a short steep hill leading away from the main road. Above, inside the city gate, several other citizens told us we must go down again, for the road we had left led right by the door. Clearly the Albergo della Stella--for that was its name--was not well known in Cortona. After a climb of three miles it was provoking to go even a foot out of our way, and we turned back in no cheerful mood. It was more disheartening when, having finally come to the Albergo, we found the lower floor, by which we entered, the home of pigs and donkeys and oxen. The major was right, I thought; Cortona was a rough place. The contrast when on the third floor of this establishment we were shown into a large, clean, really well-furnished room with window overlooking the valley, made us neglect to drive a close bargain with the _padrona_,--a neglect for which we suffered later. LUCA SIGNORELLI'S TOWN. "_By this time the pilgrims had a desire to go forward._" The principal event of our stay in Cortona was a hunt for Luca Signorelli's house. Why we were so anxious to find it I did not know then, nor do I now; but we were very earnest about it. At the start a youth pursued us with the persistence of a government spy. It was useless to try and dodge him. No matter how long we were in churches or by what door we came out, he was always waiting in exactly the right place. In our indignation we would not ask him the way, but we did of some other boys, who forthwith led us such a wild-goose chase that I think before it was over there was not a street or corner of the town unvisited by us. [Illustration: CORTONA.] We next employed an old man as guide. Of course he knew all about Luca Signorelli. He could show us all his frescos and pictures in Cortona. Some of them were bad enough, as he supposed the _Signore_ knew; they were painted in the artist's youth. But we wanted to see his house? Ah! we had but to follow him, and he led us in triumph to that of Pietro da Cortona. As this would not do, he consulted with an old woman, who recommended a visit to a certain _padre_. The _padre_ was in his kitchen. He had never heard of Signorelli's house, and honestly admitted his ignorance. But could he show us some fine frescos or sell us antiquities? This failing, our guide hunted for some friends who, he declared, knew everything. But they were not in their shop, nor in the _caffè_, nor on the piazza, and in despair he took us to see another priest. The latter wore a jockey-cap and goggles, and was a learned man. He had heard of a life of Signorelli by a German. He had never read it, nor indeed could he say where it was to be had; but he knew there was such a book. He was certain our hunt was useless, since Signorelli had lived in so many houses the city could not afford to put tablets on them all, and so not one was marked. He himself was a professional letter-writer, and if the _Signore_ had any letters he wished written--? We then gave up the search and dismissed the old man with a franc, though he declared himself still willing to continue it. It was in this way we saw Cortona. For the last few days we had begun to be haunted by the fear of the autumn rains. If they were as bad as Virgil says, and were to fall in dense sheets, tearing the crops up by the roots, while black whirlwinds set the stubble flying, and vast torrents filled ditches and raised rivers, the roads must certainly be made unridable. Since the morning we left Monte Oliveto the weather had been threatening, and now in Cortona there were heavy showers. As we sat in our room at the Albergo after our long tramp, and J. made a sketch from the window, we saw dark clouds gradually cover the sky. The lake, so blue yesterday, was gray and dull. The valley and the mountains were in shadow, save where the sun breaking through the clouds shone on a small square of olives and spread a golden mist over Monte Amiata. Before J. had finished, the gold faded into white and then deepened into purple, and we determined to be off early in the morning. TO PERUGIA: BY TRAIN AND TRICYCLE. "_Now you must note that the City stood upon a mighty hill, but the pilgrims went up that hill with ease._" The next day I was tired and in no humor for riding. J. wanted once to try the tricycle without luggage over the Italian roads. It was settled then between us that I should go alone by train to Perugia, where we should meet. Before seven we had our breakfast and the _padrona_ brought us her bill. Because we had not bargained in the beginning she overcharged us for everything; but we refused to pay more than we knew was her due. There was the inevitable war of words, more unpleasant than usual because her voice was loud and harsh and asthmatic. She grew tearful before it was over, but finally thanked us for what we gave her, and asked us to come again so gently that we mistrusted her. I thought it wise to wait with the bags at the station, though my train would not start till eleven. It was a beautiful coast down the mountain between the olives, four miles with feet up. The clouds had rolled away during the night, and it was bright and warm at the station when J. left me to go on his way. It was quiet too, and for some time I was alone with the porters. But presently a young woman with a child in her arms came by. She stopped and looked at me sympathetically. I spoke to her, and then she came nearer and patted me on the shoulder and said, "_Poverina!_" It seems she had seen J. bring me to the station and then turn back by himself. I do not know what she thought was the trouble, but she felt sorry for me. She was the wife of the telegraph operator, and lived in rooms above the station. She took me to them, and then she brought me an illustrated translation of "Gil Blas" to look at while she made me a cup of coffee. Every few minutes she sighed and said again, "_Poverina!_" She gave me her card,--Elena Olas, _nata_ Bocci, was her name. I wrote mine on a slip of paper, and when the train, only an hour late, came, we parted with great friendship. A regiment of soldiers was on its way to Perugia and made the journey very lively. Peasants who had somehow heard of its coming were in wait at every station with apples and chestnuts and wine, over which there was much noisy bargaining. At other times the soldiers sang. As the train carried us by the lake from which the mountains in the distance rose white and shadowy and phantom-like, and by Passignano,--built right in the water, with reeds instead of flowers around the houses, where fishermen were out in their boats near the weirs,--and then by Maggiore and Ellora on their hill-tops, I heard the constant refrain of the soldiers' song, and it reminded me of my friend at Cortona, for it was a plaintive regret for "_Poverina mia!_" Then there came a pause in the singing, and a voice called out, "_Ecco_, Perugia!" I looked from the carriage window, and there, far above on the mountain, I saw it, white and shining, like a beautiful city of the sun. At the station J. met me. He had been waiting an hour, having made the thirty-six miles between Cortona and Perugia in three hours and a half. He too had had his adventures. Beyond Passignano he met a man on foot who spoke to him, and to whom he said, "_Buon Giorno_." "Good-morning," cried the man in good cockney English, and J. in sheer astonishment stopped the tricycle. The tramp--for tramp he was--explained that he was an Englishman and in a bad way. He had been at Perugia with a circus which had little or no success, and the rascally Frenchman who managed it had broken up and made off, leaving him with nothing. He was now on his way to Florence, where he wanted to be taken on by Prince Strozzi, who kept English jockeys. But in the mean time he was hungry and had no money, and must tramp it all the way. J. bethought him of the card to the gentleman of Cortona who had married an English wife. We had not used it, and it seemed a pity to waste it. The English lady doubtless would be glad of an opportunity to help a countryman. So he gave it to the tramp, together with a franc for his immediate wants. The latter looked at the money. He supposed he could do something with it, he grumbled. He really was grateful, however, for he offered to push the machine up a hill down which he had just walked. But J. telling him to hurry on, engaged instead the services of a small boy who was going his way. For pay, he gave the child a coast down the other side into his native village, than which _soldi_ could not have been sweeter. Did not all his playmates see him ride by in his pride? Arriving in Perugia, J. himself was a hero for a time. Many officers with their wives were in the station, and in their curiosity so far forgot their usual dignity as to surround him and pester him with questions as to his whence and whither and what speed he could make. [Illustration: ON THE HILL. _Page 126._] It is a long way from the station up the mountain to the town, but we went faster than we ever climbed mountain before, for we tied the tricycle to the back of the diligence. J. rode and steered it, but I sat inside, ending my day's journey as I had begun it, in commonplace fashion. The driver was full of admiration. We must go to Terni on our velocipede, he said; in the mountains beyond Spoleto we should go down-hill for seven miles. _Ecco!_ no need of a diligence then! AT PERUGIA. "_And did see such things there, the remembrance of which will stick by me as long as I live._" The _padrone_ of the Albergo at Perugia was a man of parts. He could speak English. When we complimented him on a black cat which was always in his office, he answered, with eyes fixed on vacancy, and pausing between each word like a child saying its lesson: "Yes-it-is-a-good-cat. I-have-one-dog-and-four-cats. This-cat-is-the-fath-er-of-the-oth-er-cats. One-are-red-and-three-is-white." And when we had occasion to thank him, he knew enough to tell us we were very much obliged. But we gave him small chance to display his powers. There was little to keep us in the Albergo, when, after a few minutes' walk we could be in the piazza, where the sun shone on Pisano's fountain, and on the Palazzo of the Baglioni and the Duomo opposite. But what a fall was there! A couple of _gendarmes_, priests walking two by two, a few beggars, were the only people we saw in this broad piazza, where at one time men and women, driven to frenzy by the words of Saint Bernardino, spoken from the pulpit by the Duomo door, almost fell into the fire they had kindled to burn their false hair and ornaments, their dice and cards; and where at another Baglioni fought, with the young Raphael looking on to paint later one at least of the combatants; and where the beautiful Grifonetto lay in death agony, the avengers of his murdered kinsmen waiting to see him die, the heads of his fellow-assassins looking grimly down from the Palazzo walls, and Atalanta, his mother, giving him forgiveness for the deed, for which but yesterday she had cursed him. In the aisles of the Duomo, once so stained with the blood of the Baglioni that they had to be purified with wine before prayers could again be offered in them, a procession of white-robed priests and acolytes, bearing cross and censer, passed from one chapel to another before a congregation of two or three old women. It was the same in the narrow streets; all is now still and peaceful where of old Baglioni, single-handed, kept back the forces of Oddi, their mortal foes. Only the memory of their fierceness remains; though I have two friends who say that in the dark street behind the Palazzo, where brave Simonetto and Astore fought the enemy until corpses lay in piles around them, they one night heard voices singing sadly, as if in lamentation; and these voices led them onwards under one archway and then another until suddenly the sounds ceased. But when they turned to go homewards, lo! they had lost their way. The next morning they returned that they might by daylight see whence the music could have come. But all along the street was a dead wall. None but spirits could have sung there; and what spirits would dare to lift their voices in this famous street but those of Baglioni? It must be the degeneracy of modern warriors that sets these heroes of the old school to singing lamentations. The Grifonettos and Astores who feasted on blood, could they come back to life and their native town, would have little sympathy with the captains and colonels who now drink tamarind-water in the _caffè_, booted and spurred though the latter be. The _caffè_ is everywhere the lounging-place of Italian officers, but in Perugia it seemed to be their headquarters. There was one on the Corso, a few doors from the Palazzo, which they specially patronized. They were there in the morning even before the shops were opened, and again at noon, and yet again in the evening, while at other times they walked to and fro in front of it, as if on guard. But though the youngest as well as the oldest patronized it, the distinctions of rank between them were observed as scrupulously as Dickens says they are with the Chatham and Rochester aristocracy. The colonel associated with nothing lower than a major, the latter in turn drawing the line at the captain, and so it went down to the third lieutenant, who lorded it only over the common soldier. On the whole, I think the lesser officers had the best of it; for whether they eat cakes and drank sweet drinks, or played cards, they were always sociable and merry. Whereas, sometimes the colonel sat solitary in his grandeur, silent except for the few words with the boy selling matches as he hunted through the stock to find a box with a pretty picture. We were long enough in Perugia to carry the _Abate's_ letters to San Pietro. The monks to whom they were written were away, but a third came in their place and gave us welcome. He showed J. the inner cloister, to which I could not go: women were not allowed there. It was because of my skirts, he said; and yet he too wore skirts, and he spread out his cassock on each side. While they were gone I waited in the church. I wonder if ghostly voices are never heard within it. The monks, long dead, whose love and even life it was to make it beautiful until its walls and ceilings were rich and glowing, its choir a miracle of carving, and its sacristy hung with prayer-inspiring pictures, have, like the Baglioni, cause to bewail the degenerate latter day. The beauty they created now lives but for the benefit of a handful of monks whose monastery is turned into a Boys' Agricultural School, and for the occasional tourist. Later from the high terrace of the park opposite San Pietro we saw the boys in their blue blouses digging and hoeing in the fields under the olives, where probably the monks themselves once worked. There is in this little park an amphitheatre with archway, bearing the Perugian griffin in the centre. It is shaded by dense ilex-trees, from whose branches a raven must once have croaked; for evil has come upon the place, as it has upon the gray monastery so near. Instead of nobles and men-at-arms and councillors of state, two or three poor women with their babies sat on the stone benches gossiping. And as we lingered there in the late afternoon there came from San Pietro the sound, not of monks chanting vespers, but of some one playing the "Blue Danube" on an old jingling piano. Only the valley below, and the Tiber winding through it, and the mountains beyond are unchanged. ACROSS THE TIBER TO ASSISI. "_And I slept and dreamed again and saw the same two pilgrims going down the mountains along the highway towards the city._" When we left Perugia in the early morning we passed first by the statue of Julius II., thus receiving, we said to each other, the bronze pontiff's benediction. We imagined this to be an original idea; but it is useless to try to be original. Since then we have remembered the same thought came to Miriam and Donatello when they made the statue their trysting-place. Then we rode through the piazza, where a market was being held, and where at one end a long row of women holding baskets of eggs stood erect, though all around other women and even men, selling fruits and vegetables, sat comfortably on low stools. [Illustration: THE BRONZE PONTIFF'S BENEDICTION, PERUGIA. _Page 134._] On the other side of the Porta Romana we saw that while Perugia was bright and clear in the sunlight, a thick white mist covered the valley, so that it looked as if a great lake, bounded by the mountains, lay below. The chrysanthemums and marigolds, hanging over high garden walls, and the grass by the road-side glistened with dew. Shining silver cobwebs hung on the hedges. Before many minutes, so fast did we go, we were riding right into the mist. We could see but a few feet in front of us, and the olives on either side, through the heavy white veil, looked like spectres. We passed no one but a man carrying a lantern and a cage of owls. It seemed but natural that so uncanny a ride should lead to a home of shadows. And when we came to the tomb of the Volumnii at the foot of the mountain we left the tricycle without, and went down for a while into its darkness and damp. When we came out the mist had disappeared and the road lay through sunshine. A little farther on we had our first near view of the Tiber. We crossed it by the old Ponte San Giovanni, so narrow that there was not room for us to pass a boy and a donkey just in front. J. called, and the boy pushed his donkey close to the stone wall; but for all that we could not pass. Even as J. called he was stopped by a sudden sharp pain in his side, the result probably of his descent into the tomb while he was still warm; for he had back-pedalled coming down the mountain. And so we waited for many minutes on the bridge to see, not the yellow Tiber one always hears about, but a river blue in mid-stream, white where it came running over the mill-wheel and down the dam, and red and yellow and green where it reflected the poplars and oaks, and the skirts and handkerchiefs of the women washing on its banks. But after the bridge we left the river, for we were bound for Assisi. We had a quiet, peaceful ride for several miles on the Umbrian plain, where in the old times no one dared to go without the permission of the Baglioni, between vineyards and fields where men were ploughing, and through insignificant little villages, until we came out upon the large piazza in front of Santa Maria degli Angeli. It was crowded with peasants, for market was just over, and there came from every side the sound of many voices. When we rode by we were surrounded at once, two or three men keeping close to our side to sing the praises of the hotels at Assisi and shower their cards upon us. They pursued us even into the church, and as far as the little hermitage beneath the dome, to tell us that each and all could speak English. [Illustration: A FROWN OF DISAPPROVAL, ASSISI. _Page 136._] If the Umbrians about Assisi were always like this, Saint Francis was a wise man to hide himself in the woods and make friends with beasts and birds. Over the sunny roads beyond Santa Maria, where he and Fra Egidio walked singing and exhorting men and women to repentance, we wheeled imploring, or rather commanding, them to get out of the way. It was a hard pull up the mountain-side, the harder because the great monastery on its high foundations seemed always so far above us. When almost at the city gate a monk in brown robes, the knotted cord about his waist, passed. He stopped to look, but it was with a frown of disapproval; I think Saint Francis would have smiled. AT ASSISI. "_Methought these things did ravish my heart; I would have stayed at that man's house a twelvemonth but that I knew I had farther to go._" It was just noon when we reached Assisi, but we rode no more that day. We spent the afternoon in the town of Saint Francis. The Albergo we selected from the many recommended was without the large cloisters of the monastery. The waiter at once remembered that J. had been there before, though eighteen months had passed since his first visit. The _Signore_ had two ladies with him then, he said. He was delighted with the velocipede. It was the first time in all his life he had seen one with three wheels. Nothing would do but he must show us the finest road to Rome. He spread our map on the table as we eat our dinner, and put on his glasses,--for he was a little bad in the eyes, he explained,--and then he pointed out the very route we had already decided upon. _Ecco!_ here, between Spoleto and Terni, we should have a long climb up the mountain, but then there would be seven miles down the other side. Ah! that would be fine! This long coast to Terni was clearly to make up for the hardships we already had endured on toilsome up-grades. After dinner we went to the church. Goethe, when he was in Assisi, saw the old Roman Temple of Minerva,--and then, that his pleasure in it might not be disturbed, refused to look at anything else in the town, and went quickly on his way. But when I passed out of the sunlight into the dark lower church and under the low rounded arches to the altar with Giotto's angels and saints above, it seemed to me he was the loser by his great love for classic beauty. Many who have been to this wonderful church have written descriptions of it, but none have really told, and indeed no one can ever tell, how wonderful it is. The upper church, with its great lofty nave and many windows through which the light streams in on the bright frescoed walls, is beautiful. But this lower one, with its dark, subdued color and dim light, and the odor of incense which always lingers in it, is like the embodiment of the mystery and love that inspired the saint in whose honor it was built. In it one understands, for the first time perhaps, what it is for which the followers of Saint Francis gave up life and action. Whoever was long under the influence of this place must, I thought, always stay,--like the old gray-haired monk we saw kneeling before a side altar rapt in contemplation. And yet on the very threshold we found three or four brothers laughing and joking with two women,--Italian Dr. Mary Walkers they must have been, for they wore men's collars and cravats and coats, with field-glasses slung over their shoulders, and stiff gray hats, and they were smoking long _sigare Cavour_. They were artists, and had been painting, oh, so badly! in the church all the morning. The sun was setting when we left the monastery and walked through the streets, now silent and deserted, where Francis in his gay youth wandered with boon companions, singing not hymns but love-songs. A small boy came and walked with us, and, unbidden, acted as our guide. Here was the Duomo, he said, and here the Church of Santa Chiara; and, when we were on the road without the city gate, _Ecco!_ below, Santa Maria degli Angeli! For from where we stood we looked down upon the huge church rising from the plain, where even now there are scarcely more houses than in the days when Franciscans, coming from far and near to hold counsel with their founder, built their straw huts upon it. Our self-appointed guide was a bright little fellow, and never once begged like the other children who followed us. So when he showed us the road to Foligno where we must ride on the morrow, J. gave him a _sou_. At the door of the Albergo he said he must go home, but not to supper; he never had any. He asked at what time we should leave in the morning, when he would like to come and say good-by. _Felice notte_--"a happy night"--were his last words as he turned away. VIRGIL'S COUNTRY. "_If we have such ill speed at our first setting out, what may we expect betwixt this and our journey's end!_" The next morning, with a select company of ragged boys, our young guide arrived in time to see us start. When I came out he nodded in a friendly way, as if to an old acquaintance, to the wonder and admiration of the other youngsters. The waiter, his glasses on, came to the gate with us. Two monks standing there asked how far we were going on our velocipede. "To Rome?" they cried. "Why, then, here are two pilgrims and two priests!" Our guide and his friend ran down the mountain-side after us until we gave the former another _sou_, when they at once disappeared. It seemed a little ungrateful; but I did not give him much thought, for just then J. bade me back-pedal with all my might. The machine went very fast, despite my hard work, and to my surprise J. suddenly steered into a stone-pile by the roadside. "The brake is broken!" was his explanation as we slowly upset. Fortunately, however, the upright connecting the band of the brake with the handle had only slipped out of place, and though we could not fix it in again securely, J. could still manage to use it. This, so far as we could see, was the one defect in our tricycle, but defect it was. A nut on the end of the upright would have prevented such an accident. But this is one of the minor particulars in which tricycle-makers--and we have tried many--are careless. We had the rest of the coast without interruption. Half-way down, our little friend and his followers ran out from under the olives; he had taken a short cut that he might see us again. From Assisi to Terni was a long day's ride by towns and villages, through fair valleys and over rough mountains. From the foot of the mountain at Assisi, past Monte Subasio, which, bare and rocky, towered above the lower olive-covered hills, the road was level until we rode by Spello with its old Roman gateway and ruined amphitheatre. But the hill here was not steep, and then again there came a level stretch into Foligno, the first lowland town to which we had come since we left Poggibonsi, and which, with its mass of roofs and lofty dome rising high above the city walls, looked little like the Foligno in Raphael's picture. Already in our short ride--for it is but ten miles from Assisi to Foligno--we noticed a great difference in the people. It was not only that many of the women wore bodices and long earrings, and turned their handkerchiefs up on top of their heads, but they, and the men as well, were less polite and more stupid than the Tuscans or Umbrians about Perugia. Few spoke to us, and one woman to whom we said good-morning was so startled that she thanked us in return, as if unused to such civilities. For all J.'s shouts of _a destra_--to the right--and _Eccomi!_ they would not make room for us; and now in Foligno one woman, in her stupidity or obstinacy, walked directly in front of the machine, and when the little wheel caught her dress, through no fault of ours, cried "_Accidente voi!_"--the _voi_, instead of _le_, being a far greater insult than the wishing us an accident. Then she walked on, cursing in loud voice, down the street, by the little stream that runs through the centre of the town, and into the market-place where Saint Francis, in mistaken obedience to words heard in ecstasy, sold the cloth he had taken from his father that he might have money to rebuild the church of San Damiano. Even the beasts we met were stupid as the people. At our coming, horses, donkeys, and oxen tried to run. We therefore looked for at least a skirmish when, beyond Foligno, a regiment of cavalry in marching order advanced upon us. But the soldiers stood our charge bravely. Only the officer was routed and retreated into the gutter. Then, forgetting military discipline, he turned his back upon his men to see us ride. We were now on the old Via Flaminia and in the valley of the Clitumnus,--Virgil's country. The poet's smiling fields and tall, stiff oaks, his white oxen and peasants behind the plough or enjoying the cool shade, were on either side. Crossing the fields were many stony beds of streams, dry at this season, lined with oaks and chestnuts, under whose shade women were filling large baskets with acorns and leaves. The upturned earth was rich and brown. Through the trees or over them we saw the whitish-blue sky, the purple mountains, some pointed like pyramids, and the gray olive hills with little villages in their hollows, and before long Trevi on its high hill-top. And then we came to the temple of the river god Clitumnus, of which Pliny writes, and where the little river, in which Virgil says the white flocks for the sacrifice bathed, runs below, an old mill on its bank and one willow bending over it. [Illustration: GATHERING LEAVES. _Page 146._] At the village of Le Vene, near the source of the stream, we stopped at a wine-shop to eat some bread and cheese. There was no one there but the _padrone_ and a dwarf who wore a decent suit of black clothes and had a medallion of the Pope on his watch-chain. He had come in a carriage which waited for him at the door. I think he was a drummer. He drank much wine, and spoke to us in a vile patois. Indeed, the people thereabout all spoke in dialects worse, I am sure, than any Dante heard at the mouth of Hell. The dwarf had travelled, and had been in Florence, where he had seen a velocipede, but not like ours. It was finer, or perhaps he should say more commodious. The seats were side by side, and it had an umbrella attached, and it was worked by the hands. It went, oh, so fast! and he intimated that we could not hope to rival its speed. I suppose our machine without an umbrella seemed to him like a ship without a sail. But I think he had another tale to tell when, ten minutes later, he having started before we did, we passed him on the road. We were going so fast I only had time to see that in his wonder the reins fell from his hands. Then came the small, wretched village of San Giacomo, with its old castle built up with the houses of the poor, and then Spoleto, where we lunched in a _trattoria_ of the people which was much troubled by a plague of flies. A company of Bersaglieri, red caps on the backs of their heads and blue tassels dangling down their backs, sat at one table, ordering with much merriment their soup and meat and macaroni to be cooked _à la Bersagliere_; at another, two young men were evidently enjoying an unwonted feast; and at the table with us were three peasants, one of whom had brought his bread in his pocket: he eat his soup for dessert, and throughout the meal used his own knife in preference to the knife and fork laid at his place. Two dogs, a cat, and a hen wandered in from the piazza and dined on the bits of macaroni dropped by the not over-careful soldiers. The waiter greeted us cordially. He too had a machine, he said, but had never heard of velocipedes with three wheels. His had but two; the _Signore_ must see it. And before he would listen to our order for lunch, he showed J. his bicycle,--a bone-shaker. He was very proud of it. He had ridden as far as Terni. Ah! what a beautiful time we should have before the afternoon was over! Seven miles down the mountain! The thought of this coast made us leave Spoleto with light hearts, though we knew that first must come a hard climb. But if the road was as perfect as it had been all the morning, there was not much to dread. It was half-past two when we started from the _trattoria_, but we were fifteen minutes in walking to the other end of the town. There was no use riding. The streets were narrow and steep, and crowded with stupid men and women and donkeys, and with officers who instead of controlling were controlled by their horses. Beyond the gate the ascent at first was gradual and we rode easily, even as we worked looking back to the famous old aqueduct and the shadowy heights of Norcia. For some distance we went by the dried-up bed of a wide stream, meeting many priests on foot and peasants on donkeys. But as the way became steeper we left the stream far below, and came into a desolate country, where the mountains were covered with scrub-oaks, and priests and peasants disappeared; only one old man kept before us, making short cuts up the mountain-side, but after a while he too rode out of sight. We soon gave up riding. J. tied a rope to the tricycle and pulled while I pushed. The sun was now hidden behind the mountain and the way was shady. But still it was warm work and wearisome; for before long the road became almost perpendicular and was full of loose stones. How much more of this was there, we asked a woman watching swine on the hillside? "A mile," was her answer; and yet she must have known there were at least three. Finally, after what seemed hours of toiling, we asked another peasant standing in front of a lonely farm-house how much farther it still was to the top. "You are here now," she said. She at least was truthful. A few feet more, and we looked down a road as precipitous as that up which we had come, and so winding that we could see short stretches of it, like so many terraces, all the way down the mountain. We walked for about a hundred yards, and it was as hard to hold back the machine as before it had been to push it. Then we began to ride, but the strain on the brake loosened the handle a second time. We dismounted, and J. tried to push it back into place: it snapped in two pieces in his hands. Here we were, eight miles from Terni, in a lonely mountain road in the evening,--the sun had already set,--with a brakeless machine, which, if allowed to start down-hill with its heavy load of two riders and much baggage, would soon be more unmanageable than a runaway horse. The seven miles' coast to which we had looked forward for days, was to be a walk after all. Like the King of France and his twenty thousand men, we had marched up the mountain that we might march down again. Is it any wonder that we both lost our tempers, and that an accident was the smallest evil we wished the manufacturers of our tricycle? Because they cared more for lightness than for strength,--since record-making is as yet the chief end of the cycling,--the necks of people who ride for pleasure are forsooth to be risked with impunity! However, there was nothing to do but to walk into Terni. It was very cold, and we had to put on our heavy coats. Presently the moon rose above the mountains on our left. By its light we could see the white road,--now provokingly good, but steep and winding and all unknown,--the hills that shut us in on every side, and, far below, the stream making its way through the narrow pass. The way was unpleasantly lonely and silent. Now for an hour or more we went wearily on without hearing a sound but our steady tramp; and now we passed a farm-house within which many voices were raised in anger, while from the barn a dog barked savagely upon our coming. At times we thought we saw in the distance a castle with tall towers or an old ruin, but when we drew near we found in its place great rocks and cliffs of tufa. Once we went through a small village. The way here was not so steep, and for a few minutes we rode. Just beyond the houses three men, driving home a large white bull, walked in the middle of the road. J. shouted, that they might give us more space to pass; but they only laughed, and tried to set the bull on us with loud cries of _Via!_ Before the last died away we were walking again. On and on we walked, all the time holding back the tricycle. But at last we began to meet more people. Men with carts and donkeys went by at long intervals, but they spake never a word, and we too were silent. Now and then we heard the near tinkling of cow-bells, and came to olive-gardens, where in the moonlight the black twisted trunks took grotesque goblin shapes, and the branches threw a network of shadows across our path. Then we came to a railroad, and we knew we were at the foot of the mountains, and that Terni was not far off. We were at the end of the seven miles' coast and could ride again. Two men just then coming our way, J. asked them how far we were from the town; but they stood still and stared for answer. A second time he asked, and still they were speechless. "_Imbecile!_" he cried, and we left them there dumb and motionless. Not far beyond the road divided, and on either side were a few houses. A woman (or a fiend in female form) sat in front of one. "Which is the way to Terni?" we asked. She was silent. Once more we asked. _Chi lo sa?_--"Who knows?"--she answered. This was more than tired human nature could endure; J. turned upon her with a volley of choice Italian abuse. It conquered her as the prayers of Saint Anthony vanquished her sister demons. She arose and meekly showed us the way. In another minute the lights of Terni were in sight. Then we wheeled by a foundry with great furnace in full blast, by a broad avenue with rows of gas-jets, to the gates of the city, to find them shut. There was a second of despair, but J. was now not to be trifled with, and he gave a yell of command which was an effectual "open-sesame." And so we rode on through lively streets and piazza to the hotel, to supper, and to bed! TERNI AND ITS FALLS. "_Well, keep all things so in thy mind, that they may be as a goad in thy sides to prick thee forward in the way thou must go._" "_What thing so deserving as to turn us out of the way to see it?_" I know little of Terni, except that in the month of October the hotel is so cold that the waiter comes into the dining-room in the morning with hat on, and wrapped in overcoat and muffler, and that there is an excellent blacksmith in the town; for the next morning, as soon as J. had had the brake mended, he paid the bill and loaded the tricycle. The _padrone_ was surprised at the shortness of our stay. Did we not know there were waterfalls, and famous ones too, but three miles distant? We could not take the time to visit them? Well, then, at least we must look at their picture; and he showed us a chromo pasted on the hotel omnibus. I am afraid he took us for sad Philistines; but the fear of another kind of waterfall was still a goad to hurry us onward. Now we were so near our journey's end, no wonder, however great, could have led us from the straight path. IN THE LAND OF BRIGANDS. "_But by this place Christian went without much danger, whereat I somewhat wondered_." There was a great _festa_ that day, and all along the street and out on the country road we met men and women in holiday dress carrying baskets and bunches and wreaths of pink chrysanthemums. In Narni, on the heights which Martial called inaccessible, men were lounging in the piazza or playing cards in the _caffè_. For the shepherds alone there was no rest from every-day work. Before we reached even Narni, but ten miles across the valley from Terni, we saw several driving their sheep and goats into the broad meadows. They wore goat-skin breeches, and by that sign alone we should have known we were nearing Rome. We lunched at Narni on coffee and cakes, for it was the last town through which we should pass on that day's ride. It was here that Quintus, in its Roman prosperity, stayed so long that Martial reproached him for his wearisome delay. Could he come to it now, I doubt if his friend would have the same reason for complaint. It did not seem an attractive place, and when we asked a man about the country beyond, he said it was "_bruto_." We did not learn till afterwards that this applied to the people, and not to the country, and that here we ought to have been briganded. We were now high up on the mountain,--on one side steep rocks, on the other a deep precipice. Far below in a narrow valley ran the little river Nar, and on the bank above it the railroad. It was not an easy road to travel, and often the hills were too steep to coast or to climb. The few farm-houses by the way were closed, for the peasants had gone to church. We saw an occasional little gray town crowning the top of sheer gray cliffs, like those in Albert Dürer's pictures, or an old castle either deserted or else with farm-house built in its ruins, where peasants leaned over the battlemented walls. But the only villages through which we rode were Otricoli, just before we descended to the valley of the Tiber, where we created so great a sensation that an old woman selling chestnuts--cooked, I think, by a previous generation--was at first too frightened to wait on us, and Borghetto, on the other side of the valley, where we saw in the piazza the stage from Cività Castellana, in which town we were to spend the night. There were a few people abroad. In the loneliest part of the mountain an old man in a donkey-cart kept in front of us on a long upgrade. Interested in the tricycle, he forgot the donkey, which gave up a straight for a spiral course, and monopolized the road. J. angrily asked its driver which side he meant to take. But the old man heaped coals of fire on his head by offering to carry us up in his wagon. After we left him far behind, we passed two travellers resting by the wayside. Their bags lay on the ground, and they looked weary and worn. They gave us good-day, and where we were going they of course wanted to know. They too were bound for Rome, it turned out, and had come from Bologna. After the two gentlemen of Bologna, we overtook a group of merry peasants, coats slung over their shoulders for no possible reason but the sake of picturesqueness, and hats adorned with gay pompons of colored paper and tinsel. One carried branches of green leaves and red fruit like cherries, and as we went by he gave us a branch and wished us a good journey. Next went by an old woman, who said with a smile that we could go without horse or donkey,--a witticism heard so often it could no longer make us laugh. And then a little boy all alone came "piping down the valley wild." [Illustration: "PIPING DOWN THE VALLEY."] We went with much content over the plain by the Tiber, where there were broad grassy stretches full of sheep and horses, and here and there the shepherds' gypsy-looking huts. It was such easy work now, that we eat our chestnuts as we rode; but beyond the bridge, on which Sixtus V. and Clement VIII. and Gregory XIII., in true papal fashion, have left their names, the hills began again. On we toiled, beneath shady oaks and by rocky places, until we came out on a wide upland. From the treeless road the meadows rolled far beyond to high mountains, on whose sloping side the blue smoke of charcoal-burners curled upward. The moon already had risen, and in the west the setting sun filled the sky with glowing amber light, against which the tired peasants going home were sharply silhouetted. We were glad to see Cività Castellana. One or two men in answer to our questions had told us we were close to it, but we did not believe them. The fields seemed to stretch for miles before us, and there was not a house or tower in sight. But suddenly the road turned and went down-hill, and there below was the city perched on tufa cliffs, a deep ravine surrounding it. Two _carabinieri_, in cocked hats and folded cloaks like the famous two solitary horsemen, were setting out on their night patrol. Vespers were just over in the church near the bridge, and along the way where happy little Etruscan schoolboys once whipped homewards their treacherous schoolmaster, little Italian boys and girls, let loose from church, ran after us, torturing us with their shrill cries. Soon their elders joined them, and we were closely beset with admirers. The town too was in a hubbub about us, and in the streets through which we wheeled, men and women came from their houses to follow in our train. At the door of the Albergo, where we were detained for several minutes, the entire population collected. We had difficulty in getting a room. The _festa_, the _padrone_ said, had brought many country people into the town, and the inns were full to overflowing. If J. would go with him he would see what could be done for us. The search led them through three houses. In the mean time I kept guard over the machine. It was well I did, for once J. had gone the natives closed upon me. Toddling infants and gray-haired men, ragged peasants and gorgeous officers pushed and struggled together in their desire to see. Every now and then a stealthy hand was thrust through the crowd and felt the tire or tried the brake. I turned from left to right crying, "_Guarda! Guarda!_" I lifted exploring hands from the wheels. But in vain. What was one against so many? A man sitting in the doorway took pity on my sad plight. He came out, and with a stick mowed the people back. Then J. returned, having found a room in the first house, which the _padrone_ had thought fit to conceal until the last. A MIDDLING INN. "_The good of the place is before you._" "_But here they tarried and slept._" The Albergo of Cività Castellana was but a middling inn. The _padrone_, in English tweed, high boots, and Derby hat, looked half cockney, half brigand. His wife wore an elaborate false front, and much lace about her neck. But they were far finer than their house. We were lodged in the garret, in a room the size of a large closet. The way to it led through another bed-chamber, long and low, in which four cots were ranged in a row along the wall. When we crossed it on the way downstairs to dinner I devoutly prayed that on our return four nightcaps would not be nodding on the pillows. Later in the evening, when we had dined, we strolled out to the piazza. To see the life of an Italian town you have only to go to the _caffè_. We went to one near the Albergo. There were two tables in it. We sat at the smaller, and at the other were four ragged boys playing cards! Fortunately we were the first to go to bed in the garret. All through the night, however,--for the mattress was hard and I slept little,--I heard loud snores and groans, and the sound of much tossing to and fro. We rose early in the morning, but when we opened our door the cots were empty, though they had not been so long. ACROSS THE CAMPAGNA. "_They compassed them round on every side; some went before, some behind, and some on the right, some on the left._" "_Here they were within sight of the city they were going to, also here met them some of the inhabitants thereof ... and drawing near the city they had yet a more perfect view thereof._" Early as we were, the whole town was stirring when we came downstairs. But who ever knew the hour when the people of an Italian town were not up and abroad? No sooner did J. bring the tricycle from the stable, where it had been kept all night, to the Albergo, than the piazza was again crowded. On they all came with us, men, women, and children, hooting and shouting, jumping and dancing through the vilely paved streets, and finally sprawling over the walls and on the rocks beyond the gate. There they stayed until we had gone down the hill over the bridge, crossing the stream at its foot, and up the hill on the opposite side, passing from their sight around the first curve. Soon we were on an upland and now really at the beginning of the Campagna. The morning was cold. For many miles we rode through a champaign gleaming white with frost. But as the sun rose higher in the heavens, and the yellow light, which at first was spread over the sky, faded and left a clear blue expanse above, the air grew warmer and the frost disappeared. The road wound on and on between oak woods and wide cultivated fields, and green grassy plains which gradually changed into great sweeps of rolling treeless country, like the moors. By the roadside were thick bushes of low green sage and tangled blackberries, and in places the broad flagstones of the old Flaminian Way, with weeds and dandelions and pretty purple flowers growing from the crevices. Sometimes a paving of smaller stones stretched all across the road, so that for a minute or two we were badly shaken, or else, coming on them suddenly at the foot of a hill, all but upset. Truly, as has been said, it could have been no joke for the old Romans to ride. To our left rose the great height of Soracte, not snow-covered as Horace saw it, but bare and brown save where purple shadows lay. At first we met numbers of peasants all astride of donkeys, going towards Cività Castellana, families riding together and eating as they went. Later, however, no one passed but an occasional lonely rider (who in his long cloak and high-pointed hat looked a genuine Fra Diavolo), or else sportsmen and their dogs. It was strange that though we saw many of the latter, we never once heard the singing or chirping of birds. There were hillsides and fields full of large black cattle, or herds of horses, or flocks of sheep and goats. There were shepherds, too, sleeping in the shade or by the roadside, leaning on their staffs or ruling their flock with rod and rustic word, as in the days when Poliziano sung. And if there was no bird's song to break the silence of the Campagna, there was instead a loud baaing of sheep, led by the shrill piercing notes of the lambs. If it was to such an accompaniment that Corydon and Thyrsis sang in rivalry, their song could have been poetical only in Virgil's verse. How hard we worked now that our pilgrimage was almost ended! We scarcely looked at the little village through which we wheeled, and where a White Brother was going from door to door, nor at the ruins which rose here and there in the hollows and on the slopes of the hills; and when at last we saw on the horizon the dome coming up out of the broad undulating plain, we gave it but a short greeting, and then hurried on faster than ever. We would not even go to Castel Nuovo, which lies a quarter of a mile or so from the road, but eat our hasty lunch in a _trattoria_ by the wayside, while a man--an engineer he said he was--showed us drawings he had made on his travels, and asked about our ride. How brave it was of the _Signora_ to work! he exclaimed, and how brave of the _Signore_ to sketch from his velocipede! And after this "the hills their heights began to lower," and with feet up we went like the wind, and every time we looked at the dome it seemed larger and more clearly defined against the sky. But about six miles from Rome our feet were on the pedals again and we were working with all our might. Sand and loose stones covered the road, which grew worse until, in front of the staring pink quarantine building, the stones were so many that in steering out of the way of one we ran over another, and the jar it gave us loosened the screw of the luggage-carrier. We were so near Rome we let it go. This was a mistake. But a little farther, and the whole thing gave way, and bags and knapsack rolled in the dust. It took some fifteen minutes to set it to rights again; and all the time we stood in the shadeless road, under a burning sun, for the heat in the lower plains of the Campagna was as great as if it were still summer. As the luggage-carrier was slightly broken, we were afraid to put too great a strain upon it, and for the rest of the journey the knapsack went like a small boy swinging on behind. [Illustration: FROM VIA FLAMINIA, NEAR PONTE MOLLE. _Page 170._] Like those other pilgrims, we were much discouraged because of the way. But at last, wheeling by pink and white _trattorie_, whose walls were covered with illustrated bills of fare, and coming to an open place where street-cars were coming and going, the Ponte Molle, over a now yellow Tiber, lay before us, and we were under the shadow of the dome we from afar had watched for many hours. Over the bridge we went with cars and carts, between houses and gardens and wine-shops, where there was a discord of many hurdy-gurdies, to the Porta del Popolo, and so into Rome. _Carabinieri_ were lounging about the gate, and carriages were driving to the Pincian; but we rode on and up the street on the right of the piazza. When we had gone a short distance we asked a man at a corner our way to the Piazza di Spagna. We should have taken the street to our left, he said, but now we could reach it by crossing the Corso diagonally. As we did so we heard a loud _sst_, _sst_ behind us, and we saw a _gendarme_ running up the street; but we went on. When we wheeled into the Piazza di Spagna, however, a second, almost breathless, ran out in front of us, and cried, _Aspetti!_ ("Wait!") But still we rode. _Aspetti!_ he cried again, and half drew his sword. In a minute we were surrounded. Models came flying from the Spanish steps; an old countryman carrying a fish affectionately under his arm, bootblacks, clerks from the near shops, young Roman swells,--all these and many more gathered about us. "_Aspetti!_" the _gendarme_ still cried. "_Perchè?_" we asked. And then his fellow-officer, whom we had seen on the Corso, came up. "Get down!" he said, in fierce tones of command. "_Perchè?_" we asked again. "_Per Christo!_" was his only answer. The crowd laughed with glee. Hackmen shouted their applause. It was ignominious, perhaps, but the wisest policy, to get down and walk to our hotel. THE FINISH. "_It pities me much for this poor man: it will certainly go ill with him at the last._" What pilgrim of old times thought his pilgrimage really over until he gave either out of his plenty or nothing in alms? Two months later we too gave our mite, not to the church or to the poor, but to the Government; for we were then summoned before a police magistrate and fined ten francs for "_furious_ riding on the Corso, and refusing to descend when ordered." And so our pilgrimage ended. APPENDIX. VETTURINO _versus_ TRICYCLE. BY JOSEPH PENNELL. _From "Outing."_ Who has not journeyed through a country with his favorite author long before he makes the actual trip himself? and who, when he comes to see with his own eyes that at which he has hitherto looked through some one else's, does not find himself his best guide? Long before I came to Italy I had travelled along its highways and by-ways with many authors, more especially with Hawthorne in his "Italian Note-Book," and Mr. Howells in his "Italian Journeys" and "Venetian Life." When it was finally my good fortune to make the journey myself, I was at first lucky enough to have for a companion, not his books, but Mr. Howells himself; and I frankly confess I found him far more delightful and satisfactory in person than in print. A year later I started for the same country, this time encumbered with a wife and a tricycle. Mr. Howells could no longer be my _cicerone_: in the first place he was back in Boston,--I might add, as if in parenthesis, calling me "lucky dog" for being able to go so soon again over the well-known ground; and, in the second place, because the route I now intended to take is not described in his books. But it is in Hawthorne's "Note-Book," a volume which, as I have just said, I had frequently studied. But of course I forgot to put it in my knapsack, and so had not a chance to see it until I arrived in Rome. When I there looked into it, naturally in a more critical spirit--inspired by personal knowledge of the subject--than I ever had before, the first thing that struck me was the advantage I had had over my old master in travelling by tricycle instead of by diligence. From the little village of Passignano to Rome we had followed exactly the same road, and though we began our rides at its opposite ends, I could still easily compare the time we had made, and the comfort and convenience and pleasure we had enjoyed by the way. As this comparison may be interesting to many who intend some day to make the cycling tour of Italy, I will here briefly indicate Hawthorne's experience, principally as to time and roads, and then mine:-- HAWTHORNE'S JOURNEY TO FLORENCE. MY NOTES. FIRST DAY OF TRIP. LAST DAY OF TRIP. We passed through the Porta del We left Cività Castellana at a Popolo at about 8 o'clock, and quarter of eight. Road so rough, ... began our journey along the had to walk down-hill and up Flaminian Way.... The road was again. (So did Hawthorne's not particularly picturesque. The party.) Road very picturesque, country undulated, but _scarcely and, before long, a distant rose into hills_.... Finally came glimpse of St. Peter's. Began to to the village of Castel Nuovo di see, and occasionally to feel, Porta ... between 12 and 1.... the paving of the old Flaminian Afternoon, Soracte rose before Way, which is abominable. Made of us.... The road kept trending flagstones thrown roughly towards the mountain, following together, or else little blocks, the line of the old Flaminian like the Roman pavement. Coming Way, which we could see at on a stretch of it, at the foot frequent intervals close beside of a hill, and hidden with dust, the modern track. It is paved smashed our luggage-carrier, and with large flagstones, laid so loosened the machine,--more than accurately together that it is the whole trip had done. Passed still, in some places, as smooth Rignano,--usual sensation,--good and even as the floor of a _café_. Under Soracte all church, and everywhere the tufts morning. Reached Castel Nuovo di of grass found it difficult to Porta at 11. (Distance to this root themselves into the village from Cività Castellana interstices.... Its course is much farther than from it to straighter than that of the road Rome, yet we reached it one hour of to-day.... I forget where we sooner than Hawthorne did, finally lost it.... Passed starting out from Rome.) Road got through the town of Rignano--road worse and worse. Finally nothing still grew more and more but ruts and stones. Hills not to picturesque.... Came in sight of be laughed at (though Hawthorne the high, flat table-land, on thought them scarcely which stands Cività perceptible). Arrived at the Castellana.... After passing over Porta del Popolo about half-past the bridge, I alighted with J. one. (About three and a half and R. and made the ascent on hours' better time than foot.... At the top our vetturino Hawthorne.) Distance, thirty-five took us into the carriage again, Italian miles. and quickly brought us to what appears to be a very good hotel.... After a splendid dinner we walked out into the little town, etc. SECOND DAY. OUR SECOND DAY FROM ROME. Roused at 4 o'clock this morning; (We never got up at any such ... ready to start between 5 and unearthly hours as Hawthorne 6.... Remember nothing indulged in.) Left Terni at 11 particularly till we came to o'clock, having been obliged to Borghetto.... After leaving get a new brake made. Terni, dead Borghetto, we crossed the broad level, in low valley,--straight, valley of the Tiber.... Otricoli wide road, ten miles across the by and by appeared.... As the valley,--surface of the road road kept ascending, and as the good. Just outside of Narni road hills grew to be mountainous, we climbs up a steep hill into the had taken on two additional town. (There must have been an horses, making six in all, with a earthquake since Hawthorne's man and boy ... to keep them in time, as Terni, which he saw in a motion.... Murray's guide-book is high and commanding position, now exceedingly vague and stands in the lowest part of the unsatisfactory along this valley, with mountains all route.... Farther on [we saw] the around.) From Narni up nearly all gray tower of Narni.... A long, the way to Otricoli, with the winding street passes through exception of here and there such Narni, broadening at one point a steep descent that we had to into a market-place; ... came out hold the machine back with all from it on the other side.... The our might, riding for several road went winding down into the hours was almost impossible. peaceful vale.... From Narni to (Wish we had had six horses, a Terni I remember nothing that man, and a boy to pull us on.) need be recorded. Terni, like so From Otricoli, down and all many other towns in the across the valley, excellent neighborhood, stands in a high riding to Borghetto; then big and commanding position.... We hill up, out on to the Campagna, reached it between 11 and 12.... and up and down--good road--all It is worth while to record, as the way to Cività Castellana, history of _vetturino_ commissary which we reached between 6 and 7. customs, that for breakfast we Terrible sensation!!! (This day had coffee, eggs, and bread and Hawthorne came in two hours butter; for lunch, an omelette, ahead; but he had six horses and stewed veal, figs and grapes, and the hills in his favor.) We eat two decanters of wine; for dinner every day coffee, bread and an excellent vermicelli soup, two butter, and rolls in the morning; young fowls fricasseed, and a for lunch, a beefsteak, or hind-quarter of roast lamb, with macaroni, and fruit, _no wine_, fritters, oranges, and figs, and but fresh lemons and water; for two more decanters of wine. dinner, soup, two meats, fruit, and a _fiasco_ of wine. Distance about thirty-three Italian miles. (We carried Baedeker, and not Murray, and found it not unsatisfactory.) THIRD DAY. THIRD DAY. At 6 o'clock this morning ... we Left Assisi about 8. Splendid drove out of the city gate of coast down into the valley. Terni.... Our way was now through Beautiful ride over the the vale of Terni.... Soon began undulating road, past Spello to to wind among steep and lofty Foligno, not stopping in the hills.... Wretched villages.... latter place, excepting to have At Strettura we added two oxen to accidents wished us by an old our horses, and began to ascend woman we almost ran over. Then the Monte Somma, which ... is through the beautiful valley of nearly four thousand feet high the Clitumnus--grand road--lovely where we crossed it. When we came day and wonderfully fair country. to the steepest part of the (We saw no beggars.) Rode by the ascent, Gaetano _allowed us to little temple spoken of by Pliny. walk_.... We arrived at Spoleto Ate some bread and cheese at Le before noon.... After lunch ... Vene. Reached Spoleto at one; we found our way up a steep and lunched; then rode up the steep narrow street that led us to the street, through the gate at the city gate.... Resumed our other end of the city, and then journey, emerging from the city began a tremendous climb of six into the classic valley of the miles over Monte Somma, most of Clitumnus.... After passing Le which we had to walk. At last had Vene, we came to the little hard work to push. Coming finally temple ... immortalized by to the top, found the descent on Pliny.... I remember nothing else the other side even steeper. of the valley of Clitumnus, Where it was a little less steep, except that the beggars ... were we got on the machine, put on the well-nigh profane in the urgency brake, which came off in my hand. of their petitions. The city of Bad brake was the one defect in Terni seems completely to cover a our tandem. Had to walk the rest high peaked hill.... We reached of the way. In Strettura, men set Foligno in good season _yesterday bull on us. (Not quite so afternoon_. [This passage really pleasant as Hawthorne's belongs to his fourth day of experience.) Arrived in Terni at travel, but as it shows at what 8 o'clock, having walked the last time of the third day he reached few miles by moonlight,--about Foligno, I have included it with forty miles all together, of the third.] which we walked fully the last fourteen. (Made in one day what Hawthorne did in a day and a half.) FOURTH DAY. FOURTH DAY. I have already remarked that it (Expenses of this trip about five is still possible to live well in francs a day each.) Rode from Italy at no great expense, and Perugia to Assisi, a distance of that the high prices charged to fourteen miles, in about two _forestieri_ are artificial, and hours. Splendid coast down the ought to be abated.... We left hill outside of Perugia (up which Foligno betimes in the morning; Hawthorne walked). Crossed the ... soon passed the old town of Tiber. Visited Santa Maria degli Spello.... By and by we reached Angeli. Awful stitch in my side. Assisi. We ate our _déjeûner_, Climbed up into Assisi, where we and resumed our journey.... We stayed all afternoon, to recover, soon reached the Church of St. and to see the church. Mary of the Angels.... By and by came to the foot of the high hill on which stands Perugia, and which is so long and steep that Gaetano took a yoke of oxen to aid his horses in the ascent. We all, except my wife, walked a part of the way up.... The coach lagged far behind us. FIFTH DAY. FIFTH DAY. Left Perugia about 3 o'clock I covered their fifth and sixth to-day, and went down a pretty days' ride, this time by myself on steep descent.... The road began to the tricycle, in three hours and a ascend before reaching the village half actual riding time, and was of Mugione; ... between 5 and 6 we pulled up the long hill into came in sight of the Lake of Perugia, in a most easy and Thrasymene, ... then reached the delightful way, behind the town of Passignano. (He stayed diligence. there all night. SIXTH DAY. We started at 6 o'clock ... [for Arezzo]. We saw Cortona, like so many other cities in this region, on its hill, and arrived about noon at Arezzo. From Arezzo, Hawthorne went directly to Florence in one day, over a road which Italian cyclers have told me is excellent, and which is the post-road to Rome. We went by way of Montepulciano and Siena, being between two and three weeks on the way. I hope this short account of about one third of our ride will convince other people that cycling is far quicker than the old posting system, far pleasanter than riding in a stuffy railway-carriage, which whirls you through tunnels, and far the best way in which to see Italy,--a country which abounds in magnificent roads, and which should be thoroughly explored by all cyclers who care for something beside record-making. University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. Transcriber Notes: Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_. Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS. Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. Those words were retained as-is. In three instances there were cases where the word "eat" appeared one expect the word "ate". No change was made. The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate. In the Appendix, the pages were reformatted to to make it easier to read in an electronic form. Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted. 
58206	----	produced from scans of public domain works at The National Library of Australia.) +-------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | |Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ George Robertson & Co. BOOKSELLERS, Publishers, and Commercial Stationers. [Illustration: Decoration] ACCOUNT BOOK MANUFACTURERS. [Illustration: Decoration] _Bookbinders_ _Letterpress Printers._ _Paper Rulers_ _Engravers_ _Lithographers_ _Die Sinkers_ _Embossers._ [Illustration: Decoration] MELBOURNE-- 384-390 Little Collins Street. SYDNEY-- 361-363 George Street. ADELAIDE-- Freeman Street. BRISBANE-- Elizabeth Street. AND LONDON-- 17 Warwick Square. Paternoster Row, E.C. [Illustration: Dunlop Tyres] and DUNLOP-WELCH RIMS [Illustration: Decoration] Were used by MURIF on his _Transcontinental Ride from Adelaide to Port Darwin_. MURIF KNEW Only too well that he must have Tyres and Rims that would prove SPEEDY AND RELIABLE if he was to accomplish his pioneer undertaking--HENCE HIS CHOICE. And the result showed that his confidence was not misplaced--as his Tyres and Rims came through the ordeal splendidly. The DUNLOP PNEUMATIC TYRE CO., Ltd., 247 SWANSTON STREET, MELBOURNE. Also at . . . Kent Street, Sydney. Franklin St., Adelaide. King Street, Perth. And Christchurch, N.Z. FROM OCEAN TO OCEAN ACROSS A CONTINENT ON A BICYCLE. AN ACCOUNT OF A SOLITARY RIDE FROM ADELAIDE TO PORT DARWIN BY JEROME J. MURIF. George Robertson & Co., MELBOURNE, SYDNEY, ADELAIDE, BRISBANE AND LONDON. 1897. GEORGE ROBERTSON AND CO. PRINTERS MELBOURNE, SYDNEY, ADELAIDE, BRISBANE AND LONDON FROM OCEAN TO OCEAN. A vague longing to do _something_ first flattered, then irritated, then oppressed me. In vain I tried to argumentatively brush it aside, to pooh-pooh it, to laugh it out of countenance. My arsenal of trite well-worn sayings (so commonly the accompaniment of a weak argument) was ransacked for ammunition to once and for all lay out this absurd restlessness. For instance, I resolutely endeavored to persuade myself that of course the maxim was true that "There is nothing new under the sun." I argued that that was as absolutely convincing in my case as a Maxim is in some others. Then I went to sleep, dreamily reflecting that _that_ was settled, anyway. In the morning, I was witness that one saying, at any rate, was true: I had convinced myself against my will, and was in reality still longing for that formless _something_. So I made a bargain with myself to strive to give my longing a local habitation and a name--to set about discovering something to be done that no man had yet even dared. In my quest of a world to conquer, I bought a book of "Human Records" (which is not to be confounded with "A Human Document") so I might know what spheres had been already vanquished. There inscribed were the names of the heroes who had sucked the most eggs, eaten the most dumplings, drunk the most liquor, chopped the biggest tree, drawn the most teeth, vaulted the most horses. I passed these dizzy heights with a sigh. They were far above me. Besides, _cui bono_? And then, my mind revolving many things, speeding from one to the other, passing as the bicycle-scorcher passes the mile posts on the road-side-- Of course! Why, what else could it be? To cross Australia on a bicycle, piercing the very heart of a continent, facing dangers, some known and more unknown--it was the very thing. Now, looking back upon the task accomplished, I confess, with becoming humility, that it was not from a splendid devotion to Science; it was neither to observe an eclipse of the sun or the moon nor to scour unknown country for the elusive diprotodon; not even in the interests of British Commerce (as represented by Jones's factory or Brown's warehouse), but simply to gratify this craving to do _something_ before considerate people dropped me out of sight and out of mind--it was simply for this that I resolved there and then to pedal from Ocean to Ocean on a bicycle. And when, a month after my task was completed, the Jubilee honors were announced I did not search the list in the expectation of finding myself down for even a peerage. * * * * The _something_ had at any rate taken shape at last; in the first blush of delight the accomplishment seemed a trifling matter of detail. To do, and to be the first to attempt the doing of it, was my object. If that object was to be attained easily, all well. If, on the other hand, there were many dangers and they were safely overcome, then better still. All I now lay claim to having done was the little all I had the desire to do: to travel a bicycle over every inch of the ground between Glenelg, on a gulf of the Southern Ocean, and Port Darwin, on the Arafura sea, a portion of the Indian Ocean--and to be the first to do it. In no sense of the word has my machine been conveyed for me; neither has any conveyance other than the bicycle with which I set out borne me at any time over any part of the journey. Nevertheless in the fulfilment of my purpose I availed myself of whatever other aids offered. Thus I took full advantage of the hotels _en route_; and when, later on, the region of hotels being passed--and these benevolent institutions are pitched marvellously far out--I did not ride off into the scrub whenever I suspected that people were ahead of me on the track. Not even the thought that those persons might invite me to a meal daunted me. The proffer of a blanket at night had no terrors for me. And if in the morning my new-made friends could give me some fresh directions, checking my own and serving as a safeguard, I thought none the worse of them. But we are not on the track yet. Not even in the dressing-room. * * * * As the first few to whom I in part confided my intention pooh-poohed the notion, I consulted further with no one; and as I was not in a position to pick up much information concerning the country to be traversed without disclosing plans which were never mentioned but to be laughed at or declared impracticable, I decided to go quietly at the first opportunity, and to be my own "guide, philosopher, and friend." Still, I was not angry with those who chided me. In common, I fancy, with the majority of Australians, I knew but little of the northern part of the continent; and I honestly believed that the journey was one which it would be difficult to complete. They said impossible, I said difficult--that was all the difference. Men who knew the country led me in fancy into the centre of the continent, broke my machine upon any one of the thousand unexpected dangers of the open, trackless desert--and asked me to consider my helplessness. Yes; the journey was formidable. It had no attractions for me if it was otherwise. I thanked my friends, began earnestly to regard the excursion in a serious light, and held my tongue. I smile benevolently now as I look back upon myself of those days. The thing is done, it then remained to be done. * * * * Before this time, I had thought of securing a companion to share the venture; and I wasted a good deal of time and money seeking such a one. The number of people who had the expedition in mind surprised me--I met them constantly. "Ah, yes, great idea! D'ye know I've been thinking about tackling it for some time?" "Well, co'on." Then there was an awkward pause. Generally I had to see them about it in the morning. In the morning--"Sorry, old fellow, awfully sorry, but can't manage to get away just now. Great idea, though, isn't it?" One whom I came to know intimately (we were, and continue, excellent friends) was at first all eagerness to join. But he too gradually cooled off and reluctantly and half abashed, but finally, backed out. And in his case, why? Not because of the expense, nor through reading or hearing of treacherous blacks, of venomous snakes, of alligators and other interesting things we had so eagerly looked forward to throwing stones at. Not because of the certain hardships and probable perils to be encountered; the likelihood of being stricken with fever; the danger of getting bushed, and experiencing the terrors of thirst as well as the horrors of hunger (for we knew we could carry precious little of either water or food). No; just this, half apologetically said, and then only with an effort that did him credit--"The general impression seems to be that the thing, you know, isn't to be done. When they hear of our starting out to try it, what will the fellows say?" And what talks we had had about our adventures in prospective! A rousing change, too, was admittedly just the very thing he stood in need of. He could well afford both the time and the money. An "adventure" he was the one to thoroughly enjoy. But--the smile of the fellows left behind, their laugh and jest in case of failure; it was more than a sensitive man could bear to think of. And so he stayed at home. Two could travel in safety where one might perish. If one machine broke down, the other at least might bear food and water to the derelict rider. But if the derelict rider were alone, stricken ill, fallen a victim to accident far from any settlement-- Not a pleasant track--let us seek another. There was the continent. No bicycle had crossed it. That was my _something_, resolved upon long ago. And if it had to be done alone--it might be misfortune. Who knows--it might also be the other thing! * * * * It was, then, to be a solitary ride. But that the _bona fides_ of it could not very well be disputed, I had printed a many-paged book, ruled vertically. The headings to the spaces were:--"Distance," "Date," "Time," "Presence vouched for at," "By," "Address," "Departure," with a blank page opposite for "Mems _re_ road." Being well aware that many people would certainly be averse to hurriedly entering their names in the book of an entire stranger--a stranger, too, who must resolutely decline to state his business, his object, or his destination--I determined to call on and make known my intention to two or three "leading men," foreseeing that, could I but obtain their signatures to begin with, others would be only too pleased, or at least would not refuse, to add theirs to the list. Luckily the first of the notabilities I waited on took kindly to the idea, and at once very courteously obliged me. To him my thanks are once more repeated; and neither of the other two gentlemen next seen demurred. Yet even this task was not accomplished without the customary kindly-intentioned warnings. Thus one of the three said:--"Do you know you face Death in seriously attempting to do this journey?" What answer could be more common-place than mine--"One has to die _some_ time, sir?" "Death"!--the word, spoken generally with much unction, and I were grown familiar. Had the gentleman said--"Pooh! It's easy. You ought to do it without hurting yourself, in so many weeks time,"--had he said that, I should have been sadly disheartened. * * * * When in Adelaide previously I had sounded a cycle-agent as to the reward he would be prepared to offer a man for undertaking the trip. Like the others he ridiculed the notion--termed it preposterous, spoke of crocodiles, and of the rider having to carry a spare set of tyres, bags of flour, tanks of water, perhaps an extra machine. Nevertheless he proposed that the hare-brained unknown one be got to purchase a bicycle (on the sale of which I, of course, would be allowed a small commission), "and should he get through," remarked the agent, with a wink, "I would not mind returning him the purchase money." "But, stay," he added, as an afterthought, climbing down yet lower, "it's bound to be a failure, and failure does nobody any good, you know; so I'd rather not have my name or one of my machines mixed up with the thing at all." As this might be the prevailing feeling among cycle-agents (and I have good reasons now for believing that it was) I determined on acting independently of them also. Than this resolution nothing in connection with the undertaking has since given me greater satisfaction; nor was anything more comforting during the ride than the feeling of complete independence which flowed from it. * * * * I knew a little about bicycles, and did not pick one at random in the first, second, or any other agency I entered. Besides being on the look-out for a good mount, I was also seeking a firm which I could, if occasion arose, recommend others to deal with. At last my choice was made. I paid the money, said nothing of my plans, and no embarrassing questions were asked. Being now resolved to take upon my own shoulders all the consequences of failure--if I should fail--I erased the maker's name and substituted my own favorite word "Diamond" in its place. If I broke down--well, a moral might be pointed on the evil results of riding an unknown make of bicycle. If there came success--well, again, I should have no objection to making my acknowledgment to civil people. * * * * The machine I chose and purchased came nearly up to my ideal for this present purpose. Let us look at it. A roadster; two 28 in. wheels; weight, 29lbs; gear, 62½; handy interlocking arrangement; dust-proof caps over pedal bearings; bearings not of complicated construction; tangent spokes; the sprocket and back gear-wheels well set on their shafts. I could not find fault with any part of the machine. Its general appearance pleased me. The new saddle came off, and an old and comfortable one, with an appropriate tool bag, took its place. This tool bag was circular, and my drinking vessel (a "pannikin," not to put too fine a point upon it) fitted closely over its end. An old, tried, and trusty inflator was added to this part of the equipment. Then I ordered a more than ordinarily thick tandem tyre to be fitted on the hind wheel in place of the one of the regular roadster pattern, and an endless rubber strip to be solutioned on over the tread of the front wheel. As for the rest I did not look for gear case or cyclometer. If the country to be traversed came up to expectations in point of roughness, the former would be torn away--an objection which applied also to the cyclometer, as the only reliable make I knew of when in use protruded from the outside of one of the front forks. Neither was missed; and I was glad I did not burden myself with them. The brake was allowed to remain, and a bell was added. Both of these I intended to throw away when the beaten roads were left behind. The equipment was completed with a spare air tube, chain-link and rivets, copper wire, file, spanners and plyers, solution and patching rubber, a long length of strong cord, tooth brush, compass, and small bottle of matches. A pair of luggage-carriers were fitted to the handle bars; on these was strapped a roll of light waterproof sheeting, 6½ feet by 4 feet, containing a change of linen, pair of socks, handkerchief, soap, towel, a small mirror--my extravagance!--a comb, and three small waterproof bags in which to stow papers, etc., in the event of heavy rain falling. A leather satchel slung over one shoulder, and so fastened that it could not slip down, proved a handy receptacle for odds and ends. A rug and other things of which I may have occasion to make mention later on were forwarded to Hergott. I had intended carrying front and back wheel duplicate shafts, but did not. A tin to hold one quart of water was strapped against the stays, between the top of the rear wheel and the saddle. A day was spent in riding through the hills near Adelaide with the object of testing the new machine, and that I might adjust its chain and bearings to my liking, learning the while what I could of its peculiarities, if it had any disagreeable ones--in fact, to break it in. * * * * On the evening of my fourth day in Adelaide, my very few arrangements being nearly complete, I rode down to Glenelg, obtained the local post-master's promise of a signature, and spent the night at the Pier Hotel. Next morning the P.M. walked down with me and stood on the pier--smiling, I observed--while I cycled down the firm sandy beach into the ocean; then, having turned about, found myself dramatically waving my hat to the water. That was the baptism of Diamond in the Southern Ocean. The obliging officer entered a short statement in my voucher book to the effect that he had been witness to the incomprehensible ceremony. (The statement served as a preface, and so was written on the first blank page inside the cover.) And now northwards through a continent. * * * * Still having a little private business to transact in Adelaide, I remained there for another night and well into the following forenoon. Then the bicycle, loaded now for the expedition, was lifted downstairs; I shook hands with the landlady (who "couldn't make me out nohow," I dare say, good soul), told her I might not be back for tea and not to keep it waiting, and quietly pedalled away on my glistening Diamond, without a single person being by to see me off or wish me luck. But there was the glorious sense of having resolutely acted an independent part. A glad feeling of being alive, untrammelled, free. And so we gaily sped along. It was a very dance on wheels. We are on the track at last! * * * * Kapunda, 50 miles from Adelaide, gives us shelter for the night. To Gawler is half the distance. The road is good only to four miles from Adelaide, thence bumpy macadam, with clay stretches, to within five miles of Gawler. To the right, the Flinders Ranges; flat country showing to the left. Agriculture everywhere. Beyond Gawler, I was advised to take the middle one of three roads, known as the Freeling; but after trying it, cut off to the right and got on to the Greenock road. Here was splendid running--down grades, too. Metalled with ironstone--some grand patches. So good that I passed the words "Post Office" at She-oak Log without dismounting to ask someone to sign for me. About and after She-oak Log was undulating country, with the ranges showing now and again to the right. At a little place named Daveyston, I halted to pick up a signature and a long drink. A resident put down the one, I the other. Arrived at Greenock. Visited madam the gracious post-mistress, and obtained her signature. Prized, because it is the first in a lady's hand in the book. Then on to Kapunda. Undulating country, with good riding all the way. Arrived about 6 o'clock--hungry. * * * * This afternoon I met a cyclist seated in a spring dray, steadying his machine with one hand and himself with the other. They were noisily approaching at a jig-jog. We stopped. "Good-day!" "Good-day!" "Accident?" I asked. "No--only this is less like graft. And where are you bound for?" "Head of the line if all goes well!" "Oodnadatta?" "Um." "Mean it--on business?" "Oh no, merely out for a ride." But my new mount had betrayed me to this wheeling Sherlock Holmes. "Ah, you'll get over that sort of thing by-an'-bye. Just after I'd learned to stick on, I was like you-- The stiffest breeze was never too stiff, Nor the highest hill too high. Ha, ha! Not bad, is it? But as I was saying, I got over it. The bloom is off the rye'-din. Ha, ha!" "Oh, come now," I expostulated meekly. "Never mind, no 'fence, you know. Bye-bye." Then to the driver--"S'pose we see if we can't knock a sprint out of the old quad., eh? Ha, ha!" And he laughed along the Greenock road. * * * * From Kapunda next morning. The road excellent, built up of ironstone, broken small. Gentle inclines, and longish down-grades. Undulating country, fertile and farmed. Before one quite reaches Waterloo, a cemetery is seen away to the left, remindful of a battle field. The track continues hilly and ironstony to Black Springs; soon after that, at Stony Hut, a rivulet of brackish water crosses the road. Then one gets amongst the highest rises yet encountered. Through these, known as the Black Hills, winds the road, keeping fairly level for eight or nine miles, and so into the Burra. Rather a pleasant ride those last few miles, gums and peppermint or box trees picturesquely dotting the landscape, until at the Burra the ruins of once famous copper-mining works displease the eye. From the Burra to Mount Bryan an excellent level metalled road keeps close beside the railway line; but a couple of miles beyond Hallett, the cyclist will come on unmade roads, so that he will have only fair riding to Yarcowie and Terowie. Tyre troubles cause a delay between Yarcowie and Terowie. Ahead are cross-roads innumerable, and it being already sundown I reluctantly decide to stay at Terowie the night. 145 miles from Adelaide. * * * * A drought lay heavily upon the land, giving the township in the eyes of the skurrying passer-by an atmosphere of even greater somnolence than usual. A church, a store (often also the post-office), a blacksmith's shop, a hotel, a school-house, with half-a-dozen suburban tenements, constitute a township. It is affirmed that there are inhabitants, that on Sundays they go to church punctiliously, and that on one other given day in the week the farmers come in from round about with their butter and their eggs to the store, and then the township is "busy." Of the other five days there is no record. * * * * An early start was made from Terowie on an absurdly round-about road to Petersburg--unmade, too, but level, yet only middling for travelling on Head winds, besides. Breakfasted, and steered for Orroroo; this township appearing to be right in the path of anyone making northwards. Much crossing and re-crossing of the railway. At half-way, Blackrock is passed. A hard, smooth road, running through the fertile Blackrock plains, now withered and parched; high ranges showing afar off on either hand--and so to Orroroo. Thence it is only a few miles to Walloway, where another rivulet is come upon. To Eurelia the road is not good, but it improves as one journeys towards Carrieton. * * * * In a blinding dust-storm blowing against us, a spring cart passed, whose driver invited Diamond and me on board. This was the first offer of the kind we had received, and it was thankfully declined. My voucher-book was being signed readily. Only twice so far had it been presented without result. One poor human agricultural implement looked cunningly at me. A book canvasser had "had" him once, he said, and added "I ain't a fool." Disaster is a merciless mocker; it deceives its victims into believing that it has sharpened their wits, whereas in general it has sadly dulled them. Here was a case in point. In the other case a pot boy, the only "inhabitant" on hand, was so impertinently inquisitive that I did without his help. Perhaps another case. * * * * The evening at Carrieton was more or less profitably occupied in listening to a tap-room discussion of social, political and domestic economy as represented by seed-wheat. No matter into what by-ways the debate drifted, it came back inevitably to seed-wheat. There was infinite pathos in the tales of helplessness of these drought-harried men. * * * * There are abundant proofs as we steer out of Carrieton towards Cradock that we are already on the outskirts of the kingdom of the bicycle. The horses--bony apparitions mostly--have for the machine none of that contempt which tells of its familiarity to the city horse. So the bell is handy. Not so much to warn the equestrian as to soothe the bicyclist's conscience. You ring your bell and by that simple act throw on to other shoulders the full responsibility for all the frightened horse may do. * * * * To Cradock from Carrieton next forenoon. Thirty miles. Strong head winds. Near Yangarrie, cross a gum-lined creek of shallow running water. Travelling stock and mail route all the way. * * * * And on this stage a slight mishap, and an incident. Before creeping into a dam for a drink, I hung my satchel upon the fence. Having drunk, a horse took my notice: it stood listlessly against the fence, on the outside, in a paddock entirely destitute of feed--a sun-baked waste. But for the support of the fence it must have fallen. I remembered having somewhere seen such another animal described as a barrel-hooped skeleton, held together by raw-hide. In vain I tried to shift it. It quite frivolously whisked its tail--its only token of animation. No persuasions, no beguilements could move it. I was interested--in the cause of science, and of sport. I had inflated my tyres a little, and now desired to ascertain whether a strong blast from the air-pump would throw it _hors de combat_. Visions rose before me. I should, if I could but succeed, tell a breathless people, ever intent upon the amiable pursuit of killing one another and other more harmless things, that when in the desert I had slaughtered every one of a mob of horses with the help of a new and deadly air-gun. To discover something so deadly--here was a Companionship of the Bath at the least! Thus murderously inclined, I approached with the weapon. The animal raised its head, cast upon me a look of mingled sorrow and reproach, lazily lifted its upper lip on seeing the threatening inflator, and--tried to eat it! Of such stuff are the dreams of the bush. Thus moralising I rode off without my satchel. Had to race back four miles. And there still leaning against the fence, apparently unmoved in so much as a limb, stood the animal, a pitiful monument to the appalling severity of the drought of '96-7. * * * * After you leave Cradock the ranges appear to be closing in in front. But they are escaped somehow; and Hawker, 17 miles from the last township, is reached. Of Hawker I have two memories: one of a barber; the other of a "specially prepared" (_i.e._ warmed-up) dinner. Neither, I suspect, of absorbing public interest. In the evening, a strong head-wind having calmed down, rode to Hookina (9 miles); thence, being disappointed there in the matter of "accommodation," to a place known as "The White Well," seven miles ahead. Was it to be the first camp out? Darkness had fallen, and lone travellers who can give no rational account of themselves must ever labor under dark suspicion also. But, at a roadside cottage, the rare bicycle served me as a talisman, and secured me a supper, bed, and breakfast. For the day, 64 miles. * * * * The road to Hookina goes through the ranges, and for four miles there are rough and very stony hills to traverse. I took to the railway-line and rode alongside the rails; but the "metal" was destructively sharp-cornered, and the riding unsafe, because of the steep embankments and the frequency of culverts. There was also a tyre-tearing levelling-peg protruding at every chain or so between the lines. From Hookina the track winds through soft but fair riding and level ground, with the high Arkaby ranges keeping well away to the east. Mount Alice shows up most prominently. * * * * On examining Diamond by lamp-light--I made a practice of looking it over every night--I was unpleasantly surprised to observe innumerable burrs sticking in both tyres. The back one, being of more than ordinary thickness, had successfully resisted their endeavors to get through into the air tube, and the strip on the front tyre, being new, had also dissuaded the attacking thorns from intruding too far. These burrs, common to many of the agricultural districts of South Australia, and especially prolific where the ground is sandy, are known as "three cornered jacks." No matter how they lie upon the ground, one hard and sharp spear points upwards. They are very plentiful in their season from Hookina up so far as Parachilna. * * * * The breeze next morning, though light, was favorable. But the day was Sunday. I debated with myself, in bed, which would be the greater sin--to not avail oneself of an inviting breeze, or to continue cycle-touring on the Sabbath. Being unable to answer the question quite satisfactorily, I compromised, and made a late start. To Parachilna (40 odd miles): Bad, bumpy road, stony and soft, or hard and guttery. Dined here. To Beltana (24 miles): Alongside the railway line--on which trains travel occasionally, and even then for the most part only to Hergott. Some stretches of good track, but most of it heavy travelling. Much walking. Some very stony miles traversed over; country broken into low hills. By way of change, there was fresh-looking high saltbush in the vicinity of Blackfellow's Creek--and also numbers of diamond sparrows. Blackfellow's Creek, a wider stream than had been expected. * * * * I met the first aborigines when close to Beltana. There were four of them, all females, fully dressed. They were walking towards me; and by way of entertaining them I rang my bell and cavalierly doffed my cap. For my entertainment doubtless they smiled, as only one of their kind can, and made grimaces. So we parted the best of friends. "It may not always be so," I thought; "the painful necessity may arise presently to shoot some of your male distant relations." Bush country is here fairly entered upon; the wheat-producing areas ending about Hawker. The rainfall is too certainly uncertain further north. To the south it certainly is uncertain also. The everlasting hills yet last, to east and west. The night at Beltana; 64 miles for the day; 354 miles from Adelaide. In good fettle and with a healthy appetite. The rough track had been very trying to my Diamond. But all was well. Sunday cycling, too; yet no accidents! Resolved to cycle on the Sabbath in future. * * * * From Beltana Monday morning. Hilly to Puttapa Pass. The latter the most picturesque spot yet passed. Through a jutting rocky point, a railway cutting runs at the base of a steep and rugged hill, and at the cutting's end a lofty iron bridge of many spans runs out across a wide and very stony creek, through whose bed for a mile or so the track winds sinuously; then climbs the northern bank, and so on to country far from good for cycling over. Saw the first mob of kangaroos--a small one. Much creek-crossing; also much walking--tiring and very slow. Still, I was in such good condition that I frequently caught myself going at a "Chinaman's trot" where I could not do any riding. In flat country now. The track (over marshy alkaline-strewn ground) faces towards several low flat-topped hillocks, and passes close to some remarkable metalliferous-seeming ironstone mounds. Then to Leigh's Creek, at about 25 miles. Here are a railway siding and a coal mine, Adelaide owned, but the prospects are not bright. * * * * In front of a cottage somewhere about here I caught sight of--my first snake. A small one, brown, about 3 feet long. A frocked child was standing in the doorway keeping tight hold of a cotton-reel. To the unrolled length of cotton was attached a crooked pin, baited with a piece of bread. This precocious infant was fishing--when I chanced to come along and frighten away his eel. On my thoughtlessly telling the mother (who, it transpired, had been having forty winks in a back room) she exclaimed, "Drat the boy!" Informed me that "the kid was always getting 'imself into some mischief--could never let things be," boxed the innocent little fisherman's ears, and took from him his tackle. "I wondered what he was awanting the bread for," she remarked by and bye; and when the child, who had gone to a corner to have his cry out, walked over to bury his face in her lap--"Lord bless his dirty little angel face," she said, as, spitting on one corner of her apron, she wiped the little angel face clean. * * * * From Leigh's Creek to Lyndhurst is very heavy road--now soft, now very stony, so travelling is hard work. Thus it was right through to Farina, 60 miles from Beltana, where Diamond and I pulled up about 4 o'clock in the afternoon. An enthusiastic and almost intemperately hospitable wheelman, the only one in the place, made me welcome; advised me of an excellent stretch of road up to Hergott, 30 miles on; closed and locked his store door to mark the occasion of a stranger-cyclist's arrival, and accompanied me for two or three miles along the track. Presently some railway-workmen's cottages are reached, and here kind people provided an evening meal. And as I started somebody remarked--"Look out for a bit of a rut when you get about 4 miles on." One rut in four miles! Yet, _mirabile dictu_, the road to Hergott came right up to expectations. * * * * Railway workmen up here console themselves for their miserable portion by giving their residences high-sounding titles. Somewhere up from Hawker, a row of tents occupy the site of an old camp. A square tent standing at the top corner of the row is dubbed "No. 1, Transcontinental Terrace." A round one further along, "Euchre-ville." Here as everywhere is also a "Belle Vue House;" and likewise "The Shamrock"--_in memoriam_ doubtless. One with the name large-written over the entrance in painfully sprawling capitals is "Marine View Cottage!" A strapping workman was at the door. "Which way lies the marine scenery, mister?" "Eh?" he questioned in return, not comprehending for a moment. I pointed to the sign and repeated the question. "Where's the marine scenery, is it!" "If you please." "Oh, everywhere within a rajus," sweeping his arm across the refuse-littered waste. "Marines for yez, but"--with infinite sadness--"all dead." * * * * At Hergott, 441 miles from Adelaide. Bleak and uninviting. Treeless, save for some Government date palms; healthy looking plants, fringing an artesian bore. The hotel people kindness personified. "Spelled" the greater part of next day and overhauled the machine; cleaned the chain, and located one or two puncturettes. Found awaiting me here some wearables, a rug and other likely-to-be-useful articles; but hearing of depots still ahead, I re-addressed the parcel, minus the wearables, back to whence it came. Although the nights were likely to be cold, the days are very warm; and the bulk of the rug made it "impossible" in bad country. At night time, for a while at any rate, when camping out I would try how sleeping between two or half-a-dozen fires suits me. * * * * Oil was to be had at the telegraph stations. (Neatsfoot--I fancy for this hot climate an oil of about the right consistency; sperm oil, such as is used for sewing-machines, being to my mind too thin altogether, while castor is, on the other hand, of course too thick.) As I had so far used hardly a single feeder-full, I merely replenished my oil-feeder and left the "reserve tin" behind. I had oiled each morning regularly, perhaps using another drop or two on the main bearings during the day, and had dropped a little on the chain after roughly cleaning it occasionally. Some machines call for frequent re-oiling; others do well with very little. Diamond luckily was among the latter. * * * * The consensus of opinion at Hergott was adverse to the success of my project--for my intentions could no longer be completely hidden. So, rather than endure possibly irritating remarks on the subject, I moved on in the afternoon. Several people southwards had told me of a cyclist who was coming presently with the object of attempting to ride right through. (It had got into the newspapers somehow--how I do not to this day know.) I was so lightly loaded that few, if any, of them suspected that I was the individual, "misguided," "rash" and many other things. Wherefore to me they laughed more derisively about the coming visitor than they might otherwise have done. At one place, after obliging with his signature, a postmaster opened his heart to me. (That "somewhere about the terminus of the railway" was my destination I had permitted him to infer.) I ought to wait, he said, till the expectantly-looked-for other fellow turned up. "He is bound to come along this way," remarked the P.M., "and--unless you'd rather not, of course--it would be company for both of you." This officer added, cheering me on my way, that he knew the country northwards well, and he ridiculed the idea of a bicycle being ridden through it. Ah! well, we shall see whether one cannot be pushed through in that case, I thought; and so moved on. * * * * The road from Hergott was far from pleasant and there raged that disheartening drawback to cycling, a head wind. All flat country; soft, sandy loam, covered with loose stones of varying sizes, known as "gibbers." We shall know them better presently. Travelled only 21 miles, and camped at Canterbury waterhole. Here was a Callanna sheep-station boundary rider's tent--a temporary shelter until the water evaporated; and I was made welcome to tea, salt mutton and--my first damper. Before arriving at this waterhole I had to walk through a very soft, marshy salt-lake; sometimes having to shoulder the bicycle, and frequently sinking almost knee-deep into the mire. The subsequent sleep beside that camp fire was a re-creation to remember. * * * * At a deserted hut a dozen or so miles from Hergott I met a "hard case" of the bush who had been camped there for three days, and intended remaining there for four or five more. He was "spelling," he told me. I suggested that it was a strange place to recuperate. "Well, 's this way," he said, in an access of confidence. "I heard ole so-an'-so had sold 'is mine to a swindicate and was goin' to stand a blow-out at the pub at Hergit. I might's well be in thet, I ses; but I found I was a week ahead of it, and now I'm just waitin' here for that----drunk. My oath, it _wus_ hard when I larnt I was to be a----week out en them drinks; my throat's peelin'. You don't happen to have----" I cut in that I didn't happen to have---- "Then d'ye happen to have a squib?"--(squib=revolver). I looked at my friend. He observed the glance. "Now, now, nuthin' like that about _me_," he said. "Fact is"--in another burst of confidence--"I'm perishin' fer a bit of meat. There ain't no harm in _thet_, I hope." We chatted (confidentially still) about this strange life of his. "And how do you get meat?" I asked in my simplicity. "Why, y' know," he answered with a wink, "if we see a sheep we can't stand quiet and let it bite us, now, can we? It wouldn't be human natur'." And he chuckled at his joke. * * * * A late start was made the following morning. An entry presently made in my note book has it thus: "Plugging away, barely moving, against a viciously strong wind, over bleak, soft, treeless, and nearly flat country, strewed with loose stones, and with a sand-hill now and again by way of change, or the marshy bed of a salt lagoon to wade through"--an experience to be forgotten as soon as possible. Again: "There is no avoiding the badnesses. The railway line is near at hand. Tried riding alongside the rails--useless, too soft. Between the rails--too rough." As the wind beat wildly into my face I heard it warningly cry "Go back! Go back!" and in the lulls it droned and muttered chidingly--I knew not why--"Obstinate, foolish fellow." Whereupon, as I wasn't taking any warnings, I stooped, and in a short-lived sprint exerted all the strength I had to bore a hole through the blast. This sort of thing lasted to Bopuchie, where are some workmen's huts. Here I was treated to bread and butter and tea by a couple of kindly-dispositioned expatriated women, whose husbands were working further up the line. I was also generously presented with a good clean handkerchief, as I had been heard to deeply mourn the recent loss of my own: the wind had whisked it out of my pocket. The same night Diamond and I reached Lake Eyre cottages, where were the husbands and others, a "flying-gang" of navvies on the (some-day-to-be) Transcontinental line. Only 54 miles from Hergott. Heartbreaking work. Yet fed ravenously. * * * * After leaving Bopuchie, caught myself doing a cautious "Look out for the Train," glancing warily up and down the line. Then I recollected that a train came along only once in three weeks, and was reassured. * * * * Did you ever, travelling alone, make unexpected acquaintance with a bush grave? The lonely land has been clothed as usual in "weird melancholy." You are weary, and, perhaps, a little dispirited. And then, just behind a mulga tree, you come upon a mound--and it is the length of a man. If you are very weary you will sit upon it, and take off your hat, and think; perhaps in a minute or two shudder a little. Whereupon you will rub your eyes to try and satisfy yourself that you have been foolishly dreaming. But you will not sit again; you will move on, faster than you have been doing. Between Hergott and Oodnadatta there are several rows of mounds. They are the vouchers for part of the cost of the at present useless railway line. For typhoid and dysentery played sad havoc in the navvies' camps. * * * * Leaving Lake Eyre cottages the track passes very close to the southernmost end of the lake itself: within, say, half a mile. The bed is 25 feet below sea level, and occupies an area of over 5000 square miles. I would certainly have ridden across and cycled on it had I not been told by the cottagers that the glaring, eye-paining, glistening sheet of salt, stretching away to the horizon north and east, was merely a frosted-over bog--all around near its barren, low, and stony banks, at any rate. But when the creeks have ceased to flow it soon becomes dry, firm under foot, and smooth--solid and ice-like in many respects. What a skating-rink 'twould make! * * * * Stony table lands, wide expanses of level country, support Lake Eyre on either side. Sand, stones, mirage, and sun--these are the "dominant notes" here. I had been told some stories of the cattle of the region: how, for instance, an odd one had been known to chase a railway tricyclist along the line for miles. Hunting after swagmen, so it was said, was a pastime in which at every opportunity they freely indulged. I was now to have personal experiences. When a traveller comes within near sight of a quietly grazing mob, the scattered units mass together; then nine times out of ten the amazed animals race towards him in order to get out of his way. About this proportion of times they decided to cross in front of my bicycle; and the more I endeavored to prevent them doing so, by quickening pace, the more wildly they rushed to succeed. The ringing of the bell had a more startling and discomfiting effect on them than the firing of a revolver shot. Not far from Stuart's Creek I came upon a bull lying dead, with his horns deeply imbedded in a mound which his shoulders also nearly touched, his head being underneath between his front legs. I had been on the look-out for this interesting spectacle, of which an explanation had already been tendered. A "sundowner" was tramping along one afternoon when the bull sighted him and gave chase. The country was level almost as a billiard table, with the single exception of this couple-of-feet-high mound. Towards this the pair hurried. The chase was exciting. The bull gained rapidly, and was within a few yards of the swagman by the time he reached the mound. Then were some moments of supreme anxiety, till with an extra effort the man stumbled over just as, head down, the bull came charging along, on elevating thoughts intent. But not being in the habit of calculating upon the occurrence of hills, the bull collided with the mound, and broke his neck! Each district has its own pet class of perjury. In the richer of agricultural districts they lie about the size of pumpkins; in the poorer ditto, about snakes; in the sheep country, about rabbits; here the best liars devote themselves to wild cattle. They all do pretty well. * * * * Occupied an hour as I rode along working out the (? musical) note educed by a tyre flicking aside loose stones. Found it to be high D. ("Pung" in cycling notation.) When the stone is not flicked aside, but the machine passes over it, a low D is emitted--by the rider. * * * * Road middling to the Blanche Cup and cluster of mound springs. These remarkable features lie about two miles off the main track, to the left. I cycled over--not cutting across at right angles, but gradually edging away from the track on sighting them. There are eight or ten of the cone-shaped, flat-topped rises, all within a radius of half a mile. Roughly, I should say their average vertical height is twenty feet. The summits of most of them are merely small swamps decorated with rushes and bogged cattle in various stages of decomposition. Little driblets of water trickle down the sides. Two of them are well worth journeying far to see. The Blanche itself is an elevated circular pond of good drinkable water. On one side a lip has been worn through the impounding rock, and by this passage the cup gently overflows. The water so escaping streams down the sloping side, and forms into a shallow swampy creek. The other is locally known as the Boiling Spring. Flowing much stronger than the Blanche, it boils or bubbles at the centre, not from heat, but because of the force with which the water is driven to the surface. The temperature of the water is about 100° Fahrenheit. A circle of sedimentary sand, three feet in diameter, is kept in constant motion around the bubbling centre, and around this again spreads a wide circle of perfectly clear water. Rushes fringe the water's edge, and the whole is surrounded by a rim of whitish rock three feet wide. About once in every half-hour the quickly settling sand so accumulates at the centre as to choke back the ascending stream. Then to the observer a big thing in bubbles heaves in sight; a low rumble is heard; a periodical clearance has been effected, and the boiling spring boils bubblingly as before. The surrounding country is bleak and desolate--dreary in the extreme. The average annual rainfall is about 7in. per annum. * * * * If one is not on the look-out, these mounds, in general appearance so much alike, are apt to tantalise one. For my own part, moralising upon nature's marvellous scheme of compensation, I found myself adrift. Yet, pshaw! Bushed so soon--and a rail-track within three miles at most? It was monstrous. Refused to consult my compass; and paid for my folly by some few hours of hard labor. A boggy little lake of salt water, its supply kept constant by one of the mound springs, first intruded itself; and on rounding its northern end I was amongst sandy undulations past which I could not see. Then a wide but not gum-lined creek, the nearer bank low, and one point occupied by half-a-dozen blacks' wurlies, like so many boats on end. The further bank was high and steep; and climbing over this I marked a course, which I judged would be due east, towards some bush-like objects in the distance. But these objects proved to be a small mob of wild-mannered cattle, which soon, racing towards me, pranced gaily around with uplifted tails. It is not fair to ask a man to persist in a due east course in such circumstances. I grew fretful; looked at the time, the sun, and the shadows, but could only make a guess at the east. The guess, however, happened to be correct, and by evening I was in Coward, a township which consists chiefly of a public-house and--an anomaly indeed!--an interesting bore. The bore at the Coward is situated in the heart of the little township, between the railway fences. The water wells up to the height of a dozen or more feet above the surface, and, wide-spreading over the end of a six-inch conducting pipe, feeds a tiny sparkling rivulet. This stream runs for several chains, and finally gives back the water to the desert ground. * * * * All these artesian waters are drinkable, but more or less brackish. There, as at most of the other bores, blind fish come up out of the artesian reservoirs--fish beyond a doubt, two or three inches long, but exhibiting not even rudimentary eyes. This total absence of eyes is a curious fact in natural history; in the great dark caves of America the crayfish have eyes, though they are sightless. So also elsewhere. But "eyes would be no use to them in the blackness down under," the local cicerone says. Yet wherefore? Should they not rather be provided with unusually good eyes? (Happy thought: when all else fails I will come hither and inaugurate the great Centralian Sardine industry.) To the Blanche Springs and the Coward (a trifle over 500 miles) should be an interesting holiday cycle-journey for Adelaideans. They could time themselves to rail it back. * * * * Procured a fly-veil here. Should have had one before this; my eyes are already sore from the persistent attentions of swarming, irritating flies. Dinner; and then still northwards. The Coward track, speaking generally, proved bad. Sand, loose stones; very rough, and ill defined. Terribly trying on the bicycle; but Diamond is staunch. We are fast friends already; and in the oppressive silence I find myself familiarly addressing the steel-ribbed skeleton with words of comfort and encouragement. By the time I arrived at some cottages (The Beresford or Strangways Springs) it wanted only a couple of hours or so to sundown. Beyond loomed up sandhills, continuing, according to local accounts, in "an unbroken chain for fully five miles." As William Creek was my proposed destination for the day--or, rather, night--I went on, after having enjoyed the proverbial hospitality of another "travelling gang" of navvies. When the railway cuttings were being put through these rolling hills, it was prophesied that in a very short time the loose sand would blow in again, and that its removal would be a constant source of expense. But by fencing off three chains or so on either side, cattle and horses were prevented from cutting up the surface; herbage grew, and the sand now shifts but little. * * * * Here snakes breed unmolested. I saw several as I dragged myself and Diamond along. On coming to a particularly steep hill, I resolved to keep on the railway metal, rather than go up. To my pleased surprise the ballast was of the gravelly sort for a few hundred yards, and I was able to mount and ride through the cutting between the rails. Outside the cutting began a steep embankment, with a culvert so close to me that I was just about to dismount and lead the machine across, when a dark streak, stretching at right angles to the front wheel, filled my eye. It seemed to me in the shadow (the sun was low down in the horizon, and out of sight behind the sandhills) that a rabbit had from the centre kicked the loose pebbly material over the rails on either side; and not till I was within a foot of the thing did I make it out to be what it really was--a long snake. I was too close to sprint. Of course I dared not stop. I had time only to mechanically lift on high both feet before I was on and over it. The next moment Diamond's front wheel struck one of the rails, and I was toppling down the embankment. I was scratched and bruised, my clothes were torn, and I felt (as no doubt I was) pale. But on raising myself my first thought was for the bicycle. It had remained behind. There it was, lying contentedly on the side, with only the saddle and handle-bars showing over the embankment. Another yard further, and we should both have been precipitated over the culvert. With what anxiety, with what eagerness, did I examine my companion! And what blessings were poured upon it when it proved staunch still--save that the handle-bars had turned a little in the socket. Not until I had taken all this in did it occur to me that I could only limp myself. Pitch dark now, and no hope of moving on. A little faint, too; yet with no drop to drink. The need to camp; yet no shelter. But I was callously weary, and without difficulty persuaded myself that I really didn't much care: the morrow would see me somewhere else. At present I judged we were somewhere about Irrappatana. * * * * We moved on at daybreak and reached William Creek before that depot was astir. Depot! Alas, there was no bread here and no flour, and no corn in William Creek! But at the "accommodation house" some dough was standing to rise; it would not be baked, though, till mid-day. My supplications prevailed, however; some of the dough was mixed up into an inedible batter, and cooked with some chops. Without delay we detoured to Anna Creek, a sheep station, which was reached before noon. The proprietor's invitation to dinner was accepted; for wherefore had I come to Anna Creek? I was ravenous. And the tea! Strong, rich, milk-toned tea! A feast, a feast for the gods! Such cups I had never seen. Cups which, once having been drunk from by a famishing cyclist, would ever after figure in his happiest dreams. "Not so very large," protested my liberal host, deprecatingly; "they each hold only a quart." Yet I remember being asked "Try a little more tea?" as the meal progressed, and--fancy having answered "Ah, thanks!" * * * * At the Anna Creek homestead interesting experiments in irrigation are being carried out. Water is pumped by a windmill into tanks fixed on an elevated platform over a well, and thence circulated through convenient iron piping all round the dwelling house, and into the garden. Fruit trees, grapes, melons, &c., are grown luxuriantly. An oasis in the desert. A fore-runner, it may be, of great things. The track was fairly good for a few miles, as it had also been on the other side of Warrina; but soon it became bad again, and so continued all the way to Mount Dutton. The wind, as usual, was also unfavorable. * * * * Towards Warrina (615 miles from Adelaide) there are some picturesque spots along the creek, going northwards. Then the track again becomes terribly stony--so demoniacally vile that, although I riskingly "cantered" over much of it, saying fervently in my bitterness "Get thee behind me," I nevertheless failed to reach Warrina that night. Diamond was now little less than animate, and there really seemed need of excuses to it for my rough manner of proceeding. It might be best for both of us, in the long run, if it was severely tested before we left the vicinity of our cheery friends, the iron rails, I remarked propitiatingly; then fondly fed its bearings (of me and my fortunes also, I reflected) with an extra drop of soothing neatsfoot oil. We camped at some deserted huts, foodless, yet contented--thanks to Anna Creek. And at 9.30 next morning the voucher book was signed at Warrina. After leaving Warrina the track keeps close by the railway line; and a ganger, who was starting out on his tricycle, obligingly offered to give the bicycle and me a lift for a mile or two. This was my second and last chance to avail myself of such a suggestion. Of course, in view of my fixed determination, I again gratefully declined to act upon it. At Algebuckina I said good-bye to the last of the "travelling gangs"; and a quarter of a mile on led Diamond over the high and otherwise remarkable bridge which spans Neale's River--a bridge said to be the longest in South Australia. Built of iron, 1900 ft. from end to end, in nineteen spans of one hundred feet each. Please don't write to say that the Murray Bridge is longer: it may be. At Mount Dutton railway siding is a most excellently-finished ground tank of fresh water. The road also from here to Wondellina is excellent. (To this latter homestead I had been advised to now shape a course.) Here at Wondellina are several natural springs of water, fresh as the memory of the station manager's welcome; bountiful as his splendid hospitality. My intentions were well known now; and in view of that, and because of the handsome treatment which I had latterly received on the strength of the enterprise in which I was engaged, I felt that, no matter what happened, I could not turn back now. So reflecting I rode to Oodnadatta, tormented by the flies that by this time had almost blinded me. So it was "Spell-oh!" for four or five days to court recovery. * * * * Oodnadatta, the (some-day-to-be) Transcontinental Railway Terminus, is distant 688 miles from Adelaide. The township becomes visible, as a speck on a vast plain, long before the traveller arrives at it. It contains, besides a few dwelling houses, a fairly commodious hotel, two general stores, a smithy, and a butcher's shop. The water from the artesian bore, about half a mile out, is quite drinkable, and is said to possess curative properties. A small creek is formed by the overflow, wherein, as the water reaches the surface at a very high temperature, a resident or visitor may indulge in a hot, tepid or cold bath at his pleasure. Some people have termed Oodnadatta "a howling wilderness." But to-day the wilderness is hidden beneath a carpet of upspringing green. Camels and Afghans are amongst its distinguishing features. Most of the whites are horsey or camely men. I heard some swearing. Blackfellows are numerous; some of them are employed to perform menial duties at the houses in the township. Lubras make at the most two garments (one covering the upper, the other the lower parts of the body) suffice for a complete costume. There are always several wurlies and camps of blacks in the vicinity. The employed blacks share their wages, tobacco, old clothes, and tucker with the unemployed; the latter also providing further for themselves as best they can. * * * * Caterpillars were plentiful. The blacks gather up tins full, and, roasting them, evolve a very succulent dish. A small nut-like root, found wherever grass was growing, was also greatly sought after. As they walk along the lubras are continually stooping, or darting ahead or aside to pick up something--lizards, caterpillars, seeds, roots, eatables of various kinds, which they secrete or stow away in pouches, pockets, or tin cans. The male nigger prefers to stay at home and keep the fire alight. From Oodnadatta northwards niggers are to be seen wherever white men are, as well as at intermediate places. The clothes worn by them become fewer by degrees if not beautifully less the farther inland one proceeds. I am told that the subject of their conversation, and that which causes most of the laughter so common among them, is generally of a filthy character and with an immoral tendency. One would fancy the poor animals could find but little to laugh about in their miserable nomadic lives; but they are so easily made to giggle that one is driven to the conclusion that their natural humour is of the most elementary type. * * * * A council of the dusky ones called here to adjudicate upon my chances of getting through to Darwin arrived at the following decision:--"Wild blackfellow big one frightened. Him think it debble-debble an' run away all right. One time 'nother one think it (the bicycle) debble-debble, and throw it spear." I had a look at some spears later on, and perceived how easily one of them might be so driven in as to puncture a fellow's tyre. * * * * Most of the inhabitants seemed to rather pity my case. They were of opinion I might, if determined succeed in reaching Alice Springs, in the MacDonnell ranges--and there find myself cornered. The district doctor (a gentleman well spoken of and respected by all) rather seriously advised me: "Be careful. Think well before you venture beyond 'The Alice.'" But the time for thinking had passed; and I left Oodnadatta, though not in the best of spirits, with my eyes still weak, and with very hazy notions indeed of what there might be awaiting me in the country beyond. * * * * To Macumba the track, with the exception of a few miles of sand to finish up with, is fair for cycling on--low stony tablelands and a few small hills. The channel of the Alberga River is wide, sandy, and lined with healthy-looking gum trees. Water is generally to be found in the Stevenson River--another large gum-lined creek, on the northernmost bank of which Macumba store is situated. This place is only 38 miles from Oodnadatta, but I remained here an afternoon and night, as there was prospect of gathering information as to the route. An obliging teamster who knew the country well worked out and presented me with a very useful map. From here up everyone knows everybody else for hundreds of miles around; and no one has a large circle of acquaintance, even then. * * * * In the neighbourhood of Macumba snakes and snake-tracks are much in evidence. Between the Strangways sandhills and Alice Springs I rode over at the very least half a dozen reptiles. Each one acted in a way peculiar to its species or its mood, so that the traveller, not knowing in any case what may happen next, has the spice of excitement added to his journeyings. Yet no doubt one might pass through, and see no snakes at all. For many months of the year they are in hiding. The weather and the season must be propitious else they do not appear. On leaving Macumba, continuing along by the Stevenson, sandy flats and low sandhills were encountered as far as the Government well (The Willow), 14 miles on. So also to the next well, Oolaballana (16 miles). Then very rough stony tablelands again. * * * * After getting out of the sand at a point where a branch track turns off to Dalhousie, I came upon one of that station's horse-teams. A midday meal was being prepared. There were two strapping blackfellows and a white boy whom I took to be 13 or 14 years of age. A wheat sack had been laid upon the ground, and on it had been placed a damper, corned beef, jam, knife and fork, and a pannikin. Saying "good-day" to the juvenile, I sat myself beside him. The niggers, gaping open-mouthed at the machine, were squatting in the shade of an adjacent tree. Three quart pots were standing pressed in against the burning wood of a newly lighted fire. "Where's the boss?" I inquired after a few words. The youth smiled. "I am the boss," he said, reaching an arm out towards a small linen tea bag, then standing up to throw half a handful into each quart pot. Cutting off a few slices from the damper, and sorting out "black's favorite" pieces of meat, he gave a low short whistle--and up marched the two sable attendants. To these he handed each his dole of "tucker"; they received it in sober silence. "You wantem more, you sing out," he added as, taking with them two of the quart pots, they returned to their proper distance. This custom of handing the blacks their allowance of food, or laying it on the ground and whistling for them to come and take it, prevails all through the country. I admired this manly child's way exceedingly. In "bossing" them he spoke very civilly to the niggers, in a quiet, cool, masterful manner. He offered to load me up with bread and meat, but as I had resolved to break myself in to going on short commons I would accept nothing more than a couple of apples. The dray, I believe, had been down to Oodnadatta. * * * * "It's rough to Blood's Creek. I don't think you'll get there to-night," were the youth's parting words. And he was right. It was a sweltering hot afternoon. Progress was slow; and at about 20 miles having to hurriedly dismount (for the hundredth time), my left foot came on one of the large loose stones, and turned under me. The jar so nearly put out the ankle joint that I was compelled to camp right where the mishap occurred. Stretching out my sheet of waterproofing I made myself as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. Millions of flies; myriads of venomous mosquitoes. Hungry as usual, and feeling that if I had only one good long drink of water, hot, cold or lukewarm, I could die joyfully. Waterproof sheeting is not conducive to good health especially if the night be cold. Because of the heat from one's body condensation sets in, with the result that the under side of the sheeting becomes a sheet of water. This discovery I made for myself on arising next morning; turning the waterproof over quickly, I greedily licked up, cat-like, all I could of the precious dew. * * * * To Blood's Creek Government Bore (38 miles from last camping place), sand ridges and very rough "gibber" country has to be cycled or walked over; but on nearing the creek the track greatly improves. Thus far, gidea and mulga have been the trees most often met with, though the creeks have almost invariably been thickly lined with box and gum. * * * * Camped with the contractors for the bore, and overhauled the bicycle, though all the overhauling called for was the cleaning of the bearings. This I did by squirting kerosene through the lubricating holes, tilting the machine at a sharp angle, and revolving the wheels until the searching fluid had completed its cleansing work. When the wheels are nicely adjusted, and the chain is at just the proper tension, and everything is running smoothly, it is a mistake to undo the parts. A good chain properly adjusted should ask for but very few attentions. I used to not take mine off, and only washed it occasionally with soap and warm water--leaning the bicycle well over so that the grease should not fall on the tyres. It worked best after a little greasy residue had collected around the sprocket. I tore apart and re-made the joint in the air tube of the tyre, as it had started to leak slightly. Because of the hot sand and the heat generally, the solution in the tube joints rots away, providing a source of much annoyance, as such a leak is difficult to stop. * * * * It is 60 miles from Blood's Creek to Goyder's Well. The "going" is good to Charlotte Waters; thence along the telegraph line for 14 miles through heavy sand, next 6 miles of stony hills, followed by 6 miles of good track over Boggy Flat, and, lastly, 4 miles of small sand-hills. There is a better road to the west from the Charlotte, they say. The Adminga is reached half-way between Blood's Creek and Charlotte Waters. Hard by the crossing there is a beautiful little pond of clear, cool rain-water--a deep, round hole sunk in the solid rock, with one large leafy tree leaning out over it, and sheltering it from lapping winds and sun alike. * * * * We are into the Northern Territory at last. The Charlotte Waters telegraph station on the Transcontinental line (a large galvanized iron structure, close by which stand many small sheds and outhouses) is situated six miles across the border, on a slight elevation on the north boundary of the stony tablelands. From there horsemen coming from the south can be seen, with the aid of a telescope, while yet they are at a distance of seven miles. It is no uncommon thing here for the thermometer to register as high as 124deg. in the shade for several days together. The annual rainfall averages about five inches. Many iron tanks, connected and standing at one end of the building, are filled from the waterholes of an adjacent creek in the rare times of plenty. The voucher book was signed, and at once a start was made. And then a rather unpleasant experience befel. I intended making for Goyder Waters; a track, it had been said, could be easily followed, and so I made but few inquiries. There was a cattle station 20 miles beyond the Goyder--perhaps I could reach even that. It was a mistake, though, to keep alongside the telegraph line--a sad mistake. For five or six miles I struggled with my burden over loose sand-hills. Surely this was not the passable track travellers had spoken of! The Macumba teamster's sketch was consulted--why, I had not been on the track at any time since leaving Charlotte Waters! How far the sand stretched I did not know--as far as could be seen, at any rate. A fierce sun tormented me from above and blistering sand from beneath. The track must be found. I fought through the yielding sand, now pushing and again shouldering and here and there riding my bicycle, in a grim earnestness rarely experienced before. In those first half-dozen miles I had been prodigal of a precious quart of water. Now I was becoming parched beyond endurance. Fourteen miles had been struggled over. The telegraph line had been long since lost. Was even this the track? And Goyder Waters! What did I know of Goyder Waters? It dawned upon me now that I did not know whether to look for a rock-hole, a soakage, or a creek. Now rough, hilly country interposes. It is still hard work, and the night is nearing. My thighs ache, and my tongue cleaves to my mouth. Yet on, doggedly on--it is the only hope. A well! How we race towards it. No--a maddening mockery; it is a fenced-in grave! Did he die?-- But it is dangerous to think. On, on! At length, in the deepening haze of the twilight, the real well is seen. At such a moment one forgets the teachings of experience. I threw myself down, and drank, and drank. * * * * And so, though saved, made another stinging lash for my aching back. For I drank and drank until I found myself seized with the most dreadful cramps I have ever had the satisfaction of getting the better of. On trying to rise I was, somewhat to my amusement, unable to do so, as during the tussle one of my bootlaces had become entangled with the hooks of the other, and the recurring cramps would not allow me to reach down to undo it. So I had willy-nilly to lay quiet where I had fallen, ignominiously hobbled and _hors de combat_. It would not be particularly difficult for one who does not know the country to perish hereabouts. Just take the wrong turning, or meet with a disabling accident, or lose the indistinct track, and in one single hot day the business may be done. Solitary graves are plentiful. When a man gets the bad taste in his mouth, and fancies he hears water flowing ripplingly over gravelly beds, he realizes how very simple a matter the perishing may be. Towards the end a cyclist would leave his bicycle (now become a burden to him) while he staggered over to search what, from the distance, seemed a likely-looking place for water; and on coming back he would be lucky indeed if he could find again his silent steed. This second search would not be prosecuted coolly: madness would then quickly overtake the distracted seeker; he might drink from and bathe in imaginary streams, throw off his clothes to let the surging waters touch and cool his parched skin, but ever uppermost in his distorted fancies would be some form of his elusive bicycle. * * * * Crown Point, 20 miles from The Goyder; much sand, but a well-defined track. The last five miles fair for cycling on; but for nearly a mile along the bed of the Finke River (approaching Crown Point cattle station) is a terribly heavy white sand bed. After my previous day's experiences in the sand I succeeded in crawling thus far before the next sundown, and remained for the whole of another day before proceeding onwards. At the Crown Point station I fed, I fear, like a wolf. How soon the drooping spirits revive! I set out for Horseshoe Bend hopefully, even gaily. Crown Point station is so named because of its propinquity to a hill about 350 feet high, of sugar-loaf shape, surmounted by something not unlike a crown. West of this crowned point is a long, low, stony and unused saddle; then again a hill of about the same height as the Crown and of similar strata--white and brown desert sandstone. Apparently the formations were one in times long past. The Finke channel passes to the east of both Crown Hill and station. The river here is thickly fringed with giant gums, which grow for some hundreds of feet in from the bank proper. Swamp gums, box trees, and acacias are plentiful also further out. In width it varies from a quarter to three-quarters of a mile. In times of drought famished horses have been known to paw down and down into the loose sand in the bed, searching for soakage water, until they have made graves for themselves. Around Crown Point the cyclist need not look for thorns. He will find them without a search. A marsupial mole (which some of the blacks named for me "el-comita," others "qu-monpita") may also be found here. The species is unique. It puts in an appearance after rain; at other times it burrows in the sand, and vanishes. * * * * Down from the cattle ranche by the river's bed, there are generally gathered a large number of natives, of the Larapinta or Arunto tribe. In the main camp many small tires burn, around which humble hearths the various families find already fashioned their unostentatious and separate homes. They sleep huddled up with the family dogs, close by the fires, but without a vestige of covering or shelter except their scanty every-day attire. They appear to be quite happy, and are presented with cancerous bullocks now and then from travelling mobs, and others. Nightly one hears the sound of their laughter, mingled with weird cries, monotonous chantings, and beating of tom-toms, or sticks upon the ground. They think themselves very clever if they succeed in working up an echo. When ferreted out, the discoverer claims it as his very own, and the others listen in admiring silence whilst he works the "wondrous vocal gift" for much more than 'tis worth. I was surprised to notice that the niggers' hands and feet were not particularly large. The heels, though, are roughened, hardened, and split like battered and blackened pieces of corrugated iron. The soles are apparently made out of rhinoceros hide. "Three cornered jacks" only tickle them--even when they happen to sit down on the spiky abominations. * * * * One black, an "old hand" at the station, but transported from somewhere afar off, inveighed in good, angular Whitechapel English, pidgin-ised, against the fool blackfeller who sit down alonga here! Wherefore was it, if he had such a very poor opinion of them, that he remained among them? He withered me with the contempt that was in his answer. "No can make it rain!" In his country--a majestic wave of the hand indicated where that was--if the porter at Heaven's flood-gates went to sleep or forgot to open them within a reasonable time, certain old men jumped up and walked alonga blackfellows' camp, where they called in the aid of eagle-hawk's feathers, paint stripes, many fires and a good deal of fuss. And then--a big thing in corroborees: big one, plenty shout out. After the corroboree the "old men" and the other participators in it shifted their spears and boomerangs to high ground, built mia-mias, and waited. And when they had waited long enough the rain fell. "Sometimes piccaninny rain--one night corroboree. Big fellow corroboree? My word! B-i-g pfeller rain." Should no rain fall the explanation was not far to seek. "Nudder" (opposition shop) "blackfeller hold it corroboree. Too much big pfeller noise make it, and frighten _him_ away." What wouldn't some perturbed whitefellers give for so simple a philosophy! * * * * Horseshoe Bend, 28 miles from Crown Point. Mostly sand; very little riding. Here is a depôt and accommodation (meal-providing) house. The depôt is picturesquely situated in a sharp bend of the Finke River. Rugged hills show up on all sides. In front, by the river's side, a well; and in the sandy bed itself, many nearly permanent soakages delight the casual traveller. * * * * Here it was that one of the encamped blacks on spying me rushed helter-skelter to the storekeeper to breathlessly inform him that whitefellow come along ridin' big one mosquito. Previously blackfellows had described the bicycle as a "piccaninny engine." "Big pfeller engine come alonga bime-bye, I suppose?" questioned the blackfellow, having in mind a Transcontinental railway doubtless. "One-side buggy" had also been a native's not inapt description of the novel vehicle. * * * * The blacks (always camped near-by wherever white men linger) are of great help to the whites in dealing with horses and cattle. Their cleverness at tracking is well known. An illustration, out of the way. At one of the very few houses between Oodnadatta and Alice Springs the proprietor brought three cats--three of about a like size--into the back room; told me the various names by which they were called to breakfast, and then requested me to drop one of them--any one of them I chose--through the window. I did so to humour him, and off scampered pussy to a brush-shed over the way. Going outside, after shutting the window and locking the room door, the "boss" called loudly for "Billy." From the further side of the stock-yard's fence came a blackfellow. "What name that fellow cat make it tracks?" the "boss" said, pointing to the very faintest marks. A moment's scrutiny, and the blackfellow replied "That one Nelly me think it." And he was right. * * * * At the Horseshoe Bend depôt I purchased a water-bag (and a good one it was--lasted me all the way through) and a small billy-can, which served my purposes until I reached Alice Springs. So far the sparse, low scrub on the sand flats and rises was chiefly acacia, of many varieties, while clumps of mulga marked the firmer soil. Spinifex (not of such coarse growth. I fancy, as what in other places is known as "porcupine") was everywhere. The track through the sand gets so badly cut up that when walking one keeps well in to where a thin crust may be left, and finds oneself steering a very erratic course. Beyond the Bend we reach the first desert oak--a very good shade tree, with from 10 to 15 feet of straight stem. The wood is very hard and heavy; one can hardly drive a nail into it. At Oodnadatta we left the regularly fenced country. Apparently one may here take up for grazing purposes a hundred acres, and use a hundred thousand. No sheep beyond Oodnadatta either. Beef and goat's flesh is the vogue. The goat's flesh is called "mutton." * * * * To Depot Well, 15 miles from Horseshoe Bend; no riding--heavy sandhills. Stopped at a camel camp. Fifteen miles is not much of a distance certainly; but on a hot day (as all days up in this part appear to be) to not lead, but get behind and push, the bicycle through, with the surety of more to-morrow, and for days to come--Diamond and I agreed that it was a "fair thing." These drift sand-hills--red, loose, and sometimes very steep indeed--make travelling, no matter how one may creep, very wearisome and laborious. When you have struggled to the summit of one of them you take a view of the surroundings. As far as the eye can see (and, alas! very much further) an unbroken stretch of the same formation. You wade ankle deep on descending; and when pushing a bicycle up you have to "tack," planting each foot sideways in the sand to get the necessary grip. I was glad I had provided myself with boots instead of shoes. Broom-brush, spinifex, and desert oaks (these at long intervals) alone break the burdensome monotony. * * * * Only soon after a heavy rainfall could much riding be done in those sandy districts. Two-inch tyres should be used; inch and three-quarters are too narrow. Mine, as well as being one and three-quarter inches only, were "tandem"--altogether too heavy (or "dead") for cycling over sand. I deflated them slightly, so that a wider surface might be availed of. * * * * Picked up a bush culinary wrinkle here. An Afghan, whom I watched kneading up flour preparatory to shaping out a camp-oven damper, made a sodden centre, the curse of many a "bush cake," impossible by the simple expedient of pressing the middle part down until scarcely any centre remained--nothing more than a thin layer, which must necessarily result in a central crust. * * * * It is a twenty mile stage from the Depot Well to Alice Well, through much sand. The Hugh River crosses the track in half-a-dozen places. In the afternoon, when within a few miles of this Well, I came unexpectedly upon a loaded waggon stuck in one of the last crossings of the Hugh. A very steep bank rose at the farther side, up which the horses had been unable to pull their load. The harness was lying on the ground, piled up; but there was no sign, except tracks, of the horses or their drivers. I coo-eed and mounted on top of the load to look around--and then, in the midst of this desert, from the interior of a coverless box, embedded between two flour bags, smiled up at me seductively a dozen or more beautiful, although quite rotten and shrivelled, apples! I lifted one out, and to ease my conscience, remembering having heard that there was a blacks' mission station to the east, stood, and, naturally assuming that the loading was missionaries' property, put down a shilling in the apple's place. But tasting one only was worse than not having any at all; so, coward-like, I sprang from the waggon, mounted Diamond, and hurried away before the temptation to appropriate a down-south shilling's-worth of the luscious (because so rotten) fruit became irresistible. At the Alice is another "accommodation house," which, however, I did not need to visit; for the horse drivers, from whose waggon I had been tempted to take the shilling's-worth of apples, were here giving the horses a "spell." They fed me liberally; but I said nothing to them about the apple. The Hugh is a very large, sandy-bedded creek. The banks are heavily timbered with massive gum trees. Good camel and horse feed grows in this part of the country--a species of acacia, and a succulent sage-bush-like herb. * * * * To Francis Well, the next 20 miles, is mostly through sand. Here are some niggers who keep the troughs full of water on the chance of passing teamsters supplying them with tobacco or small lots of flour. The mail passes every three weeks, once going down to Oodnadatta, the next time returning to Alice Springs; and the mail horses for the change are running here. The well, sunk at the junction of the Francis Creek and the Hugh, contains beautiful fresh water. Black cockatoos flutter among the branches of giant gums which mark the meeting of the waters--flutter and squawk incessantly. And now and again, too, one catches sight of the gaudier galah or the gay ring-necked parrot. At one of these wells the bucket was too heavy for me to land unaided from the deep bottom. Here was another annoyance, if nothing worse. I was desperately thirsty. The water glittered tantalizingly in sight. Ha! An empty bucket at the surface. I half-filled it with stones, and it obligingly went down and gave me all the assistance I wanted in weighing its companion up. Afterwards, at shallower wells, I tied the cord I carried to my billy-can, and so supplied my modest wants. * * * * By climbing the higher of the hills which are to be seen after you pass Francis Well, the remarkable column known as Chambers' Pillar rises afar off in the midst of sandhills to the west. It looks like a mighty furnace-stack built upon a hill top: the hill about 100 feet high, the Pillar another hundred. But the soft desert sandstone of which it is composed is fast wearing away. This still majestic landmark, a solitary sentinel guarding the heart of a continent--its days are numbered in the book of Time. * * * * Camels do nearly all the carrying in this country; and at Francis Well a caravan was camped. A white man was in charge. I do not know how the stranger fares at the hands of an Afghan, but the few white men I met along the road at halting places between Oodnadatta and Alice Springs were without exception most generously hospitable and most kindly-dispositioned. All did what they could--by more or less clear directions anent the route; by supplying me with food and inviting me to "spell" with them if they were "spelling"--to make my journey a partly enjoyable as well as a successful one. I gratefully admit how largely I am indebted to one and all of them. From Hergott to Alice Springs the population is grouped under three generic headings--"Whites," "Afghans," and "Blackfellows." The loftier Afghan sometimes scornfully denies that he is of our color. I have heard it asked of a Jemadar--"What name fellow drive so-and-so's camels along to Birdsville? Whitefellow?" and I have heard him answer: "No, _not whitefellow_. Afghan-man _boss_ go las' time." Beyond the MacDonnell Ranges the Afghan and his camel disappear, and are neither seen nor heard of more. There is a no-man's land; then, further northward, the vacant place is filled by Chinamen. It is both interesting and amusing to listen while Afghans and blacks or blackfellows and Chinamen converse. Not that they make a practice of so indulging; there are entirely too many vernacular difficulties in their way. One such attempt at conversation was suggestive to me of two blind men who, getting drunk together, led one another up wrong turnings, until, after a final and protracted endeavour to get back to anywhere near the starting point, they found themselves both hopelessly lost. Each has a way peculiar to his class of directing that luckless traveller who may be so ignorant as to make enquiries of him. You ask an Afghan how many miles it is to a certain place. He slyly leads you on to make a guess for yourself--and at once cheerfully agrees. "Yes, ten mile," or whatever it may be the other has suggested. The blackfellow tells you vaguely that the certain place is "L-aw-ong way," "Ova that a way," or "Byen bye you catch 'em all right." The Chinaman listens very politely to all the questions you put to him, and then remarks with his most guileless smile, "No savee." Still some white men's directions are not very lucid. One, for example, will say, "When you come to there look out for a small stony hill _to the right_," waving, as he says, the left hand from him. Also East is spoken of when West is similarly indicated. Others, again, expect a fellow to perform mental gymnastics. One will clear and level a small space upon the ground to serve as a blackboard. He begins, "Now, we'll put it, here's North--" and draws a line pointing due South. * * * * Mount Breadin Dam is another 20 miles from Francis Well. The track is fair for cycling over. Camped somewhere in the scrub. Dry sand makes a fairly comfortable blanket. Desert oaks had for the last few days been frequently met with, growing singly or in groves. The wind soughs through the foliage--like the music of rushing, seething water in some distant creek. Water, always water! Thitherward one's thoughts here ever fly; upon memories of it one lingers with the utmost fondness. As I struggle on and on, deeper and deeper into the toils of the desert, there grows upon me a morbid dread of running short of water. To have it was my greatest craving; to have plenty of it my chief aim. The wind is mostly in my teeth, but that is of small consequence now that I am content to creep over these interminable wastes. * * * * Everybody carries a bottle of eye-water. Sore eyes are very prevalent in this sandy country. The flies had it pretty well all their own way with me down by the Goyder; so now I also have had to procure a small bottle. A depôt would not be a depôt without a stock of it. * * * * By noon Diamond had borne me to the Deep Well and its "accommodation house." Having obtained some provisions, we pushed on and camped that night some 15 miles ahead. Deep Well is in flat sandy country, in a valley of the James Range. As it is about 200 feet deep, the water is drawn by bullocks attached to a "whip." The surrounding country is lightly stocked with cattle and goats. The well itself is rented from the Government, and a small charge is made for the water. Between here and Alice Springs another well is badly wanted. Another well--or, better, two. This absence of, or long distance between, waters is a well-founded matter for complaint with the teamsters or team owners, and must impose great hardships on anyone whom business--or "eccentricity"--may prevail on to travel hither. At the very best the life of the teamsters on these far-inland tracks is full of misery and hardship. That anyone should voluntarily go overlanding they cannot comprehend. Here I am asked in astonished curiosity what I am going through the continent for. It must be for a bet! I can only answer that I am going with much the same object in view as a hen is said to have when she walks across a road--just to reach the other side. * * * * The flies refrained from tackling a couple of very highly-greased aboriginals whom I spoke to at the Deep Well. They had burnished themselves with a thick oil, derived from animal fat, no doubt. Each on-coming fly, when within six inches of the glossy surface, shot off at a right angle, as though it had run its head into an invisible stone wall. Now and again one could be seen to drop slightly, as if stunned. I do not think the oil-skin they wore was of good quality. This couple were disposed to approach too unpleasantly close whilst I was re-inflating one of the tyres. Suddenly undoing the pump, I vigorously squirted fresh air at them. The blast pierced the special atmosphere in which they had so long moved; the fresh air came as a shock to them, and they were careful not to venture within range of so deadly a weapon any more. The flies, I think, trouble the blackfellows more than the whites. A blackfellow's hand is constantly passing across his face to drive the pestering things away; or they protect themselves by starting a small fire and sitting at the smoky side of it. * * * * From the Deep Well, sandhills and sandflats extend northwards for about 20 miles. Then a large range is encountered, through which the cyclist may ride until he reaches a steep incline well known as The Pinch. Here the track goes over a high ridge by way of a narrow cutting through the rock. Granite hills now hem us in, but soon we enter a narrow pass between two long and wall-like rock formations. This is Hell's Gate. We hurry through. The track now passes over well-grassed sandy flats, which make good riding. At about eight miles a big hill rises to the right. Opposite a pad branches off to the left. A welcome break, guiding the thirsty or curious follower to the rockhole, the Ooriminna. Right into the heart of a range this pad takes one. Very soon the cyclist will find either leading or pushing his machine to be out of the question. However others may manage (for the bicycle will be everywhere in time), I stooped and shouldered mine. And how its bright parts sparkled with ill-contained inward joy, I persuaded myself, whenever it was thus borne along the tedious way! Now, with it held aloft, I walked or scrambled and climbed over the last and rougher part of the two miles to the water. * * * * Very weird is this Ooriminna. It is a citadel of Desolation strongly guarded; and how the hole was first discovered must for ever be to us a mystery. Judging from the surroundings, horses or men could hardly have thought to find water here. And but for water what man or beast would pierce these solitudes? The hole is formed in an extremely rocky gorge of the range. Huge boulders heaped up in strange fantastic shapes, the counterpart in miniature of castles, fortresses, and towers, stand gaunt and frowning, or threatening to fall precipitately, above, below, and on the more open side. The hole itself is almost a circle; it is probably 20 feet in depth and 25 feet across. Above it, at the back, always in deepest shadow, are several small caves, wherein are native drawings--rude as the scribblings of a schoolboy in his snatched moments--of snakes and hands and things beyond this pen's power to name. From over these caves the water falls when the rains come. The rocks are an unkindly-looking grey, spotted mixtures of granite, quartz, and sandstone. Still higher up the quickly-rising gorge is a second rockhole, a smaller one. Approaching from the southern entrance I first came on this one--inaccessible to horses and camels--and only saw the larger rockhole as I descended, with bicycle still shouldered, trudging on to strike the road which leads to Alice Springs, from which this Ooriminna pad loops out and back again. * * * * After getting clear of the Ooriminna rocks there are four or five miles of sand, low lying between the ranges; and now, at last, the cyclist finds awaiting him a splendidly smooth and hard clay flat, stretching right away for over 20 miles to the already faintly outlined MacDonnell ranges. The track soon enters and winds through densely packed and tropically-foliaged scrub, with here and there a small clear space suddenly opening out in front. At the moment of entering each of these recurring spaces one may discern the fast uprising and darkening blue of distant mountains--and again the obscuring scrub envelopes bicycle and rider. After the stories he will have been told, the cyclist, should he be a stranger and alone, will surely throw a glance to one side and to the other--ahead, too, as he turns each of the numerous sharp angles--in half-timid and half-hopeful expectation of seeing start out or up to intercept him a score or two of spear-brandishing and yelling bogie men. And he will almost certainly be disappointed. * * * * One who comes upon this mountain wall from the long plains of the south cannot with a single sweep of the eye take in its mightiness. To right and left it holds its course until its purple outlines are bathed in haze, become a mere faint streak, and finally are blotted out. But far behind that gaudily-tinted curtain of sky, which forms the strange horizon of these inlands, this range extends, a steep, austere wall of rock, rising almost perpendicularly from the plain four hundred miles from east to west. A gap in this mighty wall of rock becomes clearly defined by the time one reaches the bank of a wide creek, with a bed of white sand, which takes its course in the heart of the ranges, and is well known as The Todd. Following up this watercourse for a few miles, the gap through which it comes, the Heavitree, is reached. The distance through the Heavitree is about 200 yards. The creek's sand-bed spreads right across between the high, bare, sharply-cut mountain sides. The road crosses the Todd at the same time as both pass through the Heavitree Gap; then runs along by its eastern flat bank among the ranges, until three miles onward the buildings at Alice Springs township come into view. * * * * A sheltered, peaceful, cosy-looking place, this isolated Alice Springs. On a flat, with large gums scattered through and all around it, and mountains towering up a very little distance off on every side. There are two clusters of houses. One comprises the hotel-cum-brewery, a smithy, and a general store; the other can boast of two stores, a harness-maker's, an often-vacant butcher's shop, and a private dwelling-house. Both clusters are snugly ensconced, hidden among the very numerous gum trees with which the whole flat is dotted; between them some particularly high and shady trees give shelter to the township stock. Cattle are ever to be seen reposefully cud-chewing during the hotter portions of the semi-tropical days. All shade and silence and tranquility! It seemed as I came upon it to be the veritable "Sleepy Hollow" of romance, with appropriate Catskill-y surroundings, too. The supplies for Arltunga goldfields, the mica fields, neighboring horse-station and cattle ranches, and the telegraph stations up north, all pass through here. It is a terminus of townships; beyond it lies the undeveloped. * * * * Arltunga is only in its earliest infancy, and is sadly handicapped. But then one is assured "There's any Scotch quantity of reefs about," and "The country hasn't been half prospected yet." Country, by the way, never is, it seems. The mica field, on the other hand, arrived some time back at a working age. It has, as it were, bought its shovel and done a little towards paying for it. Some mica of good quality, and in exceptionally large sheets, too, is to be had. I know little or nothing about the value of a mica claim; do not even know whither when raised the shiny transparency goes. Much is, I know, used for insulating purposes on electrical machines, but in such cases only small washers are required as a rule. As to the larger blocks, so attractive to the eye when prepared for exhibition, ignorance possesses me. If one has the inclination one may, however, learn a great deal about it, if one likes to run up to Alice Springs. In search of information (and no policeman being handy), I approached a prospector. He was an encylopædia on the subject. Within five minutes I knew that lawyers now-a-days wrote out their wills and other people's on mica because it will not burn, and that lanterns for enclosing electric arc lights are fitted with the same material in place of glass, the heat (sometimes reaching as high as 10 or 12 horse-power) emanating from the electric light being altogether too fierce for combustible glass to withstand! If I had stayed another day in Alice Springs, I should have written a treatise on "Mica and its Uses." * * * * The telegraph station is a mile and a half beyond the Alice township, and with its substantial roomy stone buildings and outhouses makes up another little township of itself. Near the station there is in the Todd a very large waterhole, which contains a sufficient permanent and unlimited supply of fresh water to deserve the name of spring. There are also a couple of wells on a bank of the creek; the water of one of them is used for gardening purposes, the other's, I was told, is almost salt. The flat around the station is, like nearly all the flats within the ranges, covered with saltbush and other stock-fattening growth. Grasses of many valuable kinds flourish thickly in the hills and gullies--in fact, no better limited tracts of pastoral country could one wish to see than are to be found within and in the neighborhood of these MacDonnell Ranges. The climate, too, is nearly all that could be desired throughout the greater part of each year. The days are warm, the nights cool--a little too much warmth sometimes, at others a little too much cold. White people seem to live there as much for the purpose of making strangers welcome as to amass money in a leisurely fashion, and black people are more plentiful than gooseberries. Physically the natives to be seen about are very good samples of aboriginalty. As at Oodnadatta, the female blacks do most of the washing and general domestic work for the townspeople, and of course the male blackfellows are invaluable to those of the score of settlers who do much dealing in horses or cattle. In this quaint spot, and amongst this hospitable community, I remained for several days. There were many "gaps," sheltered waterholes, and other interesting spots to be visited, and every man in the place came forward with hearty offers to be my cicerone. Having been so long unused to opportunities for gormandizing--unused, too, to sleeping between sheets on flock mattresses--the hotel and those good things which it contained exercised strong magnetic attractions. Inquiries about the road ahead were pursued diligently, and an operator at the telegraph station (obliging and considerate, as they all were) sketched out for me an artistic and lucid plan of the route so far as Barrow Creek. Armed with this plan, and loaded with provisions, the "condition" I had put on during my few days' stay, a water-bag, a quart pot, tools, and various other things, including a light parcel of meat extract, Diamond and I one fine forenoon started out over the mountains, thence on to the exterior desert, with the enticing prospect of I-didn't-know-what before me. Having come so far without hurt worth speaking of, and with the kindest words of encouragement from the people here, I felt sanguine of being able to make a fair show at the business thus far only half transacted. * * * * The township was out to say good-bye! Of the number was the telegraph master, a genial officer who, in addition to controlling this most important repeating station on that Transcontinental line which links Australia and Europe, has acquired during a long residence a profound knowledge of the aborigines of Central Australia, their languages, their customs, and their folk-lore. He had with him his camera; and later on, when (myself all unconscious of it) "Murif's Ride Across Australia" headed many a paragraph and sketch, there appeared in one of the Adelaide papers, beneath a drawing, this brief account, reproduced here as showing how others on the scene viewed the enterprise at this stage, after the capabilities of the machine had been in part demonstrated. It is described as the expression of "Our Alice Springs correspondent":-- "The above snapshot was taken on Monday morning, April 13, just as Murif was about to begin the second half of his great undertaking. Up to that date he had travelled over 1,130 miles, the latter part of the journey being anything but pleasant from a cyclist's point of view. There were many obstacles to overcome in the shape of miles of rough stony road, especially the 'gibbers,' near Charlotte Waters. Three-cornered Jacks are another enemy to the cyclist; also miles of sand, which affords splendid exercise and gave Murif a chance to develop the muscles of his arms by pushing his machine, it being impossible to pedal over the sand. "Murif's greatest piece of luck was noticed by me whilst out riding some forty miles from here. I was looking down at Murif's track, and saw where he had left the road to escape a stump and ran across a piece of brandy case with three large nails standing point upwards. His tyre missed these by half an inch. After passing an obstacle of that description, his luck must carry him over the remaining thousand odd miles safely. "There are still many dangers he will have to steer clear of whilst travelling north of here. Stumps overgrown by grass will be one of his greatest enemies. A hard collision with one of these would mean serious damage to his machine, and the distance between the telegraph stations--the only place where he could repair a bad break--being some 200 miles, a mishap would prove serious to him. In places above Barrow's Creek, and _en route_, he will find the spear-grass very troublesome, and a cuirass would prove very beneficial to him while travelling through it to keep the seeds, which are long and very sharp, from penetrating his body. "Both Murif and his machine were looking in the best of trim. On leaving here he was carrying a fair amount of dunnage, including waterbag, &c. The quartpot strapped underneath the saddle whilst travelling does duty as a storage-room for his tea and sugar. On his back he carries a small knapsack full of provisions. On his belt he has a small pouch for pipe, tobacco, and matches. He smokes very little during the day, and when short of water dispenses with the pipe until such times as he can afford to indulge freely. He converts his lampstand into a rack for his revolver, which article all travellers north of here carry, although it is some years since the natives attacked a white man on the road. However, prevention is better than cure. "Murif, unlike most cyclists, prefers to travel in loose pyjamas, using clips, rather than the knickers, the former being cool and comfortable for this semi-tropical climate." * * * * Myself, writing from Alice Springs, begged for assistance "to give expression to my deep feeling of gratification for the many kindnesses I had been the recipient of on the road. They are thorough white men up this way--the most generous-hearted, the kindliest, the bravest I believe any country in the world could produce. Knowing them, one realises of what noble stuff our pioneers are made." Now I call at the telegraph station to try and express my thanks to the last of the men--the men out back who know and show what brotherhood is; wheel thoughtfully through the ranges 14 miles, and---- * * * * As Diamond and I passed into the heart of the land we picked up a great deal of information regarding the most suitable equipment for the journey. Pretty well everyone had something to suggest. "Ha! yes," said one, "the thing is to keep up your strength, and for that there's nothing like good sleep." So I should have carried an inflatable mattress and pillow--a simple affair, planned on the pneumatic principle, to be pumped in every night at bedtime. A shot gun or a rifle--"never can tell, you know." A kodak--"That would have kept your mind occupied." A tent--"Something light, of course, and easily rigged." A sextant, quadrant, or theodolite--the suggestors weren't quite sure of the differences between these things; all sounded impressive enough. A pocket telegraph instrument. Cyclist's cape and riding suit, with long woollen stockings--for grass-seeds to hold on to, no doubt. Aluminium water canteen, flint and steel and touch-paper, a medicine chest (the larger the better), snake poison antidotes and brandy (doubtless to make me see 'em), the Bible or a few works of my favorite author, a small "handy" spirit-lamp, a field-glass, much woollen underclothing, rice, oatmeal, cream of tartar, dried this and pressed that; stock, taps and small die-plate; bombs for scattering obnoxious niggers, a recently-invented apparatus for extracting water from damp earth by evaporation and condensation, sponge for gathering up the dew from the tree leaves, a hammock, mosquito curtain. And many other articles which I cannot bring to mind just now. The reader is entitled to suggest as many more as he pleases. But it was too late to start collecting _all_ these things at Alice Springs, so I considered, and contented myself with the purchase of--an ounce of quinine, a box of Cockle's pills, and a quart pot. * * * * During the time I remained at Alice Springs I bothered my head very little indeed about what there might be in store for me in the country beyond. I had previously been led to cogitate over so very many evil possibilities that I had long resolved not to lay myself out particularly to guard against any at all. Had I devoted my thoughts and actions to making certain of all being safe to the end, then very plainly my wisest plan would have been to turn and cycle back. When advised to arrange against this or that misfortune I returned grateful thanks for the advice, but all the same trusted rather to precautionary measures inventing themselves, or being invented by other than such a powerless atom as myself. I placed implicit trust on three things--good health, good luck, and a good bicycle. If any of these went wrong, no preparation which I was in a position to make would go far towards the prevention of very nasty happenings. * * * * On resuming, after the welcome interval at Alice Springs, a 14-mile cycle walk through the MacDonnell ranges was the first act billed on the day's programme. The track winds its toilsome way over the lowest rises and through gullies squeezed between the higher of the rough granite and sandstone hills. Much bigger ones--each duly catalogued and named by somebody at sometime, I have no doubt--loomed up in every direction. Many of the gullies are well grassed. Saltbush and mulga are met with occasionally; and everywhere spring up low bushes of the kinds that are fattening and well-beloved of flocks and herds. Rideable stretches of a mile or so may be passed over as hardly worth noticing. The hills end rather abruptly; and a thickly timbered plain outstretches itself, extending as far eye can reach. Riding on to it one finds everywhere abundance of grass as well as salt and blue bush. There are some open places, but for the greater part of the way to Burt Well (21 miles from the range) the traveller advances within avenues cut through densely-packed and far-extending mulga scrub. The riding is very fair--a light loamy soil--but a sharp look-out has to be kept for stumps on the roughly-cleared chain-wide track along the telegraph line. Innumerable small spire-like formations and mounds, the hills of white ants, dot the track, and cumber its sides. None, curiously enough, are known to exist south of the MacDonnell ranges. Yet what impressed me most during the day's ride was that instead of having entered a desert, I was pursuing a course through country of the best description for stock--only lacking in water. * * * * Arriving at a lovely waterhole overhung with gum trees on the Burt Creek (a pad branching from the main track leads to it), I stopped to have a bath and enjoy the cool of the heavy shadow. It is a law of the overland that a waterhole, unless it be very large or there be others close by, must not be used for soapy-washing. One dips up water with a billycan or pannikin, and, stepping back, should he not have a wash-dish, he washes with one hand. It isn't satisfying, but it has to do. My waterproof served as a basin. A hole, begun with the boot-heel and finished off by hand, was scooped out in the easily-shifted soil, the waterproof spread out over and then pressed down into it, and--there it was. By the time I had had my refresher and a smoke I found it very easy to persuade myself that the place was quite secluded and comfortable enough to remain the night at, and I acted accordingly; stocked a supply of firewood in reserve against the chilliness of coming wee small hours; pulled up by their roots (which I then shook free of earth) a quantity of the plentiful 18in.-high dry grass, and arranged my (low-) downy couch in systematic 4 x 6 and side-banked fashion in the lee of the sheltering bush to which I had close-tethered Diamond. I hung up the lining of my wash basin to dry, lit a fire and brewed a quartpot of tea; but not being very hungry did not broach my precious cargo of bush bread and goat's mutton. I had with me a piece of old newspaper, and I read it. There was a little writing to be done, and I did it. A torn garment called, through the rent, for thread, and I gave it some. Then I overhauled the bicycle, and, finding everything as it should be, broke short a piece of stick and discordantly accompanied myself in an "impromptu"--"Across the Continent in Pyjamas"--by thrumming on the front wheel spokes. Smoked. Stood up and looked around at the scrub; sat down and scribbled a little more--and felt lonely as I could wish till bed time. * * * * Before sundown I had watched awhile the diamond sparrows flocking for their evening drink in clustering clouds of dear little twittering atoms. And note, I had begun to tell myself in meditative strain--note how considerate Nature provides for these, even these smallest of her trusting creatures. But a couple of hawks came along, and, swooping low down, pounced greedily upon the thirsting little creatures. I saw no good reason why I should interfere. I gave Nature credit for knowing its business, and guessed the hawks were peckish. Yet, against my reasoning instincts, I threw a lump of wood at one of the murderous, darting birds of prey. The whizzing missile frightened him away alright--and killed about a dozen sparrows. How very like many great human schemes and systems! * * * * But now bedtime. The sun was down, and the stillness was intense. A dim sense of unreality pervaded everything, including even thought-consciousness, the _Ego_. Perhaps it was only through sharp contrast with the past few nights spent talkatively with new acquaintances in Alice Springs; but the solitude made itself felt more oppressively than I can recall it ever to have done o' nights the other side of that reposeful _ultima thule_. All which trifling details of how I spent one afternoon and fixed my camp I give now, to save, to some extent, vain repetition later on. So far as "tucker" was concerned, before my own good stock had quite run out I was so lucky as to come upon a traveller (whose business was his own), with his two black-boys, somewhere between the Burt and Tea-tree well. He re-loaded me with all the eatables I desired, and made me welcome to them with the magnificent generosity of the bush. * * * * Flat, almost level country extends to a Government well--Connor's--about 23 miles northward from the Burt watercourse. Covering this well, as also those others to be seen still further north, very fine-meshed nettings are hinged to one side, preventing wild dogs, iguanas, and birds from falling in. It is, as all the others are, walled round substantially with upright hardwood posts, sunk touching one another; and it is of course, equipped with windlass, buckets, and a line of troughs. The water is as good as anybody could desire. * * * * The feelings of surprise engendered by the sight of such good grazing country, the interest and curiosity excited by the ever-present countless ant-hills, the mild astonishment as I looked through the straight and level avenues lined sharply through the mulga (avenues extending so far that their turning points were lost in the haze of distance)--these were the deeper impressions. But after the first day out from the ranges these feelings in part gave place to intermittently-recurring sensations of a kind entirely new to me. The high hills behind had, as it seemed, shut me off from the whole world of animation. Up to the MacDonnell, if one doesn't get bushed, one expects to meet with people every other day or so; but here, amid the myriads of ant hills and the thick, impenetrable scrub, it is as if one had strayed into a wonderland whose every inhabitant had died and had had erected to him or her a lasting monument. And I was cycling through the silent burial-ground! A ghostly suggestiveness, a little creeping of the flesh, an uneasy expectation of meeting with--one seldom questions at such moments what--urged me quickly on a little way, or, again, would prompt me suddenly to stop, dismount, lean over on the bicycle, and with craned neck peer into the gloomy scrub and rather hoarsely invite what might be therein to "come out." Then, recollecting it to be rather early for that sort of "business" yet awhile, I'd laugh shamefacedly, then philosophise a little, as, sitting beneath a shady bush or mulga tree, if not short of water, I'd smoke a quiet pipe. For I was in no hurry, and by no means did I dislike these new sensations. * * * * Hann's Range is 15 miles from Connor's Well. Soon after leaving the well dreary open country is met with--nothing to be seen for many miles but spinifex. Bad riding ground; for where there is much spinifex there almost always will be found very loose or sandy soil or ranges. I look longingly for signs of a mulga thicket, as there I knew the ground will be much firmer. As it approaches Hann's Range the road improves to very good, and once again the mulga scrub shows up. The range is but a very low one, and is soon left behind. After a run of 7 miles, over fair quartz-pebbly track, another well (Ryan's). After Ryan's another fair stretch of 14 miles, leading into a gap known as Prowse's, where it passes through a low hill of granite--Mount Boothby. The sand thence becomes heavier, and so lasts to a watercourse--the Woodforde. Here are camping places--soakages and waterholes--and at one of these (a crossing of the creek) I spend a night. A very large burr has put in an appearance; and after it come burrs of all sizes and of several different varieties. * * * * Much of the cycling hereabout is equivalent to cross-country riding. Wherever the ground is soft the loose sand blows in and fills up the two narrow parallel riding spaces which are sole indications of wheeled vehicles having travelled this way at some time long gone by. Between these clearly defined pads a ridge is formed on which grows spinifex or a tussocky grass; so no choice is left to the cyclist but to sheer off to the side. As spare horses are brought along when once a year supplies are carted up to the telegraph stations on the Transcontinental, the sides for some distance out from the track are very badly cut about. One then perforce must ride as best he may, or walk, through scrub and spinifex and over fallen timber. From time to time, since leaving Connor's Well, many kangaroos had been seen in the occasional open spaces. At Ryan's Well, and from there northwards, there grows a small pale-green leaved plant, bearing a ripe and tasty berry, in appearance not unlike the gooseberries of down south gardens. I tested one, and liked its flavour well. Then I experimented with a couple, then four; and as there were no signs of ill effects, I fell upon them tooth and nail. Their taste recalled rock-melons. The more I ate of them the more I relished their peculiar "twang." * * * * Beyond Hann's Range tracks of naked feet had frequently been observed. Where the ground is hard the cyclist may not heed these footprints much; but in the slowing sand one feels so very powerless to "manoeuvre," that, for a little while at least, the sense of being alone is rather agreeable. Near a turn in the track a black head and shoulder disappeared behind a bush. Surely, I thought, the time for an adventure has come; so, dismounting, I walked back to the turning point and, completely hidden, peeped along the track. There was a curious sight. Half-a-dozen natives, now in full view, were making a minute examination of the wheel marks. All were gesticulating wildly. No "animal" like this had they ever seen before. I would have given--what _could_ I have given them?--for their thoughts. Again and again they ran along the track for a few yards--they who had been tracking all manner of walking and crawling things all their lives. Next they appeared to be comparing notes of the strange "beast" itself--so I judged from the movements of their arms and bodies. And thus they were still engaged when I turned Diamond once again, and wheeled northward. * * * * From the Woodforde to the Tea-tree Well the track was fair--a light loam. The mulga scrub in places is extraordinarily dense. A matter of wonderment to me was how the explorers could have forced a passage for themselves and their animals through those miles upon miles of closely packed trees and undergrowth. One ceases to marvel at the creeping progress they made. You need to be in some such place as this (about the Tea-tree Well) before you realise how brave and venturesome and determined the first explorers were--how terribly hard and dangerous their work. Now the track is plain enough to Barrow's Creek; anyone may follow it--a fact with which, needless to say, I was not acquainted until I had passed over it. But as the stumps have never been grubbed, and as the ants' dwelling-places, if ever interfered with, have been rebuilt or are in various stages of re-construction--what with one threatening wheel-smasher and the other--the visiting cyclist may easily fancy himself touring in a skittle alley studded with ninety-nine thousand pins. * * * * The ant hills, ever prominent features in the landscape right through Palmerston, are formed of hard dry clay, or of sand mixed with a cementing solution secreted by the insect. It calls for a very forcible kick to knock the top off even a small one. When broken into, the structure is seen to be cellular, and the dirty-white inhabitants are discovered moving hurriedly over the particles of dry grass or wood which every cell contains. The cyclist must exercise much caution amongst those pinnacled hillocks and mulga remnants; but on good patches the sensation of sweeping around and in and out through the many obstacles is rather enjoyable. You have some of the delights of cycling and of skating into the bargain. * * * * The Tea-tree Well is about 50 yards away from the bank of a pretty wide but not deep creek, on the bank of which flourish the inevitable giant gum-trees. Out from that side of the watercourse farthest from the well, and into the bed of it, grows the bushy nigger-harboring scrub from which the well derives its name. Blacks might be in there by the dozen, and a person camping near this well be never a whit the wiser. The general aspect of the place and its surrounding are wild and likely-looking enough for anything in the way of adventure. Although it was early in the afternoon I felt drowsy, and planned a sleep at this celebrated spot. First a reconnoitre: tracks of naked feet in plenty; but, then, you can find them almost anywhere. So I comforted myself, and (to my disgust afterwards, of course) argued with myself that there was need of courage; then drew a bucket of the excellent water from the well, and made my "camp." * * * * The burrs had, for the last two days, been very troublesome; wherefore I improvised a burr-dissuader, which proved a very successful affair. Finding an old tin matchbox near the well, I prized off the top and bottom pieces, and, with a pair of small folding scissors, shaped one end of each to correspond with the convex outside of the tyres. These pieces of tin I fastened on the bicycle between the forks with the small studs which at one time had held in place the front and back wheel mud-guards. Each piece was so adjusted as to nearly touch the tyre. A cover with central bead would need a corresponding cut in the tin. A prickle seldom punctures at once; a few revolutions of the wheel must be made before the thorn gets through into the air tube. The object, then, was to remove the thing before those revolutions were made. When experimenting with the puncture preventative I found that the part of the tyre immediately over the valve bulged out further from the rim than any other portion of it, and so touched the tin. This was remedied by deflating the air tube, loosening the valve and shoving it well in and back from the rim; then properly bedding the outer cover and inflating slightly before again screwing the valve up. A final tightening was given when the tyre had been fully inflated, and I had the cover an equal distance all around from the thenceforward ever-ready and effective appliance. Then, having tested it on the burrs about the "camp," I debated whether it was an ejector or a dissuader, an interceptor or an arrester, a burr-catcher or a burr-guard--and, so debating, to sleep. * * * * But not for long--soon I had company. Dingoes--the howling nuisances of the bush--began their unearthly wailings in the scrub. A revolver-shot scatters or quietens them for a while; but soon they collect again, and emphasize their piteous, dismal cries. An early start from the Tea-tree; and soon Central Mount Stuart is sighted, rising slowly into distinctness, until, at about 20 miles on, the track is within about 3 miles of it. A gum creek, the Hanson, runs between the track and the mountain, and between the creek and the track is a belt of mulga. The mount itself rises out of the heart of a vast stretch of level country. For myself, with memories of printed and spoken descriptions, I expected to see a solitary peak; instead there is a short range, consisting of three or four hills, the highest of which--this Central Mount Stuart--rises 2500ft. above sea level. Its formation is among its peculiarities, but its layers of red and bluish rock give little foothold for vegetation. And, above all, it is affirmed that it is only 2½ miles out from the exact centre of the continent of Australia. But on this point there is room for doubt. Central Mount _Stuart_, too? Yet I remember to have read in one of Stuart's diaries:-- "There is a high mount about two miles and a half, which I hoped would have been in the centre; but on it to-morrow I will raise a cairn of stones and plant the flag there, and will name it Mount Sturt, after my excellent and esteemed commander of the expedition in 1844 and '45, Captain Sturt, as a mark of gratitude for the great kindness I received from him during that journey." The hill must always be an object of surpassing interest to each fresh observer. One cannot but feel saddened by the crowding thoughts of hardships undergone by those intrepid ones who first penetrated here. * * * * But it was an exceedingly warm forenoon; and, although Mount Stuart is a sight well worth travelling many a mile to see, I notice the short Philistinish sentence in my note book--"Would have preferred a brewery." Some day there may be a Central Mount Stuart Hotel. * * * * The road from the Tea-tree had been fair and level, and so it continued to the Hanson Well--a total of 33 miles. At the Hanson a blackfellow was bending over and drinking from the troughs. He was somewhat startled on turning and seeing me dismount; but, though he had with him a few implements of the chase and an iguana, he did not look particularly wild. My waterbag was empty. Leaning the bicycle against something, I stepped over towards the well and began--"Here, 'Hanson,' lend a hand to----" But he had very civilly started walking after me to lend the hand before I had asked it of him. The bucket was soon landed, and not another word was spoken until I had drunk deeply of the sparkling liquor. Then I found that the naked one was capable of "yabbering" fairly well. "'Nother white pfella walk longa track?" he said, inquisitively. "No more--which way blackpfella sit down?" "By and bye more blackfellow come." Then, indicating a direction by a hand-wave he added vaguely--"Longa scrub." Then I went to the machine. Lighting my pipe, I overhauled the parts, spinning wheels and performing other simple operations. "Hanson" had approached cautiously; but at length his curiosity got the better of him, and he came near. He sat down on his haunches and eyed it quizzically, and for several minutes in silence. At length-- "My word, good pfella nanto that one!" ("Nanto"=horse.) I jumped into the saddle and exhibited my nanto's paces. Then laid it down. He quizzed it again. "Him no wantit feed? No walk-about?" "Ah, wait," I said; and took out the air pump, and set to work. "Hanson" rose from his haunches and bent over the inflating tube. "My word," he cried, slapping his legs in prodigious glee--"My word, him grow fat all right, _my_ word!" I gave him half a stick of tobacco. Never yet have I heard a blackfellow say "Thank you." "Hanson" received the tobacco in silence, and just as if he didn't know he was on the point of asking for it. Yet he may have been thinking of something else because, as I handed it to him, he said-- "White pfella him big one clevah. What him think, him do?" I thought I had heard the same thing somewhere before. "Yes," I coincided, and felt for the moment that it devolved upon me to say or do something towards proving myself worthy of a share in the flattering opinion. "Awfully clevah. I-er have known--" I was about to speak of a scientific American's flying machine; but the bicycle was quite far enough in that direction. "Have known-er eccentric bodies of them stand bolt upright on their heads. Say 'Nansen'--I mean 'Hanson'--" as the thought struck me--"did _you_ ever have a try at standing on your head?" But "Hanson" didn't savee. He giggled; repeated to himself vacantly a few times "Head? Head?" and finally put a poser to me. "Which way?" It was but a Christian duty that I should instruct and edify the poor benighted heathen. No one besides us two were near to witness the good deed; so as he sat on his haunches and continued gazing up into my face expectantly, I slung my satchel on the handle-bars, emptied into it a few things from my pockets, levelled off a little sandy space on the ground, and showed "Hanson" by a single object lesson how the "clevah" thing was done. The benighted one took very kindly to my humble Christian endeavour. "Well, 'Hanson,'" said I, taking up my satchel and replacing the articles, "do you think you could manage it? Tell you what; suppose you stand alonga upside down, then this other fat--one stick of tobacco I give it. Savee?" "Hanson" saveed. "Me do it all right, I think," he said, scrambling from his squat, and valorously stepping over to the small clear space. There he went down on all fours, and jambing his head on the ground sought to invert himself. He was far from succeeding the first time he tried, or the second, but needed not the slightest word of encouragement from me to try and try and try again. "Here 'Hanson,'" said I at last, compassionately, "knock off. You'll be suffocating yourself. Besides, I want to ask you which way track go." But he had taken it very much to heart, this feat of standing on his head, and was bent on its achievement. "Which way track go?" I said again. "Me do it this time all right, I think;" and was "this time" just as near success as before. "Don't you hear?" I called out. "I want to ask you about the road." But _he_ only wanted to stand on his confounded head. I rather regretted having put him up to the wrinkle; the track from the well might be in any direction. "Me give it you that fellow stick of tobacco all the same you stand up," I said. Again he only muttered a choking "Me do it all right," and again another try. But it was all of no avail. He couldn't stand on his head and I couldn't stop him from trying. His face might long since have grown purple; but I was unable to see. His ulster would hang downwards and get in the way. "What infernal nonsense," I said impatiently to myself. Here was I, in the heart of a continent, miles from any other white man, my sole companion an unknown black, myself ignorant of the track, and paying for the freak of a moment in this absurd way. "Hanson" was still struggling. I gave him up as hopeless, got into the saddle, and wheeled away. I wonder if "Hanson" has done it yet, and if upon the strength of it he's been raised in rank in his tribe! * * * * Those aborigines are a perverse lot. Bushmen and those who have long lived at the telegraph stations or at Port Darwin agree that you can never rely upon astonishing them. Take a tribesman from the inlands, as the native police have sometimes had occasion to do, show him the "mighty ocean," and he regards it stolidly; and so with many of the marvels of civilisation. But do some fantastic trick or show him some simple, gaudy thing, and he is transported. But their laughter is mostly a giggle, especially in the presence of white men. I never heard from any of them a boisterous outburst, nor ever heard one with a bass voice--unless he also had a bad cold. My "Hanson" was not wholly uncivilised. He wore, as I said, an "ulster." Now, a blackfellow's full dress away from settlements consists of an "ulster"--not universally so called--and a waist band, which are worn low down in front. The "ulster" measures about 10 inches by 6, and is suspended from the band. Of course where white men are stationed and the blacks are permitted to congregate, the "nager," or clothes-line, is drawn lower down and higher up on the part of the females, and those of the males who can procure them wear bifurcated garments. * * * * Eight miles from the Hanson Well, and we are at the Stirling horse-breeding station. Fair road for most of the spin, though there are three sandhills near the end of it. And in the short spin, too, we say good-bye to that salt bush--here a strongly-growing patch--which has been for so many miles, so many hundred miles, our sole companion. A wide, fertile and picturesque creek-flat, studded with gums, was ridden over before the Stirling Creek itself, and afterwards the station, came into view. Following up the watercourse I had arrived within a couple of hundred yards of a not imposing little row of buildings (for all that, there was a pleasure in sighting them) without being able to detect a soul, when suddenly out of the creek started up, as if by magic, about fifty of the best specimens of Australia's hirsute savages I have ever had the opportunity of picking up broken pieces of volapuk from--a handsome, murderous-looking set of able-bodied cut-throats, who came racing towards me. "Hello, my beauties," I said, and pressed as quickly as convenient to an open door. Resting the bicycle against a verandah post, I looked inside and asked hungrily "Anybody home?" but there came no reply. Wheeling sharply and addressing the crowd of sable ungarmented savages, now volubly "yabbering" and deeply interested in a discussion of the bicycle--"Which way boss walk, sit, run, tumble down, or jump up?" I enquired anxiously. One only, so far as I could make out, laid claim to be a linguist. "Him go after bullock. Not long him come back. You wait?" This was a re-assuring start, anyhow. Wait? Rather! Though I badly wanted to push on to Barrow's Creek I would have waited a week, could it have been so arranged, to see this man--for the bare sake of having one good look at him, for the possibility of a hand shake from him. For I had heard of him, though never previous to my passing Oodnadatta. And I had heard of his lion courage from those who must themselves be brave men. I knew of the spear marks he bore, and how it was he came to bear them; yet fearlessly as ever remaining here by himself for months at a stretch, a kindly master to a horde of athletic treacherous savages, with not the slightest chance of anybody coming to his assistance should he ever be in need of aid! When, after a couple of hours "wait," I saw him riding up, I felt no pang of disappointment; he looked in full the hero I had pictured him. I managed an indifferent-sounding "Good day--a bit hot?" and looked away over to where stood his horse; but I watched him with a leaping, boyish happiness through the corners of my eyes, and there came again and again to my mind the expressive deliberate words of more than one quiet-spoken old bushman--"Ah! But it is _he_ who is the grand man!" There was no doubt that I was outside the pale of civilization now; he had heard nothing of a cyclist being on the road. There was no occasion to tell him I was hungry. A welcome feast was soon prepared, and I ate--no, I fear, I gorged. And what a mine of information is this man himself! What would he not be worth to the interviewer? But he talks with more than the modesty of the bushman, and that is saying much. The natives now-a-days along the overland track are not, in his view, quite so black as they are painted in the imagination of some residing south of Alice Springs. Articles might be pilfered from a camp left without anyone in charge, but otherwise the natives near the wells and on the road might generally be looked upon by the passer-by as harmless, if properly handled. To east and west, however, are several places in which the natives are "cheeky." "And," added my host, "some 'bad' fellows now and again find their way into the Bonney"--a fresh water well to which I had not yet come. * * * * From Stirling to Barrow's Creek is 22 miles. The first eight or nine of these takes the traveller along the Stirling Valley, over well grassed and timbered reek flat sand plains. Here are many healthy specimens of the celebrated Stuart's Bean tree. This is one of the most beautiful of shade trees. The few I had noted particularly had grown to a height of from 35ft. to 40ft. The pods when ripe split open, and, the bright scarlet beans within being exposed, a very pretty picture indeed is presented. The beans are very hard, and about three-eighths of an inch long. Dusky damsels gather them, bore a hole through each one, and string them into necklaces. Even lying about on the ground those bright-coloured little ornaments served to add another charm to the romantic scenery of Stirling Vale. Although not given to collecting curios, I took one with me over the Foster range (five miles of barren mountain-top and very stony track, the descent on the north side being particularly steep) and along the further eight miles of stony creeks, cutting through flats between other ranges, which led to Barrow's Creek. * * * * At the crossing the creek is wide, and heavily timbered with gums. The telegraph station lies the other side, and is very prettily situated at the foot of a steep hill which marks one side of a gorge in a range bearing away to the east. The buildings are of stone, and everything about the place bears evidence of a very attentive supervision. The whites "in camp" at the time were the station master, two or three assistants a cook and a police trooper. A well-kept and prolific garden is close by, and a low stone wall and headstone mark the burial place of those who were killed when the natives made their oft-told-of attack. That was in '73, when as yet the natives were unaccustomed to the new institution of the Overland, and when their favorite recreation was the cutting of the wire. They watched a line repairing party file out, northward; and having waited, with their native cunning, until those men were beyond the possibility of recall, on a Sunday evening, when the eight inhabitants of the station were talking together outside the stone wall, they suddenly sprang from ambush and poured in a shower of spears. And yonder are the graves of the station-master and a linesman, who paid for the natives' treachery with their lives, while others paid for it with months of agony from spear wounds and thrusts. * * * * There is no place of call in the 160 miles between Barrow's and Tennant's Creeks, and it was certain I would be very hungry before that distance had been travelled, however short a time it might occupy. Here was a stage in which a sporting rifle or a shot gun would very probably come in handy. But then a gun is of no avail without powder and shot, and the carrying of these, to say nothing of a kangaroo leg or turkey (buzzard), loomed up an altogether swamping difficulty. Still I knew I could do comfortably for a fair time without food, provided I had plenty of water This latter was promised me in the several wells ahead. The "going" was said to be fair; so, after looking into the matter, I saw no reason why the distance could not be covered without weighting myself with bulky provisions; and I finally resolved on trying to make the run with water only by me. So before breakfast time on the morning fixed for the departure I gave notice of my intention not to take anything; and, happening to have in my hand at the moment the only article in my possession which I could very well do without--the 3dwt. bean--I handed it over to the resident trooper, who had made out a road plan for me. "Why not keep it? You know there are thousands to be got about here?" the officer asked wonderingly. "Then throw it away," I answered; "it's altogether too much of an unnecessary weight for me." "Three pennyweights!" The trooper ejaculated in his surprise. But I was not allowed to keep intact my resolution; and out of the multitude of good things pressed upon me. I chose a small piece of cake, rolled it in paper, and hung it to the lamp bracket. * * * * Within the first half-mile I overtook a small mob of sheep, with two or three black boys in charge; and, rather than scatter the little flock, rode to one side, in through the scrub, until they had been left behind. Before another mile had been covered, I noticed that my cake had disappeared. It could not have been long gone; and, as the thought had just entered my mind to eat it up and so be finished with it, I stopped, leaned the bicycle carelessly against a bush, and walked back; but the tracking through the scrub was slow, whereupon I gave up the search and returned. The bicycle had been blown over by a gust of wind, and was lying on the ground. Worse still a thousand times, the stopper had been jerked out of the neck of the waterbag, and the precious water had drained out. However, it was only 20 miles to a soakage; my spirits were high after my recent good living: so, with a few cursory remarks to the wind and to Diamond, I remounted and rode on. * * * * Before many miles had been covered, against a head wind and under a sweltering sun, a sharp thirst reminded me that I had eaten a salt-meat breakfast; and that thirst became sharper still before Taylor Creek was reached. The track, too, was a bit heavy--over flats of light loamy soil and sandy plains for the greater part of the 20 miles. On coming opposite the bend, where the Taylor Creek is nearest on the track's eastern side, I rode across to refill the waterbag; but all the soakage water had dried up. Holes had been sunk in the gravel about two feet deep, but only a white gritty clay showed at the bottom of each one. It was a weary search along that creek's bed; up and down I tramped anxiously, burrowing and scratching, but unavailingly; and after an hour spent in this way, it was a sadder man who returned to pursue an onward course. Six miles is not far; but it counts for very much when a man has done twenty before it on a hot day, and that is topped up with an anxious search, a sandy road, and a disappointment. That six miles took me to a well sunk in the Taylor, at a point where the creek passes through a range. A bucketful of water was soon hauled up, and, pushing in one of the two stop-bolts which were provided at the sides for that purpose, thus leaving the bucket suspended on top of the well, I leaned over and had gulped down three or four mouthfuls before I made a shocking discovery. The horrid stuff was almost salt! I spat out what I could; but what I had swallowed had far from given me relief. Yet how it glistened! Was it mockery? I laughed a little, and knew the laugh was forced. Yes, this was thirst. Would the tantalising stuff be better boiled? I made the experiment; it failed. I tried it with some meat extract (a few capsules of which I had); but--it was salter than ever. With tea? Perhaps, but I had no tea. A smoke for consolation--no, I dare not. I bathed my face and hands, and was a little relieved. Then, filling the waterbag, on the off chance of later on feeling more disposed towards poisoning myself, made all the haste I could for the Wycliffe. * * * * An old turn-off track beyond the Taylor Well leads out in an easterly direction to the Frew River and El Kedra--both abandoned stations. The country about there had been stocked at one time, but the natives were uncontrollable and very troublesome, spearing and slaughtering many of the cattle; and the lessees deemed abandonment advisable. From those places, and from another lower down and to the west--Anna's Reservoir--the natives count upon having frightened away the white men, the would-be settlers, and are inclined to "fancy" themselves accordingly. In other words, they are said to be "bad" about those places, and, as somebody significantly expressed it, are "spoiling for a hidin'." It was dreary "going"; and the thoughts associated with the country were not cheering. It was flounder, flounder through the heavy sand, with the lips parched and the throat dry--and growing drier and drier. I turn back now to my note-book and find the single entry--"This five-mile 'plug' is the killing gait." Yet no creek showed itself. My legs were beginning to send up signals of distress--and all the time that water "flopped" in the bag and tormented me. The night came on swiftly. Diamond, we must make a dash for it! On, on! An ant-hill or a stump overlooked as I tried to make out the timbers of a creek in the far distance, now wrapped in the evening haze, and I was sprawling on the ground, and Diamond had been thrown heavily as well. I limped over, and tried to mount--tried again and again, but each time a numbed knee refused to answer to the call. I sat down to ponder things. That knee-cap--the swelling startled me for a moment. I might crawl, no more--crawl, and leave Diamond behind. But whither? That could not be thought of. No sleep that night. And water--! The bag--! No; it were better not. I tried to sleep. Yet, that water--was it so _very_ bad? I wasn't so thirsty back at the well; it would be palatable enough now. I reached for it, and drank it greedily. "Fool!" The reflection came instantly. "Now look out!" How hot it was--stifling. My brain was converted into a busy telephone exchange, and every subscriber was ringing up viciously. "Hello? hello?" That was from the leg; a cramp. I attended to it. Again a vicious ring. The swollen knee called for sympathy--anything else I couldn't give it. A violent call. The tongue this time. Poor member, poor badly-treated member. But be still. Yet somehow, try as it would, it couldn't get back to its proper place. Then, in a quiet moment, the brain set to work on its own account. Diamond--was Diamond safe? What were the faithful one's injuries? But another interrupting call: those muscles again. A mosquito! Ha, sing away, fasten your sucker where you please--you are but a mere circumstance to-night! Hot Moisture! on my forehead! Now, what mysterious well within me held yet a drop of water? (Was that a rustle? Niggers, perhaps. Ah, well--) Ants? Very well; what matter? But--but keep off that knee! And, oh, for one long deep drink of water! Dives, has that monster Lazarus relented and begged for you a drop of water yet? * * * * It is wearisome to write how _I_ felt and what _I_ said and did--more wearisome perhaps than it is to read. But these unpleasant incidents seem to be regarded as the "most prominent features" of the journey; and they are here set out, not because there is any gratification to be got from the operation, but because by pointing out the pitfalls, they may serve to make easier the path of those who shall follow me. * * * * The dawn, if it brought no assuagement of the thirst, brought at any rate more hope; and still stiff and sore and aching, I limped, leading Diamond, towards the Wycliffe, which I knew could not be far away. It was an hour's drag through sand and scrub before the turn-off pad was reached; then a mile down the pad, the waterhole itself. The Wycliffe is a wide watercourse which, after rain, stretches out unrestrained at many places in its course into a series of shallow swamps and clay-banked waterholes. One of these was filled to overflowing with "the nectar of the gods;" and, literally, rushing to its edge, I drank with rapturous delight. The cravings of an abnormal thirst having been satisfied, I placed the polluted water-bag to soak, made a pot of tea, further refreshed myself with a wash, and had hardly touched the earth when I fell asleep. * * * * It may have been reality, or it may have been fancy; certainly I heard a rustle, and sat up quickly. Three blackfellows were walking towards where I lay. At the instant of seeing them they were scarcely half a dozen yards off. I did not move--where was I to move, and why? "What name you wantem?" I asked. As none of them had on anything more than what looked like a piece of old clothes line with the frayed ends knotted together in front, with boomerangs thrust through it at the sides, and as each carried a woomera, or throwing stick, and a spear, they appeared to be quite respectable wild savages. It is at such moments that a self-respecting person should, in a twinkling, live his life over again--he should look down through the corridors of his years, and renounce all his wickednesses. Also the armed and treacherous natives; these denizens of the wildest tract of the Australian continent, descendants of those (or maybe the men themselves) who have murdered settler and traveller in cold blood--these formidable fellows, I say, should have raised a whoop, and casting their spears at my prostrate form, should then have robbed me of the few trinkets I possessed, and my revolver, and have left another carcase to tell silently of the infamy of the black people. But things go wrong. For my own part, instead of looking back through any corridors, I observed that the feet of my visitors were much larger than were those of the natives south of the Alice. And, instead of a war-whoop and a deadly lunge, one of the three stretched out a hand and whined the single word "Baccy?" And this is the romance of our Dark Continent! These undraped fellows, carrying spears and boomerangs, roaming about an unfenced wilderness, romantic enough in contour and general setting, capable enough, one would judge, of eating uncooked rattlesnakes for choice--whining "Baccy?" It was exasperating. Besides, I wasn't going through the country loaded up with tobacco for free distribution among blackfellow-strangers. It, at the instant, occurred to me that those three strapping fellows might, if they chose, possess themselves of all the tobacco I had, and the bicycle into the bargain, I was certainly too weak to-- Then it flashed through my mind--"What would the fearless fellow back at the Stirling do?" I made up my mind for him at once. "You fellows, get!" Then I turned over, as if dead certain they would "get!" And after "yabbering" to or about the bicycle they disappeared--whither I did not know. By the generality of those white men with whom I conversed on such matters before reaching Alice Springs, it is--or was--an accepted belief that, from that place onward, natives are nearly always about at watering places along the overland track, although the traveller may not catch sight of even one. They are ever so much more sharp of sight and hearing than the whites, and, being treacherous themselves, they are very suspicious of strangers, and so they hide if they do not clear out on learning of a strangers coming. Some of them believe or pretend to believe the whites have robbed them of their choicest hunting grounds, and, naturally, these work themselves up into revengeful passions when dwelling on their wrongs. It is always best, or so I heard, when the traveller is alone, or there are only two together, to keep moving--not to linger long at one spot. And I must say that I have noted a spicy and suggestive _soupçon_ of restlessness at night-time in the manners of those few travellers with whom I camped beyond the Alice. The revolver was invariably seen to before turning in. And, on principle, a revolver should be carried. If whites ceased to carry the weapon, then the natives, observing its absence would grow braggishly bold and presuming. * * * * Seventeen miles of bad travelling ground--red loam and sand plains--brings the traveller to the Devonport Ranges. A couple of miles before passing through them, a creek, the Sutherland, was crossed. The white sand in the channel was piled up in strange formations. How terrific and eddying the current of water must be which at wide intervals comes tearing down! As it stood, the bed suggested a reproduction, in the solid, of a narrow strip of wild-surging tempestuous ocean--a series of waves and billows, small mountains high. Through the range though, it is good riding. A mile or two beyond the Sutherland, on a flat among the low hills, huge, smooth boulder-like masses of granite threaten to block the way; but the track winds in among them, and out again. The boulders lie thickly around in every direction, singly or piled one upon another. They are of all shapes--round and oval predominating--and run from scores to hundreds of tons in weight. Some are so perched as almost to tempt the passer-by to bring a crowbar with him next time he comes and tip them over. These are "The Devil's Marbles," and a very novel and rather fantastic appearance they present. The solitary traveller may easily conjure up images of giant hobgoblins coming along in play hours to practice the game of "Catch"--surely, by the way, the devil's own favorite game. I was about to sit in the shade of a large boulder, when from the further side of it came out an animal uncanny and weird as its surroundings. In form it resembled an iguana, but was five or six times larger than any one of that species I could remember to have seen, and, while I stood and looked in mild astonishment, it rose on its two long hind feet, and so walked a short distance; then as suddenly "flopped" down again, and disappeared. The 36 miles from the Wycliffe to the Bonney Creek is nearly all bad country for cycling over. I was riding at the moment of first sighting the Creek, and a little while afterwards was able to discern the well away out from the farther bank. To the left of the crossing and not far from it, a small column of smoke was rising; and by the fire--two standing, the others sitting or lying down--were half-a-dozen bandicoot-hunters. I had reached the Creek's bank before observing the blackfellows, and had been on the point of dismounting; but their unexpected presence (I had noticed no fresh tracks), induced me to keep going, and I spurred Diamond cruelly on to make him cross the pebbly bed, past which there promised to be a stretch of good hard level road on which I could--well, manoeuvre, should the occasion for doing so arise; although it would have taken much forcible persuasion to induce me leave the water once I reached it. But Diamond was very weakly and out of condition that afternoon and stuck its rider up right in the middle of the gravelly passage. I came off with a right-pedal dismount and faced over the skeleton barricade only just in time to see the backs of two fast-running niggers before they disappeared into the scrub. I pushed Diamond up the Bonney's bank and over to the well. One hesitates to perpetrate an obvious joke about this Bonney water. But I had eaten nothing, with the exception of the "gooseberries" already mentioned, since leaving Barrow's Creek, so now made the quart-pot full of thick soup, and devoured it, before carting in a stock of firewood, for we must camp this night at Bonney Well, notwithstanding its rather evil reputation. Firewood was scarce, and the coming night gave promise of being chilly; but, a sufficient stock collected, I strolled down to the blackfellows' camping ground. They had left no weapons, but had generously allowed to remain for my inspection (or it was hospitably intended?), one iguana (on the still smouldering embers, and over-done now), six inches intact, and several small pieces of frizzled snake, and one half-picked bone--which last may have been part of a picaninny's arm, so evil did it smell. The flies had taken possession of everything eatable, and there appeared no good and sufficient reason for disturbing them. * * * * "Better not light a fire," I had been warned, wherever unfriendly blacks are said to visit, especially when camping alone. But when the chilly early morning comes and the marrow in one's bones gets frozen, a fellow having insufficient covering is certain to start a thawing blaze, and take his chances with the waddying niggers. Last night had been warm, but this was a season of sharp changes--with the day time only there invariably came great heat. As I lay stretched on my sheet of waterproof, I ruminated on many things--on the many narrow escapes from dire disaster of this and other days. How often had I straightened out those pedal cross-bars, which luckily ever seemed to receive, give to, and so dull the hidden timber's sharp upsetting blow! Fortunate to be sure was I in having chosen this priceless treasure of a bicycle frame. Again and again my eyes opened wide in astonishment, when, after some unavoidable stump's onslaught, a tumble, or other mishap, its every part was found to be perfect. So with my head shoved into the widest part of a pair of pyjama mosquito-curtains, I made certain that my revolver was close at hand, and, being hungry enough to make me feel miserable, was yet quite happy and contented in the knowledge that I was to some extent experiencing the reality of those indefinite possibilities of which I had been forewarned. * * * * A mosquito-curtain is grateful and comforting; but after a hot day's toil one feels little inclined to erect a frame-work about one's couch, fix up the netting, and cut pegs to keep it down all around. For pegging would be necessary; if it were left anyway loose, the average able-bodied, athletic mosquito of these parts would just lift the thing up and get to work. Therefore I contented myself with shoving my head into whatever most bag-like spare wearable I happened to possess--pyjamas, for instance--thus lessening the effectiveness or length of the insects' sting by the thickness of the sheltering material. It is further South that the story is told of the mosquitoes and the boiler-maker. A man was engaged re-riveting a faulty boiler-plate. The mosquitoes were very troublesome; but, after showing fight awhile, this rivetter devised a plan of revenge, and resolutely worked on until the job in hand was finished. Then, smiling through his swollen lips and eyelids, he climbed in through the man-hole, clapped on the cover, and laughed in wild derision as those on the outside stamped on the plates, frantic and enraged at thus losing their prey. Then came a silence. Then a strange humming was heard; next a boring noise; and then, to the hidden one's dismay, an intruding sting appeared, and yet another, and still countless more, all feeling around to grip and fasten on to him. But the boiler-maker was a man of resource; and as the stings projected, or injected, with mighty blows he clinched them tight, chuckling the while, until those outside, making discovery of what was being done to them, took fright, and, spreading their wings flew upwards--and nothing whatever has been seen of that man or that boiler since. * * * * From the Bonney Well I started, after breakfasting on a pipe-full of tobacco, with the intention of making Tennant Creek (62 miles) that same night. But several unforeseen events altered those plans. Gilbert Creek is 14 miles ahead. And here (I smile disdainfully now) I made myself uncomfortable. I picked up a pad that led into the creek; then having dined on meat extract and smoke, carelessly led the bicycle across the creek. But no pad in this direction was to be seen, and I heedlessly wandered on until what appeared to be another creek was crossed. Then a bend; this was crossed also--the bicycle having to be led much of the time. Now this was getting monotonous; still no pad leading onwards. There was nothing for it but to go back on my tracks. But my tracks--where were they? We had been passing lately over a hard gum flat, covered with leaves, and no mark showed to my inexperienced eye. I remember at this moment, that I paused, ran my finger through my hair, and felt as lonely as that other unfortunate man who lost his shadow. I had come from the East; going by compass, I rode on--to a creek. This I followed back, pushing the machine over the uneven surface, and not at all sure, after all, whether this was the right creek. But--a furrow! I put the water-bag to my lips, and, I think, almost drained it. All was plain sailing back to the waterhole now, and there the existence of the several creeks was explained away--the water was in a billabong, or a short creek-arm, which had been mistaken by me for a separate watercourse. But the last hour or so had taken more out of me than a day's hard work could do. * * * * Three parts of a mile up the pad, a dozen dingoes were scampering over a short patch of heavy sand through which I had walked when coming down. I stopped short to observe them. They were as confounded as those niggers were whom I had before watched examining the tracks of the machine. A man had passed over that patch; of that those dingoes certainly had no doubt. But whence had he come, and whither gone? They scented up and down on either side in vain. The trail of the bicycle they disregarded--that was no man's marks. And there they were excitedly scampering up and down when a revolver shot led them to slink into the scrub, each taking a way of his own. * * * * Nearly the whole of the 30 miles and the next mile (Kelly's) is bad red sand, unrideable in places, the pads being filled in with loose drift stuff; while tussocks of grass and porcupine, low scrub and fallen jagged timber, await one at the sides. Riding over telegraph poles is a feat which the cyclist here is called on frequently to perform. In many places the track runs alongside the old line of wooden telegraph poles; in other places, again, the modern galvanised-iron rods stand just where stood those wooden poles of older days. In each case the old poles, in various stages of decomposition, lie often right across the track; and the rider cannot always see them until after he has felt the bump. Against the continued use of the wooden poles there had been many grave objections. Four of the most pregnant sources of trouble were white ants, lightning, bush fires, and the rapidity with which that part of the wood below ground rotted away. * * * * Formerly line-repairers were nearly always at work. Now most of the repairing is done but once a year, before or after the line has had its annual end-to-end inspection. In the changed circumstances the overland telegraph stations are no longer chiefly depots for the use of those whose chief business it is to keep the line in efficient working order, but are mainly for the occupation of those whose duty it is to re-transmit messages from one repeating station to another, up or down. From Palmerston a "wire" is sent to Daly waters, repeated there, and received at Alice Springs; thence on to Hergott, and so to Adelaide. Or it may be re-transmitted first at Powell's Creek, next at Barrow's Creek, then at Charlotte Waters, and so on to Adelaide. One sequence of repeating stations operate through the night, the other throughout the day. At some--Alice Springs, for instance, the work goes on continuously. The working of the line from Palmerston down to Attack Creek (between Powell's and Tennant's Creeks) is superintended from the north; the lower part, from Alice Springs. * * * * Half way between the Gilbert and Kelly's Well the track runs as a main street through the heart of a thickly populated city of spires, known as Little Edinboro'--a multitudinous array of ant hills, stretching out east and west far beyond the range of vision, and extending also some miles along the track. There were fresh horse tracks near the well; and at the well itself, two white men, with their two or three black-boys, were camped, "spelling." An offer of hospitality was at once extended to me; and, as I had been three days and two nights without eating "white man's tucker," there was no hesitancy about the acceptance. And it did not require much persuasion to induce me to camp here; for he who eats not, neither shall he feel much inclined to work. "You'll not think I'm a beast, will you?" I said apologetically. "The fact is, I've eaten nothing for three days." But there is no need to apologise on the Overland. * * * * An army of ants marched up and promenaded on the table-cloth; but provided one is reasonably cautious and brushes the insects off before taking into his mouth any of the pieces of meat to which some may have fastened themselves, their presence at one's dining table is of no great consequence when one is very hungry. Ants are very numerous everywhere through the continent; and, in a journey through, one comes across communities of them, representing, I believe, every known kind and species. The traveller is not much interfered with by the white ants found north of the MacDonnell Ranges--those favor a harder diet than that which man provides--but the ordinary meat, sugar and bread-devouring varieties, muster up in myriads wherever one camps. At many of the camping grounds alongside wells, soakages and water-holes, are oblong 7 × 4 spaces enclosed by sloping, little banks or walls of scooped-up sand, six inches high or so. As the troublesome and evil-smelling insects climb up these walls, the loose sand gives way, and they topple back again. Within such ingeniously-fashioned ramparts the traveller is secure--from one pest, at any rate. Nor are flies less universal than ants. They are always, everywhere. They attack one's eyes shamefully; but the slightest scratch anywhere calls for immediate protection against their poisoning attentions. A plaster of wetted clay is not a particularly cleanly covering; but it acts very well for protective purposes, and I believe it also possesses curative properties. At meal times a piece of meat lifted from hand or ground to the mouth becomes so thickly covered with the pests that the diner finds it imperative to flourish it around him and cry "Shoo!" blow hard upon it, or make one or two feints at biting before taking the stuff in. But they are philosophers, these men of the bush, and so declare that the flies purify the atmosphere, demolish poisonous matters in the air, prevent the spread of devastating disease--and so on. Some people, tho', if snakes were so numerous that folks couldn't travel the country without wearing a snake-proof suit, would certainly discover how very essential the reptiles were to--perhaps the armour-maker's existence. * * * * Up North--or was it down South--a talkative gentleman with a glass eye (named--the man's I mean--Blank), keeps a store. One day, _ipse dixit_, he was shoeing a restive horse. The flies were very bad. His glass eye suddenly pained him; and when he made effort to take it out of its socket, to his horror, he found he couldn't. The flies had bunged it! That is the man's story, not mine. I can only vouch for their infinite capacity to bung eyes not made of glass--and to imperil souls. * * * * None of the eye-protecting fixings seem to be satisfactory for use by a cyclist in country where careful steering is called for. Those which will keep out the flies are objectionable, for various reasons. The principal being that they also obscure the vision. At Oodnadatta, a fly-guard made of very fine meshed wire was given to me, and I carried it right through to Palmerston. It was made as a very large pair of spectacles, and when folded occupied but very little space. Because of a few faults, I did not often wear it. It darkened the ground, got uncomfortably hot at times, and when a fly did get underneath, the little wretch invariably wagged its tail with joy at having a whole eye to itself, and "wired in" so avariciously, that hunting it out became an instant necessity. And then outsiders, dozens of them, would hang on to the wires and search for a wide opening, shoving their stings through now and again in the hope of reaching something. Nevertheless, if one of these wire-meshed guards could be had to fit close all round the eyes, it would be as good as, if not better, than most of the others. Goggles with colourless glass were not to be had. The netting of the ordinary hat-veil is too open; a cyclist when riding does not shake his head about so the flies soon enter through. Cheese or mosquito nettings are hot, sticky and uncomfortable; and dangling corks are too ornamental. * * * * There were several of the ant-repulsing citadels at Kelly's Well, and in one of them, close by a bush to which I could fasten Diamond, I spread my sheet of waterproof. But my camp companions pressed upon me some of their own blankets--generosity of a prince was that encountered from first to last. Well-fed, and kicking about under warm blanketing, with a sense of safety, and with food and water at one's hands--yes, certainly these things have their advantages. * * * * The dingoes gathered round and howled; but to their noises I paid little heed--until someone moved. Then, looking out, I saw one of my hosts kneeling on his bed clothes, and in the act of pointing a rifle towards where a loud-voiced member of the serenading party sat. The blackboys' sleeping quarters were near the fireplace; and just after I had become fully conscious of what was going on and expected to hear a shot fired, one of the "boys," rising on his elbow, suddenly exclaimed pleadingly, "No shoot that one dingo, mitta! Him my fadder, I thinkit." At which interruption the one spoken to muttered--was that a curse?--I laughed, and the dingo vanished. It was not the first time that thus the white man had been robbed of his prey. For to hold the hand in such circumstances is only prudent. In the morning the hat of the aboriginal who had saved his father's second-life was missing; but after a short search it was recovered some little distance from the camp--or its remains were discovered, in two parts. The brim was torn from the crown, and a strip of about an inch between them had been bitten out all round. I reckoned nothing would come amiss to that species of wild animal which would chew up a nigger's hat-band, and for ever after was at night time more or less uneasy about my bicycle's tyres. The natives of these parts hold pretty generally to this doctrine of metempsychosis, or transmigration of souls: your father, dying, may "jump up whitefellow," or be changed into a kangaroo, an emu, an eagle, or a dingo--mayhap even an ant. One of the natives was named the equivalent for kangaroo, with something tacked to it. Wherefore he must never taste kangaroo flesh. It has been written somewhere:--"Australian natives are treacherous. You should never in the bush let one walk behind you. Keep him always in front." A bushman told me that was altogether wrong advice. "If you have any cause to be suspicious of a nigger's intentions," he said, "keep him behind you, and well out of sight at that--even if you have to hit him on the head with a waddy to make him stay there." This authority was rather violently disposed towards the natives, whom, _inter alia_, he charged with the atrocious crime of having once kidnapped a dog of his. "If anyone of them starts giving you back answers," said he, "to shoot is about the only way to make quite sure about that one. It's fine," and he laughed, "to see the beggar's jump." He assured me he had, on occasion, known 'em to jump as high as seven feet. * * * * From Kelly's Well the 32 miles to Tennant's Creek provided the best stretch of cycling ground for many a day. The soil was of a firm loamy nature, covered in places with gravelly quartz and ironstone. The first part was over level ground timbered with mulga and box, and with not a hill in sight anywhere to east or west; but at about 20 miles some low flat-topped scattered rises appear, and then, at 26 miles, the McDonnell Ranges. Here ironstone and quartz veins outcrop, and colors of gold are found in many of the gullies. An excellent track continues on and over the range (which is not a high one) and then level country again spreads out. * * * * I had eaten breakfast at Kelly's well; but one meal, or a second does not long suffice, for a man who has been for days hungry. Tissues get eaten away, and it takes days--nay, perhaps weeks--of substantial feeding before the loss can be made up and the used tissues replaced or replenished. At Tennant's Creek, during the many days I remained at the telegraph station, I could eat almost continuously. My happiest thoughts were centered around the dinner table, and there was a savage delight in the partaking of every meal. At many of those stations I was ashamed of my appetite. Everywhere I was apologising (needlessly of course) because of this unnatural-seeming craving for food which for days possessed me. And it appeared so extraordinary to see people sit down to a viand-loaded table and eat only a little. And that, too, without much apparent enjoyment! When a fellow finds he has eaten much more than two others together, at the same table, he is apt to be backward in asking for more; and, perhaps, therefore it was that often when the time had arrived to get up from a meal I felt reluctant to leave without taking what remained of the joint with me. * * * * The telegraph station at Tennant's Creek is, in outward appearance, like a substantial stone farmhouse, and is situated out on the plains 3 or 4 miles past the foot of the McDonnell Range. There is a main building, three-roomed. One of these is used as a harness room; there are several small cottages and sheds; and a large stockyard is at no great distance away. In the Creek, about a quarter of a mile from the station there are some nearly permanent waterholes, and a freshwater well is sunk on its nearer bank. Close by this well is a bath-house, and a vegetable garden--adjuncts, these latter, of all the telegraph stations. As at the other stations also, cattle and sheep, horses and milch cows are kept and attended to or shepherded by blackfellows. Located here was, in addition to the officer in charge (whom I had often heard spoken of, always in terms of high praise and respect, down Alice Springs way), an assistant (operator), a white man cook, and one other white employee, this last generally useful hand. * * * * As I have already stated, I had very often straightened out the rat-trap pedal cross-bars of the bicycle. The unavoidable stumps, small ant-hills and prostrate telegraph-pole ends, _et hoc_, had bent them inwards frequently; and as one of the four exhibited signs of the very rough usage to which it had by this time been subjected, the handy man obliged me by taking it out altogether and replacing it with an exact counterpart of one of the less marked ones--a substitution effected as neatly as if one of the most expert of cycle-repairing shop hands had been the craftsman. Of this trifling alteration, which was in no way necessary, I have paused to write, for the triple purpose of giving acknowledgment to the ability of the workman, and of remarking that after all the rough usage to which it had been subjected, the bicycle still continued to look almost as if just from the shop window (in reality it was better than new, since it had been tested and proven), and, thirdly, of making for myself opportunity to say that, notwithstanding the many haul knocks it received after leaving Tennant's Creek, it yet kept in that excellent condition which was my pride to the very last moment I had use for it. * * * * Having no wish for a recurrence of those hungering qualms which had been felt before arriving there, I departed from Tennant's Creek loaded up with all the provisions I could conveniently or otherwise stow away inside and out, and proceeded for 33 miles over ground which in places was fair, but which for its greater part was rather sandy for cycling over, to water and a camp, at one of the Hayward Creek branches, of which there were three to be crossed. The route was waterless between Tennant's and this creek, although Phillip's Creek was met with at 21 miles, and the Gibson at 27; also several low hill-ranges were passed through. An excellent sketch plan of the route had been made out for me at the telegraph station by the exceedingly obliging officer in charge there and his assistant; nevertheless, there were so many creeks to be crossed and, as it seemed to me re-crossed, that almost before the first day was over I continually doubted which of them was the particular one I was next coming to or had last left behind. This doubt, however, did not exist on arriving the following day at Attack Creek, some 12 miles on from the Hayward, because of the beautiful sheet of clear fresh water which existed in it. This Attack Creek is deep, and its sides are fringed with giant gum trees. It is not wide; but the nearly permanent sheet of water when I passed there, was fully a quarter of a mile in length between the banks. There is a solitary grave away up from the crossing; and, again, after passing the Morphett (10 miles on), is the last resting place of a traveller who, a couple of years back, when dying of thirst, attempted unsuccessfully to so damage the telegraph line as to attract to the spot a repairing party. Not every man can climb a telegraph pole; and one cannot cut or undo stout and firmly fastened wires with one's teeth. Near the Morphett Creek a narrow pad branches off to the west of the telegraph line, loops out to the headquarters of a very seldom heard of cattle station, and proceeding thence, rejoins the line track at about 35 miles south of Powell's Creek. One may keep nearer to the telegraph line and travel _via_ Kuerschner Ponds; but against going that way I had been advised. The track was said to be very rough. Nevertheless the straight-ahead road might be the better for cycling. The good people of these parts do not regard tracks or the cyclist's eyes. It has often been recommended to me to turn off at certain places from "hard gritty rises" on to where the track runs over "nice soft flats." Of course the flats were found in such places to be well grassed and suitable for travelling mobs of cattle, whereas the gritty rises (some, good cycling) invariably were barren or spinifex-covered. Right up almost from Tennant's Creek to the re-junction spoken of, the 88 miles stretch of country is of a very unkindly nature, for the stranger, anyway. The supplies which are annually sent to the various telegraph stations are forwarded only as far as Tennant's Creek from the south; down as far as Powell's, they come from Palmerston. The intervening distance (from Tennant's to Powell's, 123 miles), does not therefore bear those evidences of traffic which are distinguishable between most of the other stations. * * * * This lack of clear guiding marks is most troublesome about the stony creeks, whether there be water in them or not. When a waterhole has been reached it is not always easy to pick up the track on the other side. In many cases there is no pad at all visible to the unaccustomed eye, as cattle and horses spread out on approaching water, wander aimlessly awhile after drinking, and destroy all traces of a particularly beaten path, as not until long after leaving do they "string" again. At waterholes, too, (and these remarks apply to many watering places higher up the road) the track is so "freaky." From one hole full or dry, you must pass straight on; from another, the track may take a sudden bend to the east or the west; at still another, the pad does not pass the water, but, after leading to it, forms with the pad going out, more or less of a V; while at a fourth, you have to double back for some distance on the pad by which you entered. When the grass is high and the track not clear, or where many paths lead out from, where one finds oneself, as it were, "cornered," and when one does not know whether the follow-on section of his road runs northerly, easterly, or westerly, one is liable to feel--well, uncomfortable. As cattle had been lately running in some parts of the country in this stage, between Tennant's and Powell's Creeks, the main pad, if there be one at all, was cut into in places by better beaten ones, and in other places there were such puzzling branches that the non-bushman traveller might be just as likely to follow up the wrong one as the right. How it may be with the expert bushman, I do not know. Before reaching the cattle station (known as Bankabanka, I believe; there was no one at home except a few blackfellows and lubras, who greatly enjoyed the sight of a so ragged a whitefeller and the bicycle, but who were a very inoffensive lot of people), I was so fortunate as to come upon a couple of horsemen; and in their company I was glad to "spell" awhile. Valuable directions also were obtained about those pads ahead which led out and in again to the telegraph line, and I had word, too, of a mob of sheep in charge of a white man, who, by this time, was expected to be camped somewhere between the station and the line. After a day's travelling away from the cattle station, first over an expansive, luxuriantly-grassed plain on which not a tree was to be seen for many miles, and then into and through rough, rugged ranges, I reached the waterhole on which the sheep were camped, and spent there a happy night, eating and thinking of the fresh mutton, cake, and other acceptable novelties with which the gentlemanly drover-boss plied and supplied me. Referring to my note-book, I make out the following random jottings:--"The mulga has disappeared. The prevailing trees appear to me to be dwarfed, stunted gums; whether in truth they are properly gums or box, or peppermint, or what--I cannot tell; but they are clearly of the Eucalyptus family. Nearly all white-stemmed, and averaging from 20 to 30 feet in height. The yellow blossoms of a wattle bush relieve the lower but never thickly growing scrub. Extensive belts of spinifex; and, on less sandy soil, and about the creeks, many flats covered with long spear grass. This grass is over six feet high--a continual source of annoyance, as now is the time to catch the falling seeds; sharp pointed things these, which wriggle and twist about in one's clothes, until they enter so far that a fellow has to stop and pull them out of the various parts of him. Further north, the people tell me, this spear grass grows to a height of 12 feet (and over that; but 12 feet is tall enough for me), with worrying seeds of proportionate size. Have torn my handkerchief in two and wrapped a half around the extremity of each pyjama leg to prevent the obnoxious things accumulating around my ankles. "Much walking--sand. Riding northerly; the cross shadows before and after midday add to the already many risks. And the pads are so narrow; branches of trees and bushes hit the face; often an eye-lash from an eye. Find myself at morning time or evening dismounting hurriedly to lead the bicycle over the shadow of a branch which I mistook for substance, and a minute after, running full tilt into a log which I had mistaken for a harmless shadow." "Stony hills, small creeks, and grassed flats" was the order of the day on which I again struck the telegraph line; and along by that the track was both distinct and fair "going" passing between low hills to Renner Springs. Glazed pebbles and agates (of no value except as curios) were thickly scattered on the hill-tops and at the foot of the various rises for some distance. * * * * Where the pad led on to the line-track two natives were walking on ahead. On turning and seeing me they only backed a little from the twelve inches of highway, and looked astonished. I pulled up to interview them--or it may be I trembled so much with terror that I was unable to continue riding. Two very good specimens, these. Well set up and picturesquely ornamented with many cicatrices rising across the breasts and arms. One was able to speak comprehensibly; the other wore feathers in his hair, and looked from head to foot an unsophisticated savage, reminiscent of a Fenimore Cooper's Injun fresh starting on the war trail and bent fixedly on acquiring somebody's "skelp" for his wigwam. As it was, I daresay he was out on a hunt after bandicoots for his dinner. After inquiring the distance to Renner Springs--which I knew to be about 15 miles--and getting the usually precise information "long way," from the one, I asked politely of the other what his name might perchance be. But he did not answer; and the spokesman, in explanation of this silence, probably, told me, "Him German blackfellow." Ha! here was a discovery. The "Made in Germany" grievance had invaded the north-central Australian tribes! "Sprecken sie Deutch, herr blackfellow?" He condescended to give me the disrespectful-sounding monosyllable "Yah!" Now this was a serious quandary. I had used up all my German that seemed suitable for the occasion. I struggled with memory for a few moments. Ah, yes! "Hast die das Schloss?" He shook his head, and said, "Er," in disgust. Beyond this I could not go. It was, perhaps, just as well. Later on I knew what "German blackfellow" meant. When a white man can't make himself understood the 'bout camp black (who knows _he_ speaks pure English) says, disdainfully:--"What 'im pfeller talk? 'Im German, me tink it." So it comes about that the "German blackfellow," is the blackfellow who no speak it Inglis--the "myall," the wild-fellow. * * * * Having cycled what I counted on as being the 15 miles, and while yet looking ahead expecting at any moment to catch sight of the Renner Springs station buildings, I was surprised to hear much shouting and many strange cries. A ridge chain ran parallel with the track, a quarter of a mile off, on my left-hand side; and in the bushes a little way out from this a dozen or more wurlies had been erected. From the vicinity of these wurlies scores of natives were now pouring, laughing, screaming, and yelling to each other to hurry up and see the circus. They had observed me before I had sighted them and were running towards a bend in the road ahead of me. I slowed down; and as they were so considerate as to hoot back their yelping dogs, and as the pedalling operation appeared to divert them hugely (I believe they had never witnessed anything half so funny in their lives before), I stopped when part way along the line they formed to give them a better chance of satisfying to its full their very patent curiosity. Those who had collected were of all sizes and ages, and most of them had left home so very hurriedly that they had quite forgotten to put on their "ulsters." But there were no females in the assembly. Here (and likewise back at the Stirling) I notice the lubras come but a very short distance from their wurlies, near which they remained standing--screaming during the first few minutes of the excitement with delight, and, I think, calling the dogs back. Not from anyone of the crowd, for whose edification I spun the wheels round, could I get a word of white-fellow lingo; and all I have by which to remember my futile attempts at a conversation is a note written on the spot to the effect that they, in common with other of the natives whom I had met "laughed in fairly good English." * * * * The first beholding of adult blackfellows and blackfellowesses naked, may be slightly shocking to sensitive nerves. An uncomfortable, uneasy feeling will probably be induced. But this creepiness soon passes, and one comes to either look upon or pass unnoticed the ungarbed blackfellow (and later on the average lubra), as he might the apes and monkeys in a zoological gardens. Some of the habits of those animals are theirs, too; when collected and watched awhile it will for evermore "go without saying" to the observer that they are natural-born hunters. They have no thought for the things of the morrow, but they consider the birds of the air and how they shall catch them. The youths are adepts in the art of stone throwing; lubras, though, are by far the better hands. They ask not for money as wages--only "tucka," "toombacca," or "bacca," and "ole clo." One of them in a quiet confidential chat gave it as his opinion--"White fella big one fool; him _work_ all the time!" I explained how it might be: the whitefellow worked to save up money with which to purchase leisure in his old age--"all the same sleep all day _then_," I explained. After ruminating--"Why not him sleep all day along-a _now_?" he asked puzzled. And so puzzled me. * * * * Sometimes there is a charm in the simplicity of their "English." "That one big fool hoss," remarked a blackboy, referring to an animal which, instead of remaining near and feeding, had a tiresome habit of travelling afar off when hobbled out of an evening--"every day him walk about all night." This boy had seen a kangaroo close by the camp, and made an observation to that effect to his employer,--thinking probably the latter would like to have a shot at it. "What sort of kangaroo; Big fellow?" "N-o," came the answer slowly, "not big pella." "Little fellow, then?" by way of suggestion. "N-o," still the reply, "not little pella." "Well what size was it?" impatiently. "Lee-tle bit big pella." It is fellow, fella, pfellow, pfeller, pfella, pella according to the pliancy of the talker's tongue. Renner Springs is the name of a cattle station situated on the edge of a wide belt of table lands (and downs country as it is called), which stretches away eastward with hardly a break to Queensland. It is about 20 miles south of Powell's Creek. One white man only resided there. A chinaman cook is employed, and blacks do all the station work. Although not good for cycling over, most of the land between Tennants Creek and here seemed to me to be well suited for pastoral purposes. Near the small homestead are several springs--circular ponds of clear drinkable water, occurring out on the flat; but along the line of an adjacent quartzite and--sandstone ridge, one overflows, is fenced in, and serves to irrigate a garden by means of the trenches in which the water is continually running. On leaving the garden what remains unabsorbed of the water (which on coming to the surface has a temperature of 95°), is soon lost again in the sand. At Renner's there was the usual cordial invitation to eat, and the equally usual "Thanks--many thanks, yes." The blacks, the manager said, had during the past few days been gathering from all quarters for the purpose of holding a big corroboree, and the number in camp was being added to hourly. The first part of the twenty miles or thereabouts to Powell's Creek consisted of sandy flats between the usual low hills; and for the rest the track kept on fairly hard ground between and over the hills of various small ranges. Natives must have been about in great numbers, yet I saw none for some time after leaving Renner Springs. Stopping to make a note of something, and looking back, I was surprised to see a thin column of smoke ascending from a hillock which I had passed within the last quarter of a mile. Stopping again, further on, I observed the same thing had "again" occurred, and wondered if there was any truth in the smoke-signalling theory, and, if so, what did these present signals convey. I missed a turn-off track at about 15 miles from Renner Springs, and, keeping close to the telegraph line, did some very rough hill-climbing. An hour or two's slow travelling, however, brought me first to Powell's Creek itself, and then, all safe but more clothes-torn, out through a gap in the ranges, immediately behind the telegraph station. * * * * The main buildings at Powell's Creek are of stone, with galvanized iron roofing; and, when taken together, form two sides of a square. The operating room, with two other rooms (officer's dwelling) are under the one roof; a wide verandah, bedecked with potted flowering-shrubs and faced with lattice-work, overgrown with evergreen climbing plants, runs along the front and at each end. At a right-angle, but separated from the more imposing structure by a distance of about one chain is a row of stone-walled cottages--stores and sleeping apartments, and other necessary offices; and a vegetable garden. With the exception of the gums which grow thickly in the rich ground on the banks of the creek, there are no neighbouring trees of any great height. The telegraph station itself is in a fork of the creek. In the stone walls of one of the cottages are several portholes--reminders of other days, when the natives were troublesome. To-day the blacks would be almost as likely to wage war on the citizens of Adelaide as to attack the inmates of one of those telegraph stations. An enthusiastic cyclist (but minus a bicycle) was stationed, as assistant, at Powell's Creek. An amateur photographer also in same person, equipped, too with a camera; and during the several days I remained, several excellent photos of the bicycle were taken--some with a lubra or a blackboy "up." My boots were mended with copper wire; and my cleaner pair of pyjamas (kept in reserve and put on in any sheltering clump of bushes or behind a hid-tree, immediately on sighting telegraph or other station buildings) were minus half a leg. Further, I gave them here, as I did people everywhere, to understand I was a nobody--one of whom they probably never again would hear anything more. Yet I was received as courteously, and welcomed as cordially, as if I had been an influential politician or a titled governor's son. * * * * From Powell's Creek it is but 54 miles to Newcastle Waters homestead. The road from the telegraph station to Lawson's Creek (26 miles) runs mostly either alongside or over low spurs and branches of the Ashburton Range, with occasional stretches of sand and clay flats. When cycling through range country I have nearly always found the track, where track there was, fair for riding on; and there is ever a bright novelty in the panoramic changes. Any sort of surface, in fact, in preference to sand. * * * * Before reaching the Lawson (where I camped for a night) I obtained a splendid view of an extensive sheet of water, lying away from the track, about three miles to the west. So very small was my knowledge of the country that I had not the remotest idea of this vast reservoir's existence. Yet Lake Woods is a permanent fresh-water lake, with a circumference of between 80 and 90 miles. It is fed from the north by the Newcastle River, and by the annually-flooded flats which drain into that, at times, noble stream. The lake is bordered to the water's edge with heavy timber, and the country everywhere in its vicinity grows abundance of the best stock grasses--Mitchell and Flinders chiefly. The timber is mostly box; but among the lower trees are a pea-bearing plant and other bushes which cattle dearly love. Native companions, ducks and wild fowl of many varieties gather, too, in uncountable numbers in the bays and long-reaching arms of this magnificent lake. * * * * From Lawson's Creek up to Newcastle Waters station (28 miles) and thence for 15 miles beyond, is some grand grazing country, carrying mobs of the sleek and most healthy-looking cattle that ever delighted an owner's eyes. But I cannot speak in like terms of praise about the roads. Here is a note from my directions for this stage: "From the Lawson to Sandy Creek is 6 miles. Mostly rough. Rough also to the bend in the line about three miles on. Kept along the line from Lawson's to the bend. About a mile north of Sandy Creek water can be had by going across to the Newcastle Creek (running north and south)--about ¾ or 1 mile westward. The bend to Pole Camp Shackle, about 8 miles. Water might be to the left, perhaps a mile; follow pad or tracks into it. The Shackle to Newcastle Station 12 miles." * * * * In this stretch (28 miles), I had the first experience worth noticing, of that "Bay of Biscay" formation of which much had been heard. And what there was of it was rough on bike and rider. Undeniably so. Where "Bay of Biscay" ground occurs, the soil is generally a blue-black clay--a pug-mixture of silt and decomposed vegetable matter--which the roots of a thick and wiry blue-grass hold firmly lumped together. Either that, or the loose stuff between lumps of stone-hard pug is periodically washed away, and in the process holes are formed of varying depths. Anyway, the surface is rough as the Bay of Biscay--which is the explanation of the term, I suppose. Where it is met with, the country is flat and subject to heavy floodings; and so it follows that in the rainy seasons those Bay of Biscay plains are converted into shallow, muddy lagoons or impassable lakes. After the water has evaporated or drained off, and until a pad has been worn through, the journeying over these wretched tracts is so unavoidably jolting and chin-choppy that (so 'tis said) horsemen dismount or stop and loll in their saddles, every hundred yards or so, to rest until their aching jaws and bones re-set and the kinks straighten out of their spinal columns. Walking or cycling over it is as pleasant as walking or cycling up and down a stairway, with the stairs of unequal height and width, blindfolded or in the dark. * * * * The Lawson Creek rises in the ranges east of the track, and, cutting the road at right angles, flows into Lake Woods just below the mouth of the Newcastle. This latter creek then, coming from the north, is seen at intervals away to the west; and--a strongly running river for months in some rainy seasons--contained, when I passed along, a chain of wide lagoons and lengthy waterholes between its thickly timbered banks. The water is quite white; not thick, but milky in appearance, a minute quantity of clay or silt being held in suspension. Nevertheless one could hardly wish for more palatable drinking water. But with its peculiar color it is wasted here. A dairyman, now, would go into raptures over it. Indeed, the country about here, what with the excellent pasturage and the abundance of water, was strongly suggestive of overflowing milk pails. The road crosses the Newcastle Creek before the cattle station, a couple of chains up from the north-westerly bank, is reached; and a very large waterhole (from which, with a well to fall back upon, the station gets its supply) is close by the crossing place. I had seen many smokes since leaving Powell's Creek, but had not caught sight of any of the natives. To this waterhole, however, had just come in some ten or a dozen weedy ones; but interest in their kind was on the wane, and I gave them scant attention. * * * * A Chinaman--for we are entering the land of the Chinaman now--was in charge at the Newcastle. A "colonial experience" gentleman was there, but he was on the sick list. Three or four valuable dogs were chained to box kennels around the homestead. In case the blacks showed signs of becoming troublesome, all the person in charge had to do was to unloose one of those dogs, and no blackfellow could come within two miles of the place. Possibly no other fellow either. The two managers, brothers, were absent; but I had had full permission to "make myself at home at Newcastle waters" from one of them--I had met him travelling southwards between Tennant's and Powell's Creeks, and, as I said, had been generously treated by him. The buildings, of which there are perhaps half-a-dozen--store, kitchen, men's sleeping room, manager's dwelling and others, as well as sheds--had all been designed and erected with an eye to use rather than to ornament. A garden close by is tendered to by a very civil Chinaman, I noticed only one blackfellow about the place. Here I spent two happy days, eating, sleeping, writing and reading; taking no account of the time, absolutely unconscious of day or date, nor troubling about such inconsequential matters; I was right, the bike was right, so all was right as right could be. Leaving the station, the creek must be re-crossed to get to the track which runs northwards to Daly Waters (82 miles). To this track the thoughtful Chinaman ordered the station blackfellow to lead me--thoughtful, because the maze of tracks and pads _was_ slightly bewildering. Here for once was the yellow man superior over the black. But, ordinarily, there is no love lost between them. Each views the other with a magnificent contempt. To one of the blackboys in the service of a traveller, I said at nighttime, pointing to a place where someone, camping, had made a comfortable bed of dry grass, (the blackboy was peering around for a sleeping place.) "Why you not sleep over there Johnny?" "No fea," he replied; "Him Chinaman make it that one." Or he may have only meant that it was too luxurious. * * * * From Newcastle to Newcastle North (a waterhole in the "river,") is 8 or 9 miles; a very good and level road. From the waterhole the road continues for six miles through scrub, swamp, and box trees; and this was chiefly a stretch of silky clay, kneaded, when wet, by travelling cattle, and ruined for the cyclist's purpose. Bright green-leaved guttapercha trees are numerous along this portion of the route. The tree, or more properly bush, grows to a height of 15 or 20 feet; when a branch is broken, a thick milky substance exudes. Scratches made on one's hands or face by its thorny projections become very painful and take a long time to heal. * * * * At the end of the 15 miles from Newcastle station one suddenly finds oneself clear of the scrub, and, as it were, precipitated into Sturt's Bay of Biscay Plains. This arm of plain is 15 miles across; enough to make a cyclist feel sea-sick before getting half-way through. Towards the middle of the dry season a fairly level pad is beaten; and then the ride across could be done expeditiously and without much risk to man or mount. But that pad, although traceable, had not as yet been fashioned when I chanced to get there, and as much careful navigation was called for as is needed to steer a ship through the Bay of Biscay itself when in its most cantankerous mood. Having launched this frail barque upon this tempestuous sea (this is merely by way of variation), the voyager loses sight of land. Billows and blue grass everywhere, and not a drop to drink. One false step, and a broken neck or leg might follow. The look-out must be kept alert. To save the barque--or perhaps we had better come back to the continent and call it a bike--I had been doing a good deal of walking; and when 7 or 8 miles had been covered I sat down to rest and make a short note of the fact that neither a tree or a shrub was within range of vision, "although afar off, to the east, what is either a low range of hills (the Ashburton?) or a line of dense scrub can be traced." The note lengthened out, and it rambles on:--"I feel it more than ever to be almost an indictable offence (against its maker) to press a respectable bicycle into negotiating such an outrageous track. Where's the telegraph line? As usual, I dunno. But no matter. This is the road right enough. Cut the telegraph wire? As soon think of cutting---- "What a sheet of water must be here when this plain is covered! Besides being 'Biscay'--lumped clay--this ground is fissured--long slits and crevices, from an inch to four or five inches wide.... Sky overcast.... "Been thinking what a mess I'd be in if a downpour of rain comes on before I could get out of this. In a few minutes all the ground would be impassable--20 miles or so of black stickphast. Bad for D (Diamond); bad for me." The note was unfinished. I stowed the book, picked up my ever-sparkling Diamond (for I had spent many a half hour in brightening it), and vaulted into the saddle as the hind wheel was going to bump. There was a moment's strain and doubt as to whether the bicycle could be upright as the wheel endeavoured to climb out of the abyss, then we were off bump, bump, bump, kangaroo-fashion. There was a reason for this unusual haste--a heavy black mass away back on the southerly horizon. The clouds overhead, too, were moving up fast from that direction; and as these ominous signs to me betokened the quick occurrence of that dreaded rain-- On, Diamond, on! * * * * The clouds held back, and I was industriously persuading myself that they were only smoke, when out of the treacherous 'Biscay' we passed unharmed, Diamond and I, through a narrow opening in an apparently never-ending and sharply-defined wall of thickly-packed tropical vegetation, of glistening leafy trees and trailing plants, bright flowers and rank undergrowth. Fifteen anxious miles of bumpy, desolate, barren wretchedness, and now, all suddenly, a cyclist's paradise, dense foliage and deep shade, with a winding track, hard and level and strewn with ironstone gravel. A fairy land; and fairy fingers pulled hard upon the wheels and stopped them. Then, as in some delightful dream, I led Diamond to a hedgewood tree, and stood stock still to drink in the melody--silent melody; for there was no sound to woo the eyes from the feast of tropic beauty. And, drinking, I tingled with delight, and gloated on this prodigal glory in form and color as a miser might in secret upon his piled-up hoards of gold. O marvellous Nature, supreme master-artist, what human brain could conceive so glorious a transformation scene--so swift, so entrancing, so unexpected! But the wheels spin again, yet slowly; for the change may come at any moment, and I dawdled to stretch the sweetness out. * * * * Bluegrass and open space appeared too soon. But the fit of depression was a thing of a moment; for around the little flat were large box-trees thickly clustered; and, on the further side, majestic leafy coolabahs fringed a reservoir carved by the hand of nature in the rock and clay, and capable of holding three or four million gallons of water; fairly open on the side from which I approached, but on the other sides walled in by a tangled growth of well-nigh impenetrable scrub and brush and forest tree. The coolabahs threw deep shadows on the carpet of soft grass spread upon the open side; and in this romantic spot--were six or eight confounded Chinamen! * * * * Occasional parties of celestials, equipped with guns, horses, and provisions, make across from about here to Queensland, to evade the poll tax. Along by many cattle stations to Camooweal, a border-town, is the favored route. As Camooweal is far away from anywhere else, the expense of carting the Chinamen back to whence they came would be too great; and if imprisoned for a short term, when they first arrive--well, they have arrived anyhow. A party of Chinamen are considered to have done well if half of those who set out for Camooweal ever see it. The blacks knock over a lot; several always drop by the way, and nobody troubles much about them or their misfortunes. The present gathering had with them three horses. These they did not ride, but loaded them with provisions and necessaries, and, walking beside them, led them along. Deciding to camp at Frew's Ironstone Ponds (the reservoir is 36 miles from Newcastle), I chose a place among the coolabahs, and walked over to the Chinamen. "Good day." It was a feeler. "No savee." Taking out a florin (the only silver coin I had), I said to him, whose smile was blandest, "You got it flour?" pointing to a small bag of it. "You bake it Johnny cake, so big," I drew a small circle on the ground and laid the two-shilling-piece within the circle. The yellow man's smile broadened at sight of the white money. He knew something of English. He said, "Welly goo." So, happy in the certainty of having fresh baked bread for supper, I, leaving them, proceeded to make my primitive wash-basin preparations, and had a bath. Before sundown, the Chinamen had shot a great number of the ducks with which the surface of the waterhole (in common with most of the others along the track, by the way) was swarming. And one of them, at supper time, came over and presented me with an only three-parts empty tin of jam--a small tin. May he have escaped both niggers and imprisonment? * * * * Often o' nights, as here at this romantic camping place, there came to me the clear realization of what would be the consequence of a disabling accident. There were no means that I could see of getting out from places in this country for months if my machine smashed up. I was a nobody--had neither wealth nor influence at my back, and would be powerless to do anything or get people to do anything for me. And suppose I did get to a telegraph or other station. Is it a couple of riding and pack horses, with saddles, packs, and provisions all on, and a black boy, you would throw at the head of a stranger cyclist who had been warned against coming your way, yet who arrives--only to break down at your door? I would be a nuisance to myself and everyone else around the place I reached, and to all who had associated their names in any way with mine. Ugh? The situation would be unbearably horrible. And the prospect! When the time came, and I was given the chance to go north or south, what a prospect loomed either way before me! If the bike broke down, I would have made but very little exertion indeed to get out into the world at either end. Why should I, even if an opportunity of doing so soon presented itself--out into where the crooked finger of derisive "I told him so" would evermore be mockingly bent towards me? Why should I, when I could lie down and remain, quite comfortably, and in peace, at the side of the first waterhole I should come upon! When a fellow gets into the habit of lying awake o' nights out in the open, gazing upwards at the starlit sky, and thinking dreamily of what lies beyond, he is--at least some of him are--liable to become more or less desirous of satisfying the curiosity such ruminations excites. The stars twinkle as if they were all quite happy. If one could only be quite sure.--But I'd rather chance that than face the other certainty. I would cut no telegraph wire; would trouble no station people or anyone else. And so I comforted myself, and slept well. * * * * On leaving Frew's beautiful pond early in the morning, the road leading to Daly Waters (55 miles) was assured by the Chinamen's tracks. Remarkable tracks these--left by flat oblong pieces of wood with which each traveller was sandal-shod. The road from the pond, still strewn with ironstone-gravel, immediately entered the forest, where of the sky little was to be seen except a narrow strip overhead. A short strip this, too, for the road wound now to the west, now away to the east, or, again, ran northwards. And so light-heartedly I wheeled through the morning's shadows, between two walls of forest trees, and over or around logs and branches of fallen ones, for 17 miles. Then came three miles of dangerous "Bay of Biscay" ground; then five miles of still treacherous track, on which were many patches of "Biscay holes" and lengths of fallen timber; and then again the jungle, and so to Daly Waters. Besides the higher trees, a heavy undergrowth, and many kinds of grass flanked either side. The trees were in great variety--bloodwood, ironwood, lancewood, coolabah, bauhinia, hedgewood, whipcord tree and quinine tree. Added to these, a bush known as the water wattle, a native orange, and a turpentine bush; and, for aught I know, a dozen others. I passed through an extensive belt of tall, and remarkably straight trees, growing very close together. The trunks were branchless for a long way up, 25 feet of clear stem being not uncommon. To this very respectable forest tree there had been given the name of mulga, a misnomer truly, judged by the standards of the south. But of them all the most to be admired had a stem, straight and slender, 30 feet or more in height, leafless; but bearing on every branch large numbers of a bright red flower, in shape, resembling very much the fuchsia! And of flowers there are not many on the Overland. From the MacDonnell Ranges, right up to Powell's Creek, my only "button hole," was a large bell-shaped, blue flower, growing on a bush about 3 feet in height; but, Diamond, I bedecked with yellow wattle blossom wherever it could be got. Beyond Daly Waters, a little round flower, like a "billy-button"--white, blood-red or variegated--replaced the larger, and more quickly, withering blue-bell. * * * * This day, like every other day up there, was "blazing" hot. Parts of the road, too, were unsafe; and my waterbag, from being knocked about, and worn thin in places, allowed the water to evaporate quickly (truth to tell, I had soon drunk it all rather than have this occur), and a stretch of 35 miles had to be cycled over before more was got. Yet, notwithstanding these things, the ride from Frew's to Daly Waters, all through dense forest, lingers in my memory as making one of the most enjoyable day's cycling I ever had. * * * * The feeling of loneliness had to a great extent worn off. I had, it may be, become inured to it. Still, the change of scene and country was so marked and impressive that often throughout the ride, in the lasting gloom and shadow of countless solemn giant trees, encompassed by a penetrating solitude, I experienced again those indescribable sensations to which I had not been for many a day susceptible--mystic sensations of a hushed expectant awe as in the presence of a something living, breathing, but unseen, intangible. As I passed by I glanced into an opening, or looked far back between the trunks where trees were scattered--and it seemed to me so very strange that nothing should be moving there! Yet this sense of being alone with throbbing nature--the hidden influence--was not by any means unhappy. It was a restful feeling--a feeling of peacefulness, as though one had awakened from a long, long sleep, to find oneself in a calm and weird existence somewhere beyond the state of life: a borderland arrived at after death. And the toil and turmoil of existence in the world which had been left behind, viewed from the distance, appeared now to be so very purposeless; its work-a-day prosaic rounds and its confinement so very galling; its dead-sea-apple pleasures so few and short-lived; its miseries, so many and enduring; the worth of it all so very little that the consciousness of having to again return to it was as a jarring note. And in the vast immensity of towering forest the thought of quiet Death was no unwelcome one. I realised so clearly what an insignificant atom this was which moved through it, as an ant might--so insignificant that, had the certain prospect of the atom's end appeared, for anyone to fuss or mourn over such a trivial incident as that death would be, seemed extravagant, as absurd as to mourn the withering of a blade of grass or the falling of a leaf. In this land of forest, and quiet, and vastness, the silence, if it be given a thought, is so profound, so unnatural, that memories of some night in childhood come back to mind--some dark, still night through whose long hours the child waited alone in a roomy house, hushed with bated breath, and "fancied things." * * * * About mid-day I arrived at water--probably The Burt; a shallow, clayey creek. After drinking, and whilst the quart-pot boiled, I put in the time carving my name on the trunk of a gum-tree overhanging the waterhole. I was not sure about the date, but cut one in. High grass grew on that bank of the creek on which I stopped--grass high enough to cover and shade the bicycle which, when I pushed it in, stood nearly upright against the finger-thick blades. A smoke was rising down the creek; and when my opposition cloud was raised an inquisitive black female hove in sight. When first observed, she was on the far side of the watercourse, peeping from behind some bushes; but a minute afterwards she came out into full view. My first impulse was to call her over. Then I wondered how she would act if I remained silent. So I pretended not to be aware of her presence, and went on with the letter-forming. The lubra stood still for a moment, irresolute; then she advanced slowly, keeping a little way out from the creek, and passed me before she crossed. To keep her in sight I had need to turn but very slightly. On seeing her step down into the creek's bed I took pains to keep my back to her. Presumably she was unable to satisfactorily explain away the mien of deep preoccupation so ostentatiously displayed. At any rate she came very close, looked on from behind as I worked, and once coughed, or "hem'd" aboriginally. And still I obstinately continued deaf. She had a becomingly dirty bone stuck horizontally through her broad nose, and for the rest was fashionably dressed in a dog's-tooth necklace. At last she touched me on the shoulder. At this I faced sharply around and stared with a look intended to convey blank astonishment. She giggled; but there was a tinge of uneasiness or uncertainty about the giggle; then said "which way nanto?" Having gone so far with no idea of saying or doing anything in particular to the young woman, I now acted on the prompting of the moment--rushed from her suddenly into the long grass, collared the nanto, and rushed out with it. She screamed at my reappearance--or rather at the appearance of the prancing bicycle. Then turned and ran; and I ran the nanto after her. But shoving the bicycle handicapped me, and she out-distanced us easily. I stopped and called out to her to come back, but she wouldn't. I cried almost tearfully, "Angelina," but 'twas no use. I reckoned women were a class of people no fellow could understand, and walked sadly back to my lonely dinner--hour--for dinner I had little. From this waterhole I felt not the slightest of inclinations to go on. Had I brought with me from Newcastle sufficient food to last me out I might have camped there for a week. Finishing off my name plate leisurely (this was the only place at which I had so occupied myself), I ate what I had to eat, and smoked. And, smoking, I pondered deeply over the notion of making for the blacks' camp and trying to strike a bargain with the chief or elders of the tribe--that they should keep me well supplied with tucker for a week or so, and show me the lions in return for which I'd teach 'em to ride the bicycle at, say, two snakes a lesson, lubras half price. But I had been learning to ride myself one time and knew how strangely learner's legs get tangled up in spokes and other parts, a cyclist cannot cycle without. So I decided to go on. Having so decided, I yawned, called out despairingly for Angelina to come forth and see me off, waved my hand in the direction she would most likely be observing from, and made wheel tracks for Daly waters. * * * * Those tracks were formed but very slowly; for it had entered my mind that the end of my journey was approaching, and I knew not whether to be glad or sorry. I almost concluded to my own satisfaction that life would be almost worth living if at the end of it a fellow having arrived all alone at a weird undesecrated old forest like this should then mysteriously disappear. If he were to get away far back, and tread lightly in going, people might search for months and never find him; and there would be no ghosts of ghoulish undertakers or neighboring unsympathetic corpses to trouble his last sleep. But for myself I had no justifiable excuse for doing anything of that sort--so long as the bicycle didn't break down. Meditating thus, I came to still another large waterhole, surrounded on all sides by massive boulders of the now common brown and friable iron ore. A pretty spot indeed. Forest trees grew thickly around, except at one side, and there they were more scattered, and high grass and bushes lined that bank. The follow-on track was most uncertain, and half an hour was occupied in making sure of it. Having at length traced out the right pad, which went off again from the waterhole at a sharp angle, I strolled down to the water's edge and had a drink; then cracked up several pieces of the iron ore, but as they didn't look "kindly," gave up prospecting; next cooeed to try if there was an echo, but found there wasn't; had another drink, stretched myself out in a shady place, and, without having the slightest intention of doing so, fell asleep. On waking I looked at my watch. "The deuce!" I darted for the bicycle. Now where was the bicycle? The soil was hard white clay, yielding no foot-prints for a guide. Think fixedly as I might, I could not bring to mind where I had "planted" it. True, I could not think very fixedly. Too many disagreeable thoughts came crowding up. What a pretty ending to my journey this! My bicycle, it would almost seem, had carried into execution the little poetical thing in the way of existence-endings I had contemplated vaguely a while back--had wheeled itself out into the undesecrated old forest, and vanished from mortal ken. I found it--of course somewhere, and within half an hour. * * * * The watercourse this hole or pond was in, came into view occasionally until Daly Waters telegraph station was reached. _Ergo_ it must have been the Daly Creek. It, like all the watercourses beyond the Burt, has its fall towards the north to join the coastal rivers. _Ergo_, again, the country running northward from the Burt must have its fall towards the coast. The buildings at Daly Waters are on the south bank of the winding creek, and, being erected on piles, stand two feet or more above the ground--not, because of floods, though, for this bank is well above the plains but to mitigate the white ant evil. All the way up from the MacDonnell Ranges, ant-hills had ever figured more or less prominently. Oftentimes fantastically-shaped groupings of them had been mistaken for men or animals. They had been gradually increasing in average size, until here at Daly Waters, or a few miles on, they rose as high as the sag in the telegraph wire. It had already been told me that between Pine Creek (258 miles from Daly Waters) and Palmerston (146 miles still further on) the railway line in many places deviated to save the cost and labour of cutting through the ant-hills, so large and of such very tough material were they fashioned there. I was always very grateful for scraps of information like this. Daly Waters seemed nearly as good as the end of the journey; for at the Katherine River (only 190 miles on) there was a hotel, and this meant civilization and perhaps a township. At the telegraph station two or three days were spent. Residing there, besides the stationmaster, were an assistant, and a Chinaman cook. Many natives were camped in the neighborhood, and they, or occasionally a handy Chinaman, got the "odd jobs" of the station to do. Here, as at every other place of call, the tinkling of the meal bell fell on my ears sweetly as heavenly music. Music with words, too, learned from a blackfellow, who thus pithily interpreted the ringing--"Chow-chow, quick fella, come on now." * * * * The natives, of whom some were about the station have a faith in the professing medicine man, which, unless a limb be missing, often goes far towards making the patient whole. The "doctor" of a tribe will examine the afflicted one, diagnose the case, and find out where the pain is. There's bound to be something of a pain somewhere. Having made his arrangements preparatory to operating, he applies his mouth to the part--swelling or wound, or whatever it may be--makes a big show of sucking, tangles himself up somewhat in the practice of his profession--and draws out a lump of wood, or a stone, thus exhibiting tangible proof of the efficacy of his method of treatment. They put a little fire (live coals and a few pieces of dry wood, with the fired end towards the wind) at their heads of nights, so fearful are they of an evil spirit--a bogey man, of whom their grandmothers warned them when they were children. * * * * A native at one of the telegraph stations kindly pointed out to me two remarkable constellations, hitherto, doubtless, unheard of by our own astronomers. He interpreted them to be, one, a representation of the emu, the other, of course, of the kangaroo. And, why not? The natives should have their familiar animal groups of stars just as properly as had the ancients on other continents their Bears and Fishes. And both of those to which I have referred are "all there," safe enough--up in the heavens somewhere. * * * * This astronomer had been working steadily about the station for a matter of three or four months at a stretch, during which period he had shifted his residence a few dozen times, and had now taken it into his head that he would be all the better for a bit of holiday-making (from which, by the way, the natives generally return in a very lanky condition) away out among the smokes. He counted on being absent until the middle of the next following month, and informed the station master of that fact in these terms:--"This one moon tumble down. By-'n'-bye new pella moon jump up. Fust time picaninny. Lee-tle bit ole man--then come back." The expert understands this "yabber" instantly. * * * * There is a law of the Overland--an unwritten law, of course--regarding the camping of blacks at wells by which white men are gathered. At sundown one of the whites says to the blacks, "clear out, go to your camp," and indicates a locality for them to "clear out" to. Or one of them comes up and asks, "which way we camp to-night?" If they venture to put in an appearance again before sunrise--well, then, it is understood they can be up to no good, and, as trespassers, are duly "dealt with." * * * * The officer in charge at Daly Waters showed me many kindnesses; and as his business took him up the track I rode on and camped with him at some iron tanks near a dried-up waterhole known as The Ironstone, about 33 miles beyond the station. Between those tanks and the Elsey cattle station--77 miles--there are on the road two wells (from one of which, by the way, a man walked out to look up some horses about a year ago and has never been heard of since); and as the cattle station is approached several billy-bongs in or near the Elsey creek are met with. The country from the Daly to Elsey Station is nearly all low-lying and subjected to annual heavy floodings. The dangerous "Bay of Biscay" is come upon within a mile or two of the telegraph station, and extends northwards through Stewart's Swamp for about 30 miles. Thence the riding varies. There is a good deal of sand, with many long and short stretches of harder "crab-hole" ground, "gilguy," and "devil-devil." This last name is applied to clay, pure and simple, or silty soil similar to "Biscay," but with this difference, that in contracting after rains, in the quick-drying rays of fierce tropical suns it cracks, while the "Biscay" becomes distressingly bumpy. These cracks are as so many ever-set traps lying in wait for wheeled vehicles. The jaws of many of them would easily admit a waggon wheel. They run in all directions across the track and with it. To go slow is the cyclist's sure way of getting through without accident. "Gilguy" denotes small patches of mixed "Biscay" and "devil-devil" ground--possibly dried up clay pans. And "crab-holes" are roundish openings, like rabbit barrows, but going straight down in the soil. These "crab-holes" are the more dangerous ones for horsemen. Here and there one is warned to sheer off the pad by an uprising roughly-trimmed branch of tree or length of dry wood which some traveller has shoved in to mark a bad spot. The vegetation along the track is distinctly tropical. So also is the climate. And so both continue all the way to Palmerston. But I confess to disappointment with the arrangements in the forestry department. From Elsey upwards there were altogether too many trees of the Eucalyptus family. From Daly Waters to the Katherine (190 miles) are many and fine specimens of Ironwood, Ebony, Bloodwood and Currajong; but the prevailing tree--the one, at least, which from the track the passer-by will see most of--is the familiar Gum. * * * * The homestead buildings at Elsey Cattle Station (100 miles from Daly Waters) were, I thought, the most prettily situated group I had seen anywhere since--oh, years ago. The Elsey river winds its billabonged way in front and between the homestead. This is a garden in which anything that might be planted should be proud to grow. A beautiful reach of fresh water is a permanency in the river at this point, with the sweetly scented flowers of many water lilies ever floating gracefully upon its surface--a surface ruffled, as I at calm evening time gazed with admiration on the fair picture, by sharp splash and undulating widening circle, as a fish jumped now close to one bank now over at the other; or, again, where one had risen high up to a fly, or for amusement, in the centre. Little forests of pandannus palms overtopped by stately paperbarks or gum trees line the sides; and massive climber-laden trunks, or towering branches of giant tree growths, meet the eye wherever it be turned. Here also, along the chain of ponds and billabongs up and down the Elsey, is some of the most delightful scenery one could desire to look upon. Here, too, cotton grows naturally, making a brave show--bunches of pure white dotting the landscape, and touching off the vivid green of tropic bush, or thickly grouping in some wide space by themselves. The Paper-bark at once attracts the eye. A very large tree this. On the wettest day one has but to prize off a piece of the trunk's soft outer covering, and there is to his hand compressed--laminated, as mica--a hundred sheets of dry and easily-lighted coarse straw paper. The mimosa tree and the cabbage tree, as well as many other palms, likewise flourish in the favoured neighbourhood of the Elsey. In fact, Elsey, as it appeared to me, was a vast botanical garden; and at supper time, such a feast of sweet potatoes and other dainties were spread that sleep but tardily drove out the thoughts of them. A Chinaman cook had been speared here, in the manager's absence, about a fortnight before, and I thought the Chinaman who had replaced him, and who was now in charge (the manager being again absent) must be a fairly lucky man--for a Chinaman. And, above all, he cooked the sweet potatoes deliciously, and baked--oh! lovely cake. * * * * From the Elsey a stretch of 18 miles of sand (the timber is mostly gum trees) runs northwards; but this is to be avoided by taking the "new road," which bears in a more easterly direction. The track for part of the way to the Katherine was freshly marked, as a party of black trackers and a police trooper, having in charge two or three prisoners--natives, who had speared the Chinaman--had left the vicinity of the station only the day before my arrival there. From the excellent road-plan made out for me by the courteous officer at Daly Waters (he had, I think, every inch of the road in his mind's eye) I was able to make unhesitatingly into the various watering places. Nevertheless, there are one or two places on the Roper River and at the Esther Well which might puzzle one not so blest as I was. I overtook the police party after I had camped one night on the Stirling, at a waterhole in one of that creek's bends, about 40 miles from the Elsey; but after a very brief stoppage, proceeded on towards the Katherine. Of the prisoners I know nothing, and never heard of them again; but I was told they would be imprisoned, then quickly released, enrolled among the native police, and for evermore hold their heads high. "There is always an opening for men of spirit in the native police force," said one who ought to know. Give a nigger a rifle or revolver and he will shoot his fellow niggers--go out hunting after them if permitted--with the greatest of glee, readiness, and cheerful animosity. "You see wild blackfellow along track," more than one "civilised" philanthropist asked me. "Sometimes, I think," I have answered. At once has come an expectant, pleased expression to the questioner's face. "You shoot him all right?" has been asked in amusingly hopeful tone. * * * * The presence of a trooper with black trackers probably accounted for the scarcity of blackfellows along the road, but just after leaving the Esther Well, which is only 24 miles from the Katherine, I ran across two. They seemed though rather inclined to clear among the trees. Dismounting, I endeavoured to get some information from them about a turn off of which I was still doubtful; but they were too much interested in the bicycle to make what they would tell me very clear. Each carried a spear. One was headed with three wires--No. 6 gauge--fastened close together, and looked quite bad or good enough to permanently damage a Chinaman with. The effective end of the other one, a long bamboo, was fashioned out of one side of a square gin bottle. (Gin, by the way, is a favorite N.T. drink.) A very business-like weapon this was too. A slight scratch from it should be capable of inducing _delirium tremens_ in the veins of the staunchest teetotaler. * * * * From Daly waters, and at many places still farther south, the grass was for miles at a stretch so high that, mounted on the bicycle, I often could not see over the top of it. In front, at such times, was only a faint streak or hollow, where the top of the bending grass at either side of the narrow pad met. The pad itself, the ground on which I cycled, was not at such times visible--except when I dismounted and crept down into the strange narrow tunnel to have a reassuring look for or at it. When riding, a passage through was forced, or as it were, was ploughed open, which when the machine had passed closed up again as water would. It felt like being engulphed in ocean. I often fancied I was on the point of drowning, and sat bolt upright to take in a breath of the upper air. That was fancy; what I now say is not. At every few hundred yards, the thinner, shorter, wiry undergrowth of "blades" wound round and round the rear hub, until the roll becoming wide and high and tightly coiled, it acted as a brake twixt wheel and forks. They became entwined among the chain's links, and fastened themselves between the teeth on both the sprocket wheels, and so frequent stoppages were a necessity. This state of things lasts only to the end of May or June. The long, rank, useless grass, being an impediment to the progress of man and beast, is, as it dries, fired by passing travellers, and the second growth which then springs up, is short and sweet. The natives, too, set fire to it, as when it grows, they cannot see or track the game or animals they hunt for. Many patches had already been burned off, and the minute particles of black ash which overspread the ground, rose at the slightest touch, floated in the air, and begrimed the passer-by. Two very extensive fires faced me after parting from the natives at Esther Well. I had grown used to riding among smouldering embers, and with the grass or dry trees burning right and left; but the second of these fires was the biggest thing I had witnessed. After passing out of the first, and leaving one black, sky-obscuring wall behind, a mile or two's stretch of untouched grass and tropic bush and stunted gums was ridden on to. At the end of this arose a mighty pall of jet-black smoke, stretched out I knew not how far, with flame-jets glancing through. The whole country seemed ablaze. The land was overcast, the sky shrouded as if a fearful thunder storm was imminent. The smoke ascended and remained suspended, as might dark, heavy, threatening banks of cloud, and the fire at intervals leaped up and gleamed on this side or on that--a passable equivalent for lightning. It was a grandly impressive spectacle. But there were other considerations than the spectacular. I looked, a little uneasily, for an unlighted opening along the fast advancing line; and seeing such a gap between two trees where there was little else but sand, I hurried over--walking--and so passed through. A dozen steps in I stopped to look behind. The flames had already closed in! In front, far on as I could see, the stems or branches of dry standing trees were burning; and on the ink-black ground were smouldering heaps of tindery bush, or still-blazing fallen limbs. Thick strewn everywhere were the hot, and quickly blackening ashes of that tall grass which had been waving majestically in each breath of wind a few short moments since. Shouldering the bicycle I walked cautiously to where the pad showed still a narrow streak, yet offering a clear, narrow running space. As I walked--I speak without exaggeration--I now and again heard sweat drops, hiss and fizzle, as they fell on a burning log or some little grass-root heap. * * * * For five miles at a stretch this fresh-burnt ground continued. Tress stood out like torches all the way; and on the pad were many live coals of fallen timber. I dare not hurry, and often had to dismount and lift the bicycle over, because if my tyres blazed up I hadn't water to spare with which to put the Ixionic fire out. Nevertheless I did that five miles scorching. * * * * Out of the fire and into a frying-pan of hot sand ten miles long and unridable. Towards the end of the ten miles so many large boulders and long flat slabs of granite cropped up in the track that there was a danger of getting dizzy from rounding them; and these senseless outcroppings at the last became so numerous that a bye-track made a seven mile detour towards the Katherine. At that beautiful river I arrived, after a hard days "graft" at sundown. 214 miles from Palmerston. A hotel at last. Those "terrors" of the Overland which were to bring certain destruction had been left behind. The buildings consist of the hotel and store, telegraph and police stations. They are on the south side of the river, which to the westward joins the Daly. The sloping banks of the Katherine rise 80 or more feet from the gravelly bed, and are thickly timbered with giant trees of many varieties. Here and in the country round about are, as well as thickets, jungles and beauty spots innumerable, the stately paperbark and Leichhardt pine, Pandanus palms, white cedar, woollybutt, bloodwood, ironwood, banyan, and other trees; and splendid couch and buffalo grasses. When in flood the stream is about a quarter of a mile wide. Boats are kept at both the hotel and the telegraph station. Alligators are known to exist in several places, in deep holes and long reaches, but only a small species of crocodile is often seen about the crossing place. A fine specimen of one of these latter was on view at the hotel. * * * * It was at this telegraph station that I received a message from a fabulously wealthy company of cycle-part makers. My journey, as I have said, was practically at an end. Those "perils" that were so great that failure was, I was told, certain, had been surmounted. Yet, only now, seated at a hotel, I read a curt and, as it seemed to me, impertinent and "catchy" telegram, endeavoring, as I took it, to ferret out of me--unwealthy me--a most valuable advertisement _gratis_. Up to this moment, when success had been practically achieved, nothing had been heard from that quarter. I regarded it as mean, and answered accordingly. The company took further action then; but, in view of later developments, it would be meanness on my part now to speak further of a matter which would not deserve mention at all but that it has been made to some extent public property. Only this further: _my answer to the telegram has never yet been published_! Without any promise of recompense I gladly did all I could for another firm whose manager had treated me civilly, and who did not wait until danger had been passed before identifying itself with the fortunes of the trip. * * * * At the Katherine, where only one night was spent, I refitted myself with wearables from the stock of the widely known hotel and storekeeper; had a swim in the river; then tied boots and other things on Diamond, shouldered the lot and walked across. The country is flat for ten or twelve miles. Travelling only middling--rather soft. But before the morning was far gone, rough hills were entered and they continued most of the way to Pine Creek (68 miles). * * * * It was hazardous to hurry the bicycle over those rocky hills, but Diamond stood the rough experience more than manfully, and jumped the miniature precipices encountered on the down-hill sides without ever loosening a spoke. At one time, in the very early part of the journey, I favored the notion of entering Palmerston, with the bicycle in a fearfully battered condition--a revolving bundle of splints and copper wires. But how could I? And I found myself proudly exhibiting it everywhere, and finally in a Palmerston shop window as being "better than new." In my mind, now, was the fixed idea that nothing could break that machine. I knew I couldn't. And it had been called on to undergo some rough usage. Towards the end, such confidence had I come to repose in its excellence, in its unbreakableness, that on hearing sticks and things rattle among the spokes I used only to laugh, say "Sool it, Diamond!" and let them fight the battle out. * * * * The hilly country alternates with stretches of sand, blue-grass, swamps, and rough patches of white clay or pug, with here and there a stunted gum. I find at this stage this memorandum written for myself--"Horrid, swampy, inexpressibly bleak and unattractive, miserably stunted timber--a result, p'raps, of centuries of bush fires. A 68 mile-span unfit for anything--except those strips close by the creeks and watercourses." These latter were the redeeming features. The water in some was deep, notably in the Driffield, Fergusson, Edith and Cullen Creeks, which are rivers for a month or two in the rainy season. In one of them--the Edith, I think--a little way down from one, nearly waist-deep crossing, was an inviting reach of calm, deep water, with many picturesque pandanus palms and woolly butts caressing it; and as a family of aboriginals--two old men, many picaninnies and some females--were bathing by the roadway. To this I wheeled the bicycle. The bottom was gravelly, and in the deepest place there was only four feet or so of water. The stream, or rather hole, was narrow; and while paddling about in it the thought struck me that it would be just as well to cross now and here as to cross at any other time and place. And, besides, an opportunity for experimenting presented itself. To bundle up the clothes and the few odds and ends I had with me was the work of but a couple of minutes; those things I was able to walk across with. On returning I laid the bicycle on its side close by the water's edge, made fast the interlocking gear, and fastened securely to its handlebars one end of the strong string I always had carried. To the free end of the string I attached a stone. This I threw to the opposite bank and swam over after it. I would have swam that stream though my knees had got the gravelrash in the transaction! Laying hold now of the string I pulled gently on the bicycle until it moved; then pulled it quickly whilst in the water; and so landed it where I was standing. Undoing the string I allowed my silently weeping comrade to remain out in the sun, where its doleful tears quick turned into smiling rainbows while I resumed my clothes. Then gave it five minutes attention. This wetting, I might here remark, did no more harm to the bicycle than a smart shower of rain would have done, but at Palmerston, where I totally immersed it in the sea, I found the salt water quickly formed rust on the various nickeled parts around the nuts and where the spokes entered the rim and perhaps within the tubes themselves for aught I know, as there, alas! monetary considerations forced me to part with it. * * * * I caught some fish in the waterholes, along the track. They bite at dough or flesh of any sort; or the first one captured will do as bait for catching more with. From the Hayward Creek up to Daly Waters (230 miles), the fish are small, averaging about 8 inches; but higher up, as at the Elsey, and in more lasting holes to east and west, much larger ones are to be had. Some will rise to a fly; others take meat. The best bait one can use is a section of widgery (or "witchery," a grub three or four inches in length, found at the roots of gum trees, and tasting, when slightly roasted, not unlike a hen's egg.) A packing or any other needle, heated to take the temper out, and bent into shape, makes a sufficiently good hook. But I had been provided with the regulation pattern steel article by a trooper, at one of the telegraph stations. * * * * At the Little Cullen Creek, seven miles from the Palmerston railway terminus, a genuine diamond has been found within the last couple of years; and several small heaps of tailings near the crossing place were accounted for by a native who told me "whitefellow bin on track of nudder one; but no catch im." On from the Cullen are groups of shallow holes, now half tilled in, where alluvial gold has been sought; and various reefing properties, notably the Cosmopolitan, came into view on nearing Pine Creek. Pine Creek (where I spent but a night) is not itself a large place, but it is the centre of an extensive gold-mining district. On one side of the main street is the railway station yard; on the other a first-class hotel, a store, blacksmith's, wheelwright's, and butcher's shops, besides several more business and dwelling houses. Most of the Asiatics connected with the mines, occupy a portion of the town away back from the main street. Owing to the surrounding wooded hills and neighbouring gum creek the general aspect of the place is prepossessing. Of the Wandi goldfields, about 30 miles to the east, it is said that several valuable properties exist there. But the climate is trying, and properties in the district need to be very valuable indeed before Europeans will infuse energy into their developement. * * * * This line from Pine Creek to Palmerston is spoken of as "the northern section of the Transcontinental." I do not pose as one who can say with authority whether it is advisable or not to complete the railway through the continent. That is not my "line" at any rate. Nevertheless I have formed opinions. Without any concessions at all from a leave-granting government, with barely the permission given them to construct a railway, and with even a squaring donation to the exchequer of a million pounds or so, a band of reasonably, business-like, experienced, company-promoters, I'm very sure, could make large fortunes in English or French money out of the undertaking--for themselves. * * * * I had expected to find a well-beaten track, perhaps a macadamised road from Pine Creek to Palmerston. But--a road where there was already a railway! What for? On to Union Town. There is a store here, kept by a welcoming European. So far 10 miles of good, although hilly road. At the store I was advised to look out for tracks leading off to the Chinamen's mines, of which there were several, away back in the hills from the railway. This advice I conscientiously acted on--"looked out" and followed one for miles until I came to the mine and the Chinaman. But in among the hills there was only "no savee," and a noisy quartz crushing plant; so I retraced my wandering wheelmarks, kept close to the railway line, and arrived at Burrundie (124 miles from Palmerston) sometime in the afternoon. Burrundie is the last--or first, whichever you please--of the overland telegraph stations. Here there was hospitable entertainment at the hands of the station master; then on to the Howley Cottages, 100 miles from Palmerston. As the unpremeditated visit into the regions of Chinese no-saveedom had interfered with the day's progress, at the Howley Cottages I was made comfortable for the night. My voucher book was now again constantly in use. I had tried hard when in at the Chinamen's mine to possess myself of a celestial's signature, as a curio, but had not succeeded. Was it possible that the book-fiend had been there too? Next day, from the Howley, I made fairly good time, passed the Adelaide River (the half-way refreshment-house on the railway, 77 miles from Palmerston), and Rum Jungle (58 miles from Palmerston) and got in as far as the 46 mile cottages, where on the warm invitation of the resident ganger, I camped until morning. * * * * From about Burrundie the cyclist is given the choice of occasional lengths of old pads (white clay soil mostly), alongside the railway line, and of the ballast or embankments, between or close by the rails. I chose a little of each. Hilly country extends from Pine Creek to about the Adelaide River. The various rivers are thickly lined with screw palms and thickets of stout bamboos, and the country generally is substantially timbered. The only white resident at Rum Jungle (a railway camp, on a small watercourse, tributary to the Finniss, where the jungle is remarkably dense; the prefix may be reminiscent of railway-construction days), said there was plenty of time yet to find alligators in the Darwin River, between the jungle and Palmerston, although the water was getting low. But why should I go hunting for them when I bore away hence as trophies, still preserved, two alligator teeth? And, speaking of alligators, it has recently been printed--"there are no snakes in the Northern Territory." There are, in their proper season. You may see them even without drinking heavily. I cycled over two and left them behind, on a narrow pad by the eastern side of the railway line, within a few hours of leaving the Howley cottages. The size of one was larger than I would care to say. It remained quite motionless after the bicycle had passed over it; so I dismounted and threw a stick to ascertain whether the docile-seeming reptile was alive. It was. First rising aloft its head swiftly to bite at the passing piece of timber, it then immediately turned and commenced wriggling towards myself. I never mounted a bicycle more quickly in my life, nor did a quarter mile in faster time. The ganger at the 46 mile cottages and the guard of the passenger train running between Palmerston and Pine Creek, as well as the writer, have cause to know that in the matter of snakes, as of some few other things, the Northern Territory isn't Ireland. From the 46th mile I kept entirely to the railway line (a blackfellow at one of the cottages dubbed the bicycle "kangaroo engine") and before midday I was within ten miles of Palmerston. There was a fairly-good road, its surface covered with fine brown ironstone rubble, for the remainder of the distance. Very high trees and a profuse wealth of tropical vegetation lined the track; but "cyclone" was writ large and in unmistakable characters everywhere--in uprooted trees and other features. At two and a half-miles from Palmerston are the railway workshops and several suburban dwelling houses. * * * * On arriving opposite the first of these buildings I dismounted to take off my hat and wipe a little of the dampness from my forehead; and a sentence picked up somewhere came back to mind. I looked fondly upon the bicycle which had served me so well, pressed gently one of its handles, and whispered:-- "Thanks, Diamond, '_Es ist vollbracht._'" With a sigh of relief the pen is laid down and the scissors are picked up. The few next following paragraphs are from _The Northern Territory Times_:-- "Mr. Murif, the gentleman who undertook to ride across the continent on a bicycle, arrived in Palmerston on Friday afternoon, accompanied by several of the local cyclists, who picked him up at the 2½ mile. After riding round the town the party proceeded to the point below Fort Hill, where the overlander's bicycle was dipped in the sea, and the point christened 'Bicycle Point' in commemoration of the event. "On Saturday evening Mr. Murif was entertained by the Athletic Club at a smoke social in the Town Hall. The Government Resident presided over a large gathering. Murif was heartily welcomed. "_He declared that he could have accomplished the trip in less time, but if good time was made nobody would follow him._ He would like another man to try the journey. "He was sorry, he said that he could not say as much as he would like in thanking the residents of the Territory for the kindness they had shown him since his arrival amongst them. He had also to thank the Athletic Association, who were treating him in a right royal manner, and also those gentlemen who had so kindly come out to meet him on Friday afternoon. In fact, ever since he had started upon his trip, that one word 'Thanks!' had ever been upon his tongue. He had had to say thanks for kindnesses received at the very commencement of his journey; all along the route he had had occasion to use the word, and now when his task was completed and all his troubles over, all that he could say, in return for the hearty welcome they had tendered him, was that one little word--thanks. Down south he had always heard much of the hospitality of Port Darwinites, but he had not the remotest idea of its munificence until he came among them." * * * * Again:--"When seen by _The Advertiser_ correspondent on Saturday morning Murif was busy cleaning his machine after the sea bath. On being congratulated on his safe arrival he replied, 'Yes, both of us,' pointing to the bicycle, 'are safe and strong as ever.' The cycle, indeed, looked in perfect condition, the wheels running as true as when they left the workshop. Murif was well and in the pink of condition." And among other things, in reply to an interviewer:--"I wish you would do me a favor. I want to thank all those whom I met on the road for the most hospitable manner in which they treated me. Never have I met a better class of men. I was treated like a prince whilst _en route_, and never once was I refused anything I asked. Information re the track ahead was readily tendered, and it was with regret that I had to leave my new friends who had been so kind to me. I had heard that the Territorians were the essence of hospitality, and now I fully believe it." * * * * These Palmerstonians, who treated me so handsomely, are a laughter-loving and generously hospitable people. The European residents, being very largely civil servants are as such prohibited from entering the field of politics. This disability hangs heavily on them, and is ruinously enervating and mischievous in its effects. Peacefully, contentedly, unprogressively as the calm and happy dead are they. Earnest consideration and study of the wants and welfare of the land in which they live are neglected and the action to which such grave study ever prompts men is wanting. Their lives are rounds of light gaieties and small pleasures. A picnic, dance, a sports day or a concert is ever an absorbing topic. These are not right lives for white men, such as they are, to live; but the embargo forces them to live it. Nothing so retards a country's progress, nothing perhaps is so great a hindrance to the development of its resources, as a non-political feeling among the inhabitants. Here politics are taboo. The real business of life, the stirring cry of "Advance Australia!" is awfully lacking. Remove the disability, take away the restraint, make an exception in favour of those civil servants who live so far up north in South Australia, unmuzzle those who have it in them to speak, and the people of the Territory--the Territory itself--will soon be heard of. So long as they are not heard from, so long must the Territory continue as a heavy weight. * * * * Chinese, who are ready and willing to work night or day and seven days a week, have ousted Europeans from many branches of trade. Hairdressing, tailoring and bootmaking are all done by them or Japanese. Paper kite flying seems to be those people's most favoured form of recreation. Of a breezy evening the main street of Chinatown, running parallel with and distant but a couple of hundred yards from Palmerston's principal street, is indicated by half a dozen or more kites rising up into or stationary in mid-air. The ends of the retaining strings are either fastened to shop verandah posts or proudly held by their yellow owners. These kites, built on scientific principles, are made very large and of fantastic shapes. Hollow "musical" reeds are attached; and when kite flying is "on" the loud monotonous humming of these wind instruments pervades every nook and cranny in Palmerston. Every visitor gets a crick in his neck from looking skywards. * * * * Many blacks hang about the town. The roads are unmetalled. The loose soil is dark brown, and consists of sand mixed with particles of friable ironstone. The three varieties of tracks which show prominently everywhere are suggestive--a few of booted whites, many of sandalled Chinamen, and over and under all those of unshod natives. * * * * The thermometer does not register very high. But here there is a stuffy, suffocating, sweat-producing latent heat the whole year round, with very few weeks' cool to brace the enervated up. One misses the heavenly blue of southern climes. The sky has ever in it a hazy dull metallic grey. The town is on a table-land, and is well laid out. The drainage is good; hence malarial fever, once pretty prevalent, is now less common. * * * * The chefs are invariably Chinamen; this applies to most of the Northern Territory. Hence one hears the word "chow, chow" used commonly by the whites to denote meals or meal time--"Chow's ready," "come to chow," "There goes the Chow bell," and such like expressions. A nobbler is disposed of with one indefinite "Chin, chin." Freely translated it means something between a _votre sante_ and "another coffin nail." And, over and above all, is a splendid, almost prodigal hospitality. * * * * One last look back over the journey and the track. However it may have been with myself (whether I met with the adventures I had been hopefully looking forward to and whether the exciting episodes or interesting incidents and objects came up to expectations or not) of this I still feel assured: For two or three good humoured cyclists, with whom considerations of time would be of but secondary importance who would start in the proper season (that is March or April), and who would need not to be niggardly in their expenditure, no more promising fields can there be in all the world for a cycle-trip, at once interesting and sufficiently adventurous, than along this same route--in the crossing of Australia from South to North. Although anyone undertaking to do the journey in fast time will be called upon to endure privations and run grave risks of coming to grief, yet a person who had been once overland, or one of the telegraph station employees--a cyclist in short, who beforehand knew how the tracks ran and where exactly the watering places lay--should find the task neither very difficult nor demanding a great expenditure of days. Now that the country and what to expect has become a little better known; now that it has been seen and spoken of from a cyclist's view, now that the wheelman may therefore prepare himself, it remains open for any down-town or up-country sprinter, with the three good things of which I have made previous mention, viz., good health, good luck and a good bicycle, to double up the writer's so called "feat" into very small compass indeed, and incontinently knock it out of sight into the obscuring depths of an oblivious cocked hat. It was one of my objects to leave it so open. Nevertheless I will not take upon myself the responsibility of advising anyone to bother about having a try at the "record-smashing" business unless it be well worth his while to do so. To be prepared counts for very much. The cyclist who is sure of his road can never imagine the weakening effect which uncertainties on that most vital point can produce. Such doubts evolve sickening, depressing, unhappy sensations which make themselves felt more acutely than do the mere bodily disablements associated with hunger and thirst. I knew next to nothing of the country, and made it a point to make but very few enquiries about it before I travelled up to have a look. I knew nobody in it, and from the day of my leaving Adelaide to the day I arrived at Sydney, I met no one with whom I had been in any way previously acquainted. * * * * I have in no case named those with whom I had the pleasure of becoming acquainted on the track for the reason that had those names been written it would as frequently have devolved upon the writer to expatiate on matters by right concerning only the men themselves, and besides I but seldom indeed questioned anyone about his business. I have no material, therefore, out of which to "work up" on the weakness of slight acquaintanceships, the usual traveller's series of semi-biographical impertinences, even were I so minded. But the following-named gentlemen are well-known, and I feel especially grateful to them for they all in one way or another befriended me:--Mr. Mat Connor, Mr. Harry Gipp, Mr. James Cummins, the Messrs. Louis Brothers, Mr. Coulthead, Mr. Gunter, Mr. Heilbraun, Mr. Wallis, Mr. Campbell, and police officers Bennett and Kingston. From what I have already written it will go without further emphasizing that to the ever-courteous and obliging assistants and officers in charge at the various inland telegraph stations I have cause to be and am grateful also. * * * * The only wheeled vehicles I knew, or now know of, as being in the country, besides the bicycle, after leaving Alice Springs, were those under cover at the Telegraph and Cattle Stations, and a buggy at the sheep camp, between Tennant's and Powell's Creeks. There are no camels north of Alice Springs, except when a caravan travels from the latter place to Barrow's or Tennant's Creek with the yearly supplies. * * * * Yet, in this land where the bicycle is but imperfectly known one may pick up some bright knowledgeable notions in "improved bike" building. An "additional strengthener" suggestion came from a man who had been inspecting my mount as it stood against a wall with the interlocking gear closed, and thus of course kept perfectly straight. He said to me--"See how strong the back part of the machine is compared with the front," and his "notion," soon forthcoming, was that it would be an improvement if two more tubes were added: These to run, one at each side, from barrel bracket forward to the front fork extremities, back stay style. As I had no desire to make enemies I admitted the front-fork-to-crank-shaft-bracket stay would undoubtedly be, as the inventive person remarked, "a strengthener." "But," said I hesitatingly, "As the most agile brains in all the world have been at work for the last ten years or so intent upon thinking out improvements in bicycle construction, I fear there must be some and (although to us perhaps unapparent) objection to the innovation." At another place I had casually remarked upon the fact of the bicycle's handlebars having turned in the steering socket when I fell somewhere (thus, by the way, saving other, more vital parts, the sharp shock.) That this movement should have occurred appeared to a listener, as it will to many people, to indicate a grave fault, if not danger. "Why," he exclaimed suddenly, but after much cogitation, "to provide against that happening would be the simplest thing in the world"--by drilling a hole through the front tube where the maker's name and trade mark were (in my case, where they were not, because I had scratched both off) and then driving a strong pin in! I told him I didn't want the fault rectified. It surprised me to find how extraordinarily anxious people were about punctures. It was "What would you do if you got a puncture?" until I came to hate the word. Very few had much thought of the consequences of a broken crank, fork, tube, shaft, or rim. But I believe nearly every one who hasn't a bicycle lives in constant terror of that dreadful bogy puncture. I was made re-acquainted with descriptions of many of those wonderful leverage-chains, improved brakes, and puncture-proofing devices which work so emphatically well in print. One invention very much in favor was an inner-tubular arrangement--"quite a simple thing--made up of a hundred or so sections or distinct chambers, like an endless string of stumpy sausages." It was so obvious that when one sausage had lost all of its stuffing and collapsed, the other ninety-nine would yet remain for the utilisation of the wheelman! Of such were the humors of the trip. If the blacks I met with were not quite so wild-mannered as I could have feared or hoped for, it was through no fault of mine. Neither was it for me to rouse them up with a stick, or go hunting for some others less mild-mannered. As I have said, if I heard of a white traveller anywhere, I did not try to dodge him. If one will but consider how I spent time and money in searching for a companion before starting (it was only because I was forced to, that I started alone), one may perhaps find excuse for me when I confess to feeling rather glad whenever I met or heard of there being a white man on the track. * * * * And why was the journey made? As was said long ago, I wanted to do _something_ before I was put out of sight and mind. Had I merely wanted to dig out a few sovereigns for the pockets of cycle or cycle-part makers I should have adopted other methods. But I sincerely desired to do something for Australia, and it seemed to me that this would be the most effective means in my power of making the inlands better known, and of arousing some interest in our heritage in the north. Two or three knew of the desire; and no sooner was the task accomplished than on a day in June I wrote this letter to one of them:-- "SIR,--Now that the matter has passed very nearly out of my hands and risen beyond me, I wish to formally assure you ("formally," for hitherto I have spoken the words, as it may have appeared, but lightly) that everything I have done in connection with my recent bicycle trip has been mainly with a view to advertising the Northern Territory--a country which it is my hope to see, in the near future, looked upon and referred to no longer as a costly, cumbrous and unremunerative "White Elephant," but rather as a strong and healthy, though over-sleepy youth, whom, on awakening, something had aroused to manhood. "I have allowed to slip by opportunities of making fair money (of which, sir, I thoroughly appreciate the value) which I might have earned by accomplishing the journey in hard-to-be-improved on time; but I preferred this rather than do aught to defeat the end I primarily had in view. "A declaration in public to that effect in the past would, perhaps, have savored of boastfulness or presumption; it may, indeed, perhaps so savor now. So certainly also, a few months ago, would any announcement of my intention to cycle alone across the continent. Hence my silence, lest my own ambitious purpose should be frustrated. That purpose is now being well worked out. "It will make the Territory known: that, sir, you know, was the ground upon which I sought from you and the Hon. the ---- the favor of those highly-prized signatures in my voucher book, which you both granted me. And that, as it was the ground on which I approached you, was the main prompting to do the thing I have done. "I thank you once more for having obliged me, and remain, sir, your most obedient servant, "JEROME J. MURIF." ADVERTISEMENT It was an "ELECTRA" No. 6 (price £22 10s.) which carried Mr. Jerome J. Murif successfully and without ANY SINGLE MISHAP OF ANY KIND through his memorable trip from ADELAIDE TO PORT DARWIN. On arrival of Mr. Murif at Port Darwin this bicycle was examined, and we append below the reports furnished to Mr. Murif: To Mr. MURIF. Port Darwin, 30th May, 1897. Sir--The general condition of your "Electra" from a mechanical point of view is of such a nature that, as a practical man, I would not credit the statement that it had been used for the purpose of crossing the Australian Continent had it not been for the authentic records which you carry with you. It is undoubtedly a HIGH-CLASS MACHINE. THOS. N. MESSENGER, Foreman Locomotive Works, Port Darwin. CONDITION OF MR. J. MURIF'S BICYCLE, ELECTRA, No. 58,160. Port Darwin, N.T., 25th May, 1897. WHEELS.--Steering and Driving, both 28 in. "Dia." In true track and line. Running central between forks (front and back) freely, and without movement to either side when revolving. Coming to the full stop only after many lessening pendulum-like vibrations. RIMS.--Undinged, and if re-enamelled, would appear as new. SPOKES.--Everyone taut, bright, and alike, NOT A BEND OR SIGN OF STRAIN IN ANY. CRANKS.--At right angles to shaft in main bracket. No signs of ever being bent, injured, tampered with, or disconnected since coming from the shop. SHAFTS.--UNBENT, as indicated by TRUE running of wheels. FRONT FORKS.--Undinged as new. BACK FORKS & STAYS.--Same as front forks. FRAME.--RIGID. NOT A HAIR BREADTH OUT. Top, Bottom, Diagonal, and Steering Socket Tubes being all in true lines. CHAIN & GEAR WHEELS.--Show LITTLE or NO SIGNS OF WEAR. All gearing RUNNING WITHOUT JAR, and every bearing working as SMOOTHLY as could be desired by the most fastidious critic. WEIGHT OF MACHINE.--Without mudguards, brake, or tools, 28 lbs. GEAR.--20 teeth on sprocket, 9 cogs at hub. We, the undersigned, have made a CAREFUL INSPECTION of Mr. MURIF'S BICYCLE, and we can vouch that above CERTIFICATE is QUITE CORRECT. HIS HONOR JUSTICE DASHWOOD, Patron N.T. Athletic Association. W. V. BROWN, President. CHAS. E. HERBERT, Vice-Pres. PERCY G. BRYANT, Hon. Sec. & Treas. +It was an "ELECTRA" likewise which Mr. B. JAMES used on his trip from MT. MAGNET (Western Australia) to MELBOURNE; distance, 2,600 miles.+ ELECTRA CYCLE DEPOT, 259 Collins Street, Melbourne. 
21729	----	Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished, by R.M. Ballantyne. First published 1884 ________________________________________________________________________ As so often with Ballantyne there are two concurrent stories in this book. In one of these we meet two little stray and homeless boys in the vicinity of Whitechapel in the East-End of London. These two are rescued from the streets, trained up and sent to Canada to live as part of a farmer's family there. The other story concerns the mother of one of the boys, with too many children, a drink-habit, and a wife-beating and criminal husband: plainly there's not much going for her, but her eldest daughter manages to bring life together for the family. The bad father, on his release from jail, deserts his wife, which is no bad thing; the wife takes the Blue Ribbon and gives up drinking; a couple of well-to-do gentlemen take an interest in the family; and finally they all emigrate to Canada and live happily ever after. Of course, it is a little more complicated than that, with a burglary thrown in as well as a smattering of do-good-ers and do-bad-ers. But for those with an interest in the street-life of the nineteenth century this will be a very interesting book for you. A Note about the Author. Robert Michael Ballantyne was born in 1825 and died in 1894. He was educated at the Edinburgh Academy, and in 1841 he became a clerk with the Hudson Bay Company, working at the Red River Settlement in Northern Canada until 1847, arriving back in Edinburgh in 1848. The letters he had written home were very amusing in their description of backwoods life, and his family publishing connections suggested that he should construct a book based on these letters. Three of his most enduring books were written over the next decade, "The Young Fur Traders", "Ungava", "The Hudson Bay Company", and were based on his experiences with the H.B.C. In this period he also wrote "The Coral island" and "Martin Rattler", both of these taking place in places never visited by Ballantyne. Having been chided for small mistakes he made in these books, he resolved always to visit the places he wrote about. With these books he became known as a great master of literature intended for teenagers. He researched the Cornish Mines, the London Fire Brigade, the Postal Service, the Railways, the laying down of submarine telegraph cables, the construction of light-houses, the light-ship service, the life-boat service, South Africa, Norway, the North Sea fishing fleet, ballooning, deep-sea diving, Algiers, and many more, experiencing the lives of the men and women in these settings by living with them for weeks and months at a time, and he lived as they lived. He was a very true-to-life author, depicting the often squalid scenes he encountered with great care and attention to detail. His young readers looked forward eagerly to his next books, and through the 1860s and 1870s there was a flow of books from his pen, sometimes four in a year, all very good reading. The rate of production diminished in the last ten or fifteen years of his life, but the quality never failed. He published over ninety books under his own name, and a few books for very young children under the pseudonym "Comus". For today's taste his books are perhaps a little too religious, and what we would nowadays call "pi". In part that was the way people wrote in those days, but more important was the fact that in his days at the Red River Settlement, in the wilds of Canada, he had been a little dissolute, and he did not want his young readers to be unmindful of how they ought to behave, as he felt he had been. Some of his books were quite short, little over 100 pages. These books formed a series intended for the children of poorer parents, having less pocket-money. These books are particularly well-written and researched, because he wanted that readership to get the very best possible for their money. They were published as six series, three books in each series. Re-created as an e-Text by Nick Hodson, September 2003. ________________________________________________________________________ DUSTY DIAMONDS CUT AND POLISHED, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE. CHAPTER ONE. AN ACCIDENT AND SOME OF ITS CURIOUS RESULTS. Every one has heard of those ponies--those shaggy, chubby, innocent-looking little creatures--for which the world is indebted, we suppose, to Shetland. Well, once on a time, one of the most innocent-looking, chubbiest, and shaggiest of Shetland ponies--a dark brown one--stood at the door of a mansion in the west-end of London. It was attached to a wickerwork vehicle which resembled a large clothes-basket on small wheels. We do not mean, of course, that the pony was affectionately attached to it. No; the attachment was involuntary and unavoidable, by reason of a brand-new yellow leather harness with brass buckles. It objected to the attachment, obviously, for it sidled this way, and straddled that way, and whisked its enormous little tail, and tossed its rotund little head, and stamped its ridiculously small feet; and champed its miniature bit, as if it had been a war-horse of the largest size, fit to carry a Wallace, a Bruce, or a Richard of the Lion-heart, into the midst of raging battle. And no wonder; for many months had not elapsed since that brown creature had kicked up its little heels, and twirled its tail, and shaken its shaggy mane in all the wild exuberance of early youth and unfettered freedom on the heather hills of its native island. In the four-wheeled basket sat a little girl whom it is useless to describe as beautiful. She was far beyond that! Her delicate colour, her little straight nose, her sparkling teeth, her rosebud of a mouth, her enormous blue eyes, and floods of yellow hair--pooh! these are not worth mentioning in the same sentence with her expression. It was that which carried all before it, and swept up the adoration of man-and-woman-kind as with the besom of fascination. She was the only child of Sir Richard Brandon. Sir Richard was a knight and a widower. He was knighted, not because of personal merit, but because he had been mayor of some place, sometime or other, when some one connected with royalty had something important to do with it! Little Diana was all that this knight and widower had on earth to care for, except, of course, his horses and dogs, and guns, and club, and food. He was very particular as to his food. Not that he was an epicure, or a gourmand, or luxurious, or a hard drinker, or anything of that sort--by no means. He could rough it, (so he said), as well as any man, and put up with whatever chanced to be going, but, when there was no occasion for roughing it, he did like to see things well cooked and nicely served; and wine, you know, was not worth drinking--positively nauseous--if it was not of the best. Sir Richard was a poor man--a very poor man. He had only five thousand a year--a mere pittance; and he managed this sum in such a peculiar way that he never had anything wherewith to help a struggling friend, or to give to the poor, or to assist the various religious and charitable institutions by which he was surrounded; while at certain intervals in the year he experienced exasperating difficulty in meeting the demands of those torments to society, the tradespeople--people who ought to be ashamed of themselves for not being willing to supply the nobility and gentry with food and clothing gratuitously! Moreover, Sir Richard never by any chance laid anything by. Standing by the pony's head, and making tender efforts to restrain his waywardness, stood a boy--a street boy--a city Arab. To a Londoner any description of this boy would be superfluous, but it may be well to state, for the benefit of the world at large, that the class to which he belonged embodies within its pale the quintessence of rollicking mischief, and the sublimate of consummate insolence. This remarkable boy was afflicted with a species of dance--not that of Saint Vitus, but a sort of double-shuffle, with a stamp of the right foot at the end--in which he was prone to indulge, consciously and unconsciously, at all times, and the tendency to which he sometimes found it difficult to resist. He was beginning to hum the sharply-defined air to which he was in the habit of performing this dance, when little Diana said, in a silvery voice quite in keeping with her beauty-- "Let go his head, boy; I'm quite sure that he cannot bear restraint." It may be remarked here that little Di was probably a good judge on that point, being herself nearly incapable of bearing restraint. "I'd better not, miss," replied the boy with profound respect in tone and manner, for he had yet to be paid for the job; "he seems raither frisky, an' might take a fancy to bolt, you know." "Let his head go, I say!" returned Miss Diana with a flashing of the blue eyes, and a pursing of the rosebud mouth that proved her to be one of Adam's race after all. "Vell, now, don't you think," rejoined the boy, in an expostulating tone, "that it would be as veil to vait for the guv'nor before givin' 'im 'is 'ead?" "Do as I bid you, sir!" said Di, drawing herself up like an empress. Still the street boy held the pony's head, and it is probable that he would have come off the victor in this controversy, had not Diana's dignified action given to the reins which she held a jerk. The brown pony, deeming this full permission to go on, went off with a bound that overturned the boy, and caused the fore-wheel to strike him on the leg as it passed. Springing up with the intention of giving chase to the runaway, the little fellow again fell, with a sharp cry of pain, for his leg was broken. At the same moment Sir Richard Brandon issued from the door of his mansion leisurely, and with an air of calm serenity, pulling on his gloves. It was one of the knight's maxims that, under all circumstances, a gentleman should maintain an appearance of imperturbable serenity. When, however, he suddenly beheld the street boy falling, and his daughter standing up in her wickerwork chariot, holding on to the brown pony like an Amazon warrior of ancient times, his maxim somehow evaporated. His serenity vanished. So did his hat as he bounded from beneath it, and left it far behind in his mad and hopeless career after the runaway. A policeman, coming up just as Sir Richard disappeared, went to the assistance of the street boy. "Not much hurt, youngster," he said kindly, as he observed that the boy was very pale, and seemed to be struggling hard to repress his feelings. "Vell, p'raps I is an' p'raps I ain't, Bobby," replied the boy with an unsuccessful attempt at a smile, for he felt safe to chaff or insult his foe in the circumstances, "but vether hurt or not it vont much matter to you, vill it?" He fainted as he spoke, and the look of half-humorous impudence, as well as that of pain, gave place to an expression of infantine repose. The policeman was so struck by the unusual sight of a street boy looking innocent and unconscious, that he stooped and raised him quite tenderly in his arms. "You'd better carry him in here," said Sir Richard Brandon's butler, who had come out. "I saw it 'appen, and suspect he must be a good deal damaged." Sir Richard's footman backing the invitation, the boy was carried into the house accordingly, laid on the housemaid's bed, and attended to by the cook, while the policeman went out to look after the runaways. "Oh! what ever shall we do?" exclaimed the cook, as the boy showed symptoms of returning consciousness. "Send for the doctor," suggested the housemaid. "No," said the butler, "send for a cab, and 'ave the boy sent home. I fear that master will blame me for givin' way to my feelin's, and won't thank me for bringin' 'im in here. You know he is rather averse to the lower orders. Besides, the poor boy will be better attended to at 'ome, no doubt. I dare say you'd like to go 'ome, wouldn't you?" he said, observing that the boy was looking at him with a rather curious expression. "I dessay I should, if I could," he answered, with a mingled glance of mischief and pain, "but if you'll undertake to carry me, old cock, I'll be 'appy to go." "I'll send you in a cab, my poor boy," returned the butler, "and git a cabman as I'm acquainted with to take care of you." "All right! go a'ead, ye cripples," returned the boy, as the cook approached him with a cup of warm soup. "Oh! ain't it prime!" he said, opening his eyes very wide indeed, and smacking his lips. "I think I'll go in for a smashed pin every day o' my life for a drop o' that stuff. Surely it must be wot they drinks in 'eaven! Have 'ee got much more o' the same on 'and?" "Never mind, but you drink away while you've got the chance," replied the amiable cook; "there's the cab coming, so you've no time to lose." "Vell, I _am_ sorry I ain't able to 'old more, an' my pockets wont 'old it neither, bein' the wuss for wear. Thankee, missus." He managed, by a strong effort, to dispose of a little more soup before the cab drew up. "Where do you live?" asked the butler, as he placed the boy carefully in the bottom of the cab with his unkempt head resting on a hassock, which he gave him to understand was a parting gift from the housemaid. "Vere do I live?" he repeated. "Vy, mostly in the streets; my last 'ome was a sugar barrel, the one before was a donkey-cart, but I do sometimes condescend to wisit my parents in their mansion 'ouse in Vitechapel." "And what is your name? Sir Richard may wish to inquire for you-- perhaps." "May he? Oh! I'm sorry I ain't got my card to leave, but you just tell him, John--is it, or Thomas?--Ah! Thomas. I knowed it couldn't 'elp to be one or t'other;--you just tell your master that my name is Robert, better known as Bobby, Frog. But I've lots of aliases, if that name don't please 'im. Good-bye, Thomas. Farewell, and if for ever, then-- you know the rest o' the quotation, if your eddication's not bin neglected, w'ich is probable it was. Oh! by the way. This 'assik is the gift of the 'ouse-maid? You observe the answer, cabby, in case you and I may differ about it 'ereafter." "Yes," said the amused butler, "a gift from Jessie." "Ah!--jus' so. An' she's tender-'earted an' on'y fifteen. Wots 'er tother name? Summers, eh? Vell, it's prettier than Vinters. Tell 'er I'll not forget 'er. Now, cabman--'ome!" A few minutes more, and Bobby Frog was on his way to the mansion in Whitechapel, highly delighted with his recent feast, but suffering extremely from his broken limb. Meanwhile, the brown pony--having passed a bold costermonger, who stood shouting defiance at it, and waving both arms till it was close on him, when he stepped quickly out of its way--eluded a dray-man, and entered on a fine sweep of street, where there seemed to be no obstruction worth mentioning. By that time it had left the agonised father far behind. The day was fine; the air bracing. The utmost strength of poor little Diana, and she applied it well, made no impression whatever on the pony's tough mouth. Influences of every kind were favourable. On the illogical principle, probably, that being "in for a penny" justified being "in for a pound," the pony laid himself out for a glorious run. He warmed to his work, caused the dust to fly, and the clothes-basket to advance with irregular bounds and swayings as he scampered along, driving many little dogs wild with delight, and two or three cats mad with fear. Gradually he drew towards the more populous streets, and here, of course, the efforts on the part of the public to arrest him became more frequent, also more decided, though not more successful. At last an inanimate object effected what man and boy had failed to accomplish. In a wild effort to elude a demonstrative cabman near the corner of one of the main thoroughfares, the brown pony brought the wheels of the vehicle into collision with a lamp-post. That lamp-post went down before the shock like a tall head of grain before the sickle. The front wheels doubled up into a sudden embrace, broke loose, and went across the road, one into a greengrocer's shop, the other into a chemist's window. Thus diversely end many careers that begin on a footing of equality! The hind-wheels went careering along the road like a new species of bicycle, until brought up by a donkey-cart, while the basket chariot rolled itself violently round the lamp-post, like a shattered remnant, as if resolved, before perishing, to strangle the author of all the mischief. As to the pony, it stopped, and seemed surprised at first by the unexpected finale, but the look quickly changed--or appeared to change--to one of calm contentment as it surveyed the ruin. But what of the fair little charioteer? Truly, in regard to her, a miracle, or something little short of one, had occurred. The doctrine that extremes meet contains much truth in it--truth which is illustrated and exemplified more frequently, we think, than is generally supposed. A tremendous accident is often much less damaging to the person who experiences it than a slight one. In little Diana's case, the extremes had met, and the result was absolute safety. She was shot out of her basket carriage after the manner of a sky-rocket, but the impulse was so effective that, instead of causing her to fall on her head and break her pretty little neck, it made her perform a complete somersault, and alight upon her feet. Moreover, the spot on which she alighted was opportune, as well as admirably suited to the circumstances. At the moment, ignorant of what was about to happen, police-constable Number 666--we are not quite sure of what division--in all the plenitude of power, and blue, and six-feet-two, approached the end of a street entering at right angles to the one down which our little heroine had flown. He was a superb specimen of humanity, this constable, with a chest and shoulders like Hercules, and the figure of Apollo. He turned the corner just as the child had completed her somersault, and received her two little feet fairly in the centre of his broad breast, driving him flat on his back more effectively than could have been done by the best prize-fighter in England! Number 666 proved a most effectual buffer, for Di, after planting her blow on his chest, sat plump down on his stomach, off which she sprang in an agony of consternation, exclaiming-- "Oh! I have killed him! I've killed him!" and burst into tears. "No, my little lady," said Number 666, as he rose with one or two coughs and replaced his helmet, "you've not quite done for me, though you've come nearer the mark than any _man_ has ever yet accomplished. Come, now, what can I do for you? You're not hurt, I hope?" This sally was received with a laugh, almost amounting to a cheer, by the half-horrified crowd which had quickly assembled to witness, as it expected, a fatal accident. "Hurt? oh! no, I'm not hurt," exclaimed Di, while tears still converted her eyes into blue lakelets as she looked anxiously up in the face of Number 666; "but I'm quite sure you must be hurt--awfully. I'm _so_ sorry! Indeed I am, for I didn't mean to knock you down." This also was received by the crowd with a hearty laugh, while Number 666 sought to comfort the child by earnestly assuring her that he was not hurt in the least--only a little stunned at first, but that was quite gone. "Wot does she mean by knockin' of 'im down?" asked a small butcher's boy, who had come on the scene just too late, of a small baker's boy who had, happily, been there from the beginning. "She means wot she says," replied the small baker's boy with the dignified reticence of superior knowledge, "she knocked the constable down." "Wot! a leetle gurl knock a six-foot bobby down?--walk-_er_!" "Very good; you've no call to b'lieve it unless you like," replied the baker's boy, with a look of pity at the unbelieving butcher, "but she did it, though--an' that's six month with 'ard labour, if it ain't five year." At this point the crowd opened up to let a maniac enter. He was breathless, hatless, moist, and frantic. "My child! my darling! my dear Di!" he gasped. "Papa!" responded Diana, with a little scream, and, leaping into his arms, grasped him in a genuine hug. "Oh! I say," whispered the small butcher, "it's a melly-drammy--all for nuffin!" "My!" responded the small baker, with a solemn look, "won't the Lord left-tenant be down on 'em for play-actin' without a licence, just!" "Is the pony killed?" inquired Sir Richard, recovering himself. "Not in the least, sir. 'Ere 'e is, sir; all alive an' kickin'," answered the small butcher, delighted to have the chance of making himself offensively useful, "but the hinsurance offices wouldn't 'ave the clo'se-baskit at no price. Shall I order up the remains of your carriage, sir?" "Oh! I'm so glad he's not dead," said Diana, looking hastily up, "but this policeman was nearly killed, and _I_ did it! He saved my life, papa." A chorus of voices here explained to Sir Richard how Number 666 had come up in the nick of time to receive the flying child upon his bosom. "I am deeply grateful to you," said the knight, turning to the constable, and extending his hand, which the latter shook modestly while disclaiming any merit for having merely performed his duty--he might say, involuntarily. "Will you come to my house?" said Sir Richard. "Here is my card. I should like to see you again, and pray, see that some one looks after my pony and--" "And the remains," suggested the small butcher, seeing that Sir Richard hesitated. "Be so good as to call a cab," said Sir Richard in a general way to any one who chose to obey. "Here you are, sir!" cried a peculiarly sharp cabby, who, correctly judging from the state of affairs that his services would be required, had drawn near to bide his time. Sir Richard and his little daughter got in and were driven home, leaving Number 666 to look after the pony and the remains. Thus curiously were introduced to each other some of the characters in our tale. CHAPTER TWO. THE IRRESISTIBLE POWER OF LOVE. Need we remark that there was a great deal of embracing on the part of Di and her nurse when the former returned home? The child was an affectionate creature as well as passionate. The nurse, Mrs Screwbury, was also affectionate without being passionate. Poor Diana had never known a mother's love or care; but good, steady, stout Mrs Screwbury did what in her lay to fill the place of mother. Sir Richard filled the place of father pretty much as a lamp-post might have done had it owned a child. He illuminated her to some extent-- explained things in general, stiffly, and shed a feeble ray around himself; but his light did not extend far. He was proud of her, however, and very fond of her--when good. When not good, he was--or rather had been--in the habit of dismissing her to the nursery. Nevertheless, the child exercised very considerable and ever-increasing influence over her father; for, although stiff, the knight was by no means destitute of natural affection, and sometimes observed, with moist eyes, strong traces of resemblance to his lost wife in the beautiful child. Indeed, as years advanced, he became a more and more obedient father, and was obviously on the high road to abject slavery. "Papa," said Di, while they were at luncheon that day, not long after the accident, "I _am_ so sorry for that poor policeman. It seems such a dreadful thing to have actually jumped upon him! and oh! you should have heard his poor head hit the pavement, and seen his pretty helmet go spinning along like a boy's top, ever so far. I wonder it didn't kill him. I'm _so_ sorry." Di emphasised her sorrow by laughing, for she had a keen sense of the ludicrous, and the memory of the spinning helmet was strong upon her just then. "It must indeed have been an unpleasant blow," replied Sir Richard, gravely, "but then, dear, you couldn't help it, you know--and I dare say he is none the worse for it now. Men like him are not easily injured. I fear we cannot say as much for the boy who was holding the pony." "Oh! I quite forgot about him," exclaimed Di; "the naughty boy! he wouldn't let go the pony's reins when I bid him, but I saw he tumbled down when we set off." "Yes, he has been somewhat severely punished, I fear, for his disobedience. His leg had been broken. Is it not so, Balls?" "Yes, sir," replied the butler, "'e 'as 'ad 'is--" Balls got no farther, for Diana, who had been struck dumb for the moment by the news, recovered herself. "His leg broken!" she exclaimed with a look of consternation; "Oh! the poor, poor boy!--the dear boy! and it was me did that too, as well as knocking down the poor policeman!" There is no saying to what lengths the remorseful child would have gone in the way of self-condemnation if her father had not turned her thoughts from herself by asking what had been done for the boy. "We sent 'im 'ome, sir, in a cab." "I'm afraid that was a little too prompt," returned the knight thoughtfully. "A broken leg requires careful treatment, I suppose. You should have had him into the house, and sent for a doctor." Balls coughed. He was slightly chagrined to find that the violation of his own humane feelings had been needless, and that his attempt to do as he thought his master would have wished was in vain. "I thought, Sir Richard, that you didn't like the lower orders to go about the 'ouse more--" Again little Di interrupted the butler by asking excitedly where the boy's home was. "In the neighbour'ood of W'itechapel, Miss Di." "Then, papa, we will go straight off to see him," said the child, in the tone of one whose mind is fully made up. "You and I shall go together-- won't we? good papa!" "That will do, Balls, you may go. No, my dear Di, I think we had better not. I will write to one of the city missionaries whom I know, and ask him to--" "No, but, papa--dear papa, we _must_ go. The city missionary could never say how very, _very_ sorry I am that he should have broken his leg while helping me. And then I should _so_ like to sit by him and tell him stories, and give him his soup and gruel, and read to him. Poor, _poor_ boy, we _must_ go, papa, won't you?" "Not to-day, dear. It is impossible to go to-day. There, now, don't begin to cry. Perhaps--perhaps to-morrow--but think, my love; you have no idea how dirty--how _very_ nasty--the places are in which our lower orders live." "Oh! yes I have," said Di eagerly. "Haven't I seen our nursery on cleaning days?" A faint flicker of a smile passed over the knight's countenance. "True, darling, but the places are far, far dirtier than that. Then the smells. Oh! they are very dreadful--" "What--worse than _we_ have when there's cabbage for dinner?" "Yes, much worse than that." "I don't care, papa. We _must_ go to see the boy--the poor, _poor_ boy, in spite of dirt and smells. And then, you know--let me up on your knee and I'll tell you all about it. There! Well, then, you know, I'd tidy the room up, and even wash it a little. Oh, you can't think how nicely I washed up my doll's room--her corner, you know,--that day when I spilt all her soup in trying to feed her, and then, while trying to wipe it up, I accidentally burst her, and all her inside came out--the sawdust, I mean. It was the worst mess I ever made, but I cleaned it up as well as Jessie herself could have done--so nurse said." "But the messes down in Whitechapel are much worse than you have described, dear," expostulated the parent, who felt that his powers of resistance were going. "So much the better, papa," replied Di, kissing her sire's lethargic visage. "I should like _so_ much to try if I could clean up something worse than my doll's room. And you've promised, you know." "No--only said `perhaps,'" returned Sir Richard quickly. "Well, that's the same thing; and now that it's all nicely settled, I'll go and see nurse. Good-bye, papa." "Good-bye, dear," returned the knight, resigning himself to his fate and the newspaper. CHAPTER THREE. POVERTY MANAGES TO BOARD OUT HER INFANT FOR NOTHING. On the night of the day about which we have been writing, a woman, dressed in "unwomanly rags" crept out of the shadow of the houses near London Bridge. She was a thin, middle-aged woman, with a countenance from which sorrow, suffering, and sin had not been able to obliterate entirely the traces of beauty. She carried a bundle in her arms which was easily recognisable as a baby, from the careful and affectionate manner in which the woman's thin, out-spread fingers grasped it. Hurrying on to the bridge till she reached the middle of one of the arches, she paused and looked over. The Thames was black and gurgling, for it was intensely dark, and the tide half ebb at the time. The turbid waters chafed noisily on the stone piers as if the sins and sorrows of the great city had been somehow communicated to them. But the distance from the parapet to the surface of the stream was great. It seemed awful in the woman's eyes. She shuddered and drew back. "Oh! for courage--only for one minute!" she murmured, clasping the bundle closer to her breast. The action drew off a corner of the scanty rag which she called a shawl, and revealed a small and round, yet exceedingly thin face, the black eyes of which seemed to gaze in solemn wonder at the scene of darkness visible which was revealed. The woman stood between two lamps in the darkest place she could find, but enough of light reached her to glitter in the baby's solemn eyes as they met her gaze, and it made a pitiful attempt to smile as it recognised its mother. "God help me! I can't," muttered the woman with a shiver, as if an ice-block had touched her heart. She drew the rag hastily over the baby's head again, pressed it closer to her breast, retraced her steps, and dived into the shadows from which she had emerged. This was one of the "lower orders" to whom Sir Richard Brandon had such an objection, whom he found it, he said, so difficult to deal with, (no wonder, for he never tried to deal with them at all, in any sense worthy of the name), and whom it was, he said, useless to assist, because all _he_ could do in such a vast accumulation of poverty would be a mere drop in the bucket. Hence Sir Richard thought it best to keep the drop in his pocket where it could be felt and do good--at least to himself, rather than dissipate it in an almost empty bucket. The bucket, however, was not quite empty--thanks to a few thousands of people who differed from the knight upon that point. The thin woman hastened through the streets as regardless of passers-by as they were of her, until she reached the neighbourhood of Commercial Street, Spitalfields. Here she paused and looked anxiously round her. She had left the main thoroughfare, and the spot on which she stood was dimly lighted. Whatever she looked or waited for, did not, however, soon appear, for she stood under a lamp-post, muttering to herself, "I _must_ git rid of it. Better to do so than see it starved to death before my eyes." Presently a foot-fall was heard, and a man drew near. The woman gazed intently into his face. It was not a pleasant face. There was a scowl on it. She drew back and let him pass. Then several women passed, but she took no notice of them. Then another man appeared. His face seemed a jolly one. The woman stepped forward at once and confronted him. "Please, sir," she began, but the man was too sharp for her. "Come now--you've brought out that baby on purpose to humbug people with it. Don't fancy you'll throw dust in _my_ eyes. I'm too old a cock for that. Don't you know that you're breaking the law by begging?" "I'm _not_ begging," retorted the woman, almost fiercely. "Oh! indeed. Why do you stop me, then?" "I merely wished to ask if your name is Thompson." "Ah hem!" ejaculated the man with a broad grin, "well no, madam, my name is _not_ Thompson." "Well, then," rejoined the woman, still indignantly, "you may move on." She had used an expression all too familiar to herself, and the man, obeying the order with a bow and a mocking laugh, disappeared like those who had gone before him. For some time no one else appeared save a policeman. When he approached, the woman went past him down the street, as if bent on some business, but when he was out of sight she returned to the old spot, which was near the entrance to an alley. At last the woman's patience was rewarded by the sight of a burly little elderly man, whose face of benignity was unmistakably genuine. Remembering the previous man's reference to the baby, she covered it up carefully, and held it more like a bundle. Stepping up to the newcomer at once, she put the same question as to name, and also asked if he lived in Russell Square. "No, my good woman," replied the burly little man, with a look of mingled surprise and pity, "my name is _not_ Thompson. It is Twitter-- Samuel Twitter, of Twitter, Slime and--, but," he added, checking himself, under a sudden and rare impulse of prudence, "why do you ask my name and address?" The woman gave an almost hysterical laugh at having been so successful in her somewhat clumsy scheme, and, without uttering another word, darted down the alley. She passed rapidly round by a back way to another point of the same street she had left--well ahead of the spot where she had stood so long and so patiently that night. Here she suddenly uncovered the baby's face and kissed it passionately for a few moments. Then, wrapping it in the ragged shawl, with its little head out, she laid it on the middle of the footpath full in the light of a lamp, and retired to await the result. When the woman rushed away, as above related, Mr Samuel Twitter stood for some minutes rooted to the spot, lost in amazement. He was found in that condition by the returning policeman. "Constable," said he, cocking his hat to one side the better to scratch his bald head, "there are strange people in this region." "Indeed there are, sir." "Yes, but I mean _very_ strange people." "Well, sir, if you insist on it, I won't deny that some of them are _very_ strange." "Yes, well--good-night, constable," said Mr Twitter, moving slowly forward in a mystified state of mind, while the guardian of the night continued his rounds, thinking to himself that he had just parted from one of the very strangest of the people. Suddenly Samuel Twitter came to a full stop, for there lay the small baby gazing at him with its solemn eyes, apparently quite indifferent to the hardness and coldness of its bed of stone. "Abandoned!" gasped the burly little man. Whether Mr Twitter referred to the infant's moral character, or to its being shamefully forsaken, we cannot now prove, but he instantly caught the bundle in his arms and gazed at it. Possibly his gaze may have been too intense, for the mild little creature opened a small mouth that bore no proportion whatever to the eyes, and attempted to cry, but the attempt was a failure. It had not strength to cry. The burly little man's soul was touched to the centre by the sight. He kissed the baby's forehead, pressed it to his ample breast, and hurried away. If he had taken time to think he might have gone to a police-office, or a night refuge, or some such haven of rest for the weary, but when Twitter's feelings were touched he became a man of impulse. He did not take time to think--except to the extent that, on reaching the main thoroughfare, he hailed a cab and was driven home. The poor mother had followed him with the intention of seeing him home. Of course the cab put an end to that. She felt comparatively easy, however, knowing, as she did, that her child was in the keeping of "Twitter, Slime and ---." That was quite enough to enable her to trace Mr Twitter out. Comforting herself as well as she could with this reflection, she sat down in a dark corner on a cold door-step, and, covering her face with both hands, wept as though her heart would break. Gradually her sobs subsided, and, rising, she hurried away, shivering with cold, for her thin cotton dress was a poor protection against the night chills, and her ragged shawl was--gone with the baby. In a few minutes she reached a part of the Whitechapel district where some of the deepest poverty and wretchedness in London is to be found. Turning into a labyrinth of small streets and alleys, she paused in the neighbourhood of the court in which was her home--if such it could be called. "Is it worth while going back to him?" she muttered. "He nearly killed baby, and it wouldn't take much to make him kill me. And oh! he was so different--once!" While she stood irresolute, the man of whom she spoke chanced to turn the corner, and ran against her, somewhat roughly. "Hallo! is that you?" he demanded, in tones that told too clearly where he had been spending the night. "Yes, Ned, it's me. I was just thinking about going home." "Home, indeed--'stime to b'goin' home. Where'v you bin? The babby 'll 'v bin squallin' pretty stiff by this time." "No fear of baby now," returned the wife almost defiantly; "it's gone." "Gone!" almost shouted the husband. "You haven't murdered it, have you?" "No, but I've put it in safe keeping, where _you_ can't get at it, and, now I know that, I don't care what you do to _me_." "Ha! we'll see about that. Come along." He seized the woman by the arm and hurried her towards their dwelling. It was little better than a cellar, the door being reached by a descent of five or six much-worn steps. To the surprise of the couple the door, which was usually shut at that hour, stood partly open, and a bright light shone within. "Wastin' coal and candle," growled the man with an angry oath, as he approached. "Hetty didn't use to be so extravagant," remarked the woman, in some surprise. As she spoke the door was flung wide open, and an overgrown but very handsome girl peered out. "Oh! father, I thought it was your voice," she said. "Mother, is that you? Come in, quick. Here's Bobby brought home in a cab with a broken leg." On hearing this the man's voice softened, and, entering the room, he went up to a heap of straw in one corner whereon our little friend Bobby Frog--the street-Arab--lay. "Hallo! Bobby, wot's wrong with 'ee? You ain't used to come to grief," said the father, laying his hand on the boy's shoulder, and giving him a rough shake. Things oftentimes "are not what they seem." The shake was the man's mode of expressing sympathy, for he was fond of his son, regarding him, with some reason, as a most hopeful pupil in the ways of wickedness. "It's o' no use, father," said the boy, drawing his breath quickly and knitting his brows, "you can't stir me up with a long pole now. I'm past that." "What! have 'ee bin runned over?" "No--on'y run down, or knocked down." "Who did it? On'y give me his name an' address, an' as sure as my name's Ned I'll--" He finished the sentence with a sufficiently expressive scowl and clenching of a huge fist, which had many a time done great execution in the prize ring. "It wasn't a he, father, it was a she." "Well, no matter, if I on'y had my fingers on her windpipe I'd squeeze it summat." "If you did I'd bang your nose! She didn't go for to do it a-purpose, you old grampus," retorted Bobby, intending the remark to be taken as a gentle yet affectionate reproof. "A doctor's bin an' set my leg," continued the boy, "an' made it as stiff as a poker wi' what 'e calls splints. He says I won't be able to go about for ever so many weeks." "An' who's to feed you, I wonder, doorin' them weeks? An' who sent for the doctor? Was it him as supplied the fire an' candle to-night?" "No, father, it was me," answered Hetty, who was engaged in stirring something in a small saucepan, the loose handle of which was attached to its battered body by only one rivet; the other rivet had given way on an occasion when Ned Frog sent it flying through the doorway after his retreating wife. "You see I was paid my wages to-night, so I could afford it, as well as to buy some coal and a candle, for the doctor said Bobby must be kept warm." "Afford it!" exclaimed Ned, in rising wrath, "how can 'ee say you can afford it w'en I 'aven't had enough grog to _half_ screw me, an' not a brown left. Did the doctor ask a fee?" "No, father, I offered him one, but he wouldn't take it." "Ah--very good on 'im! I wonder them fellows has the cheek to ask fees for on'y givin' advice. W'y, I'd give advice myself all day long at a penny an hour, an' think myself well off too if I got that--better off than them as got the advice anyhow. What are you sittin' starin' at an' sulkin' there for?" This last remark was addressed gruffly to Mrs Frog, who, during the previous conversation, had seated herself on a low three-legged stool, and, clasping her hands over her knees, gazed at the dirty blank walls in blanker despair. The poor woman realised the situation better than her drunken husband did. As a bird-fancier he contributed little, almost nothing, to the general fund on which this family subsisted. He was a huge, powerful fellow, and had various methods of obtaining money--some obvious and others mysterious--but nearly all his earnings went to the gin-palace, for Ned was a man of might, and could stand an enormous quantity of drink. Hetty, who worked, perhaps we should say slaved, for a firm which paid her one shilling a week, could not manage to find food for them all. Mrs Frog herself with her infant to care for, had found it hard work at any time to earn a few pence, and now Bobby's active little limbs were reduced to inaction, converting him into a consumer instead of a producer. In short, the glaring fact that the family expenses would be increased while the family income was diminished, stared Mrs Frog as blankly in the face as she stared at the dirty blank wall. And her case was worse, even, than people in better circumstances might imagine, for the family lived so literally from hand to mouth that there was no time even to think when a difficulty arose or disaster befell. They rented their room from a man who styled it a furnished apartment, in virtue of a rickety table, a broken chair, a worn-out sheet or two, a dilapidated counterpane, four ragged blankets, and the infirm saucepan before mentioned, besides a few articles of cracked or broken crockery. For this accommodation the landlord charged ninepence per day, which sum had to be paid _every night_ before the family was allowed to retire to rest! In the event of failure to pay they would have been turned out into the street at once, and the door padlocked. Thus the necessity for a constant, though small, supply of cash became urgent, and the consequent instability of "home" very depressing. To preserve his goods from the pawnbroker, and prevent a moonlight flitting, this landlord had printed on his sheets the words "stolen from ---" and on the blankets and counterpane were stamped the words "stop thief!" Mrs Frog made no reply to her husband's gruff question, which induced the man to seize an empty bottle, as being the best way of rousing her attention. "Come, you let mother alone, dad," suggested Bobby, "she ain't a-aggrawatin' of you just now." "Why, mother," exclaimed Hetty, who was so busy with Bobby's supper, and, withal, so accustomed to the woman's looks of hopeless misery that she had failed to observe anything unusual until her attention was thus called to her, "what ever have you done with the baby?" "Ah--you may well ask that," growled Ned. Even the boy seemed to forget his pain for a moment as he now observed, anxiously, that his mother had not the usual bundle on her breast. "The baby's gone!" she said, bitterly, still keeping her eyes on the blank wall. "Gone!--how?--lost? killed? speak, mother," burst from Hetty and the boy. "No, only gone to where it will be better cared for than here." "Come, explain, old woman," said Ned, again laying his hand on the bottle. As Hetty went and took her hand gently, Mrs Frog condescended to explain, but absolutely refused to tell to whose care the baby had been consigned. "Well--it ain't a bad riddance, after all," said the man, as he rose, and, staggering into a corner where another bundle of straw was spread on the floor, flung himself down. Appropriately drawing two of the "stop thief" blankets over him, he went to sleep. Then Mrs Frog, feeling comparatively sure of quiet for the remainder of the night, drew her stool close to the side of her son, and held such intercourse with him as she seldom had the chance of holding while Bobby was in a state of full health and bodily vigour. Hetty, meanwhile, ministered to them both, for she was one of those dusty diamonds of what may be styled the East-end diggings of London--not so rare, perhaps, as many people may suppose--whose lustre is dimmed and intrinsic value somewhat concealed by the neglect and the moral as well as physical filth by which they are surrounded. "Of course you've paid the ninepence, Hetty?" "Yes, mother." "You might 'ave guessed that," said Bobby, "for, if she 'adn't we shouldn't 'ave bin here." "That and the firing and candle, with what the doctor ordered, has used up all I had earned, even though I did some extra work and was paid for it," said Hetty with a sigh. "But I don't grudge it, Bobby--I'm only sorry because there's nothing more coming to me till next week." "Meanwhile there is nothing for _this_ week," said Mrs Frog with a return of the despair, as she looked at her prostrate son, "for all I can manage to earn will barely make up the rent--if it does even that-- and father, you know, drinks nearly all he makes. God help us!" "God _will_ help us," said Hetty, sitting down on the floor and gently stroking the back of her mother's hand, "for He sent the trouble, and will hear us when we cry to Him." "Pray to Him, then, Hetty, for it's no use askin' me to join you. I can't pray. An' don't let your father hear, else he'll be wild." The poor girl bent her head on her knees as she sat, and prayed silently. Her mother and brother, neither of whom had any faith in prayer, remained silent, while her father, breathing stertorously in the corner, slept the sleep of the drunkard. CHAPTER FOUR. SAMUEL TWITTER ASTONISHES MRS. TWITTER AND HER FRIENDS. In a former chapter we described, to some extent, the person and belongings of a very poor man with five thousand a year. Let us now make the acquaintance of a very rich one with an income of five hundred. He has already introduced himself to the reader under the name of Samuel Twitter. On the night of which we write Mrs Twitter happened to have a "few friends" to tea. And let no one suppose that Mrs Twitter's few friends were to be put off with afternoon tea--that miserable invention of modern times--nor with a sham meal of sweet warm water and thin bread and butter. By no means. We have said that Samuel Twitter was rich, and Mrs Twitter, conscious of her husband's riches, as well as grateful for them, went in for the substantial and luxurious to an amazing extent. Unlimited pork sausages and inexhaustible buttered toast, balanced with muffins or crumpets, was her idea of "tea." The liquid was a secondary point--in one sense--but it was always strong. It was the only strong liquid in fact allowed in the house, for Mr Twitter, Mrs Twitter, and all the little Twitters were members of the Blue Ribbon Army; more or less enthusiastic according to their light and capacity. The young Twitters descended in a graduated scale from Sammy, the eldest, (about sixteen), down through Molly, and Willie, and Fred, and Lucy, to Alice the so-called "baby"--though she was at that time a remarkably robust baby of four years. Mrs Twitter's few friends were aware of her tendencies, and appreciated her hospitality, insomuch that the "few" bade fair to develop by degrees into many. Well, Mrs Twitter had her few friends to tea, and conviviality was at its height. The subject of conversation was poverty. Mrs Loper, a weak-minded but amiable lady, asserted that a large family with 500 pounds a year was a poor family. Mrs Loper did not know that Mrs Twitter's income was five hundred, but she suspected it. Mrs Twitter herself carefully avoided giving the slightest hint on the subject. "Of course," continued Mrs Loper, "I don't mean to say that people with five hundred are _very_ poor, you know; indeed it all depends on the family. With six children like you, now, to feed and clothe and educate, and with everything so dear as it is now, I should say that five hundred was poverty." "Well, I don't quite agree with you, Mrs Loper, on that point. To my mind it does not so much depend on the family, as on the notions, and the capacity to manage, in the head of the family. I remember one family just now, whose head was cut off suddenly, I may say in the prime of life. A hundred and fifty a year or thereabouts was the income the widow had to count on, and she was left with five little ones to rear. She trained them well, gave them good educations, made most of their garments with her own hands when they were little, and sent one of her boys to college, yet was noted for the amount of time she spent in visiting the poor, the sick, and the afflicted, for whom she had always a little to spare out of her limited income. Now, if wealth is to be measured by results, I think we may say that that poor lady was rich. She was deeply mourned by a large circle of poor people when she was taken home to the better land. Her small means, having been judiciously invested by a brother, increased a little towards the close of life, but she never was what the world esteems rich." Mrs Twitter looked at a very tall man with a dark unhandsome countenance, as if to invite his opinion. "I quite agree with you," he said, helping himself to a crumpet, "there are some people with small incomes who seem to be always in funds, just as there are other people with large incomes who are always hard-up. The former are really rich, the latter really poor." Having delivered himself of these sentiments somewhat sententiously, Mr Crackaby,--that was his name,--proceeded to consume the crumpet. There was a general tendency on the part of the other guests to agree with their hostess, but one black sheep in the flock objected. He quite agreed, of course, with the general principle that liberality with small means was beautiful to behold as well as desirable to possess--the liberality, not the small means--and that, on the other hand, riches with a narrow niggardly spirit was abominable, but then--and the black sheep came, usually, to the strongest part of his argument when he said "but then"--it was an uncommonly difficult thing, when everything was up to famine prices, and gold was depreciated in value owing to the gold-fields, and silver was nowhere, and coppers were changed into bronze,--exceedingly difficult to practise liberality and at the same time to make the two ends meet. As no one clearly saw the exact bearing of the black sheep's argument, they all replied with that half idiotic simper with which Ignorance seeks to conceal herself, and which Politeness substitutes for the more emphatic "pooh," or the inelegant "bosh." Then, applying themselves with renewed zest to the muffins, they put about ship, nautically speaking, and went off on a new tack. "Mr Twitter is rather late to-night, I think?" said Mr Crackaby, consulting his watch, which was antique and turnipy in character. "He is, indeed," replied the hostess, "business must have detained him, for he is the very soul of punctuality. That is one of his many good qualities, and it is _such_ a comfort, for I can always depend on him to the minute,--breakfast, dinner, tea; he never keeps us waiting, as too many men do, except, of course, when he is unavoidably detained by business." "Ah, yes, business has much to answer for," remarked Mrs Loper, in a tone which suggested that she held business to be an incorrigibly bad fellow; "whatever mischief happens with one's husband it's sure to be business that did it." "Pardon me, madam," objected the black sheep, whose name, by the way, was Stickler, "business does bring about much of the disaster that often appertains to wedded life, but mischief is sometimes done by other means, such, for instance, as accidents, robberies, murders--" "Oh! Mr Stickler," suddenly interrupted a stout, smiling lady, named Larrabel, who usually did the audience part of Mrs Twitter's little tea parties, "how _can_ you suggest such ideas, especially when Mr Twitter is unusually late?" Mr Stickler protested that he had no intention of alarming the company by disagreeable suggestions, that he had spoken of accident, robbery, and murder in the abstract. "There, you've said it all over again," interrupted Mrs Larrabel, with an unwonted frown. "But then," continued Stickler, regardless of the interruption, "a broken leg, or a rifled pocket and stunned person, or a cut windpipe, may be applicable to the argument in hand without being applied to Mr Twitter." "Surely," said Mrs Loper, who deemed the reply unanswerable. In this edifying strain the conversation flowed on until the evening grew late and the party began to grow alarmed. "I do hope nothing has happened to him," said Mrs Loper, with a solemnised face. "I think not. I have seen him come home much later than this--though not often," said the hostess, the only one of the party who seemed quite at ease, and who led the conversation back again into shallower channels. As the night advanced, however, the alarm became deeper, and it was even suggested by Mrs Loper that Crackaby should proceed to Twitter's office--a distance of three miles--to inquire whether and when he had left; while the smiling Mrs Larrabel proposed to send information to the headquarters of the police in Scotland Yard, because the police knew everything, and could find out anything. "You have no idea, my dear," she said, "how clever they are at Scotland Yard. Would you believe it, I left my umbrellar the other day in a cab, and I didn't know the number of the cab, for numbers won't remain in my head, nor the look of the cabman, for I never look at cabmen, they are so rude sometimes. I didn't even remember the place where I got into the cab, for I can't remember places when I've to go to so many, so I gave up my umbrellar for lost and was going away, when a policeman stepped up to me and asked in a very civil tone if I had lost anything. He was so polite and pleasant that I told him of my loss, though I knew it would do me no good, as he had not seen the cab or the cabman. "`I think, madam,' he said, `that if you go down to Scotland Yard to-morrow morning, you may probably find it there.' "`Young man,' said I, `do you take me for a fool!' "`No, madam, I don't,' he replied. "`Or do you take my umbrellar for a fool,' said I, `that it should walk down to Scotland Yard of its own accord and wait there till I called for it?' "`Certainly not, madam,' he answered with such a pleasant smile that I half forgave him. "`Nevertheless if you happen to be in the neighbourhood of Scotland Yard to-morrow,' he added, `it might be as well to call in and inquire.' "`Thank you,' said I, with a stiff bow as I left him. On the way home, however, I thought there might be something in it, so I did go down to Scotland Yard next day, where I was received with as much civility as if I had been a lady of quality, and was taken to a room as full of umbrellas as an egg's full of meat--almost. "`You'd know the umbrellar if you saw it, madam,' said the polite constable who escorted me. "`Know it, sir!' said I, `yes, I should think I would. Seven and sixpence it cost me--new, and I've only had it a week--brown silk with a plain handle--why, there it is!' And there it was sure enough, and he gave it to me at once, only requiring me to write my name in a book, which I did with great difficulty because of my gloves, and being so nervous. Now, how did the young policeman that spoke to me the day before know that my umbrellar would go there, and how did it get there? They say the days of miracles are over, but I don't think so, for that was a miracle if ever there was one." "The days of miracles are indeed over, ma'am," said the black sheep, "but then that is no reason why things which are in themselves commonplace should not appear miraculous to the uninstructed mind. When I inform you that our laws compel cabmen under heavy penalties to convey left umbrellas and parcels to the police-office, the miracle may not seem quite so surprising." Most people dislike to have their miracles unmasked. Mrs Larrabel turned from the black sheep to her hostess without replying, and repeated her suggestion about making inquiries at Scotland Yard--thus delicately showing that although, possibly, convinced, she was by no means converted. They were interrupted at this point by a hurried knock at the street door. "There he is at last," exclaimed every one. "It is his knock, certainly," said Mrs Twitter, with a perplexed look, "but rather peculiar--not so firm as usual--there it is again! Impatient! I never knew my Sam impatient before in all our wedded life. You'd better open the door, dear," she said, turning to the eldest Twitter, he being the only one of the six who was privileged to sit up late, "Mary seems to have fallen asleep." Before the eldest Twitter could obey, the maligned Mary was heard to open the door and utter an exclamation of surprise, and her master's step was heard to ascend the stair rather unsteadily. The guests looked at each other anxiously. It might be that to some minds--certainly to that of the black sheep--visions of violated blue-ribbonism occurred. As certainly these visions did _not_ occur to Mrs Twitter. She would sooner have doubted her clergyman than her husband. Trustfulness formed a prominent part of her character, and her confidence in her Sam was unbounded. Even when her husband came against the drawing-room door with an awkward bang--the passage being dark--opened it with a fling, and stood before the guests with a flushed countenance, blazing eyes, a peculiar deprecatory smile, and a dirty ragged bundle in his arms, she did not doubt him. "Forgive me, my dear," he said, gazing at his wife in a manner that might well have justified the black sheep's thought, "screwed," "I--I-- business kept me in the office very late, and then--" He cast an imbecile glance at the bundle. "What _ever_ have you got there, Sam?" asked his wondering wife. "Goodness me! it moves!" exclaimed Mrs Loper. "Live poultry!" thought the black sheep, and visions of police cells and penal servitude floated before his depraved mental vision. "Yes, Mrs Loper, it moves. It is alive--though not very much alive, I fear. My dear, I've found--found a baby--picked it up in the street. Not a soul there but me. Would have perished or been trodden on if I had not taken it up. See here!" He untied the dirty bundle as he spoke, and uncovered the round little pinched face with the great solemn eyes, which gazed, still wonderingly, at the assembled company. It is due to the assembled company to add that it returned the gaze with compound interest. CHAPTER FIVE. TREATS STILL FURTHER OF RICHES, POVERTY, BABIES, AND POLICE. When Mr and Mrs Twitter had dismissed the few friends that night, they sat down at their own fireside, with no one near them but the little foundling, which lay in the youngest Twitter's disused cradle, gazing at them with its usual solemnity, for it did not seem to require sleep. They opened up their minds to each other thus:-- "Now, Samuel," said Mrs Twitter, "the question is, what are you going to do with it?" "Well, Mariar," returned her spouse, with an assumption of profound gravity, "I suppose we must send it to the workhouse." "You know quite well, Sam, that you don't mean that," said Mrs Twitter, "the dear little forsaken mite! Just look at its solemn eyes. It has been clearly cast upon us, Sam, and it seems to me that we are bound to look after it." "What! with six of our own, Mariar?" "Yes, Sam. Isn't there a song which says something about luck in odd numbers?" "And with only 500 pounds a year?" objected Mr Twitter. "_Only_ five hundred. How can you speak so? We are _rich_ with five hundred. Can we not educate our little ones?" "Yes, my dear." "And entertain our friends?" "Yes, my love,--with crumpets and tea." "Don't forget muffins and bloater paste, and German sausage and occasional legs of mutton, you ungrateful man!" "I don't forget 'em, Mariar. My recollection of 'em is powerful; I may even say vivid." "Well," continued the lady, "haven't you been able to lend small sums on several occasions to friends--" "Yes, my dear,--and they are _still_ loans," murmured the husband. "And don't we give a little--I sometimes think too little--regularly to the poor, and to the church, and haven't we got a nest-egg laid by in the Post-office savings-bank?" "All true, Mariar, and all _your_ doing. But for your thrifty ways, and economical tendencies, and rare financial abilities, I should have been bankrupt long ere now." Mr Twitter was nothing more than just in this statement of his wife's character. She was one of those happily constituted women who make the best and the most of everything, and who, while by no means turning her eyes away from the dark sides of things, nevertheless gave people the impression that she saw only their bright sides. Her economy would have degenerated into nearness if it had not been commensurate with her liberality, for while, on the one hand, she was ever anxious, almost eager, to give to the needy and suffering every penny that she could spare, she was, on the other hand, strictly economical in trifles. Indeed Mrs Twitter's vocabulary did not contain the word trifle. One of her favourite texts of Scripture, which was always in her mind, and which she had illuminated in gold and hung on her bedroom walls with many other words of God, was, "Gather up the fragments, that nothing be lost." Acting on this principle with all her heart, she gathered up the fragments of time, so that she had always a good deal of that commodity to spare, and was never in a hurry. She gathered up bits of twine and made neat little rings of them, which she deposited in a basket--a pretty large basket--which in time became such a repository of wealth in that respect that the six Twitters never failed to find the exact size and quality of cordage wanted by them--and, indeed, even after the eldest, Sammy, came to the years of discretion, if he had suddenly required a cable suited to restrain a first-rate iron-clad, his mind would, in the first blush of the thing, have reverted to mother's basket! If friends wrote short notes to Mrs Twitter--which they often did, for the sympathetic find plenty of correspondents--the blank leaves were always torn off and consigned to a scrap-paper box, and the pile grew big enough at last to have set up a small stationer in business. And so with everything that came under her influence at home or abroad. She emphatically did what she could to prevent waste, and became a living fulfilment of the well-known proverb, for as she wasted not she wanted not. But to return from this digression-- "Well, then," said Mrs Twitter, "don't go and find fault, Samuel," (she used the name in full when anxious to be impressive), "with what Providence has given us, by putting the word `only' to it, for we are _rich_ with five hundred a year." Mr Twitter freely admitted that he was wrong, and said he would be more careful in future of the use to which he put the word "only." "But," said he, "we haven't a hole or corner in the house to put the poor thing in. To be sure, there's the coal-cellar and the scuttle might be rigged up as a cradle, but--" He paused, and looked at his wife. The deceiver did not mean all this to be taken as a real objection. He was himself anxious to retain the infant, and only made this show of opposition to enlist Maria more certainly on his side. "Not a corner!" she exclaimed, "why, is there not the whole parlour? Do you suppose that a baby requires a four-post bed, and a wash-hand-stand, and a five-foot mirror? Couldn't we lift the poor darling in and out in half a minute? Besides, there is our own room. I feel as if there was an uncomfortable want of some sort ever since _our_ baby was transplanted to the nursery. So we will establish the old bassinet and put the mite there." "And what shall we call it, Maria?" "Call it--why, call it--call it--Mite--no name could be more appropriate." "But, my love, Mite, if a name at all, is a man's--that is, it sounds like a masculine name." "Call it Mita, then." And so it was named, and thus that poor little waif came to be adopted by that "rich" family. It seems to be our mission, at this time, to introduce our readers to various homes--the homes of England, so to speak! But let not our readers become impatient, while we lead the way to one more home, and open the door with our secret latch-key. This home is in some respects peculiar. It is not a poor one, for it is comfortable and clean. Neither is it a rich one, for there are few ornaments, and no luxuries about it. Over the fire stoops a comely young woman, as well as one can judge, at least, from the rather faint light that enters through a small window facing a brick wall. The wall is only five feet from the window, and some previous occupant of the rooms had painted on it a rough landscape, with three very green trees and a very blue lake, and a swan in the middle thereof, sitting on an inverted swan which was meant to be his reflection, but somehow seemed rather more real than himself. The picture is better, perhaps, than the bricks were, yet it is not enlivening. The only other objects in the room worth mentioning are, a particularly small book-shelf in a corner; a cuckoo-clock on the mantel-shelf, an engraved portrait of Queen Victoria on the wall opposite in a gilt frame, and a portrait of Sir Robert Peel in a frame of rosewood beside it. On a little table in the centre of the room are the remains of a repast. Under the table is a very small child, probably four years of age. Near the window is another small, but older child--a boy of about six or seven. He is engaged in fitting on his little head a great black cloth helmet with a bronze badge, and a peak behind as well as before. Having nearly extinguished himself with the helmet, the small boy seizes a very large truncheon, and makes a desperate effort to flourish it. Close to the comely woman stands a very tall, very handsome, and very powerful man, who is putting in the uppermost buttons of a police-constable's uniform. Behold, reader, the _tableau vivant_ to which we would call your attention! "Where d'you go on duty to-day, Giles," asked the comely young woman, raising her face to that of her husband. "Oxford Circus," replied the policeman. "It is the first time I've been put on fixed-point duty. That's the reason I'm able to breakfast with you and the children, Molly, instead of being off at half-past five in the morning as usual. I shall be on for a month." "I'm glad of it, Giles, for it gives the children a chance of seeing something of you. I wish you'd let me look at that cut on your shoulder. Do!" "No, no, Molly," returned the man, as he pushed his wife playfully away from him. "Hands off! You know the punishment for assaulting the police is heavy! Now then, Monty," (to the boy), "give up my helmet and truncheon. I must be off." "Not yet, daddy," cried Monty, "I's a pleeceman of the A Division, Number 2, 'ats me, an' I'm goin' to catch a t'ief. I 'mell 'im." "You smell him, do you? Where is he, d'you think?" "Oh! I know," replied the small policeman--here he came close up to his father, and, getting on tiptoe, said in a very audible whisper, "he's under de table, but don' tell 'im I know. His name's Joe!" "All right, I'll keep quiet, Monty, but look alive and nab him quick, for I must be off." Thus urged the small policeman went on tiptoe to the table, made a sudden dive under it, and collared his little brother. The arrest, however, being far more prompt than had been expected, the "t'ief" refused to be captured. A struggle ensued, in the course of which the helmet rolled off, a corner of the tablecloth was pulled down, and the earthenware teapot fell with a crash to the floor. "It's my duty, I fear," said Giles, "to take you both into custody and lock you up in a cell for breaking the teapot as well as the peace, but I'll be merciful and let you off this time, Monty, if you lend your mother a hand to pick up the pieces." Monty agreed to accept this compromise. The helmet and truncheon were put to their proper uses, and the merciful police-constable went out "on duty." CHAPTER SIX. WEALTH PAYS A VISIT TO POVERTY. It was an interesting sight to watch police-constable Number 666 as he went through the performance of his arduous duties that day at the Regent Circus in Oxford Street. To those who are unacquainted with London, it may be necessary to remark that this circus is one of those great centres of traffic where two main arteries cross and tend to cause so much obstruction, that complete stoppages would become frequent were it not for the admirable management of the several members of the police force who are stationed there to keep order. The "Oxford Circus," as it is sometimes called, is by no means the largest or most crowded of such crossings, nevertheless the tide of traffic is sufficiently strong and continuous there to require several police-constables on constant duty. When men are detailed for such "Fixed-Point" duty they go on it for a month at a time, and have different hours from the other men, namely, from nine in the morning till five in the afternoon. We have said it was interesting to watch our big hero, Number 666, in the performance of his arduous duties. He occupied the crossing on the city side of the circus. It was a magnificent afternoon, and all the metropolitan butterflies were out. Busses flowed on in a continuous stream, looking like big bullies who incline to use their weight and strength to crush through all obstruction. The drivers of these were for the most part wise men, and restrained themselves and their steeds. In one or two instances, where the drivers were unwise, a glance from the bright eye of Giles Scott was quite sufficient to keep all right. And Giles could only afford to bestow a fragmentary glance at any time on the refractory, for, almost at one and the same moment he had to check the impetuous, hold up a warning hand to the unruly, rescue a runaway child from innumerable horse-legs, pilot a stout but timid lady from what we may call refuge-island, in the middle of the roadway, to the pavement, answer an imbecile's question as to the whereabouts of the Tower or Saint Paul's, order a loitering cabby to move on, and look out for his own toes, as well as give moderate attention to the carriage-poles which perpetually threatened the small of his own back. We should imagine that the premium of insurance on the life of Number 666 was fabulous in amount, but cannot tell. Besides his great height, Giles possessed a drooping moustache, which added much to his dignified appearance. He was also imperturbably grave, except when offering aid to a lady or a little child, on which occasions the faintest symptoms of a smile floated for a moment on his visage like an April sunbeam. At all other times his expression was that of incorruptible justice and awful immobility. No amount of chaff, no quantity of abuse, no kind of flattery, no sort of threat could move him any more than the seething billows of the Mediterranean can move Gibraltar. Costermongers growled at him hopelessly. Irate cabmen saw that their wisdom lay in submission. Criminals felt that once in his grasp their case was hopeless, just as, conversely, old ladies felt that once under his protection they were in absolute security. Even street-boys felt that references to "bobbies," "coppers," and "slops;" questions as to how 'is 'ead felt up there; who rolled 'im hout so long; whether his mother knew 'e was hout; whether 'e'd sell 'em a bit of 'is legs; with advice to come down off the ladder, or to go 'ome to bed-- that all these were utterly thrown away and lost upon Giles Scott. The garb of the London policeman is not, as every one knows, founded on the principles of aesthetics. Neither has it been devised on utilitarian principles. Indeed we doubt whether the originator of it, (and we are happy to profess ignorance of his name), proceeded on any principle whatever, except the gratification of a wild and degraded fancy. The colour, of course, is not objectionable, and the helmet might be worse, but the tunic is such that the idea of grace or elegance may not consist with it. We mention these facts because Giles Scott was so well-made that he forced his tunic to look well, and thus added one more to the already numerous "exceptions" which are said to "prove the rule." "Allow me, madam," said Giles, offering his right-hand to an elderly female, who, having screwed up her courage to make a rush, got into sudden danger and became mentally hysterical in the midst of a conglomerate of hoofs, poles, horse-heads, and wheels. The female allowed him, and the result was sudden safety, a gasp of relief, and departure of hysteria. "Not yet, please," said Giles, holding up a warning right-hand to the crowd on refuge-island, while with his left waving gently to and fro he gave permission to the mighty stream to flow. "Now," he added, holding up the left-hand suddenly. The stream was stopped as abruptly as were the waters of Jordan in days of old, and the storm-staid crew on refuge-island made a rush for the mainland. It was a trifling matter to most of them that rush, but of serious moment to the few whose limbs had lost their elasticity, or whose minds could not shake off the memory of the fact that between 200 and 300 lives are lost in London streets by accidents every year, and that between 3000 and 4000 are more or less severely injured annually. Before the human stream had got quite across, an impatient hansom made a push. The eagle eye of Number 666 had observed the intention, and in a moment his gigantic figure stood calmly in front of the horse, whose head was raised high above his helmet as the driver tightened the reins violently. Just then a small slipshod girl made an anxious dash from refuge-island, lost courage, and turned to run back, changed her mind, got bewildered, stopped suddenly and yelled. Giles caught her by the arm, bore her to the pavement, and turned, just in time to see the hansom dash on in the hope of being overlooked. Vain hope! Number 666 saw the number of the hansom, booked it in his memory while he assisted in raising up an old gentleman who had been overturned, though not injured, in endeavouring to avoid it. During the lull--for there are lulls in the rush of London traffic, as in the storms of nature,--Giles transferred the number of that hansom to his note-book, thereby laying up a little treat for its driver in the shape of a little trial the next day terminating, probably, with a fine. Towards five in the afternoon the strain of all this began to tell even on the powerful frame of Giles Scott, but no symptom did he show of fatigue, and so much reserve force did he possess that it is probable he would have exhibited as calm and unwearied a front if he had remained on duty for eighteen hours instead of eight. About that hour, also, there came an unusual glut to the traffic, in the form of a troop of the horse-guards. These magnificent creatures, resplendent in glittering steel, white plumes, and black boots, were passing westward. Giles stood in front of the arrested stream. A number of people stood, as it were, under his shadow. Refuge-island was overflowing. Comments, chiefly eulogistic, were being freely made and some impatience was being manifested by drivers, when a little shriek was heard, and a child's voice exclaimed:-- "Oh! papa, papa--there's _my_ policeman--the one I so nearly killed. He's _not_ dead after all!" Giles forgot his dignity for one moment, and, looking round, met the eager gaze of little Di Brandon. Another moment and duty required his undivided attention, so that he lost sight of her, but Di took good care not to lose sight of him. "We will wait here, darling," said her father, referring to refuge-island on which he stood, "and when he is disengaged we can speak to him." "Oh! I'm _so_ glad he's not dead," said little Di, "and p'raps he'll be able to show us the way to my boy's home." Di had a method of adopting, in a motherly way, all who, in the remotest manner, came into her life. Thus she not only spoke of our butcher and our baker, which was natural, but referred to "my policeman" and "my boy" ever since the day of the accident. When Giles had set his portion of the traffic in harmonious motion he returned to his island, and was not sorry to receive the dignified greeting of Sir Richard Brandon, while he was delighted as well as amused by the enthusiastic grasp with which Di seized his huge hand in both of her little ones, and the earnest manner in which she inquired after his health, and if she had hurt him much. "Did they put you to bed and give you hot gruel?" she asked, with touching pathos. "No, miss, they didn't think I was hurt quite enough to require it," answered Giles, his drooping moustache curling slightly as he spoke. "I had hoped to see you at my house," said Sir Richard, "you did not call." "Thank you, sir, I did not think the little service I rendered your daughter worth making so much of. I called, however, the same evening, to inquire for her, but did not wish to intrude on you." "It would have been no intrusion, friend," returned Sir Richard, with grand condescension. "One who has saved my child's life has a claim upon my consideration." "A dook 'e must be," said a small street boy in a loud stage whisper to a dray-man--for small street-boys are sown broadcast in London, and turn up at all places on every occasion, "or p'raps," he added on reflection, "'e's on'y a markiss." "Now then," said Giles to the dray-man with a motion of the hand that caused him to move on, while he cast a look on the boy which induced him to move off. "By the way, constable," said Sir Richard, "I am on my way to visit a poor boy whose leg was broken on the day my pony ran away. He was holding the pony at the time. He lives in Whitechapel somewhere. I have the address here in my note-book." "Excuse me, sir, one moment," said Number 666, going towards a crowd which had gathered round a fallen horse. "I happen to be going to that district myself," he continued on returning, "what is the boy's name?" "Robert--perhaps I should rather say Bobby Frog," answered Sir Richard. "The name is familiar," returned the policeman, "but in London there are so many--what's his address, sir,--Roy's Court, near Commercial Street? Oh! I know it well--one of the worst parts of London. I know the boy too. He is somewhat noted in that neighbourhood for giving the police trouble. Not a bad-hearted fellow, I believe, but full of mischief, and has been brought up among thieves from his birth. His father is, or was, a bird-fancier and seller of penny articles on the streets, besides being a professional pugilist. You will be the better for protection there, sir. I would advise you not to go alone. If you can wait for five or ten minutes," added Giles, "I shall be off duty and will be happy to accompany you." Sir Richard agreed to wait. Within the time mentioned Giles was relieved, and, entering a cab with his friends, drove towards Whitechapel. They had to pass near our policeman's lodgings on the way. "Would you object, sir, stopping at my house for five minutes?" he asked. "Certainly not," returned the knight, "I am in no hurry." Number 666 stopped the cab, leaped out and disappeared through a narrow passage. In less than five minutes a very tall gentlemanly man issued from the same passage and approached them. Little Di opened her blue eyes to their very uttermost. It was _her_ policeman in plain clothes! She did not like the change at all at first, but before the end of the drive got used to him in his new aspect--all the more readily that he seemed to have cast off much of his stiffness and reserve with his blue skin. Near the metropolitan railway station in Whitechapel the cab was dismissed, and Giles led the father and child along the crowded thoroughfare until they reached Commercial Street, along which they proceeded a short distance. "We are now near some of the worst parts of London, sir," said Giles, "where great numbers of the criminal and most abandoned characters dwell." "Indeed," said Sir Richard, who did not seem to be much gratified by the information. As for Di, she was nearly crying. The news that _her_ boy was a thief and was born in the midst of such naughty people had fallen with chilling influence on her heart, for she had never thought of anything but the story-book "poor but honest parents!" "What large building is that?" inquired the knight, who began to wish that he had not given way to his daughter's importunities, "the one opposite, I mean, with placards under the windows." "That is the well-known Home of Industry, instituted and managed by Miss Macpherson and a staff of volunteer workers. They do a deal of good, sir, in this neighbourhood." "Ah! indeed," said Sir Richard, who had never before heard of the Home of Industry. "And, pray, what particular industry does this Miss Mac-- what did you call her?" "Macpherson. The lady, you know, who sends out so many rescued waifs and strays to Canada, and spends all her time in caring for the poorest of the poor in the East-End and in preaching the gospel to them. You've often seen accounts of her work, no doubt, in the _Christian_?" "Well--n-no. I read the _Times_, but, now you mention it, I have some faint remembrance of seeing reference to such matters. Very self-denying, no doubt, and praiseworthy, though I must say that I doubt the use of preaching the gospel to such persons. From what I have seen of these lowest people I should think they were too deeply sunk in depravity to be capable of appreciating the lofty and sublime sentiments of Christianity." Number 666 felt a touch of surprise at these words, though he was too well-bred a policeman to express his feelings by word or look. In fact, although not pre-eminently noted for piety, he had been led by training, and afterwards by personal experience, to view this matter from a very different standpoint from that of Sir Richard. He made no reply, however, but, turning round the corner of the Home of Industry, entered a narrow street which bore palpable evidence of being the abode of deepest poverty. From the faces and garments of the inhabitants it was also evidently associated with the deepest depravity. As little Di saw some of the residents sitting on their doorsteps with scratched faces, swelled lips and cheeks, and dishevelled hair, and beheld the children in half-naked condition rolling in the kennel and extremely filthy, she clung closer to her father's side and began to suspect there were some phases of life she had never seen--had not even dreamt of! What the knight's thoughts were we cannot tell, for he said nothing, but disgust was more prominent than pity on his fine countenance. Those who sat on the doorsteps, or lolled with a dissipated air against the door-posts, seemed to appreciate him at his proper value, for they scowled at him as he passed. They recognised Number 666, however, (perhaps by his bearing), and gave him only a passing glance of indifference. "You said it would be dangerous for me to come here by myself," said Sir Richard, turning to Giles, as he entered another and even worse street. "Are they then so violent?" "Many of them are among the worst criminals in London, sir. Here is the court of which you are in search: Roy's Court." As he spoke, Ned Frog staggered out of his own doorway, clenched his fists, and looked with a vindictive scowl at the strangers. A second glance induced him to unclench his fists and reel round the corner on his way to a neighbouring grog-shop. Whatever other shops may decay in that region, the grog-shops, like noxious weeds, always flourish. The court was apparently much deserted at that hour, for the men had not yet returned from their work--whatever that might be--and most of the women were within doors. "This is the house," continued Giles, descending the few steps, and tapping at the door; "I have been here before. They know me." The door was opened by Hetty, and for the first time since entering those regions of poverty and crime, little Di felt a slight rise in her spirits, for through Hetty's face shone the bright spirit within; albeit the shining was through some dirt and dishevelment, good principle not being able altogether to overcome the depressing influences of extreme poverty and suffering. "Is your mother at home, Hetty!" "Oh! yes, sir. Mother, here's Mr Scott. Come in, sir. We are so glad to see you, and--" She stopped, and gazed inquiringly at the visitors who followed. "I've brought some friends of Bobby to inquire for him. Sir Richard Brandon--Mrs Frog." Number 666 stood aside, and, with something like a smile on his face, ceremoniously presented Wealth to Poverty. Wealth made a slightly confused bow to Poverty, and Poverty, looking askance at Wealth, dropt a mild courtesy. "Vell now, I'm a Dutchman if it ain't the hangel!" exclaimed a voice in the corner of the small room, before either Wealth or Poverty could utter a word. "Oh! it's _my_ boy," exclaimed Di with delight, forgetting or ignoring the poverty, dirt, and extremely bad air, as she ran forward and took hold of Bobby's hand. It was a pre-eminently dirty hand, and formed a remarkable contrast to the little hands that grasped it! The small street boy was, for the first time in his life, bereft of speech! When that faculty returned, he remarked in language which was obscure to Di:-- "Vell, if this ain't a go!" "What is a go?" asked Di with innocent surprise. Instead of answering, Bobby Frog burst into a fit of laughter, but stopped rather suddenly with an expression of pain. "Oh! 'old on! I say. This won't do. Doctor 'e said I musn't larf, 'cause it shakes the leg too much. But, you know, wot's a cove to do ven a hangel comes to him and axes sitch rum questions?" Again he laughed, and again stopped short in pain. "I'm _so_ sorry! Does it feel _very_ painful? You can't think how constantly I've been thinking of you since the accident; for it was all my fault. If I hadn't jumped up in such a passion, the pony wouldn't have run away, and you wouldn't have been hurt. I'm so _very, very_ sorry, and I got dear papa to bring me here to tell you so, and to see if we could do anything to make you well." Again Bobby was rendered speechless, but his mind was active. "Wot! I ain't dreamin', am I? 'As a hangel _really_ come to my bedside all the vay from the Vest-end, an' brought 'er dear pa'--vich means the guv'nor, I fancy--all for to tell me--a kid whose life is spent in `movin' on'--that she's wery, wery, sorry I've got my leg broke, an' that she's bin an' done it, an' she would like to know if she can do hanythink as'll make me vell! But it ain't true. It's a big lie! I'm dreamin', that's all. I've been took to hospital, an' got d'lirious-- that's wot it is. I'll try to sleep!" With this end in view he shut his eyes, and remained quite still for a few seconds, and when Di looked at his pinched and pale face in this placid condition, the tears _would_ overflow their natural boundary, and sobs _would_ rise up in her pretty throat, but she choked them back for fear of disturbing her boy. Presently the boy opened his eyes. "Wot, are you there yet?" he asked. "Oh yes. Did you think I was going away?" she replied, with a look of innocent surprise. "I won't leave you now. I'll stay here and nurse you, if papa will let me. I have slept once on a shake-down, when I was forced by a storm to stay all night at a juv'nile party. So if you've a corner here, it will do nicely--" "My dear child," interrupted her amazed father, "you are talking nonsense. And--do keep a little further from the bed. There may be-- you know--infection--" "Oh! you needn't fear infection here, sir," said Mrs Frog, somewhat sharply. "We are poor enough, God knows, though I _have_ seen better times, but we keep ourselves pretty clean, though we can't afford to spend much on soap when food is so dear, and money so scarce--so _very_ scarce!" "Forgive me, my good woman," said Sir Richard, hastily, "I did not mean to offend, but circumstances would seem to favour the idea--of--of--" And here Wealth--although a bank director and chairman of several boards, and capable of making a neat, if weakly, speech on economic laws and the currency when occasion required--was dumb before Poverty. Indeed, though he had often theorised about that stricken creature, he had never before fairly hunted her down, run her into her den, and fairly looked her in the face. "The fact is, Mrs Frog," said Giles Scott, coming to the rescue, "Sir Richard is anxious to know something about your affairs--your family, you know, and your means of--by the way, where is baby?" he said looking round the room. "She's gone lost," said Mrs Frog. "Lost?" repeated Giles, with a significant look. "Ay, lost," repeated Mrs Frog, with a look of equal significance. "Bless me, how did you lose your child?" asked Sir Richard, in some surprise. "Oh! sir, that often happens to us poor folk. We're used to it," said Mrs Frog, in a half bantering half bitter tone. Sir Richard suddenly called to mind the fact--which had not before impressed him, though he had read and commented on it--that 11,835 children under ten years of age had been lost that year, (and it was no exceptional year, as police reports will show), in the streets of London, and that 23 of these children were _never found_. He now beheld, as he imagined, one of the losers of the lost ones, and felt stricken. "Well now," said Giles to Mrs Frog, "let's hear how you get along. What does your husband do?" "He mostly does nothin' but drink. Sometimes he sells little birds; sometimes he sells penny watches or boot-laces in Cheapside, an' turns in a little that way, but it all goes to the grog-shop; none of it comes here. Then he has a mill now an' again--" "A mill?" said Sir Richard,--"is it a snuff or flour--" "He's a professional pugilist," explained Giles. "An' he's employed at a music-hall," continued Mrs Frog, "to call out the songs an' keep order. An' Bobby always used to pick a few coppers by runnin' messages, sellin' matches, and odd jobs. But he's knocked over now." "And yourself. How do you add to the general fund?" asked Sir Richard, becoming interested in the household management of Poverty. "Well, I char a bit an' wash a bit, sir, when I'm well enough--which ain't often. An' sometimes I lights the Jews' fires for 'em, an' clean up their 'earths on Saturdays--w'ich is their Sundays, sir. But Hetty works like a horse. It's she as keeps us from the work'us, sir. She's got employment at a slop shop, and by workin' 'ard all day manages to make about one shillin' a week." "I beg your pardon--how much?" "One shillin', sir." "Ah, you mean one shilling a day, I suppose." "No, sir, I mean one shillin' a _week_. Mr Scott there knows that I'm tellin' what's true." Giles nodded, and Sir Richard said, "ha-a-hem," having nothing more lucid to remark on such an amazing financial problem as was here set before him. "But," continued Mrs Frog, "poor Hetty has had a sad disappointment this week--" "Oh! mother," interrupted Hetty, "don't trouble the gentleman with that. Perhaps he wouldn't understand it, for of course he hasn't heard about all the outs and ins of slop-work." "Pardon me, my good girl," said Sir Richard, "I have not, as you truly remark, studied the details of slop-work minutely, but my mind is not unaccustomed to financial matters. Pray let me hear about this--" A savage growling, something between a mastiff and a man, outside the door, here interrupted the visitor, and a hand was heard fumbling about the latch. As the hand seemed to lack skill to open the door the foot considerately took the duty in hand and burst it open, whereupon the huge frame of Ned Frog stumbled into the room and fell prostrate at the feet of Sir Richard, who rose hastily and stepped back. The pugilist sprang up, doubled his ever ready fists, and, glaring at the knight, asked savagely: "Who the--" He was checked in the utterance of a ferocious oath, for at that moment he encountered the grave eye of Number 666. Relaxing his fists he thrust them into his coat-pockets, and, with a subdued air, staggered out of the house. "My 'usband, sir," said Mrs Frog, in answer to her visitor's inquiring glance. "Oh! is that his usual mode of returning home?" "No, sir," answered Bobby from his corner, for he was beginning to be amused by the succession of surprises which Wealth was receiving, "'e don't always come in so. Sometimes 'e sends 'is 'ead first an' the feet come afterwards. In any case the furniture's apt to suffer, not to mention the in'abitants, but you've saved us to-night, sir, or, raither, Mr Scott 'as saved both us an' you." Poor little Di, who had been terribly frightened, clung closer to her father's arm on hearing this. "Perhaps," said Sir Richard, "it would be as well that we should go, in case Mr Frog should return." He was about to say good-bye when Di checked him, and, despite her fears, urged a short delay. "We haven't heard, you know, about the slops yet. Do stop just one minute, dear papa. I wonder if it's like the beef-tea nurse makes for me when I'm ill." "It's not that kind of slops, darling, but ready-made clothing to which reference is made. But you are right. Let us hear about it, Miss Hetty." The idea of "Miss" being applied to Hetty, and slops compared to beef-tea proved almost too much for the broken-legged boy in the corner, but he put strong constraint on himself and listened. "Indeed, sir, I do not complain," said Hetty, quite distressed at being thus forcibly dragged into notice. "I am thankful for what has been sent--indeed I am--only it _was_ a great disappointment, particularly at this time, when we so much needed all we could make amongst us." She stopped and had difficulty in restraining tears. "Go on, Hetty," said her mother, "and don't be afraid. Bless you, he's not goin' to report what you say." "I know that, mother. Well, sir, this was the way on it. They sometimes--" "Excuse me--who are `they'?" "I beg pardon, sir, I--I'd rather not tell." "Very well. I respect your feelings, my girl. Some slop-making firm, I suppose. Go on." "Yes, sir. Well--they sometimes gives me extra work to do at home. It do come pretty hard on me after goin' through the regular day's work, from early mornin' till night, but then, you see, it brings in a little more money--and, I'm strong, thank God." Sir Richard looked at Hetty's thin and colourless though pretty face, and thought it possible that she might be stronger with advantage. "Of late," continued the girl, "I've bin havin' extra work in this way, and last week I got twelve children's ulsters to make up. This job when finished would bring me six and sixpence." "How much?" "Six and sixpence, sir." "For the whole twelve?" asked Sir Richard. "Yes, sir--that was sixpence halfpenny for makin' up each ulster. It's not much, sir." "No," murmured Wealth in an absent manner; "sixpence halfpenny is _not_ much." "But when I took them back," continued Hetty--and here the tears became again obstreperous and difficult to restrain--"the master said he'd forgot to tell me that this order was for the colonies, that he had taken it at a very low price, and that he could only give me three shillin's for the job. Of--of course three shillin's is better the nothin', but after workin' hard for such a long long time an' expectin' six, it was--" Here the tears refused to be pent up any longer, and the poor girl quietly bending forward hid her face in her hand. "Come, I think we will go now," said Sir Richard, rising hastily. "Good-night, Mrs Frog, I shall probably see you again--at least--you shall hear from me. Now, Di--say good-night to your boy." In a few minutes Sir Richard stood outside, taking in deep draughts of the comparatively fresher air of the court. "The old screw," growled Bobby, when the door was shut. "'E didn't leave us so much as a single bob--not even a brown, though 'e pretends that six of 'em ain't much." "Don't be hard on him, Bobby," said Hetty, drying her eyes; "he spoke very kind, you know, an' p'raps he means to help us afterwards." "Spoke kind," retorted the indignant boy; "I tell 'ee wot, Hetty, you're far too soft an' forgivin'. I s'pose that's wot they teaches you in Sunday-school at George Yard--eh? Vill speakin' kind feed us, vill it clothe us, vill it pay for our lodgin's!" The door opened at that moment, and Number 666 re-entered. "The gentleman sent me back to give you this, Mrs Frog," laying a sovereign on the rickety table. "He said he didn't like to offer it to you himself for fear of hurting your feelings, but I told him he needn't be afraid on that score! Was I right, Missis? Look well after it, now, an' see that Ned don't get his fingers on it." Giles left the room, and Mrs Frog, taking up the piece of gold, fondled it for some time in her thin fingers, as though she wished to make quite sure of its reality. Then wrapping it carefully in a piece of old newspaper, she thrust it into her bosom. Bobby gazed at her in silence up to this point, and then turned his face to the wall. He did not speak, but we cannot say that he did not pray, for, mentally he said, "I beg your parding, old gen'l'm'n, an' I on'y pray that a lot of fellers like you may come 'ere sometimes to 'urt our feelin's in that vay!" At that moment Hetty bent over the bed, and, softly kissing her brother's dirty face, whispered, "Yes, Bobby, that's what they teach me in Sunday-school at George Yard." Thereafter Wealth drove home in a cab, and Poverty went to bed in her rags. CHAPTER SEVEN. BICYCLING AND ITS OCCASIONAL RESULTS. It is pleasant to turn from the smoke and turmoil of the city to the fresh air and quiet of the country. To the man who spends most of his time in the heart of London, going into the country--even for a short distance--is like passing into the fields of Elysium. This was, at all events, the opinion of Stephen Welland; and Stephen must have been a good judge, for he tried the change frequently, being exceedingly fond of bicycling, and occasionally taking what he termed long spins on that remarkable instrument. One morning, early in the summer-time, young Welland, (he was only eighteen), mounted his iron horse in the neighbourhood of Kensington, and glided away at a leisurely pace through the crowded streets. Arrived in the suburbs of London he got up steam, to use his own phrase, and went at a rapid pace until he met a "chum," by appointment. This chum was also mounted on a bicycle, and was none other than our friend Samuel Twitter, Junior--known at home as Sammy, and by his companions as Sam. "Isn't it a glorious day, Sam?" said Welland as he rode up and sprang off his steed. "Magnificent!" answered his friend, also dismounting and shaking hands. "Why, Stephen, what an enormous machine you ride!" "Yes, it's pretty high--48 inches. My legs are long, you see. Well, where are we to run to-day?" "Wherever you like," said Sam, "only let it be a short run, not more than forty miles, for I've got an appointment this afternoon with my old dad which I can't get off." "That'll do very well," said Welland, "so we can go round by--" Here he described a route by country road and village, which we pretend not to remember. It is sufficient to know that it represented the required "short" run of forty miles--such is the estimate of distance by the youth of the present day! "Now then, off we go," said Welland, giving his wheel--he quite ignored the existence of the little thing at the back--a shove, putting his left foot on the treadle, and flinging his right leg gracefully over. Young Twitter followed suit, but Sammy was neither expert nor graceful. True, he could ride easily, and travel long distances, but he could only mount by means of the somewhat clumsy process of hopping behind for several yards. Once up, however, he went swiftly enough alongside his tall companion, and the two friends thereafter kept abreast. "Oh! isn't it a charming sensation to have the cool air fanning one's cheeks, and feel the soft tremor of the wheel, and see the trees and houses flow past at such a pace? It is the likest thing to flying I ever felt," said Welland, as they descended a slight incline at, probably, fifteen miles an hour. "It is delightful," replied Sam, "but, I say, we better put on the brakes here a bit. It gets much steeper further down." Instead of applying the brake, however, young Welland, in the exuberance of his joy, threw his long legs over the handles, and went down the slope at railway speed, ready, as he remarked, for a jump if anything should go wrong. Twitter was by no means as bold as his friend, but, being ashamed to show the white feather, he quietly threw his shorter legs over the handles, and thus the two, perched--from a fore-and-aft point of view-- upon nothing, went in triumph to the bottom of the hill. A long stretch of smooth level road now lay before them. It required the merest touch on the treadles to send them skimming along like skaters on smooth ice, or swallows flying low. Like gentle ghosts they fleeted along with little more than a muffled sound, for their axles turned in ball-sockets and their warning bells were silent save when touched. Onward they went with untiring energy, mile after mile, passing everything on the way--pedestrians, equestrians, carts and gigs; driving over the level ground with easy force, taking the hills with a rush to keep up the pace, and descending on the other sides at what Welland styled a "lightning run." Now they were skimming along a road which skirted the margin of a canal, the one with hands in his coat-pockets, the other with his arms crossed, and both steering with their feet; now passing under a railway-arch, and giving a wild shout, partly to rouse the slumbering echoes that lodged there, and partly to rouse the spirit of a small dog which chanced to be passing under it--in both cases successfully! Anon they were gliding over a piece of exposed ground on which the sun beat with intense light, causing their shadows to race along with them. Again they were down in a hollow, gliding under a row of trees, where they shut off a little of the steam and removed their caps, the better to enjoy the grateful shade. Soon they were out in the sunshine again, the spokes of their wheels invisible as they topped a small eminence from the summit of which they took in one comprehensive view of undulating lands, with villages scattered all round, farm-houses here and there, green fields and flowering meadows, traversed by rivulet or canal, with cattle, sheep, and horses gazing at them in silent or startled wonder, and birds twittering welcome from the trees and hedge-rows everywhere. Now they were crossing a bridge and nearing a small town where they had to put hands to the handles again and steer with precaution, for little dogs had a tendency to bolt out at them from unexpected corners, and poultry is prone to lose its heads and rush into the very jaws of danger, in a cackling effort to avoid it. Stray kittens and pigs, too, exhibited obstinate tendencies, and only gave in when it was nearly too late for repentance. Little children, also, became sources of danger, standing in the middle of roads until, perceiving a possible catastrophe, they dashed wildly aside--always to the very side on which the riders had resolved to pass,--and escaped by absolute miracle! Presently they came to a steep hill. It was not steep enough to necessitate dismounting, but it rendered a rush inadvisable. They therefore worked up slowly, and, on gaining the top, got off to breathe and rest a while. "That _was_ a glorious run, wasn't it, Sam?" said Welland, flicking the dust from his knees with his handkerchief. "What d'ye say to a glass of beer?" "Can't do it, Stephen, I'm Blue Ribbon." "Oh! nonsense. Why not do as I do--drink in moderation?" "Well, I didn't think much about it when I put it on," said Sam, who was a very sensitive, and not very strong-minded youth; "the rest of us did it, you know, by father's advice, and I joined because they did." Welland laughed rather sarcastically at this, but made no rejoinder, and Sam, who could not stand being laughed at, said-- "Well, come, I'll go in for one glass. I'll be my own doctor, and prescribe it medicinally! Besides, it's an exceptional occasion this, for it is awfully hot." "It's about the best run I ever had in the same space of time," said Welland on quitting the beer shop. "First-rate," returned Sam, "I wish my old dad could ride with us. He _would_ enjoy it so." "Couldn't we bring him out on a horse? He could ride that, I suppose?" "Never saw him on a horse but once," said Sam, "and that time he fell off. But it's worth suggesting to him." "Better if he got a tricycle," said Welland. "I don't think that would do, for he's too old for long rides, and too short-winded. Now, Stephen, I'm not going to run down this hill. We _must_ take it easy, for it's far too steep." "Nonsense, man, it's nothing to speak of; see, I'll go first and show you the way." He gave the treadle a thrust that sent him off like an arrow from a bow. "Stay! there's a caravan or something at the bottom--wild beasts' show, I think! Stop! hold on!" But Sam Twitter shouted in vain. Welland's was a joyous spirit, apt to run away with him. He placed his legs over the handles for security, and allowed the machine to run. It gathered speed as it went, for the hill became steeper, insomuch that the rider once or twice felt the hind-wheel rise, and had to lean well back to keep it on the ground. The pace began to exceed even Welland's idea of pleasure, but now it was too late to use the brake, for well did he know that on such a slope and going at such a pace the slightest check on the front wheel would send him over. He did not feel alarmed however, for he was now near the bottom of the hill, and half a minute more would send him in safety on the level road at the foot. But just at the foot there was a sharpish turn in the road, and Welland looked at it earnestly. At an ordinary pace such a turn could have been easily taken, but at such a rate as he had by that time attained, he felt it would require a tremendous lean over to accomplish it. Still he lost no confidence, for he was an athlete by practice if not by profession, and he gathered up his energies for the moment of action. The people of the caravan--whoever they were--had seen him coming, and, beginning to realise his danger to some extent, had hastily cleared the road to let him pass. Welland considered the rate of speed; felt, rather than calculated, the angle of inclination; leaned over boldly until the tire almost slipped sideways on the road, and came rushing round with a magnificent sweep, when, horrible sight! a slight ridge of what is called road-metal crossed the entire road from side to side! A drain or water pipe had recently been repaired, and the new ridge had not yet been worn down by traffic. There was no time for thought or change of action. Another moment and the wheel was upon it, the crash came, and the rider went off with such force that he was shot well in advance of the machine, as it went with tremendous violence into the ditch. If Welland's feet had been on the treadles he must have turned a complete somersault. As it was he alighted on his feet, but came to the ground with such force that he failed to save himself. One frantic effort he made and then went down headlong and rolled over on his back in a state of insensibility. When Sam Twitter came to the bottom of the hill with the brake well applied he was able to check himself in time to escape the danger, and ran to where his friend lay. For a few minutes the unfortunate youth lay as if he had been dead. Then his blood resumed its flow, and when the eyes opened he found Sam kneeling on one side of him with a smelling bottle which some lady had lent him, and a kindly-faced elderly man with an iron-grey beard kneeling on the other side and holding a cup of water to his lips. "That's right, Stephen, look up," said Sam, who was terribly frightened, "you're not much hurt, are you?" "Hurt, old fellow, eh?" sighed Stephen, "why should I be hurt? Where am I? What has happened?" "Take a sip, my young friend, it will revive you," said the man with the kindly face. "You have had a narrow escape, but God has mercifully spared you. Try to move now; gently--we must see that no bones have been broken before allowing you to rise." By this time Welland had completely recovered, and was anxious to rise; all the more that a crowd of children surrounded him, among whom he observed several ladies and gentlemen, but he lay still until the kindly stranger had felt him all over and come to the conclusion that no serious damage had been done. "Oh! I'm all right, thank you," said the youth on rising, and affecting to move as though nothing had happened, but he was constrained to catch hold of the stranger rather suddenly, and sat down on the grass by the road-side. "I do believe I've got a shake after all," he said with a perplexed smile and sigh. "But," he added, looking round with an attempt at gaiety, "I suspect my poor bicycle has got a worse shake. Do look after it, Sam, and see how it is." Twitter soon returned with a crestfallen expression. "It's done for, Stephen. I'm sorry to say the whole concern seems to be mashed up into a kind of wire-fencing!" "Is it past mending, Sam?" "Past mending by any ordinary blacksmith, certainly. No one but the maker can doctor it, and I should think it would take him a fortnight at least." "What is to be done?" said Stephen, with some of his companion's regret of tone. "What a fool I was to take such a hill--spoilt such a glorious day too--for you as well as myself, Sam. I'm _very_ sorry, but that won't mend matters." "Are you far from home, gentlemen?" asked the man with the iron-grey beard, who had listened to the conversation with a look of sympathy. "Ay, much too far to walk," said Welland. "D'you happen to know how far off the nearest railway station is?" "Three miles," answered the stranger, "and in your condition you are quite unfit to walk that distance." "I'm not so sure of that," replied the youth, with a pitiful look. "I think I'm game for three miles, if I had nothing to carry but myself, but I can't leave my bicycle in the ditch, you know!" "Of course you can't," rejoined the stranger in a cheery tone, "and I think we can help you in this difficulty. I am a London City Missionary. My name is John Seaward. We have, as you see, brought out a number of our Sunday-school children, to give them a sight of God's beautiful earth; poor things, they've been used to bricks, mortar, and stone all their lives hitherto. Now, if you choose to spend the remainder of the day with us, we will be happy to give you and the injured bicycle a place in our vans till we reach a cabstand or a railway station. What say you? It will give much pleasure to me and the teachers." Welland glanced at his friend. "You see, Sam, there's no help for it, old boy. You'll have to return alone." "Unless your friend will also join us," said the missionary. "You are very kind," said Sam, "but I cannot stay, as I have an engagement which must be kept. Never mind, Stephen. I'll just complete the trip alone, and comfort myself with the assurance that I leave you in good hands. So, good-bye, old boy." "Good-bye, Twitter," said Stephen, grasping his friend's hand. "Twitter," repeated the missionary, "I heard your friend call you Sam just now. Excuse my asking--are you related to Samuel Twitter of Twitter, Slime, and Company, in the city?" "I'm his eldest son," said Sam. "Then I have much pleasure in making your acquaintance," returned the other, extending his hand, "for although I have never met your father, I know your mother well. She is one of the best and most regular teachers in our Sunday-schools. Is she not, Hetty?" he said, turning to a sweet-faced girl who stood near him. "Indeed she is, I was her pupil for some years, and now I teach one of her old classes," replied the girl. "I work in the neighbourhood of Whitechapel, sir," continued the missionary, "and most of the children here attend the Institution in George Yard." "Well, I shall tell my mother of this unexpected meeting," said Sam, as he remounted his bicycle. "Good-bye, Stephen. Don't romp too much with the children!" "Adieu, Sam, and don't break your neck on the bicycle." In a few minutes Sam Twitter and his bicycle were out of sight. CHAPTER EIGHT. A GREAT AND MEMORABLE DAY. When young Stephen Welland was conducted by John Seaward the missionary into a large field dotted with trees, close to where his accident had happened, he found that the children and their guardians were busily engaged in making arrangements for the spending of an enjoyable day. And then he also found that this was not a mere monster excursion of ordinary Sunday-schools, but one of exceedingly poor children, whose garments, faces, and general condition, told too surely that they belonged to the lowest grade in the social scale. "Yes," said the missionary, in reply to some question from Welland, "the agency at George Yard, to which I have referred, has a wide-embracing influence--though but a small lump of leaven when compared with the mass of corruption around it. This is a flock of the ragged and utterly forlorn, to many of whom green fields and fresh air are absolutely new, but we have other flocks besides these." "Indeed! Well, now I look at them more carefully, I see that their garments do speak of squalid poverty. I have never before seen such a ragged crew, though I have sometimes encountered individuals of the class on the streets." "Hm!" coughed the missionary with a peculiar smile. "They are not so ragged as they were. Neither are they as ragged as they will be in an hour or two." "What do you mean?" "I mean that these very rough little ones have to receive peculiar treatment before we can give them such an outing as they are having to-day. As you see, swings and see-saws have been put up here, toys are now being distributed, and a plentiful feast will ere long be forthcoming, through the kindness of a Christian gentleman whose heart the Lord has inclined to `consider the poor,' but before we could venture to move the little band, much of their ragged clothing had to be stitched up to prevent it falling off on the journey, and we had to make them move carefully on their way to the train--for vans have brought us only part of the way. Now that they are here, our minds are somewhat relieved, but I suspect that the effect of games and romping will undo much of our handiwork. Come, let us watch them." The youth and the missionary advanced towards a group of the children, whose souls, for the time being, were steeped in a see-saw. This instrument of delight consisted of a strong plank balanced on the trunk of a noble tree which had been recently felled, with many others, to thin the woods of the philanthropist's park. It was an enormous see-saw! such as the ragged creatures had never before seen--perhaps never conceived of, their experiences in such joys having been hitherto confined to small bits of broken plank placed over empty beer barrels, or back-yard fences. No fewer than eight children were able to find accommodation on it at one and the same time, besides one of the bigger boys to straddle in the centre; and it required the utmost vigilance on the part of a young man teacher at one end of the machine, and Hetty Frog at the other end, to prevent the little ragamuffins at either extremity from being forced off. Already the missionary's anticipation in regard to the undoing of their labour had begun to be verified. There were at least four of the eight whose nether garments had succumbed to the effort made in mounting the plank, and various patches of flesh-colour revealed the fact that the poor little wearers were innocent of flannels. But it was summer-time, and the fact had little effect either on wearers or spectators. The missionary, however, was not so absorbed in the present but that he felt impelled to remark to Welland: "That is their winter as well as summer clothing." The bicyclist said nothing in reply, but the remark was not lost upon him. "Now, Dick Swiller," said the young man teacher, "I see what you're up to. You mustn't do it!" Richard Swiller, who was a particularly rugged as well as ragged boy of about thirteen, not being in the habit of taking advice, did do it. That is, he sent his end of the plank up with such violence that the other end came to the ground with a shock which caused those who sat there to gasp, while it all but unseated most of those who were on the higher end. Indeed one very small and pinched but intelligent little boy, named by his companions Blobby, who looked as if Time, through the influence of privation and suffering, had been dwindling instead of developing him,--actually did come off with a cry of alarm, which, however, changed into a laugh of glee when he found himself in his teacher's arms, instead of lying "busted on the ground," as he afterwards expressed it when relating the incident to an admiring audience of fellow ragamuffins in the slums of Spitalfields. Blobby was immediately restored to his lost position, and Swiller was degraded, besides being made to stand behind a large tree for a quarter of an hour in forced inaction, so that he might have time to meditate on the evil consequences of disobedience. "Take care, Robin," said Hetty, to a very small but astonishingly energetic fellow, at her end of the see-saw, who was impressed with the notion that he was doing good service by wriggling his own body up and down, "if you go on so, you'll push Lilly Snow off." Robin, unlike Dick, was obedient. He ceased his efforts, and thereby saved the last button which held his much too small waistcoat across his bare bosom. "What a sweet face the child she calls Lilly Snow has--if it were only clean," observed Welland. "A little soap and water with a hair brush would make her quite beautiful." "Yes, she is very pretty," said the missionary and the kindly smile with which he had been watching the fun vanished, as he added in a sorrowful voice, "her case is a very sad one, dear child. Her mother is a poor but deserving woman who earns a little now and then by tailoring, but she has been crushed for years by a wicked and drunken husband who has at last deserted her. We know not where he is, perhaps dead. Five times has her home been broken up by him, and many a time has she with her little one been obliged to sit on doorsteps all night, when homeless. Little Lilly attends our Sunday-school regularly, and Hetty is her teacher. It is not long since Hetty herself was a scholar, and I know that she is very anxious to lead Lilly to the Lord. The sufferings and sorrows to which this poor child has been exposed have told upon her severely, and I fear that her health will give way. A day in the country like this may do her good perhaps." As the missionary spoke little Lilly threw up her arms and uttered a cry of alarm. Robin, although obedient, was short of memory, and his energetic spirit being too strong for his excitable little frame he had recommenced his wriggling, with the effect of bursting the last button off his waistcoat and thrusting Lilly off the plank. She was received, however, on Hetty's breast, who fell with her to the ground. "Not hurt, Hetty!" exclaimed the missionary, running forward to help the girl up. "Oh! no, sir," replied Hetty with a short laugh, as she rose and placed Lilly on a safer part of the see-saw. "Come here, Hetty," said John Seaward, "and rest a while. You have done enough just now; let some one else take your place." After repairing the buttonless waistcoat with a pin and giving its owner a caution, Hetty went and sat down on the grass beside the missionary. "How is Bobby?" asked the latter, "I have not found a moment to speak to you till now." "Thank you, sir, he's better; much better. I fear he will be well too soon." "How so? That's a strange remark, my girl." "It may seem strange, sir, but--you know--father's very fond of Bobby." "Well, Hetty, that's not a bad sign of your father." "Oh but, sir, father sits at his bedside when he's sober, an' has such long talks with him about robberies and burglaries, and presses him very hard to agree to go out with him when he's well. I can't bear to hear it, for dear Bobby seems to listen to what he says, though sometimes he refuses, and defies him to do his worst, especially when he--" "Stay, dear girl. It is very very sad, but don't tell me anything more about your father. Tell it all to Jesus, Hetty. He not only sympathises with, but is able to save--even to the uttermost." "Yes, thank God for that `uttermost,'" said the poor girl, clasping her hands quickly together. "Oh, I understood that when He saved _me_, and I will trust to it now." "And the gentleman who called on you,--has he been again?" asked the missionary. "No, sir, he has only come once, but he has sent his butler three or four times with some money for us, and always with the message that it is from Miss Diana, to be divided between Bobby and me. Unfortunately father chanced to be at home the first time he came and got it all, so we got none of it. But he was out the other times. The butler is an oldish man, and a very strange one. He went about our court crying." "Crying! Hetty, that's a curious condition for an oldish butler to be in." "Oh, of course I don't mean cryin' out like a baby," said Hetty, looking down with a modest smile, "but I saw tears in his eyes, and sometimes they got on his cheeks. I can't think what's the matter with him." Whatever Mr Seaward thought on this point he said nothing, but asked if Bobby was able to go out. Oh yes, he was quite able to walk about now with a little help, Hetty said, and she had taken several walks with him and tried to get him to speak about his soul, but he only laughed at that, and said he had too much trouble with his body to think about his soul--there was time enough for that! They were interrupted at this point by a merry shout of glee, and, looking up, found that young Welland had mounted the see-saw, taken Lilly Snow in front of him, had Dick Swiller reinstated to counterbalance his extra weight, and was enjoying himself in a most hilarious manner among the fluttering rags. Assuredly, the fluttering rags did not enjoy themselves a whit less hilariously than he. In this condition he was found by the owner of the grounds, George Brisbane, Esquire, of Lively Hall, who, accompanied by his wife, and a tall, dignified friend with a little girl, approached the see-saw. "I am glad you enjoy yourself so much, my young friend," he said to Welland; "to which of the ragged schools may you belong?" In much confusion--for he was rather shy--Welland made several abortive efforts to check the see-saw, which efforts Dick Swiller resisted to the uttermost, to the intense amusement of a little girl who held Mrs Brisbane's hand. At last he succeeded in arresting it and leaped off. "I beg pardon," he said, taking off his cap to the lady as he advanced, "for intruding uninvited on--" "Pray don't speak of intrusion," interrupted Mr Brisbane, extending his hand; "if you are here as Mr Seaward's friend you are a welcome guest. Your only intrusion was among the little ones, but as they seem not to resent it neither do I." Welland grasped the proffered hand. "Thank you very much," he returned, "but I can scarcely lay claim to Mr Seaward's friendship. The fact is, I am here in consequence of an accident to my bicycle." "Oh! then you _are_ one of the poor unfortunates after all," said the host. "Come, you are doubly welcome. Not hurt much, I hope. No? That's all right. But don't let me keep you from your amusements. Remember, we shall expect you at the feast on the lawn. You see, Sir Richard," he added, turning to his dignified friend, "when we go in for this sort of thing we don't do it by halves. To have any lasting effect, it must make a deep impression. So we have got up all sorts of amusements, as you observe, and shall have no fewer than two good feeds. Come, let us visit some other--Why, what are you gazing at so intently?" He might well ask the question, for Sir Richard Brandon had just observed Hetty Frog, and she, unaccustomed to such marked attention, was gazing in perplexed confusion on the ground. At the same time little Di, having caught sight of her, quitted Mrs Brisbane, ran towards her with a delighted scream, and clasping her hand in both of hers, proclaimed her the sister of "my boy!" Hetty's was not the nature to refuse such affection. Though among the poorest of the poor, and clothed in the shabbiest and most patchy of garments, (which in her case, however, were neat, clean and well mended), she was rich in a loving disposition; so that, forgetting herself and the presence of others, she stooped and folded the little girl in her arms. And, when the soft brown hair and pale pretty face of Poverty were thus seen as it were co-mingling with the golden locks and rosy cheeks of Wealth, even Sir Richard was forced to admit to himself that it was not after all a very outrageous piece of impropriety! "Oh! I'm _so_ glad to hear that he's much better, and been out too! I would have come to see him again long long ago, but p--" She checked herself, for Mrs Screwbury had carefully explained to her that no good girl ever said anything against her parents; and little Di had swallowed the lesson, for, when not led by passion, she was extremely teachable. "And oh!" she continued, opening her great blue lakelets to their widest state of solemnity, "you haven't the smallest bit of notion how I have dreamt about my boy--and my policeman too! I never can get over the feeling that they might both have been killed, and if they had, you know, it would have been me that did it; only think! I would have-- been--a murderer! P'raps they'd have hanged me!" "But they weren't killed, dear," said Hetty, unable to restrain a smile at the awful solemnity of the child, and the terrible fate referred to. "No--I'm _so_ glad, but I can't get over it," continued Di, while those near to her stood quietly by unable to avoid overhearing, even if they had wished to do so. "And they do such strange things in my dreams," continued Di, "you can't think. Only last night I was in our basket-cart--the dream-one, you know, not the real one--and the dream-pony ran away again, and gave my boy such a dreadful knock that he fell flat down on his back, tumbled over two or three times, and rose up--a policeman! Not _my_ policeman, you know, but quite another one that I had never seen before! But the very oddest thing of all was that it made me so angry that I jumped with all my might on to his breast, and when I got there it wasn't the policeman but the pony! and it was dead--quite dead, for I had killed it, and I wasn't sorry at all--not a bit!" This was too much for Hetty, who burst into a laugh, and Sir Richard thought it time to go and see the games that were going on in other parts of the field, accompanied by Welland and the missionary, while Hetty returned to her special pet Lilly Snow. And, truly, if "one touch of nature makes the whole world kin," there were touches of nature enough seen that day among these outcasts of society to have warranted their claiming kin with the whole world. Leap-frog was greatly in favour, because the practitioners could abandon themselves to a squirrel-and-cat sort of bound on the soft grass, which they had never dared to indulge in on the London pavements. It was a trying game, however, to the rags, which not only betrayed their character to the eye by the exhibition of flesh-tints through numerous holes, but addressed themselves also to the ears by means of frequent and explosive rendings. Pins, however, were applied to the worst of these with admirable though temporary effect, and the fun became faster and more furious,--especially so when the points of some of the pins touched up the flesh-tints unexpectedly. On these occasions the touches of nature became strongly pronounced-- expressing themselves generally in a yell. Another evidence of worldly kinship was, that the touched-up ones, instead of attributing the misfortune to accident, were prone to turn round with fierce scowl and doubled fists under the impression that a guilty comrade was in rear! The proceedings were totally arrested for one hour at mid-day, when unlimited food was issued, and many of the forlorn ones began to feel the rare sensation of being stuffed quite full and rendered incapable of wishing for more! But this was a mere interlude. Like little giants refreshed they rose up again to play--to swing, to leap, to wrestle, to ramble, to gather flowers, to roll on the grass, to bask in the gladdening sunshine, and, in some cases, to thank God for all His mercies, in spite of the latent feeling of regret that there was so little of all that enjoyment in the slums, and dark courts, and filthy back-streets of the monster city. Of course all the pins were extracted in this second act of the play, and innumerable new and gaping wounds were introduced into the clothing, insomuch that all ordinary civilised people, except philanthropists, would have been shocked with the appearance of the little ones. But it was during the third and closing act of the play that the affair culminated. The scene was laid on the lawn in front of Mr Brisbane's mansion. Enter, at one end of the lawn, a band of small and dirty but flushed and happy boys and girls, in rags which might appropriately be styled ribbons. At the other end of the lawn a train of domestics bearing trays with tea, cakes, buns, pies, fruits, and other delectable things, to which the ragged army sits down. Enter host and hostess, with Sir Richard, friends and attendants. (_Host_.)--after asking a blessing--"My little friends, this afternoon we meet to eat, and only one request have I to make--that you shall do your duty well." (Small boy in ribbons.--"Von't I, just!") "No platter shall return to my house till it be empty. No little one shall quit these premises till he be full; what cannot be eaten must be carried away." (The ragged army cheers.) (_Host_.)--"Enough. Fall-to." (They fall-to.) (_Little boy_ in tatters, pausing.)--"_I_ shan't fall two, I'll fall three or four." (_Another little boy_, in worse tatters.)--"So shall I." (_First little boy_.)--"I say, Jim, wot would mother say if she was here?" (_Jim_.)--"She'd say nothin'. 'Er mouth 'ud be too full to speak." (Prolonged silence. Only mastication heard, mingled with a few cases of choking, which are promptly dealt with.) (_Blobby_, with a sigh.)--"I say, Robin, I'm gettin' tight." (_Robin_, with a gasp.)--"So am I; I'm about bustin'." (_Blobby_, coming to another pause.)--"I say, Robin, I'm as full as I can 'old. So's all my pockits, an' there's some left over!" (_Robin--sharply_.)--"Stick it in your 'at, then." (Blobby takes off his billycock, thrusts the remnant of food therein, and puts it on.) Enter the brass band of the neighbouring village, (the bandsmen being boys), which plays a selection of airs, and sends a few of the smaller ragamuffins to sleep. (_Sir Richard Brandon_, confidentially to his friend.)--"It is an amazing sight." (_Host_.)--"Would that it were a more common sight!" Enter more domestics with more tea, buns, and fruit; but the army is glutted, and the pockets are brought into requisition: much pinning being a necessary consequence. (_Lilly Snow_, softly.)--"It's like 'eaven!" (_Hetty_, remonstratingly.)--"Oh! Lilly, 'eaven is quite different." (_Dick Swiller_.)--"I'm sorry for it. Couldn't be much 'appier to my mind." (_Host_.)--"Now, dear boys and girls, before we close the proceedings of this happy day, my excellent friend, your missionary, Mr Seaward, will say a few words." John Seaward steps to the front, and says a few words--says them so well, too, so simply, so kindly, yet so heartily, that the army is roused to a pitch of great enthusiasm; but we leave this speech to the reader's imagination: after which--_Exeunt Omnes_. And, as the curtain of night falls on these ragged ones, scattered now, many of them, to varied homes of vice, and filth, and misery, the heavy eyelids close to open again, perchance, in ecstatic dreams of food, and fun and green fields, fresh air and sunshine, which impress them more or less with the idea embodied in the aphorism, that "God made the country, but man made the town." CHAPTER NINE. HOW THE POOR ARE SUCCOURED. "I am obliged to you, Mr Seaward, for coming out of your way to see me," said Sir Richard Brandon, while little Di brought their visitor a chair. "I know that your time is fully occupied, and would not have asked you to call had not my friend Mr Brisbane assured me that you had to pass my house daily on your way to--to business." "No apology, Sir Richard, pray. I am at all times ready to answer a call whether of the poor or the rich, if by any means I may help my Lord's cause." The knight thought for a moment that he might claim to be classed among the poor, seeing that his miserable pittance of five thousand barely enabled him to make the two ends meet, but he only said: "Ever since we had the pleasure of meeting at that gathering of ragged children, my little girl here has been asking so many questions about poor people--the lower orders, I mean--which I could not answer, that I have asked you to call, that we may get some information about them. You see, Diana is an eccentric little puss," (Di opened her eyes very wide at this, wondering what "eccentric" could mean), "and she has got into a most unaccountable habit of thinking and planning about poor people." "A good habit, Sir Richard," said the missionary. "`Blessed are they that consider the poor.'" Sir Richard acknowledged this remark with a little bow. "Now, we should like to ask, if you have no objection, what is your chief object in the mission at--what did you say its name--ah! George Yard?" "To save souls," said Mr Seaward. "Oh--ah--precisely," said the knight, taken somewhat aback by the nature and brevity of the answer, "that of course; but I meant, how do you proceed? What is the method, and what the machinery that you put in motion?" "Perhaps," said the missionary, drawing a small pamphlet from his pocket, "this will furnish you with all the information you desire. You can read it over to Miss Diana at your leisure--and don't return it; I have plenty more. Meanwhile I may briefly state that the mission premises are in George Yard, High Street, Whitechapel, one of the worst parts of the east of London, where the fire of sin and crime rages most fiercely; where the soldiers of the Cross are comparatively few, and would be overwhelmed by mere numbers, were it not that they are invincible, carrying on the war as they do in the strength of Him who said, `Lo, I am with you alway.' "In the old coaching days," continued Mr Seaward, "this was a great centre, a starting-point for mail-coaches. For nigh thirty years the mission has been there. The `Black Horse' was a public-house in George Yard, once known to the magistrates as one of the worst gin-shops and resort of thieves and nurseries of crime in London. That public-house is now a shelter for friendless girls, and a place where sick children of the poor are gratuitously fed." From this point the missionary went off into a graphic account of incidents illustrative of the great work done by the mission, and succeeded in deeply interesting both Diana and her father, though the latter held himself well in hand, knowing, as he was fond of remarking, that there were two sides to every question. Checking his visitor at one point, he said, "You have mentioned ragged schools and the good that is done by them, but why should not the school-boards look after such children?" "Because, Sir Richard, the school-boards cannot reach them. There are upwards of 150,000 people in London who have never lived more than three months in one place. No law reaches this class, because they do not stay long enough in any neighbourhood for the school-board authorities to put the law into operation. Now, nearly three hundred of the children of these wanderers meet in our Free Ragged Day Schools twice a day for instruction. Here we teach them as efficiently as we can in secular matters, and of course they are taught the Word of God, and told of Jesus the Saviour of sinners; but our difficulties are great, for children as well as parents are often in extremest poverty, the former suffering from hunger even when sent to school--and they never stay with us long. Let me give you an instance:-- "One morning a mother came and begged to have her children admitted. She had just left the workhouse. Three children in rags, that did not suffice to cover much less to protect them, stood by her side. She did not know where they were to sleep that night, but hoped to obtain a little charing and earn enough to obtain a lodging somewhere. She could not take the children with her while seeking work--Would we take them in? for, if not, they would have to be left in the streets, and as they were very young they might lose themselves or be run over. We took them in, fed, sympathised with, and taught them. In the afternoon the mother returned weary, hungry, dejected. She had failed to obtain employment, and took the children away to apply for admission to a casual ward." "What is a casual ward, Mr Missionary?" asked Di. "Seaward, my love,--his name is not Missionary," said Sir Richard. "A casual ward," answered the visitor, "is an exceedingly plain room with rows of very poor beds; mere wooden frames with canvas stretched on them, in which any miserable beggars who choose to submit to the rules may sleep for a night after eating a bit of bread and a basin of gruel-- for all which they pay nothing. It is a very poor and comfortless place--at least you would think it so--and is meant to save poor people from sleeping, perhaps dying, in the streets." "Do some people sleep in the streets?" asked Di in great surprise. "Yes, dear, I'm sorry to say that many do." "D'you mean on the stones, in their night-dresses?" asked the child with increasing surprise. "Yes, love," said her father, "but in their ordinary clothes, not in their night-dresses--they have no night-dresses." Little Di had now reached a pitch of surprise which rendered her dumb, so the missionary continued: "Here is another case. A poor widow called once, and said she would be so grateful if we would admit her little girl and boy into the schools. She looked clean and tidy, and the children had not been neglected. She could not afford to pay for them, as she had not a penny in the world, and applied to us because we made no charge. The children were admitted and supplied with a plain but nourishing meal, while their mother went away to seek for work. We did not hear how she sped, but she had probably taken her case to God, and found Him faithful, for she had said, before going away, `I know that God is the Father of the fatherless, and the husband of the widow.' "Again, another poor woman came. Her husband had fallen sick. Till within a few days her children had been at a school and paid for, but now the bread-winner was ill--might never recover--and had gone to the hospital. These children were at once admitted, and in each case investigation was made to test the veracity of the applicants. "Of course," continued the missionary, "I have spoken chiefly about the agencies with which I happen to have come personally in contact, but it must not be supposed that therefore I ignore or am indifferent to the other grand centres of influence which are elsewhere at work in London; such as, for instance, the various agencies set agoing and superintended by Dr Barnardo, whose _Home for Working and Destitute Boys_, in Stepney Causeway, is a shelter from which thousands of rescued little ones go forth to labour as honest and useful members of society, instead of dying miserably in the slums of London, or growing up to recruit the ranks of our criminal classes. These agencies, besides rescuing destitute and neglected children, include _Homes for destitute girls_ and for _little boys_ in Ilford and Jersey, an _Infirmary for sick children of the destitute classes_ in Stepney, _Orphan Homes, Ragged and Day schools, Free dinner-table to destitute children, Mission Halls, Coffee Palaces_, and, in short, a grand net-work of beneficent agencies--Evangelistic, Temperance, and Medical--for the conduct of which is required not far short of One Hundred Pounds a day!" Even Sir Richard Brandon, with all his supposed financial capacities, seemed struck with the magnitude of this sum. "And where does Dr Barnardo obtain so large an amount?" he asked. "From the voluntary gifts of those who sympathise with and consider the poor," replied Seaward. "Then," he added, "there is that noble work carried on by Miss Rye of the _Emigration Home for Destitute Little Girls_, at the Avenue House, Peckham, from which a stream of destitute little ones continually flows to Canada, where they are much wanted, and who, if allowed to remain here, would almost certainly be _lost_. Strong testimony to the value of this work has been given by the Bishops of Toronto and Niagara, and other competent judges. Let me mention a case of one of Miss Rye's little ones, which speaks for itself. "A little girl of six was deserted by both father and mother." "Oh! _poor_ little thing!" exclaimed the sympathetic Di, with an amazing series of pitiful curves about her eyebrows. "Yes, poor indeed!" responded Seaward. "The mother forsook her first; then her father took her on the tramp, but the little feet could not travel fast enough, so he got tired of her and offered her to a workhouse. They refused her, so the tramping was continued, and at last baby was sold for three shillings to a stranger man. On taking his purchase home, however, the man found that his wife was unwilling to receive her; he therefore sent poor little baby adrift in the streets of London!" "_What_ a shame!" cried Di, with flashing orbs. "Was it not? But, when father and mother cast this little one off, the Lord cared for it. An inspector of police, who found it, took it to his wife, and she carried it to Miss Rye's Home, where it was at once received and cared for, and, doubtless, this little foundling girl is now dwelling happily and usefully with a Canadian family." "How nice!" exclaimed Di, her eyes, lips, and teeth bearing eloquent witness to her satisfaction. "But no doubt you have heard of Miss Rye's work, as well as that of Miss Annie Macpherson at the Home of Industry, and, perhaps, contributed to--" "No," interrupted Sir Richard, quickly, "I do not contribute; but pray, Mr Seaward, are there other institutions of this sort in London?" "Oh! yes, there are several, it would take me too long to go into the details of the various agencies we have for succouring the poor. There is, among others, The Church of England `_Central Home for Waifs and Strays_,' with a `Receiving House' for boys in Upper Clapton, and one for girls in East Dulwich, with the Archbishop of Canterbury for its President. Possibly you may have heard of the `_Strangers' Rest_,' in Saint George Street, Ratcliff Highway, where, as far as man can judge, great and permanent good is being constantly done to the souls of sailors. A sailor once entered this `Rest' considerably the worse for drink. He was spoken to by Christian friends, and asked to sign the pledge. He did so, and has now been steadfast for years. Returning from a long voyage lately, he went to revisit the _Rest_, and there, at the Bible-class, prayed. Part of his prayer was--`God bless the Strangers' Rest. O Lord, we thank Thee for this place, and we shall thank Thee to all eternity.' This is a sample of the feeling with which the place is regarded by those who have received blessing there. In the same street, only a few doors from this Rest, is the `_Sailor's Welcome Home_.' This is more of a home than the other, for it furnishes lodging and unintoxicating refreshment, while its devoted soul-loving manager, Miss Child, and her assistant workers, go fearlessly into the very dens of iniquity, and do all they can to bring sailors to Jesus, and induce them to take the pledge against strong drink, in which work they are, through God's blessing, wonderfully successful. These two missions work, as it were, into each other's hands. In the `Rest' are held prayer-meetings and Bible-classes, and when these are dismissed, the sailors find the open door of the `Welcome Home' ready to receive them, and the inmates there seek to deepen the good influence that has been brought to bear at the meetings--and this in the midst of one of the very worst parts of London, where temptation to every species of evil is rampant, on the right-hand and on the left, before and behind. "But, Sir Richard, although I say that a grand and extensive work of salvation to soul, body, and spirit is being done to thousands of men, and women, and children, by the agencies which I have mentioned, and by many similar agencies which I have not now time to mention, as well as by the band of City Missionaries to which I have the honour to belong, I would earnestly point out that these all put together only scratch the surface of the vast mass of corruption which has to be dealt with in this seething world of London, the population of which is, as you are aware, equal to that of all Scotland; and very specially would I remark that the work is almost exclusively carried on by the _voluntary contributions_ of those who `consider the poor!' "The little tract which I have given you will explain much of the details of this great work, as carried on in the George Yard Mission. When you have read that, if you desire it, I will call on you again. Meanwhile engagements compel me to take my leave." After luncheon, that day, Sir Richard drew his chair to the window, but instead of taking up the newspaper and recommending his little one to visit the nursery, he said: "Come here, Di. You and I will examine this pamphlet--this little book--and I'll try to explain it, for reports are usually very dry." Di looked innocently puzzled. "Should reports always be wet, papa?" Sir Richard came nearer to the confines of a laugh than he had reached for a long time past. "No, love--not exactly wet, but--hm--you shall hear. Draw the stool close to my knee and lay your head on it." With his large hand on the golden tresses, Sir Richard Brandon began to examine the record of work done in the George Yard Mission. "What is this?" he said. "_Toy Classes_,--why, this must be something quite in your way, Di." "Oh yes, I'm sure of that, for I adore toys. Tell me about it." "These toy classes are for the cheerless and neglected," said the knight, frowning in a businesslike way at the pamphlet. "Sometimes so many as eighty neglected little ones attend these classes. On one occasion, only one of these had boots on, which were very old, much too large, and both lefts. When they were seated, toys and scrap-books were lent to them. There were puzzles, and toy-bricks, and many other things which kept them quite happy for an hour. Of course the opportunity was seized to tell them about Jesus and His love. A blessed lesson which they would not have had a chance of learning at home--if they had homes; but many of them had none. When it was time to go they said--`Can't we stay longer?' "The beginning of this class was interesting," said Sir Richard, continuing to read. "The thought arose--`gather in the most forlorn and wretched children; those who are seldom seen to smile, or heard to laugh; there are many such who require Christian sympathy.' The thought was immediately acted on. A little barefooted ragged boy was sent into the streets to bring in the children. Soon there was a crowd round the school-door. The most miserable among the little ones were admitted. The proceedings commenced with prayer--then the toys were distributed, the dirty little hands became active, and the dirty little faces began to look happy. When the toys were gathered up, some could not be found, so, at the next meeting, some of the bigger children were set to watch the smaller ones. Presently one little detective said: `Please, teacher, Teddy's got a horse in his pocket,' and another said that Sally had an elephant in her pinafore! Occasion was thus found to show the evil of stealing, and teach the blessedness of honesty. They soon gave up pilfering, and they now play with the toys without desiring to take them away." "How nice!" said Di. "Go on, papa." "What can this be?" continued Sir Richard, quoting--"_Wild Flowers of the Forest Day Nursery_. Oh! I see--very good idea. I'll not read it, Di, I'll tell you about it. There are many poor widows, you must know, and women whose husbands are bad, who have no money to buy food and shelter for themselves and little ones except what they can earn each day. But some of these poor women have babies, and they can't work, you know, with babies in their arms, neither can they leave the babies at home with no one to look after them, except, perhaps, little sisters or brothers not much older than themselves, so they take their babies to this Cradle-Home, and each pays only twopence, for which small sum her baby is taken in, washed, clothed, warmed, fed, and amused by kind nurses, who keep it till the mother returns from her work to get it back again. Isn't that good?" "Oh! yes," assented Di, with all her heart. "And I read here," continued her father, "that thousands of the infants of the poor die every year because they have not enough food, or enough clothing to keep them warm." "Oh _what_ a pity!" exclaimed Di, the tears of ready sympathy rushing hot into her upturned eyes. "So you see," continued Sir Richard, who had unconsciously, as it were, become a pleader for the poor, "if there were a great many nurseries of this kind all over London, a great many little lives would be saved." "And why are there not a great many nurseries of that kind, papa?" "Well, I suppose, it is because there are no funds." "No what? papa." "Not enough of money, dear." "Oh! _what_ a pity! I wish I had lots and lots of money, and then wouldn't I have Cradle-Homes everywhere?" Sir Richard, knowing that he had "lots and lots" of money, but had not hitherto contributed one farthing to the object under consideration, thought it best to change the subject by going on with the George Yard Record. But we will not conduct the reader through it all--interesting though the subject certainly is. Suffice it to say that he found the account classed under several heads. Under "_Feeding the Hungry_," for instance, he learned that many poor children are entirely without food, sometimes, for a whole day, so that only two courses are open to them-- to steal food and become criminals, or drift into sickness and die. From which fate many hundreds are annually rescued by timely aid at George Yard, the supplies for which are sent by liberal-minded Christians in all ranks of life--from Mr Crackaby with his 150 pounds a year, up through Mr Brisbane and his class to the present Earl of Shaftesbury--who, by the way, has taken a deep interest and lent able support to this particular Mission for more than a quarter of a century. But the name of Sir Richard Brandon did not appear on the roll of contributors. He had not studied the "lower orders" much, except from a politico-economical-argumentative after-dinner-port-winey point of view. Under the head of "_Clothing necessitous Children_," he found that some of the little ones presented themselves at the school-door in such a net-work of rags, probably infected, as to be unfit even for a Ragged School. They were therefore taken in, had their garments destroyed, and were supplied with new clothes. Also, that about 1000 children between the ages of three and fourteen years were connected with the Institution--scattered among the various works of usefulness conducted for the young. Under "_Work among Lads_," he found that those big boys whom one sees idling about corners of streets, fancying themselves men, smoking with obvious dislike and pretended pleasure, and on the highroad to the jail and the gallows--that those boys were enticed into classes opened for carpentry, turning, fretwork, and other attractive industrial pursuits-- including even printing, at a press supplied by Lord Shaftesbury. This, in connection with evening classes for reading, writing, and arithmetic--the whole leading up to the grand object and aim of all--the salvation of souls. Under other heads he found that outcast boys were received, sheltered, sent to Industrial Homes, or returned to friends and parents; that temperance meetings were held, and drunkards, male and female, sought out, prayed for, lovingly reasoned with, and reclaimed from this perhaps the greatest curse of the land; that Juvenile Bands of Hope were formed, on the ground of prevention being better than cure; that lodging-houses, where the poorest of the poor, and the lowest of the low do congregate, were visited, and the gospel proclaimed to ears that were deaf to nearly every good influence; that mothers' meetings were held--one of them at that old headquarters of sin, the "Black Horse," where counsel and sympathy were mingled with a Clothing Club and a Bible-woman; that there were a Working Men's Benefit Society, Bible-Classes, Sunday-School, a Sewing-Class, a Mutual Labour Loan Society, a Shelter for Homeless Girls, a library, an Invalid Children's Dinner, a bath-room and lavatory, a Flower Mission, and--hear it, ye who fancy that a penny stands very low in the scale of financial littleness--a Farthing Bank! All this free--conducted by an unpaid band of considerably over a hundred Christian workers, male and female--and leavening the foundations of society, without which, and similar missions, there would be very few leavening influences at all, and the superstructure of society would stand a pretty fair chance of being burst up or blown to atoms--though the superstructure is not very willing to believe the fact! In addition to all this, Sir Richard learned, to his great amazement, that the Jews won't light their fires on the Sabbath-day--that is, on our Saturday--that they won't even poke it, and that this abstinence is the immediate cause of a source of revenue to the un-Jewish poor, whom the Jews hire to light and poke their fires for them. And, lastly, Sir Richard Brandon learned that Mr George Holland, who had managed that mission for more than quarter of a century, was resolved, in the strength of the Lord, to seek out the lost and rescue the perishing, even though he, Sir Richard, and all who resembled him, should refuse to aid by tongue or hand in the glorious work of rescuing the poor from sin and its consequences. CHAPTER TEN. BALLS, BOBBY, SIR RICHARD, AND GILES APPEAR ON THE STAGE. As from the sublime to the ridiculous there is but a step, so, from the dining-room to the kitchen there is but a stair. Let us descend the stair and learn that while Sir Richard was expounding the subject of "the poor" to little Di, Mr Balls, the butler, was engaged on the same subject in the servants' hall. "I cannot tell you," said Balls, "what a impression the sight o' these poor people made on me." "La! Mr Balls," said the cook, who was not unacquainted with low life in London, having herself been born within sound of Bow-Bells, "you've got no occasion to worrit yourself about it. It 'as never bin different." "That makes it all the worse, cook," returned Balls, standing with his back to the fireplace and his legs wide apart; "if it was only a temporary depression in trade, or the repeal of the corn laws that did it, one could stand it, but to think that such a state of things _always_ goes on is something fearful. You know I'm a country-bred man myself, and ain't used to the town, or to such awful sights of squalor. It almost made me weep, I do assure you. One room that I looked into had a mother and two children in it, and I declare to you that the little boy was going about stark naked, and his sister was only just a slight degree better." "P'raps they was goin' to bed," suggested Mrs Screwbury. "No, nurse, they wasn't; they was playing about evidently in their usual costume--for that evenin' at least. I would not have believed it if I had not seen it. And the mother was so tattered and draggled and dirty--which, also, was the room." "Was that in the court where the Frogs live?" asked Jessie Summers. "It was, and a dreadful court too--shocking!" "By the way, Mr Balls," asked the cook, "is there any chance o' that brat of a boy Bobby, as they call him, coming here? I can't think why master has offered to take such a creeter into his service." "No, cook, there is no chance. I forgot to tell you about that little matter. The boy was here yesterday and he refused--absolutely declined a splendid offer." "I'm glad to hear it," returned the cook. "Tell us about it, Mr Balls," said Jessie Summers with a reproachful look at the other. "I'm quite fond of that boy--he's such a smart fellow, and wouldn't be bad-looking if he'd only wash his face and comb his hair." "He's smart enough, no doubt, but impudence is his strong point," rejoined the butler with a laugh. The way he spoke to the master beats everything. "`I've sent for you, my boy,' said Sir Richard, in his usual dignified, kindly way, `to offer you the situation of under-gardener in my establishment.'" "`Oh! that's wot you wants with me, is it?' said the boy, as bold as brass; indeed I may say as bold as gun-metal, for his eyes an' teeth glittered as he spoke, and he said it with the air of a dook. Master didn't quite seem to like it, but I saw he laid restraint on himself and said: `You have to thank my daughter for this offer--' "`Thank you, Miss,' said the boy, turnin' to Miss Di with a low bow, imitatin' Sir Richard's manner, I thought, as much as he could. "`Of course,' continued the master, rather sharply, `I offer you this situation out of mere charity--' "`Oh! you do, do you?' said the extraordinary boy in the coolest manner, `but wot if I objec' to receive charity? Ven I 'olds a 'orse I expecs to be paid for so doin', same as you expecs to be paid w'en you attends a board-meetin' to grin an' do nuffin.' "`Come, come, boy,' said Sir Richard, gettin' redder in the face than I ever before saw him, `I am not accustomed to low pleasantry, and--' "`An' I ain't accustomed,' broke in the boy, `to 'igh hinsults. Do you think that every gent what years a coat an' pants with 'oles in 'em is a beggar?' "For some moments master seemed to be struck speechless, an' I feared that in spite of his well-known gentleness of character he'd throw the ink-stand at the boy's head, but he didn't; he merely said in a low voice, `I would dismiss you at once, boy, were it not that I have promised my daughter to offer you employment, and you can see by her looks how much your unnatural conduct grieves her.' "An' this was true, for poor Miss Di sat there with her hands clasped, her eyes full of tears, her eyebrows disappearin' among her hair with astonishment, and her whole appearance the very pictur' of distress. `However,' continued Sir Richard, `I still make you the offer, though I doubt much whether you will be able to retain the situation. Your wages will--' "`Please sir,' pleaded the boy, `don't mention the wages. I couldn't stand that. Indeed I couldn't; it would really be too much for me.' "`Why, what do you mean?' says master. "`I mean,' says Impudence, `that I agree with you. I don't think I _could_ retain the sitivation, cause w'y? In the fust place, I ain't got no talent at gardenin'. The on'y time I tried it was w'en I planted a toolip in a flower-pot, an' w'en I dug it up to see 'ow it was a-gittin on a cove told me I'd planted it upside down. However, I wasn't goin' to be beat by that cove, so I say to 'im, Jack, I says, I planted it so a purpus, an' w'en it sprouts I'm a-goin' to 'ang it up to see if it won't grow through the 'ole in the bottom. In the second place, I couldn't retain the sitivation 'cause I don't intend to take it, though you was to offer me six thousand no shillin's an' no pence no farthin's a year as salary.' "I r'ally did think master would ha' dropt out of his chair at that. As for Miss Di, she was so tickled that she gave a sort of hysterical laugh. "`Balls,' said master, `show him out, and--' he pulled up short, but I knew he meant to say have an eye on the great-coats and umbrellas, so I showed the boy out, an' he went down-stairs, quite quiet, but the last thing I saw of him was performin' a sort of minstrel dance at the end of the street just before he turned the corner and disappeared." "Imp'rence!" exclaimed the cook. "Naughty, ungrateful boy!" said Mrs Screwbury. "But it was plucky of him," said Jessie Summers. "I would call it cheeky," said Balls, "I can't think what put it into his head to go on so." If Mr Balls had followed Bobby Frog in spirit, watched his subsequent movements, and listened to his remarks, perhaps he might have understood the meaning of his conduct a little better. After he had turned the corner of the street, as above mentioned, Bobby trotted on for a short space, and then, coming to a full stop, executed a few steps of the minstrel dance, at the end of which he brought his foot down with tremendous emphasis on the pavement, and said-- "Yes, I've bin an' done it. I know'd I was game for a good deal, but I did _not_ think I was up to that. One never knows wot 'e's fit for till 'e tries. Wot'll Hetty think, I wonder?" What Hetty thought he soon found out, for he overtook her on the Thames embankment on her way home. Bobby was fond of that route, though a little out of his way, because he loved the running water, though it _was_ muddy, and the sight of steamers and barges. "Well, Bobby," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder, "where have you been?" "To see old Swallow'd-the-poker, Hetty." "What took you there?" asked the girl in surprise. "My legs. You don't suppose I've set up my carriage yet, do you?" "Come, you know what I mean." "Vell, then, I went because I was sent for, an' wot d'ye think? the old gen'l'man hoffered me the sitivation of under-gardener!" "You don't say so! Oh! Bobby, what a lucky boy--an' what a kind gentleman! Tell me all about it now," said Hetty, pressing her hand more tenderly on her brother's shoulder. "What wages is he to give you?" "No wages wotsomever." Hetty looked into her brother's face with an expression of concerned surprise. She knew some tradespeople who made her work hard for so very little, that it was not difficult to believe in a gentleman asking her brother to work for nothin'! Still she had thought better of Sir Richard, and expected to hear something more creditable to him. "Ah, you may look, but I do assure you he is to give me no wages, an' I'm to do no work." Here Bobby executed a few steps of his favourite dance, but evidently from mere habit, and unconsciously, for he left off in the middle, and seemed to forget the salient point of emphasis with his foot. "What _do_ you mean, Bobby?--be earnest, like a dear boy, for once." "Earnest!" exclaimed the urchin with vehemence. "I never was more in earnest in my life. You should 'ave seen Swallow'd-the-poker w'en I refused to 'ave it." "Refused it?" "Ay--refused it. Come Hetty, I'll explain." The boy dropped his facetious tone and manner while he rapidly ran over the chief points of his interview with Sir Richard. "But why did you refuse so good an offer?" asked Hetty, still unable to repress her surprise. "Because of daddy." "Daddy?" "Ay, daddy. You know he's fond o' me, is daddy, and, d'ye know, though p'r'aps you mayn't believe it, I'm raither fond o' _him_; but 'e's a bad 'un, is daddy. He's bent on mischief, you see, an' 'e's set his 'art on my 'elpin' of 'im. But I _wont_ 'elp 'im--that's flat. Now, what d'ye think, Hetty," (here he dropped his voice to almost a whisper and looked solemn), "dad wants to make use o' me to commit a burglary on Swallow'd-the-poker's 'ouse." "You don't mean it, Bobby!" "But I do, Hetty. Dad found out from that rediklous butler that goes veepin' around our court like a leeky pump, that the old gen'l'man was goin' to hoffer me this sitivation, an 'e's bin wery 'ard on me to accept it, so that I may find out the ways o' the 'ouse where the plate an' waluables lay, let 'im in some fine dark night an' 'elp 'im to carry off the swag." A distressed expression marked poor Hetty's reception of this news, but she said never a word. "Now you won't tell, Hetty?" said the boy with a look of real anxiety on his face. "It's not so much his killin' me I cares about, but I wouldn't bring daddy to grief for any money. I'd raither 'elp 'im than that. You'll not say a word to nobody?" "No, Bobby, I won't say a word." "Vell, you see," continued the boy, "ven I'd made myself so disagreeable that the old gen'l'man would 'ave nothin' to do with me, I came straight away, an' 'ere I am; but it _was_ a trial, let me tell you, specially ven 'e come to mention wages--an sitch a 'eavenly smell o' roasted wittles come up from the kitchen too at the moment, but I 'ad only to look at Miss Di, to make me as stubborn as a nox or a hass. `Wot!' thinks I to myself, `betray that hangel--no, never!' yet if I was to go into that 'ouse I know I'd do it, for daddy's got sitch a wheedlin' way with 'im w'en 'e likes, that I couldn't 'old hout long--so I giv' old Swallowed-the-poker sitch a lot o' cheek that I thought 'e'd kick me right through the winder. He was considerable astonished as well as riled, I can tell you, an' Miss Di's face was a pictur', but the old butler was the sight. He'd got 'is face screwed up into sitch a state o' surprise that it looked like a eight-day clock with a gamboil. Now, Hetty, I'm goin' to tell 'ee what'll take your breath away. I've made up my mind to go to Canada!" Hetty did, on hearing this, look as if her breath had been taken away. When it returned sufficiently she said: "Bobby, what put that into your head?" "The 'Ome of Hindustry," said Bobby with a mysterious look. "The Home of Industry," repeated the girl in surprise, for she knew that Institution well, having frequently assisted its workers in their labour of love. "Yes, that's the name--'Ome of Hindustry, what sends off so many ragged boys to Canada under Miss Macpherson." "Ay, Bobby, it does a great deal more than that," returned the girl. "Sending off poor boys and girls to Canada is only one branch of its work. If you'd bin to its tea-meetin's for the destitute, as I have, an' its clothin' meetin's and its mothers' meetin's, an--" "'Ow d'ye know I 'aven't bin at 'em all?" asked the boy with an impudent look. "Well, you know, you couldn't have been at the mothers' meetings, Bobby." "Oh! for the matter o' that, no more could you." "True, but I've heard of them all many and many a time; but come, tell me all about it. How did you come to go near the Home of Industry at all after refusing so often to go with me?" "Vell, I didn't go because of bein' axed to go, you may be sure o' that, but my little dosser, Tim Lumpy, you remember 'im? The cove wi' the nose like a button, an' no body to speak of--all legs an' arms, like a 'uman win'-mill; vell, you must know they've nabbed 'im, an' given 'im a rig-out o' noo slops, an' they're goin' to send 'im to Canada. So I 'appened to be down near the 'Ome one day three weeks past, an' I see Lumpy a-goin' in. `'Allo!' says I. `'Allo!' says 'e; an' then 'e told me all about it. `Does they feed you well?' I axed. `Oh! don't they, just!' said 'e. `There's to be a blow hout this wery night,' said 'e. `I wonder,' says I, `if they'd let me in, for I'm uncommon 'ungry, I tell you; 'ad nuffin' to heat since last night.' Just as I said that, a lot o' fellers like me came tumblin' up to the door--so I sneaked in wi' the rest--for I thought they'd kick me hout if they knowed I'd come without inwitation." "Well, and what then?" asked Hetty. Here our little street-Arab began to tell, in his own peculiar language and style, how that he went in, and found a number of ladies in an upper room with forms set, and hot tea and bread to be had--as much as they could stuff--for nothing; that the boys were very wild and unruly at first, but that after the chief lady had prayed they became better, and that when half-a-dozen nice little girls were brought in and had sung a hymn or two they were quite quiet and ready to listen. Like many other people, this city Arab did not like to speak out freely, even to his sister, on matters that touched his feelings deeply, but he said enough to let the eager and thankful Hetty know that not only had Jesus and His love been preached to the boys, but she perceived that what had been said and sung had made an unusual impression, though the little ragged waif sought to conceal it under the veil of cool pleasantry, and she now recognised the fact that the prayers which she had been putting up for many a day in her brother's behalf had been answered. "Oh! I'm so happy," she said; and, unable to restrain herself, flung her arms round Bobby's neck and kissed him. It was evident that the little fellow rather liked this, though he pretended that he did not. "Come, old gal," he said brusquely, "none o' that sort o' thing. I can't stand it. Don't you see, the popilation is lookin' at us in surprise; besides, you've bin an' crushed all my shirt front!" "But," continued Hetty, as they walked on again, "I'm not happy to hear that you are goin' to Canada. What ever will I do without you, Bobby?" Poor girl, she could well afford to do without him in one sense, for he had hitherto been chiefly an object of anxiety and expense to her, though also an object of love. "I'm sorry to think of goin' too, Hetty, for your sake an' mother's, but for daddy's sake and my own I _must_ go. You see, I can't 'old hout agin 'im. W'en 'e makes up 'is mind to a thing you know 'e sticks to it, for 'e's a tough un; an' 'e's got sitch a wheedlin' sort o' way with 'im that I can't 'elp givin' in a'most. So, you see, it'll be better for both of us that I should go away. But I'll come back, you know, Hetty, with a fortin--see if I don't--an' then, oh! won't I keep a carridge an' a ridin' 'oss for daddy, an' feed mother an' you on plum-duff an' pork sassengers to breakfast, dinner, an' supper, with ice cream for a relish!" Poor Hetty did not even smile at this prospect of temporal felicity. She felt that in the main the boy was right, and that the only chance he had of escaping the toils in which her father was wrapping him by the strange union of affection and villainy, was to leave the country. She knew, also, that, thanks to the Home of Industry and its promoters, the sending of a ragged, friendless, penniless London waif, clothed and in his right mind, to a new land of bright and hopeful prospects, was an event brought within the bounds of possibility. That night Bob Frog stood with his dosser, (i.e. his friend), Tim Lumpy, discussing their future prospects in the partial privacy of a railway-arch. They talked long, and, for waifs, earnestly--both as to the land they were about to quit and that to which they were going; and the surprising fact might have been noted by a listener--had there been any such present, save a homeless cat--that neither of the boys perpetrated a joke for the space of at least ten minutes. "Vy," observed little Frog at length, "you seem to 'ave got all the fun drove out o' you, Lumpy." "Not a bit on it," returned the other, with a hurt look, as though he had been charged with some serious misdemeanour, "but it do seem sitch a shabby thing to go an' forsake my blind old mother." "But yer blind old mother wants you to go," said Bobby, "an' says she'll be well looked arter by the ladies of the 'Ome, and that she wouldn't stand in the way o' your prospec's. Besides, she ain't yer mother!" This was true. Tim Lumpy had neither father nor mother, nor relative on earth, and the old woman who, out of sheer pity, had taken him in and allowed him to call her "_mother_," was a widow at the lowest possible round of that social ladder, at the top of which--figuratively speaking--sits Her Gracious Majesty the Queen. Mrs Lumpy had found him on her door-step, weeping and in rags, at the early age of five years. She had taken him in, and fed him on part of a penny loaf which formed the sole edible substance for her own breakfast. She had mended his rags to the extent of her ability, but she had not washed his face, having no soap of her own, and not caring to borrow from neighbours who were in the same destitute condition. Besides, she had too hard a battle to fight with an ever-present and pressing foe, to care much about dirt, and no doubt deemed a wash of tears now and then sufficient. Lumpy himself seemed to agree with her as to this, for he washed himself in that fashion frequently. Having sought for his parents in vain, with the aid of the police, Mrs Lumpy quietly kept the boy on; gave him her surname, prefixed that of Timothy, answered to the call of mother, and then left him to do very much as he pleased. In these circumstances, it was not surprising that little Tim soon grew to be one of the pests of his alley. Tim was a weak-eyed boy, and remarkably thin, being, as his friend had said, composed chiefly of legs and arms. There must have been a good deal of brain also, for he was keen-witted, as people soon began to find out to their cost. Tim was observant also. He observed, on nearing the age of ten years, that in the great river of life which daily flowed past him, there were certain faces which indicated tender and kindly hearts, coupled with defective brain-action, and a good deal of self-will. He became painfully shrewd in reading such faces, and, on wet days, would present himself to them with his bare little red feet and half-naked body, rain water, (doing duty for tears), running from his weak bloodshot eyes, and falsehoods of the most pitiable, complex, and impudent character pouring from his thin blue lips, whilst awful solemnity seemed to shine on his visage. The certain result was--coppers! These kindly ones have, unwittingly of course, changed a text of Scripture, and, for the words "_consider_ the poor," read "throw coppers to the poor!" You see, it is much easier to relieve one's feelings by giving away a few pence, than to take the trouble of visiting, inquiring about, and otherwise _considering_, the poor! At all events it would seem so, for Tim began to grow comparatively rich, and corrupted, still more deeply, associates who were already buried sufficiently in the depths of corruption. At last little Tim was met by a lady who had befriended him more than once, and who asked him why he preferred begging in the streets to going to the ragged school, where he would get not only food for the body, but for the soul. He replied that he was hungry, and his mother had no victuals to give him, so he had gone out to beg. The lady went straight to Mrs Lumpy, found the story to be true, and that the poor half-blind old woman was quite unable to support the boy and herself. The lady prevailed on the old woman to attend the meetings for poor, aged, and infirm women in Miss Macpherson's "Beehive," and little Tim was taken into the "Home for Destitute Little Boys under ten years of age." It was not all smooth sailing in that Home after Tim Lumpy entered it! Being utterly untamed, Tim had many a sore struggle ere the temper was brought under control. One day he was so bad that the governess was obliged to punish him by leaving him behind, while the other boys went out for a walk. When left alone, the lady-superintendent tried to converse with him about obedience, but he became frightfully violent, and demanded his rags that he might return again to the streets. Finally he escaped, rushed to his old home in a paroxysm of rage, and then, getting on the roof, declared to the assembled neighbours that he would throw himself down and dash out his brains. In this state a Bible-woman found him. After offering the mental prayer, "Lord, help me," she entreated him to come down and join her in a cup of tea with his old mother. The invitation perhaps struck the little rebel as having a touch of humour in it. At all events he accepted it and forthwith descended. Over the tea, the Bible-woman prayed aloud for him, and the poor boy broke down, burst into tears, and begged forgiveness. Soon afterwards he was heard tapping at the door of the Home--gentle and subdued. Thus was this waif rescued, and he now discussed with his former comrade the prospect of transferring themselves and their powers, mental and physical, to Canada. Diverging from this subject to Bobby's father, and his dark designs, Tim asked if Ned Frog had absolutely decided to break into Sir Richard Brandon's house, and Bobby replied that he had; that his father had wormed out of the butler, who was a soft stupid sort of cove, where the plate and valuables were kept, and that he and another man had arranged to do it. "Is the partikler night fixed?" asked Tim. "Yes; it's to be the last night o' this month." "Why not give notice?" asked Tim. "'Cause I won't peach on daddy," said Bob Frog stoutly. Little Tim received this with a "quite right, old dosser," and then proposed that the meeting should adjourn, as he was expected back at the Home by that time. Two weeks or so after that, Police-Constable Number 666 was walking quietly along one of the streets of his particular beat in the West-end, with that stateliness of step which seems to be inseparable from place, power, and six feet two. It was a quiet street, such as Wealth loves to inhabit. There were few carriages passing along it, and fewer passengers. Number 666 had nothing particular to do--the inhabitants being painfully well-behaved, and the sun high. His mind, therefore, roamed about aimlessly, sometimes bringing playfully before him a small abode, not very far distant, where a pretty woman was busy with household operations, and a ferocious policeman, about three feet high, was taking into custody an incorrigible criminal of still smaller size. A little boy, with very long arms and legs, might have been seen following our friend Giles Scott, until the latter entered upon one of those narrow paths made by builders on the pavements of streets when houses are undergoing repairs. Watching until Giles was half way along it, the boy ran nimbly up and accosted him with a familiar-- "Well, old man, 'ow are you?" "Pretty bobbish, thank you," returned the constable, for he was a good-natured man, and rather liked a little quiet chaff with street-boys when not too much engaged with duty. "Well, now, are you aweer that there's a-goin' to be a burglairy committed in this 'ere quarter?" asked the boy, thrusting both hands deep into his pockets, and bending his body a little back, so as to look more easily up at his tall friend. "Ah! indeed, well no, I didn't know it, for I forgot to examine the books at Scotland Yard this morning, but I've no doubt it's entered there by your friend who's goin' to commit it." "No, it ain't entered there," said the boy, with a manner and tone that rather surprised Number 666; "and I'd advise you to git out your note-book, an' clap down wot I'm a-goin' to tell ye. You know the 'ouse of Sir Richard Brandon?" "Yes, I know it." "Well, that 'ouse is to be cracked on the 31st night o' this month." "How d'you know that, lad?" asked Giles, moving towards the end of the barricade, so as to get nearer to his informant. "No use, bobby," said Tim, "big as you are, you can't nab me. Believe me or not as you like, but I advise you to look arter that there 'ouse on the 31st if you valley your repitation." Tim went off like a congreve rocket, dashed down a side street, sloped into an alley, and melted into a wilderness of bricks and mortar. Of course Giles did not attempt to follow, but some mysterious communications passed between him and his superintendent that night before he went to bed. CHAPTER ELEVEN. SIR RICHARD AND MR. BRISBANE DISCUSS, AND DI LISTENS. "My dear sir," said Sir Richard Brandon, over a glass of sherry one evening after dinner, to George Brisbane, Esquire of Lively Hall, "the management of the poor is a difficult, a very difficult subject to deal with." "It is, unquestionably," assented Brisbane, "so difficult, that I am afraid some of our legislators are unwilling to face it; but it ought to be faced, for there is much to be done in the way of improving the poor-laws, which at present tend to foster pauperism in the young, and bear heavily on the aged. Meanwhile, philanthropists find it necessary to take up the case of the poor as a private enterprise." "Pardon me, Brisbane, there I think you are in error. Everything requisite to afford relief to the poor is provided by the state. If the poor will not take advantage of the provision, or the machinery is not well oiled and worked by the officials, the remedy lies in greater wisdom on the part of the poor, and supervision of officials--not in further legislation. But what do you mean by our poor-laws bearing heavily on the aged?" "I mean that the old people should be better cared for, simply because of their age. Great age is a sufficient argument of itself, I think, for throwing a veil of oblivion over the past, and extending charity with a liberal, pitying hand, because of present distress, and irremediable infirmities. Whatever may be the truth with regard to paupers and workhouses in general, there ought to be a distinct refuge for the aged, which should be attractive--not repulsive, as at present-- and age, without reference to character or antecedents, should constitute the title to enter it. `God pity the aged poor,' is often my prayer, `and enable us to feel more for them in the dreary, pitiful termination of their career.'" "But, my dear sir," returned Sir Richard, "you would have old paupers crowding into such workhouses, or refuges as you call them, by the thousand." "Well, better that they should do so than that they should die miserably by thousands in filthy and empty rooms--sometimes without fire, or food, or physic, or a single word of kindness to ease their sad descent into the grave." "But, then, Brisbane, as I said, it is their own fault--they have the workhouse to go to." "But, then, as _I_ said, Sir Richard, the workhouse is rendered so repulsive to them that they keep out of it as long as they can, and too often keep out so long that it is too late, and their end is as I have described. However, until things are better arranged, we must do what we can for them in a private way. Indeed Scripture teaches distinctly the necessity for private charity, by such words as--`the poor ye have always with you,' and, `blessed are they who consider the poor.' Don't you agree with me, Mr Welland?" Stephen Welland--who, since the day of his accident, had become intimate with Mr Brisbane and Sir Richard--replied that although deeply interested in the discussion going on, his knowledge of the subject was too slight to justify his holding any decided opinion. "Take another glass of sherry," said Sir Richard, pushing the decanter towards the young man; "it will stir your brain and enable you to see your way more clearly through this knotty point." "No more, thank you, Sir Richard." "Come, come--fill your glass," said the knight; "you and I must set an example of moderate drinking to Brisbane, as a counter-blast to his Blue-Ribbonism." Welland smiled and re-filled his glass. "Nay, I never thrust my opinions on that point on people," said Brisbane, with a laugh, "but if you _will_ draw the sword and challenge me, I won't refuse the combat!" "No, no, Brisbane. Please spare us! I re-sheath the sword, and need not that you should go all over it again. I quite understand that you are no bigot, that you think the Bible clearly permits and encourages total abstinence in certain circumstances, though it does not teach it; that, although a total abstainer yourself, you do not refuse to give drink to your friends if they desire it--and all that sort of thing; but pray let it pass, and I won't offend again." "Ah, Sir Richard, you are an unfair foe. You draw your sword to give me a wound through our young friend, and then sheath it before I can return on you. However, you have stated my position so well that I forgive you and shake hands. But, to return to the matter of private charity, are you aware how little suffices to support the poor--how very far the mere crumbs that fall from a rich man's table will go to sustain them I Now, just take the glass of wine which Welland has swallowed--against his expressed wish, observe, and merely to oblige you, Sir Richard. Its value is, say, sixpence. Excuse me, I do not of course refer to its real value, but to its recognised restaurant-value! Well, I happened the other day to be at a meeting of old women at the `Beehive' in Spitalfields; there were some eighty or a hundred of them. With dim eyes and trembling fingers they were sewing garments for the boys who are to be sent out to Canada. Such feeble workers could not find employment elsewhere, but by liberal hearts a plan has been devised whereby many an aged one, past work, can earn a few pence. Twopence an hour is the pay. They are in the habit of meeting once a week for three hours, and thus earn sixpence. Many of these women, I may remark, are true Christians. I wondered how far such a sum would go, and how the poor old things spent it. One woman sixty-three years of age enlightened me. She was a feeble old creature, suffering from chronic rheumatism and a dislocated hip. When I questioned her she said--`I have difficulties indeed, but I tell my Father all. Sometimes, when I'm very hungry and have nothing to eat, I tell Him, and I know He hears me, for He takes the feeling away, and it only leaves me a little faint.' "`But how do you spend the sixpence that you earn here?' I asked. "`Well, sir,' she said, `sometimes, when very hard-up, I spend part of it this way:--I buy a hap'orth o' tea, a hap'orth o' sugar, a hap'orth o' drippin', a hap'orth o' wood and a penn'orth o' bread. Sometimes when better off than usual I get a heap of coals at a time, perhaps quarter of a hundredweight, because I save a farthing by getting the whole quarter, an' that lasts me a long time, and wi' the farthing I mayhap treat myself to a drop o' milk. Sometimes, too, I buy my penn'orth o' wood from the coopers and chop it myself, for I can make it go further that way.' "So, you see, Welland," continued Brisbane, "your glass of sherry would have gone a long way in the domestic calculations of a poor old woman, who very likely once had sons who were as fond of her and as proud of her, as you now are of your own mother." "It is very sad that any class of human beings should be reduced to so low an ebb," returned the young man seriously. "Yes, and it is very difficult," said Sir Richard, "to reduce one's mental action so as to fully understand the exact bearing of such minute monetary arrangements, especially for one who is accustomed to regard the subject of finance from a different standpoint." "But the saddest thing of all to me, and the most difficult to understand," resumed Brisbane, "is the state of mind and feeling of those professing Christians, who, with ample means, give exceedingly little towards the alleviation of such distress, take little or no interest in the condition of the poor, and allow as much waste in their establishments as would, if turned to account, become streamlets of absolute wealth to many of the destitute." This latter remark was a thrust which told pretty severely on the host-- all the more so, perhaps, that he knew Brisbane did not intend it as a thrust at all, for he was utterly ignorant of the fact that his friend seldom gave anything away in charity, and even found it difficult to pay his way and make the two ends meet with his poor little five thousand a year--for, you see, if a man has to keep up a fairly large establishment, with a town and country house, and have his yacht, and a good stable, and indulge in betting, and give frequent dinners, and take shootings in Scotland, and amuse himself with jewellery, etcetera, why, he must pay for it, you know! "The greatest trouble of these poor women, I found," continued Brisbane, "is their rent, which varies from 2 shillings to 3 shillings a week for their little rooms, and it is a constant struggle with them to keep out of `the House,' so greatly dreaded by the respectable poor. One of them told me she had lately saved up a shilling with which she bought a pair of `specs,' and was greatly comforted thereby, for they helped her fading eyesight. I thought at the time what a deal of good might be done and comfort given if people whose sight is changing would send their disused spectacles to the home of Industry in Commercial Street, Spitalfields, for the poor. By the way, your sight must have changed more than once, Sir Richard! Have you not a pair or two of disused spectacles to spare?" "Well, yes, I have a pair or two, but they have gold rims, which would be rather incongruous on the noses of poor people, don't you think?" "Oh! by no means. We could manage to convert the rims into blue steel, and leave something over for sugar and tea." "Well, I'll send them," said Sir Richard with a laugh. "By the way, you mentioned a plan whereby those poor women were enabled to do useful work, although too old for much. What plan might that be?" "It is a very simple plan," answered Brisbane, "and consists chiefly in the work being apportioned according to ability. Worn garments and odds and ends of stuff are sent to the Beehive from all parts of the country by sympathising friends. These are heaped together in one corner of the room where the poor old things work. Down before this mass of stuff are set certain of the company who have large constructive powers. These skilfully contrive, cut out, alter, and piece together all kinds of clothing, including the house slippers and Glengarry caps worn by the little rescued boys. Even handkerchiefs and babies' long frocks are conjured out of a petticoat or muslin lining! The work, thus selected and arranged, is put into the hands of those who, though not skilful in originating, have the plodding patience to carry out the designs of the more ingenious, and so garments are produced to cover the shivering limbs of any destitute child that may enter the Refuge as well as to complete the outfits of the little emigrants." "Well, Brisbane, I freely confess," said Sir Richard, "that you have roused a degree of interest in poor old women which I never felt before, and it does seem to me that we might do a good deal more for them with our mere superfluities and cast-off clothing. Do the old women receive any food on these working nights besides the pence they earn?" "No, I am sorry to say they do not--at least not usually. You see it takes a hundred or more sixpences every Monday merely to keep that sewing-class going, and more than once there has been a talk of closing it for want of funds, but the poor creatures have pleaded so pitifully that they might still be allowed to attend, even though they should work at _half-price_, that it has been hitherto continued. You see it is a matter of no small moment for those women merely to spend three hours in a room with a good fire, besides which they delight in the hymns and prayers and the loving counsel and comfort they receive. It enables them to go out into the cold, even though hungry, with more heart and trust in God as they limp slowly back again to their fireless grates and bare cupboards. "The day on which I visited the place I could not bear the thought of this, so I gave a sovereign to let them have a good meal. This sufficed. Large kettles are always kept in readiness for such occasions. These were put on immediately by the matron. The elder girls in training on the floor above set to work to cut thick slices of bread and butter, the tea urns were soon brought down, and in twenty minutes I had the satisfaction of seeing the whole hundred eating heartily and enjoying a hot meal. My own soul was fed, too--for the words came to me, `I was an hungered and ye gave me meat,' and one old woman, sitting near me, said, `I have a long walk home, and have been casting over in my mind all the afternoon whether I could spare a penny for a cup of tea on the way. How good the Lord is to send this!'" With large, round, glittering eyes and parted lips, and heightened colour and varying expression, sat little Di Brandon at her father's elbow, almost motionless, her little hands clasped tight, and uttering never a word, but gazing intently at the speakers and drinking it all in, while sorrow, surprise, sympathy, indignation, and intense pity stirred her little heart to its very centre. In the nursery she retailed it all over, with an eager face and rapid commentary, to the sympathetic Mrs Screwbury, and finally, in bed, presided over millions of old women who made up mountains of old garments, devoured fields of buttered bread, and drank oceans of steaming tea! CHAPTER TWELVE. SAMMY TWITTER'S FALL. We must turn now to Samuel Twitter, senior. That genial old man was busy one morning in the nursery, amusing little Mita, who had by that time attained to what we may style the dawn-of-intelligence period of life, and was what Mrs Loper, Mr Crackaby, and Mr Stickler called "engaging." "Mariar!" shouted Mr Twitter to his amiable spouse, who was finishing her toilet in the adjoining room. "She's makin' faces at me--yes, she's actually attempting to laugh!" "The darling!" came from the next room, in emphatic tones. "Mariar!" "Well, dear." "Is Sammy down in the parlour?" "I don't know. Why?" "Because he's not in his room--tumti-iddidy-too-too--you charming thing!" It must be understood that the latter part of this sentence had reference to the baby, not to Mrs Twitter. Having expended his affections and all his spare time on Mita,--who, to do her justice, made faces enough at him to repay his attentions in full,--Mr Twitter descended to the breakfast parlour and asked the domestic if she had seen Sammy yet. "No, sir, I hain't." "Are you sure he's not in his room?" "Well, no, sir, but I knocked twice and got no answer." "Very odd; Sammy didn't use to be late, nor to sleep so soundly," said Mr Twitter, ascending to the attic of his eldest son. Obtaining no reply to his knock, he opened the door and found that the room was empty. More than that, he discovered, to his surprise and alarm, that Sammy's bed was unruffled, so that Sammy himself must have slept elsewhere! In silent consternation the father descended to his bedroom and said, "Mariar, Sammy's gone!" "Dead!" exclaimed Mrs Twitter with a look of horror. "No, no; not dead, but gone--gone out of the house. Did not sleep in it last night, apparently." Poor Mrs Twitter sank into a chair and gazed at her husband with a stricken face. Up to that date the family had prospered steadily, and, may we not add, deservedly; their children having been trained in the knowledge of God, their duties having been conscientiously discharged, their sympathies with suffering humanity encouraged, and their general principles carried into practical effect. The consequence was that they were a well-ordered and loving family. There are many such in our land-- families which are guided by the Spirit and the Word of God. The sudden disappearance, therefore, of the eldest son of the Twitter family was not an event to be taken lightly for he had never slept out of his own particular bed without the distinct knowledge of his father and mother since he was born, and his appearance at the breakfast-table had been hitherto as certain as the rising of the sun or the winding of the eight-day clock by his father every Saturday night. In addition to all this, Sammy was of an amiable disposition, and had been trustworthy, so that when he came to the years of discretion--which his father had fixed at fifteen--he was allowed a latch-key, as he had frequently to work at his employer's books till a lateish hour,-- sometimes eleven o'clock--after the family, including the domestic, had gone to rest. "Now, Samuel," said Mrs Twitter, with a slight return of her wonted energy, "there can be only two explanations of this. Either the dear boy has met with an accident, or--" "Well, Mariar, why do you pause?" "Because it seems so absurd to think of, much more to talk of, his going wrong or running away! The first thing I've got to do, Samuel, is to go to the police-office, report the case, and hear what they have to advise." "The very thing I was thinking of, Mariar; but don't it strike you it might be better that _I_ should go to the station?" "No, Samuel, the station is near. I can do that, while you take a cab, go straight away to his office and find out at what hour he left. Now, go; we have not a moment to lose. Mary," (this was the next in order to Sammy), "will look after the children's breakfast. Make haste!" Mr Twitter made haste--made it so fast that he made too much of it, over-shot the mark, and went down-stairs head foremost, saluting the front door with a rap that threw that of the postman entirely into the shade. But Twitter was a springy as well as an athletic man. He arose undamaged, made no remark to his more than astonished children, and went his way. Mrs Twitter immediately followed her husband's example in a less violent and eccentric manner. The superintendent of police received her with that affable display of grave good-will which is a characteristic of the force. He listened with patient attention to the rather incoherent tale which she told with much agitation--unbosoming herself to this officer to a quite unnecessary extent as to private feelings and opinions, and, somehow, feeling as if he were a trusted and confidential friend though he was an absolute stranger--such is the wonderful influence of Power in self-possessed repose, over Weakness in distressful uncertainty! Having heard all that the good lady had to say, with scarcely a word of interruption; having put a few pertinent and relevant questions and noted the replies, the superintendent advised Mrs Twitter to calm herself, for that it would soon be "all right;" to return home, and abide the issue of his exertions; to make herself as easy in the circumstances as possible, and, finally, sent her away with the first ray of comfort that had entered her heart since the news of Sammy's disappearance had burst upon her like a thunderclap. "What a thing it is," she muttered to herself on her way home, "to put things into the hands of a _man_--one you can feel sure will do everything sensibly and well, and without fuss." The good lady meant no disparagement to her sex by this--far from it; she referred to a manly man as compared with an unmanly one, and she thought, for one moment, rather disparagingly about the salute which her Samuel's bald pate had given to the door that morning. Probably she failed to think of the fussy manner in which she herself had assaulted the superintendent of police, for it is said that people seldom see themselves! But Mrs Twitter was by no means bitter in her thoughts, and her conscience twitted her a little for having perhaps done Samuel a slight injustice. Indeed she _had_ done him injustice, for that estimable little man went about his inquiries after the lost Sammy with a lump as big as a walnut on the top of his head, and with a degree of persistent energy that might have made the superintendent himself envious. "Not been at the office for two days, sir!" exclaimed Mr Twitter, repeating--in surprised indignation, for he could not believe it--the words of Sammy's employer, who was a merchant in the hardware line. "No, sir," said the hardware man, whose face seemed as hard as his ware. "Do--you--mean--to--tell--me," said Twitter, with deliberate solemnity, "that my son Samuel has not been in this office for _two days_?" "That is precisely what I mean to tell you," returned the hardware man, "and I mean to tell you, moreover, that your son has been very irregular of late in his attendance, and that on more than one occasion he has come here drunk." "Drunk!" repeated Twitter, almost in a shout. "Yes, sir, drunk--intoxicated." The hardware man seemed at that moment to Mr Twitter the hardest-ware man that ever confronted him. He stood for some moments aghast and speechless. "Are you aware, sir," he said at last, in impressive tones, "that my son Samuel wears the blue ribbon?" The hardware man inquired, with an expression of affected surprise, what that had to do with the question; and further, gave it as his opinion that a bit of blue ribbon was no better than a bit of red or green ribbon if it had not something better behind it. This latter remark, although by no means meant to soothe, had the effect of reducing Mr Twitter to a condition of sudden humility. "There, sir," said he, "I entirely agree with you, but I had believed-- indeed it seems to me almost impossible to believe otherwise--that my poor boy had religious principle behind his blue ribbon." This was said in such a meek tone, and with such a woe-begone look as the conviction began to dawn that Sammy was not immaculate--that the hardware man began visibly to soften, and at last a confidential talk was established, in which was revealed such a series of irregularities on the part of the erring son, that the poor father's heart was crushed for the time, and, as it were, trodden in the dust. In his extremity, he looked up to God and found relief in rolling his care upon Him. As he slowly recovered from the shock, Twitter's brain resumed its wonted activity. "You have a number of clerks, I believe?" he suddenly asked the hardware man. "Yes, I have--four of them." "Would you object to taking me through your warehouse, as if to show it to me, and allow me to look at your clerks?" "Certainly not. Come along." On entering, they found one tying up a parcel, one writing busily, one reading a book, and one balancing a ruler on his nose. The latter, on being thus caught in the act, gave a short laugh, returned the ruler to its place, and quietly went on with his work. The reader of the book started, endeavoured to conceal the volume, in which effort he was unsuccessful, and became very red in the face as he resumed his pen. The employer took no notice, and Mr Twitter looked very hard at the hardware in the distant end of the warehouse, just over the desk at which the clerks sat. He made a few undertoned remarks to the master, and then, crossing over to the desk, said:-- "Mr Dobbs, may I have the pleasure of a few minutes' conversation with you outside?" "C-certainly, sir," replied Dobbs, rising with a redder face than ever, and putting on his hat. "Will you be so good as to tell me, Mr Dobbs," said Twitter, in a quiet but very decided way when outside, "where my son Samuel Twitter spent last night?" Twitter looked steadily in the clerk's eyes as he put this question. He was making a bold stroke for success as an amateur detective, and, as is frequently the result of bold strokes, he succeeded. "Eh! your--your--son S-Samuel," stammered Dobbs, looking at Twitter's breast-pin, and then at the ground, while varying expressions of guilty shame and defiance flitted across his face. He had a heavy, somewhat sulky face, with indecision of character stamped on it. Mr Twitter saw that and took advantage of the latter quality. "My poor boy," he said, "don't attempt to deceive me. You are guilty, and you know it. Stay, don't speak yet. I have no wish to injure you. On the contrary, I pray God to bless and save you; but what I want with you at this moment is to learn where my dear boy is. If you tell me, no further notice shall be taken of this matter, I assure you." "Does--does--he know anything about this?" asked Dobbs, glancing in the direction of the warehouse of the hardware man. "No, nothing of your having led Sammy astray, if that's what you mean,-- at least, not from me, and you may depend on it he shall hear nothing, if you only confide in me. Of course he may have his suspicions." "Well, sir," said Dobbs, with a sigh of relief, "he's in my lodgings." Having ascertained the address of the lodgings, the poor father called a cab and soon stood by the side of a bed on which his son Sammy lay sprawling in the helpless attitude in which he had fallen down the night before, after a season of drunken riot. He was in a heavy sleep, with his still innocent-looking features tinged with the first blight of dissipation. "Sammy," said the father, in a husky voice, as he shook him gently by the arm; but the poor boy made no answer--even a roughish shake failed to draw from him more than the grumbled desire, "let me alone." "Oh! God spare and save him!" murmured the father, in a still husky voice, as he fell on his knees by the bedside and prayed--prayed as though his heart were breaking, while the object of his prayer lay apparently unconscious through it all. He rose, and was standing by the bedside, uncertain how to act, when a heavy tread was heard on the landing, the door was thrown open, and the landlady, announcing "a gentleman, sir," ushered in the superintendent of police, who looked at Mr Twitter with a slight expression of surprise. "You are here before me, I see, sir," he said. "Yes, but how did you come to find out that he was here?" "Well, I had not much difficulty. You see it is part of our duty to keep our eyes open," replied the superintendent, with a peculiar smile, "and I have on several occasions observed your son entering this house with a companion in a condition which did not quite harmonise with his blue ribbon, so, after your good lady explained the matter to me this morning I came straight here." "Thank you--thank you. It is _very_ kind. I--you--it could not have been better managed." Mr Twitter stopped and looked helplessly at the figure on the bed. "Perhaps," said the superintendent, with much delicacy of feeling, "you would prefer to be alone with your boy when he awakes. If I can be of any further use to you, you know where to find me. Good-day, sir." Without waiting for a reply the considerate superintendent left the room. "Oh! Sammy, Sammy, speak to me, my dear boy--speak to your old father!" he cried, turning again to the bed and kneeling beside it; but the drunken sleeper did not move. Rising hastily he went to the door and called the landlady. "I'll go home, missis," he said, "and send the poor lad's mother to him." "Very well, sir, I'll look well after 'im till she comes." Twitter was gone in a moment, and the old landlady returned to her lodger's room. There, to her surprise, she found Sammy up and hastily pulling on his boots. In truth he had been only shamming sleep, and, although still very drunk, was quite capable of looking after himself. He had indeed been asleep when his father's entrance awoke him, but a feeling of intense shame had induced him to remain quite still, and then, having commenced with this unspoken lie, he felt constrained to carry it out. But the thought of facing his mother he could not bear, for the boy had a sensitive spirit and was keenly alive to the terrible fall he had made. At the same time he was too cowardly to face the consequences. Dressing himself as well as he could, he rushed from the house in spite of the earnest entreaties of the old landlady, so that when the distracted mother came to embrace and forgive her erring child she found that he had fled. Plunging into the crowded thoroughfares of the great city, and walking swiftly along without aim or desire, eaten up with shame, and rendered desperate by remorse, the now reckless youth sought refuge in a low grog-shop, and called for a glass of beer. "Well, I say, you're com--comin' it raither strong, ain't you, young feller?" said a voice at his elbow. He looked up hastily, and saw a blear-eyed youth in a state of drivelling intoxication, staring at him with the expression of an idiot. "That's no business of yours," replied Sam Twitter, sharply. "Well, thash true, 'tain't no b-busnish o' mine. I--I'm pretty far gone m'self, I allow; but I ain't quite got the l-length o' drinkin' in a p-public 'ouse wi' th' bl-blue ribb'n on." The fallen lad glanced at his breast. There it was,--forgotten, desecrated! He tore it fiercely from his button-hole, amid the laughter of the bystanders--most of whom were women of the lowest grade--and dashed it on the floor. "Thash right.--You're a berrer feller than I took you for," said the sot at his elbow. To avoid further attention Sammy took his beer into a dark corner and was quickly forgotten. He had not been seated more than a few minutes when the door opened, and a man with a mild, gentle, yet manly face entered. "Have a glass, ol' feller?" said the sot, the instant he caught sight of him. "Thank you, no--not to-day," replied John Seaward, for it was our city missionary on what he sometimes called a fishing excursion--fishing for men! "I have come to give you a glass to-day, friends." "Well, that's friendly," said a gruff voice in a secluded box, out of which next minute staggered Ned Frog. "Come, what is't to be, old man?" "A looking-glass," replied the missionary, picking out a tract from the bundle he held in his hand and offering it to the ex-prize-fighter. "But the tract is not the glass I speak of, friend: here it is, in the Word of that God who made us all--made the throats that swallow the drink, and the brains that reel under it." Here he read from a small Bible, "`But they also have erred through wine, and through strong drink are out of the way.'" "Bah!" said Ned, flinging the tract on the floor and exclaiming as he left the place with a swing; "I don't drink wine, old man; can't afford anything better than beer, though sometimes, when I'm in luck, I have a drop of Old Tom." There was a great burst of ribald laughter at this, and numerous were the witticisms perpetrated at the expense of the missionary, but he took no notice of these for a time, occupying himself merely in turning over the leaves of his Bible. When there was a lull he said:-- "Now, dear sisters," (turning to the women who, with a more or less drunken aspect and slatternly air, were staring at him), "for sisters of mine you are, having been made by the same Heavenly Father; I won't offer you another glass,--not even a looking-glass,--for the one I have already held up to you will do, if God's Holy Spirit opens your eyes to see yourselves in it; but I'll give you a better object to look at. It is a Saviour--one who is able to save you from the drink, and from sin in every form. You know His name well, most of you; it is Jesus, and that name means Saviour, for He came to save His people from their sins." At this point he was interrupted by one of the women, who seemed bent on keeping up the spirit of banter with which they had begun. She asked him with a leer if he had got a wife. "No," he said, "but I have got a great respect and love for women, because I've got a mother, and if ever there was a woman on the face of this earth that deserves the love of a son, that woman is my mother. Sister," he added, turning to one of those who sat on a bench near him with a thin, puny, curly-haired boy wrapped up in her ragged shawl, "the best prayer that I could offer up for you--and I _do_ offer it--is, that the little chap in your arms may grow up to bless his mother as heartily as I bless mine, but that can never be, so long as you love the strong drink and refuse the Saviour." At that moment a loud cry was heard outside. They all rose and ran to the door, where a woman, in the lowest depths of depravity, with her eyes bloodshot, her hair tumbling about her half-naked shoulders, and her ragged garments draggled and wet, had fallen in her efforts to enter the public-house to obtain more of the poison which had already almost destroyed her. She had cut her forehead, and the blood flowed freely over her face as the missionary lifted her. He was a powerful man, and could take her up tenderly and with ease. She was not much hurt, however. After Seaward had bandaged the cut with his own handkerchief she professed to be much better. This little incident completed the good influence which the missionary's words and manner had previously commenced. Most of the women began to weep as they listened to the words of love, encouragement, and hope addressed to them. A few of course remained obdurate, though not unimpressed. All this time young Sam Twitter remained in his dark corner, with his head resting on his arms to prevent his being recognised. Well did he know John Seaward, and well did Seaward know him, for the missionary had long been a fellow-worker with Mrs Twitter in George Yard and at the Home of Industry. The boy was very anxious to escape Seaward's observation. This was not a difficult matter. When the missionary left, after distributing his tracts, Sammy rose up and sought to hide himself--from himself, had that been possible--in the lowest slums of London. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. TELLS OF SOME CURIOUS AND VIGOROUS PECULIARITIES OF THE LOWER ORDERS. Now it must not be supposed that Mrs Frog, having provided for her baby and got rid of it, remained thereafter quite indifferent to it. On the contrary, she felt the blank more than she had expected, and her motherly heart began to yearn for it powerfully. To gratify this yearning to some extent, she got into the habit of paying frequent visits, sometimes by night and sometimes by day, to the street in which Samuel Twitter lived, and tried to see her baby through the stone walls of the house! Her eyes being weak, as well as her imagination, she failed in this effort, but the mere sight of the house where little Matty was, sufficed to calm her maternal yearnings in some slight degree. By the way, that name reminds us of our having omitted to mention that baby Frog's real name was Matilda, and her pet name Matty, so that the name of Mita, fixed on by the Twitters, was not so wide of the mark as it might have been. One night Mrs Frog, feeling the yearning strong upon her, put on her bonnet and shawl--that is to say, the bundle of dirty silk, pasteboard, and flowers which represented the one, and the soiled tartan rag that did duty for the other. "Where are ye off to, old woman?" asked Ned, who, having been recently successful in some little "job," was in high good humour. "I'm goin' round to see Mrs Tibbs, Ned. D'you want me?" "No, on'y I'm goin' that way too, so we'll walk together." Mrs Frog, we regret to say, was not particular as to the matter of truth. She had no intention of going near Mrs Tibbs, but, having committed herself, made a virtue of necessity, and resolved to pay that lady a visit. The conversation by the way was not sufficiently interesting to be worthy of record. Arrived at Twitter's street an idea struck Mrs Frog. "Ned," said she, "I'm tired." "Well, old girl, you'd better cut home." "I think I will, Ned, but first I'll sit down on this step to rest a bit." "All right, old girl," said Ned, who would have said the same words if she had proposed to stand on her head on the step--so easy was he in his mind as to how his wife spent her time; "if you sit for half-an-hour or so I'll be back to see you 'ome again. I'm on'y goin' to Bundle's shop for a bit o' baccy. Ain't I purlite now? Don't it mind you of the courtin' days?" "Ah! Ned," exclaimed the wife, while a sudden gush of memory brought back the days when he was handsome and kind,--but Ned was gone, and the slightly thawed spring froze up again. She sat down on the cold step of a door which happened to be somewhat in the shade, and gazed at the opposite windows. There was a light in one of them. She knew it well. She had often watched the shadows that crossed the blind after the gas was lighted, and once she had seen some one carrying something which looked like a baby! It might have been a bundle of soiled linen, or undarned socks, but it might have been Matty, and the thought sent a thrill to the forlorn creature's heart. On the present occasion she was highly favoured, for, soon after Ned had left, the shadows came again on the blind, and came so near it as to be distinctly visible. Yes, there could be no doubt now, it _was_ a baby, and as there was only one baby in that house it followed that the baby was _her_ baby--little Matty! Here was something to carry home with her, and think over and dream about. But there was more in store for her. The baby, to judge from the shadowy action of its fat limbs on the blind, became what she called obstropolous. More than that, it yelled, and its mother heard the yell--faintly, it is true, but sufficiently to send a thrill of joy to her longing heart. Then a sudden fear came over her. What if it was ill, and they were trying to soothe it to rest! How much better _she_ could do that if she only had the baby! "Oh! fool that I was to part with her!" she murmured, "but no. It was best. She would surely have bin dead by this time." The sound of the little voice, however, had roused such a tempest of longing in Mrs Frog's heart, that, under an irresistible impulse, she ran across the road and rang the bell. The door was promptly opened by Mrs Twitter's domestic. "Is--is the baby well?" stammered Mrs Frog, scarce knowing what she said. "_You've_ nothink to do wi' the baby that I knows on," returned Mrs Twitter's domestic, who was not quite so polite as her mistress. "No, honey," said Mrs Frog in a wheedling tone, rendered almost desperate by the sudden necessity for instant invention, "but the doctor said I was to ask if baby had got over it, or if 'e was to send round the--the--I forget its name--at once." "What doctor sent you?" asked Mrs Twitter, who had come out of the parlour on hearing the voices through the doorway, and with her came a clear and distinct yell which Mrs Frog treasured up in her thinly clad but warm bosom, as though it had been a strain from Paradise. "There must surely be some mistake, my good woman, for my baby is quite well." "Oh! thank you, thank you--yes, there must have been some mistake," said Mrs Frog, scarce able to restrain a laugh of joy at the success of her scheme, as she retired precipitately from the door and hurried away. She did not go far, however, but, on hearing the door shut, turned back and took up her position again on the door-step. Poor Mrs Frog had been hardened and saddened by sorrow, and suffering, and poverty, and bad treatment; nevertheless she was probably one of the happiest women in London just then. "_My_ baby," she said, quoting part of Mrs Twitter's remarks with a sarcastic laugh, "no, madam, she's not _your_ baby _yet_!" As she sat reflecting on this agreeable fact, a heavy step was heard approaching. It was too slow for that of Ned. She knew it well--a policeman! There are hard-hearted policemen in the force--not many, indeed, but nothing is perfect in this world, and there are a _few_ hard-hearted policemen. He who approached was one of these. "Move on," he said in a stern voice. "Please, sir, I'm tired. On'y restin' a bit while I wait for my 'usband," pleaded Mrs Frog. "Come, move on," repeated the unyielding constable in a tone that there was no disputing. Indeed it was so strong that it reached the ears of Ned Frog himself, who chanced to come round the corner at the moment and saw the policeman, as he imagined, maltreating his wife. Ned was a man who, while he claimed and exercised the right to treat his own wife as he pleased, was exceedingly jealous of the interference of others with his privileges. He advanced, therefore, at once, and planted his practised knuckles on the policeman's forehead with such power that the unfortunate limb of the law rolled over in one direction and his helmet in another. As every one knows, the police sometimes suffer severely at the hands of roughs, and on this occasion that truth was verified, but the policeman who had been knocked down by this prize-fighter was by no means a feeble member of the force. Recovering from his astonishment in a moment, he sprang up and grappled with Ned Frog in such a manner as to convince that worthy he had "his work cut out for him." The tussle that ensued was tremendous, and Mrs Frog retired into a doorway to enjoy it in safety. But it was brief. Before either wrestler could claim the victory, a brother constable came up, and Ned was secured and borne away to a not unfamiliar cell before he could enjoy even one pipe of the "baccy" which he had purchased. Thus it came to pass, that when a certain comrade expected to find Ned Frog at a certain mansion in the West-end, prepared with a set of peculiar tools for a certain purpose, Ned was in the enjoyment of board and lodging at Her Majesty's expense. The comrade, however, not being aware of Ned's incarceration, and believing, no doubt, that there was honour among thieves, was true to his day and hour. He had been engaged down somewhere in the country on business, and came up by express train for this particular job; hence his ignorance as to his partner's fate. But this burglar was not a man to be easily balked in his purpose. "Ned must be ill, or got a haccident o' some sort," he said to a very little but sharp boy who was to assist in the job. "Howsever, you an' me'll go at it alone, Sniveller." "Wery good, Bunky," replied Sniveller, "'ow is it to be? By the winder, through the door, down the chimbly, up the spout--or wot?" "The larder windy, my boy." "Sorry for that," said Sniveller. "Why?" "'Cause it _is_ so 'ard to go past the nice things an' smell 'em all without darin' to touch 'em till I lets you in. Couldn't you let me 'ave a feed first?" "Unpossible," said the burglar. "Wery good," returned the boy, with a sigh of resignation. Now, while these two were whispering to each other in a box of an adjoining tavern, three police-constables were making themselves at home in the premises of Sir Richard Brandon. One of these was Number 666. It is not quite certain, even to this day, how and where these men were stationed, for their proceedings--though not deeds of evil--were done in the dark, at least in darkness which was rendered visible only now and then by bull's-eye lanterns. The only thing that was absolutely clear to the butler, Mr Thomas Balls, was, that the mansion was given over entirely to the triumvirate to be dealt with as they thought fit. Of course they did not know when the burglars would come, nor the particular point of the mansion where the assault would be delivered; therefore Number 666 laid his plans like a wise general, posted his troops where there was most likelihood of their being required, and kept himself in reserve for contingencies. About that "wee short hour" of which the poet Burns writes, a small boy was lifted by a large man to the sill of the small window which lighted Sir Richard Brandon's pantry. To the surprise of the small boy, he found the window unfastened. "They've bin an' forgot it!" he whispered. "Git in," was the curt reply. Sniveller got in, dropped to his extreme length from the sill, let go his hold, and came down lightly on the floor--not so lightly, however, but that a wooden stool placed there was overturned, and, falling against a blue plate, broke it with a crash. Sniveller became as one petrified, and remained so for a considerable time, till he imagined all danger from sleepers having been awakened was over. He also thought of thieving cats, and thanked them mentally. He likewise became aware of the near presence of pastry. The smell was delicious, but a sense of duty restrained him. Number 666 smiled to himself to think how well his trap had acted, but the smile was lost in darkness. Meanwhile, the chief operator, Bunky, went round to the back door. Sniveller, who had been taught the geography of the mansion from a well-executed plan, proceeded to the same door inside. Giles could have patted his little head as he carefully drew back the bolts and turned the key. Another moment, and Bunky, on his stocking soles, stood within the mansion. Yet another moment, and Bunky was enjoying an embrace that squeezed most of the wind out of his body, strong though he was, for Number 666 was apt to forget his excessive power when duty constrained him to act with promptitude. "Now, then, show a light," said Giles, quietly. Two bull's-eyes flashed out their rich beams at the word, and lit up a tableau of three, in attitudes faintly resembling those of the Laocoon, without the serpents. "Fetch the bracelets," said Giles. At these words the bull's-eyes converged, and Sniveller, bolting through the open door, vanished--he was never heard of more! Then followed two sharp _clicks_, succeeded by a sigh of relief as Number 666 relaxed his arms. "You needn't rouse the household unless you feel inclined, my man," said Giles to Bunky in a low voice. Bunky did _not_ feel inclined. He thought it better, on the whole, to let the sleeping dogs lie, and wisely submitted to inevitable fate. He was marched off to jail, while one of the constables remained behind to see the house made safe, and acquaint Sir Richard of his deliverance from the threatened danger. Referring to this matter on the following day in the servants' hall, Thomas Balls filled a foaming tankard of ginger-beer--for, strange to say, he was an abstainer, though a butler--and proposed, in a highly eulogistic speech, the health and prosperity of that admirable body of men, the Metropolitan Police, with which toast he begged to couple the name of Number 666! CHAPTER FOURTEEN. NUMBER 666 OFF DUTY. Some time after the attempt made upon Sir Richard Brandon's house, Giles Scott was seated at his own fireside, helmet and truncheon laid aside, uniform taken off, and a free and easy suit of plain clothes put on. His pretty wife sat beside him darning a pair of very large socks. The juvenile policeman, and the incorrigible criminal were sound asleep in their respective cribs, the one under the print of the Queen, the other under that of Sir Robert Peel. Giles was studying a small book of instructions as to the duties of police-constables, and pretty Molly was commenting on the same, for she possessed that charming quality of mind and heart which induces the possessor to take a sympathetic and lively interest in whatever may happen to be going on. "They expect pretty hard work of you, Giles," remarked Molly with a sigh, as she thought of the prolonged hours of absence from home, and the frequent night duty. "Why, Moll, you wouldn't have me wish for easy work at my time of life, would you?" replied the policeman, looking up from his little book with an amused smile. "Somebody must always be taking a heavy lift of the hard work of this world, and if a big hulking fellow like me in the prime o' life don't do it, who will?" "True, Giles, but surely you won't deny me the small privilege of wishing that you had a _little_ less to do, and a _little_ more time with your family. You men,--especially you Scotchmen--are such an argumentative set, that a poor woman can't open her lips to say a word, but you pounce upon it and make an argument of it." "Now Molly, there you go again, assuming my duties! Why do you take me so sharp? Isn't taking-up the special privilege of the police?" "Am I not entitled," said Molly, ignoring her husband's question, "to express regret that your work should include coming home now and then with scratched cheeks, and swelled noses, and black eyes?" "Come now," returned Giles, "you must admit that I have fewer of these discomforts than most men of the force, owing, no doubt, to little men being unable to reach so high--and, d'you know, it's the little men who do most damage in life; they're such a pugnacious and perverse generation! As to swelled noses, these are the fortune of war, at least of civil war like ours--and black eyes, why, my eyes are black by nature. If they were of a heavenly blue like yours, Molly, you might have some ground for complaint when they are blackened." "And then there is such dreadful tear and wear of clothes," continued Molly; "just look at that, now!" She held up to view a sock with a hole in its heel large enough to let an orange through. "Why, Molly, do you expect that I can walk the streets of London from early morning till late at night, protect life and property, and preserve public tranquillity, as this little book puts it, besides engaging in numerous scuffles and street rows without making a hole or two in my socks?" "Ah! Giles, if you had only brain enough to take in a simple idea! it's not the making of holes that I complain of. It is the making of such awfully big ones before changing your socks! There now, don't let us get on domestic matters. You have no head for these, but tell me something about your little book. I am specially interested in it, you see, because the small policeman in the crib over there puts endless questions about his duties which I am quite unable to answer, and, you know, it is a good thing for a child to grow up with the idea that father and mother know everything." "Just so, Molly. I hope you'll tell your little recruit that the first and foremost duty of a good policeman is to obey orders. Let me see, then, if I can enlighten you a bit." "But tell me first, Giles--for I really want to know--how many are there of you altogether, and when was the force established on its present footing, and who began it, and, in short, all about it. It's _so_ nice to have you for once in a way for a quiet chat like this." "You have laid down enough of heads, Molly, to serve for the foundation of a small volume. However, I'll give it you hot, since you wish it, and I'll begin at the end instead of the beginning. What would you say, now, to an army of eleven thousand men?" "I would say it was a very large one, though I don't pretend to much knowledge about the size of armies," said Molly, commencing to mend another hole about the size of a turnip. "Well, that, in round numbers, is the strength of the Metropolitan Police force at the present time--and not a man too much, let me tell you, for what with occasional illnesses and accidents, men employed on special duty, and men off duty--as I am just now--the actual available strength of the force at any moment is considerably below that number. Yes, it is a goodly army of picked and stalwart men, (no self-praise intended), but, then, consider what we have to do." "We have to guard and keep in order the population of the biggest city in the world; a population greater than that of the whole of Scotland." "Oh! of course, you are sure to go to Scotland for your illustrations, as if there was no such place as England in the world," quietly remarked Molly, with a curl of her pretty lip. "Ah! Molly, dear, you are unjust. It is true I go to Scotland for an illustration, but didn't I come to England for a wife? Now, don't go frowning at that hole as if it couldn't be bridged over." "It is the worst hole you ever made," said the despairing wife, holding it up to view. "You make a worsted hole of it then, Moll, and it'll be all right. Besides, you don't speak truth, for I once made a worse hole in your heart." "You never did, sir. Go on with your stupid illustrations," said Molly. "Well, then, let me see--where was I?" "In Scotland, of course!" "Ah, yes. The population of all Scotland is under four millions, and that of London--that is, of the area embraced in the Metropolitan Police District, is estimated at above four million seven hundred thousand--in round numbers. Of course I give it you all in round numbers." "I don't mind how round the numbers are, Giles, so long as they're all square," remarked the little wife with much simplicity. "Well, just think of that number for our army to watch over; and that population--not all of it, you know, but part of it--succeeds--in spite of us in committing, during one year, no fewer than 25,000 `Principal' offences such as murders, burglaries, robberies, thefts, and such-like. What they would accomplish if we were not ever on the watch I leave you to guess. "Last year, for instance, 470 burglaries, as we style house-breaking by night, were committed in London. The wonder is that there are not more, when you consider the fact that the number of doors and windows found open by us at night during the twelve months was nearly 26,000. The total loss of property by theft during the year is estimated at about 100,000 pounds. Besides endeavouring to check crime of such magnitude, we had to search after above 15,000 persons who were reported lost and missing during the year, about 12,000 of whom were children." "Oh! the _poor_ darlings," said Molly, twisting her sympathetic eyebrows. "Ay, and we found 7523 of these darlings," continued the practical Giles, "and 720 of the adults. Of the rest some returned home or were found by their friends, but 154 adults and 23 children have been lost altogether. Then, we found within the twelve months 54 dead bodies which we had to take care of and have photographed for identification. During the same period, (and remember that the record of every twelve months is much the same), we seized over 17,000 stray dogs and returned them to their owners or sent them to the Dogs' Home. We arrested over 18,000 persons for being drunk and disorderly. We inspected all the public vehicles and horses in London. We attended to 3527 accidents which occurred in the streets, 127 of which were fatal. We looked after more than 17,000 articles varying in value from 0 pence to 1500 pounds which were lost by a heedless public during the year, about 10,000 of which articles were restored to the owners. We had to regulate the street traffic; inspect common lodging-houses; attend the police and other courts to give evidence, and many other things which it would take me much too long to enumerate, and puzzle your pretty little head to take in." "No, it wouldn't," said Molly, looking up with a bright expression; "I have a wonderful head for figures--especially for handsome manly figures! Go on, Giles." "Then, look at what is expected of us," continued Number 666, not noticing the last remark. "We are told to exercise the greatest civility and affability towards every one--high and low, rich and poor. We are expected to show the utmost forbearance under all circumstances; to take as much abuse and as many blows as we can stand, without inflicting any in return; to be capable of answering almost every question that an ignorant--not to say arrogant--public may choose to put to us; to be ready, single-handed and armed only with our truncheons and the majesty of the law, to encounter burglars furnished with knives and revolvers; to plunge into the midst of drunken maddened crowds and make arrests in the teeth of tremendous odds; to keep an eye upon strangers whose presence may seem to be less desirable than their absence; to stand any amount of unjust and ungenerous criticism without a word of reply; to submit quietly to the abhorrence and chaff of boys, labourers, cabmen, omnibus drivers, tramps, and fast young men; to have a fair knowledge of the `three Rs' and a smattering of law, so as to conduct ourselves with propriety at fires, fairs, fights, and races, besides acting wisely as to mad dogs, German bands, (which are apt to produce mad _men_), organ-grinders, furious drivers, and all other nuisances. In addition to all which we must be men of good character, good standing--as to inches--good proportions, physically, and good sense. In short, we are expected to be--and blamed if we are not--as near to a state of perfection as it is possible for mortal man to attain on this side the grave, and all for the modest sum which you are but too well aware is the extent of our income." "Is one of the things expected of you," asked Molly, "to have an exceedingly high estimate of yourselves?" "Nay, Molly, don't you join the ranks of those who are against us. It will be more than criminal if you do. You are aware that I am giving the opinion expressed by men of position who ought to know everything about the force. That we fulfil the conditions required of us not so badly is proved by the fact that last year, out of the whole 12,000 there were 215 officers and 1225 men who obtained rewards for zeal and activity, while only one man was discharged, and four men were fined or imprisoned. I speak not of number one--or, I should say Number 666. For myself I am ready to admit that I am the most insignificant of the force." "O Giles! what a barefaced display of mock modesty!" "Nay, Molly, I can prove it. Everything in this world goes by contrast, doesn't it? then, is there a man in the whole force except myself, I ask, whose wife is so bright and beautiful and good and sweet that she reduces him to mere insignificance by contrast?" "There's something in that, Giles," replied Molly with gravity, "but go on with your lecture." "I've nothing more to say about the force," returned Giles; "if I have not said enough to convince you of our importance, and of the debt of gratitude that you and the public of London owe to us, you are past conviction, and--" "You are wrong, Giles, as usual; I am never past conviction; you have only to take me before the police court in the morning, and any magistrate will at once convict me of stupidity for having married a Scotchman and a policeman!" "I think it must be time to go on my beat, for you beat me hollow," said Number 666, consulting his watch. "No, no, Giles, please sit still. It is not every day that I have such a chance of a chat with you." "Such a chance of pitching into me, you mean," returned Giles. "However, before I go I would like to tell you just one or two facts regarding this great London itself, which needs so much guarding and such an army of guardians. You know that the Metropolitan District comprises all the parishes any portion of which are within 15 miles of Charing Cross--this area being 688 square miles. The rateable value of it is over twenty-six million eight hundred thousand pounds sterling. See, as you say you've a good head for _figures_, there's the sum on a bit of paper for you--26,800,000 pounds. During last year 26,170 new houses were built, forming 556 new streets and four new squares--the whole covering a length of 86 miles. The total number of new houses built during the last _ten_ years within this area has been 162,525, extending over 500 miles of streets and squares!" "Stay, I can't stand it!" cried Molly, dropping her sock and putting her fingers in her ears. "Why not, old girl?" "Because it is too much for me; why, even _your_ figure is a mere nothing to such sums!" "Then," returned Giles, "you've only got to stick me on to the end of them to make my information ten times more valuable." "But are you quite sure that what you tell me is true, Giles?" "Quite sure, my girl--at least as sure as I am of the veracity of Colonel Henderson, who wrote the last Police Report." At this point the chat was interrupted by the juvenile policeman in the crib under Sir Robert Peel. Whether it was the astounding information uttered in his sleepy presence, or the arduous nature of the duty required of him in dreams, we cannot tell, but certain it is that when Number 666 uttered the word "Report" there came a crash like the report of a great gun, and Number 2 of the A Division, having fallen overboard, was seen on the floor pommelling some imaginary criminal who stoutly refused to be captured. Giles ran forward to the assistance of Number 2, as was his duty, and took him up in his arms. But Number 2 had awakened to the fact that he had hurt himself, and, notwithstanding the blandishments of his father, who swayed him about and put him on his broad shoulders, and raised his curly head to the ceiling, he refused for a long time to be comforted. At last he was subdued, and returned to the crib and the land of dreams. "Now, Molly, I must really go," said Giles, putting on his uniform. "I hope Number 2 won't disturb you again. Good-bye, lass, for a few hours," he added, buckling his belt. "Here, look, do you see that little spot on the ceiling?" "Yes,--well?" said Molly, looking up. Giles took unfair advantage of her, stooped, and kissed the pretty little face, received a resounding slap on the back, and went out, to attend to his professional duties, with the profound gravity of an incapable magistrate. There was a bright intelligent little street-Arab on the opposite side of the way, who observed Giles with mingled feelings of admiration, envy, and hatred, as he strode sedately along the street like an imperturbable pillar. He knew Number 666 personally; had seen him under many and varied circumstance, and had imagined him under many others-- not unfrequently as hanging by the neck from a lamp-post--but never, even in the most daring flights of his juvenile fancy, had he seen him as he has been seen by the reader in the bosom of his poor but happy home. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. MRS. FROG SINKS DEEPER AND DEEPER. "Nobody cares," said poor Mrs Frog, one raw afternoon in November, as she entered her miserable dwelling, where the main pieces of furniture were a rickety table, a broken chair, and a heap of straw, while the minor pieces were so insignificant as to be unworthy of mention. There was no fire in the grate, no bread in the cupboard, little fresh air in the room and less light, though there was a broken unlighted candle stuck in the mouth of a quart bottle which gave promise of light in the future--light enough at least to penetrate the November fog which had filled the room as if it had been endued with a pitying desire to throw a veil over such degradation and misery. We say degradation, for Mrs Frog had of late taken to "the bottle" as a last solace in her extreme misery, and the expression of her face, as she cowered on a low stool beside the empty grate and drew the shred of tartan shawl round her shivering form, showed all too clearly that she was at that time under its influence. She had been down to the river again, more than once, and had gazed into its dark waters until she had very nearly made up her mind to take the desperate leap, but God in mercy had hitherto interposed. At one time a policeman had passed with his weary "move on"--though sometimes he had not the heart to enforce his order. More frequently a little baby-face had looked up from the river with a smile, and sent her away to the well-known street where she would sit in the familiar door-step watching the shadows on the window-blind until cold and sorrow drove her to the gin-palace to seek for the miserable comfort to be found there. Whatever that comfort might amount to, it did not last long, for, on the night of which we write, she had been to the palace, had got all the comfort that was to be had out of it, and returned to her desolate home more wretched than ever, to sit down, as we have seen, and murmur, almost fiercely, "Nobody cares." For a time she sat silent and motionless, while the deepening shadows gathered round her, as if they had united with all the rest to intensify the poor creature's woe. Presently she began to mutter to herself aloud-- "What's the use o' your religion when it comes to this? What sort of religion is in the hearts of these," (she pursed her lips, and paused for an expressive word, but found none), "these rich folk in their silks and satins and broadcloth, with more than they can use, an' feedin' their pampered cats and dogs on what would be wealth to the likes o' me! Religion! bah!" She stopped, for a Voice within her said as plainly as if it had spoken out: "Who gave you the sixpence the other day, and looked after you with a tender, pitying glance as you hurried away to the gin-shop without so much as stopping to say `Thank you'? She wore silks, didn't she?" "Ah, but there's not many like that," replied the poor woman, mentally, for the powers of good and evil were fighting fiercely within her just then. "How do you know there are not many like that?" demanded the Voice. "Well, but _all_ the rich are not like that," said Mrs Frog. The Voice made no reply to that! Again she sat silent for some time, save that a low moan escaped her occasionally, for she was very cold and very hungry, having spent the last few pence, which might have given her a meal, in drink; and the re-action of the poison helped to depress her. The evil spirit seemed to gain the mastery at this point, to judge from her muttered words. "Nothing to eat, nothing to drink, no work to be got, Hetty laid up in hospital, Ned in prison, Bobby gone to the bad again instead of goin' to Canada, and--nobody cares--" "What about baby?" asked the Voice. This time it was Mrs Frog's turn to make no reply! in a few minutes she seemed to become desperate, for, rising hastily, she went out, shut the door with a bang, locked it, and set out on the familiar journey to the gin-shop. She had not far to go. It was at the corner. If it had not been at that corner, there was one to be found at the next--and the next--and the next again, and so on all round; so that, rushing past, as people sometimes do when endeavouring to avoid a danger, would have been of little or no avail in this case. But there was a very potent influence of a negative kind in her favour. She had no money! Recollecting this when she had nearly reached the door, she turned aside, and ran swiftly to the old door-step, where she sat down and hid her face in her hands. A heavy footstep sounded at her side the next moment. She looked quickly up. It was a policeman. He did not apply the expected words--"move on." He was a man under whose blue uniform beat a tender and sympathetic heart. In fact, he was Number 666--changed from some cause that we cannot explain, and do not understand--from the Metropolitan to the City Police Force. His number also had been changed, but we refuse to be trammelled by police regulations. Number 666 he was and shall remain in this tale to the end of the chapter! Instead of ordering the poor woman to go away, Giles was searching his pockets for a penny, when to his intense surprise he received a blow on the chest, and then a slap on the face! Poor Mrs Frog, misjudging his intentions, and roused to a fit of temporary insanity by her wrongs and sorrows, sprang at her supposed foe like a wildcat. She was naturally a strong woman, and violent passion lent her unusual strength. Oh! it was pitiful to witness the struggle that ensued!--to see a woman, forgetful of sex and everything else, striving with all her might to bite, scratch, and kick, while her hair tumbled down, and her bonnet and shawl falling off made more apparent the insufficiency of the rags with which she was covered. Strong as he was, Giles received several ugly scratches and bites before he could effectually restrain her. Fortunately, there were no passers-by in the quiet street, and, therefore, no crowd assembled. "My poor woman," said Giles, when he had her fast, "do keep quiet. I'm going to do you no harm. God help you, I was goin' to give you a copper when you flew at me so. Come, you'd better go with me to the station, for you're not fit to take care of yourself." Whether it was the tender tone of Giles's voice, or the words that he uttered, or the strength of his grasp that subdued Mrs Frog, we cannot tell, but she gave in suddenly, hung down her head, and allowed her captor to do as he pleased. Seeing this, he carefully replaced her bonnet on her head, drew the old shawl quite tenderly over her shoulders, and led her gently away. Before they had got the length of the main thoroughfare, however, a female of a quiet, respectable appearance met them. "Mrs Frog!" she exclaimed, in amazement, stopping suddenly before them. "If you know her, ma'am, perhaps you may direct me to her home." "I know her well," said the female, who was none other than the Bible-nurse who visited the sick of that district; "if you have not arrested her for--for--" "Oh no, madam," interrupted Giles, "I have not arrested her at all, but she seems to be unwell, and I was merely assisting her." "Oh! then give her over to me, please. I know where she lives, and will take care of her." Giles politely handed his charge over, and went on his way, sincerely hoping that the next to demand his care would be a man. The Bible-woman drew the arm of poor Mrs Frog through her own, and in a few minutes stood beside her in the desolate home. "Nobody cares," muttered the wretched woman as she sank in apathy on her stool and leaned her head against the wall. "You are wrong, dear Mrs Frog. _I_ care, for one, else I should not be here. Many other Christian people would care, too, if they knew of your sufferings; but, above all, God cares. Have you carried your troubles to Him?" "Why should I? He has long ago forsaken me." "Is it not, dear friend, that you have forsaken Him? Jesus says, as plain as words can put it, `Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' You tell me it is of no use to go to Him, and you don't go, and then you complain that He has forsaken you! Where is my friend Hetty?" "In hospital." "Indeed! I have been here several times lately to inquire, but have always found your door locked. Your husband--" "He's in prison, and Bobby's gone to the bad," said Mrs Frog, still in a tone of sulky defiance. "I see no sign of food," said the Bible-nurse, glancing quickly round; "are you hungry?" "Hungry!" exclaimed the woman fiercely, "I've tasted nothin' at all since yesterday." "Poor thing!" said the Bible-nurse in a low tone; "come--come with me. I don't say more. You cannot speak while you are famishing. Stay, first one word--" She paused and looked up. She did not kneel; she did not clasp her hands or shut her eyes, but, with one hand on the door-latch, and the other grasping the poor woman's wrist, she prayed-- "God bless and comfort poor Mrs Frog, for Jesus' sake." Then she hurried, without uttering a word, to the Institution in George Yard. The door happened to be open, and the figure of a man with white hair and a kind face was seen within. Entering, the Bible-nurse whispered to this man. Another moment and Mrs Frog was seated at a long deal table with a comfortable fire at her back, a basin of warm soup, and a lump of loaf bread before her. The Bible-nurse sat by and looked on. "Somebody cares a little, don't _you_ think?" she whispered, when the starving woman made a brief pause for breath. "Yes, thank God," answered Mrs Frog, returning to the meal as though she feared that some one might still snatch it from her thin lips before she got it all down. When it was finished the Bible-nurse led Mrs Frog into another room. "You feel better--stronger?" she asked. "Yes, much better--thank you, and quite able to go home." "There is no occasion for you to go home to-night; you may sleep there," (pointing to a corner), "but I would like to pray with you now, and read a verse or two." Mrs Frog submitted, while her friend read to her words of comfort; pleaded that pardon and deliverance might be extended, and gave her loving words of counsel. Then the poor creature lay down in her corner, drew a warm blanket over her, and slept with a degree of comfort that she had not enjoyed for many a day. When it was said by Mrs Frog that her son Bobby had gone to the bad, it must not be supposed that any very serious change had come over him. As that little waif had once said of himself, when in a penitent mood, he was about as bad as he could be, so couldn't grow much badder. But when his sister lost her situation in the firm that paid her such splendid wages, and fell ill, and went into hospital in consequence, he lost heart, and had a relapse of wickedness. He grew savage with regard to life in general, and committed a petty theft, which, although not discovered, necessitated his absence from home for a time. It was while he was away that the scene which we have just described took place. On the very next day he returned, and it so happened that on the same day Hetty was discharged from hospital "cured." That is to say, she left the place a thin, tottering, pallid shadow, but with no particular form of organic disease about her. She and her mother had received some food from one who cared for them, through the Bible-nurse. "Mother, you've been drinkin' again," said Hetty, looking earnestly at her parent's eyes. "Well, dear," pleaded Mrs Frog, "what could I do? You had all forsaken me, and I had nothin' else to comfort me." "Oh! mother, darling mother," cried Hetty, "do promise me that you will give it up. I won't get ill or leave you again--God helping me; but it will kill me if you go on. _Do_ promise." "It's of no use, Hetty. Of course I can easily promise, but I can't keep my promise. I _know_ I can't." Hetty knew this to be too true. Without the grace of God in the heart, she was well aware that human efforts _must_ fail, sooner or later. She was thinking what to reply, and praying in her heart for guidance, when the door opened and her brother Bobby swaggered in with an air that did not quite accord with his filthy fluttering rags, unwashed face and hands, bare feet and unkempt hair. "Vell, mother, 'ow are ye? Hallo! Hetty! w'y, wot a shadder you've become! Oh! I say, them nusses at the hospital must 'ave stole all your flesh an' blood from you, for they've left nothin' but the bones and skin." He went up to his sister, put an arm round her neck, and kissed her. This was a very unusual display of affection. It was the first time Bobby had volunteered an embrace, though he had often submitted to one with dignified complacency, and Hetty, being weak, burst into tears. "Hallo! I say, stop that now, young gal," he said, with a look of alarm, "I'm always took bad ven I see that sort o' thing, I can't stand it." By way of mending matters the poor girl, endeavouring to be agreeable, gave a hysterical laugh. "Come, that's better, though it ain't much to boast of,"--and he kissed her again. Finding that, although for the present they were supplied with a small amount of food, Hetty had no employment and his mother no money, our city Arab said that he would undertake to sustain the family. "But oh! Bobby, dear, don't steal again." "No, Hetty, I won't, I'll vork. I didn't go for to do it a-purpose, but I was overtook some'ow--I seed the umbrellar standin' handy, you know, and--etceterer. But I'm sorry I did it, an' I won't do it again." Swelling with great intentions, Robert Frog thrust his dirty little hands into his trouser pockets--at least into the holes that once contained them--and went out whistling. Soon he came to a large warehouse, where a portly gentleman stood at the door. Planting himself in front of this man, and ceasing to whistle in order that he might speak, he said:-- "Was you in want of a 'and, sir?" "No, I wasn't," replied the man, with a glance of contempt. "Sorry for that," returned Bobby, "'cause I'm in want of a sitivation." "What can you do?" asked the man. "Oh! hanythink." "Ah, I thought so; I don't want hands who can do anything, I prefer those who can do something." Bobby Frog resumed his whistling, at the exact bar where he had left off, and went on his way. He was used to rebuffs, and didn't mind them. But when he had spent all the forenoon in receiving rebuffs, had made no progress whatever in his efforts, and began to feel hungry, he ceased the whistling and became grave. "This looks serious," he said, pausing in front of a pastry-cook's shop window. "But for that there plate glass _wot_ a blow hout I might 'ave! Beggin' might be tried with advantage. It's agin the law, no doubt, but it ain't a _sin_. Yes, I'll try beggin'." But our Arab was not a natural beggar, if we may say so. He scorned to whine, and did not even like to ask. His spirit was much more like that of a highwayman than a beggar. Proceeding to a quiet neighbourhood which seemed to have been forgotten by the police, he turned down a narrow lane and looked out for a subject, as a privateer might search among "narrows" for a prize. He did not search long. An old lady soon hove in sight. She seemed a suitable old lady, well-dressed, little, gentle, white-haired, a tottering gait, and a benign aspect. Bobby went straight up and planted himself in front of her. "Please, ma'am, will you oblige me with a copper?" The poor old lady grew pale. Without a word she tremblingly, yet quickly, pulled out her purse, took therefrom a shilling, and offered it to the boy. "Oh! marm," said Bobby, who was alarmed and conscience-smitten at the result of his scheme, "I didn't mean for to frighten you. Indeed I didn't, an' I won't 'ave your money at no price." Saying which he turned abruptly round and walked away. "Boy, boy, _boy_!" called the old lady in a voice so entreating, though tremulous, that Bobby felt constrained to return. "You're a most remarkable boy," she said, putting the shilling back into her purse. "I'm sorry to say, marm, that you're not the on'y indiwidooal as 'olds that opinion." "What do you mean by your conduct, boy?" "I mean, marm, that I'm wery 'ard up. _Uncommon_ 'ard up; that I've tried to git vork an' can't git it, so that I'm redooced to beggary. But, I ain't a 'ighway robber, marm, by no means, an' don't want to frighten you hout o' your money if you ain't willin' to give it." The little tremulous old lady was so pleased with this reply that she took half-a-crown out of her purse and put it into the boy's hand. He looked at her in silent surprise. "It ain't a _copper_, marm!" "I know that. It is half-a-crown, and I willingly give it you because you are an honest boy." "But, marm," said Bobby, still holding out the piece of silver on his palm, "I _ain't_ a honest boy. I'm a thief!" "Tut, tut, don't talk nonsense; I don't believe you." "Vel now, this beats all that I ever did come across. 'Ere's a old 'ooman as I tells as plain as mud that I'm a thief, an' nobody's better able to give a opinion on that pint than myself, yet she _won't_ believe it!" "No, I won't," said the old lady with a little nod and a smile, "so, put the money in your pocket, for you're an honest boy." "Vell, it's pleasant to 'ear that, any'ow," returned Bobby, placing the silver coin in a vest pocket which was always kept in repair for coins of smaller value. "Where do you live, boy? I should like to come and see you." "My residence, marm, ain't a mansion in the vest-end. No, nor yet a willa in the subarbs. I'm afear'd, marm, that I live in a district that ain't quite suitable for the likes of you to wisit. But--" Here Bobby paused, for at the moment his little friend Tim Lumpy recurred to his memory, and a bright thought struck him. "Well, boy, why do you pause?" "I was on'y thinkin', marm, that if you wants to befriend us poor boys-- they calls us waifs an' strays an' all sorts of unpurlite names--you've on'y got to send a sov, or two to Miss Annie Macpherson, 'Ome of Hindustry, Commercial Street, Spitalfields, an' you'll be the means o' doin' a world o' good--as I 'eard a old gen'l'm with a white choker on say the wery last time I was down there 'avin' a blow out o' bread an' soup." "I know the lady and the Institution well, my boy," said the old lady, "and will act on your advice, but--" Ere she finished the sentence Bobby Frog had turned and fled at the very top of his speed. "Stop! stop! stop!" exclaimed the old lady in a weakly shout. But the "remarkable boy" would neither stop nor stay. He had suddenly caught sight of a policeman turning into the lane, and forthwith took to his heels, under a vague and not unnatural impression that if that limb of the law found him in possession of a half-crown he would refuse to believe his innocence with as much obstinacy as the little old lady had refused to believe his guilt. On reaching home he found his mother alone in a state of amused agitation which suggested to his mind the idea of Old Tom. "Wot, bin at it again, mother?" "No, no, Bobby, but somethin's happened which amuses me much, an' I can't keep it to myself no longer, so I'll tell it to you, Bobby." "Fire away, then, mother, an' remember that the law don't compel no one to criminate hisself." "You know, Bob, that a good while ago our Matty disappeared. I saw that the dear child was dyin' for want o' food an' warmth an' fresh air, so I thinks to myself, `why shouldn't I put 'er out to board wi' rich people for nothink?'" "A wery correct notion, an' cleverer than I gave you credit for. I'm glad to ear it too, for I feared sometimes that you'd bin an' done it." "Oh! Bobby, how could you ever think that! Well, I put the baby out to board with a family of the name of Twitter. Now it seems, all unbeknown to me, Mrs Twitter is a great helper at the George Yard Ragged Schools, where our Hetty has often seen her; but as we've bin used never to speak about the work there, as your father didn't like it, of course I know'd nothin' about Mrs Twitter bein' given to goin' there. Well, it seems she's very free with her money and gives a good deal away to poor people." (She's not the only one, thought the boy.) "So what does the Bible-nurse do when she hears about poor Hetty's illness but goes off and asks Mrs Twitter to try an' git her a situation." "`Oh! I know Hetty,' says Mrs Twitter at once, `That nice girl that teaches one o' the Sunday-school classes. Send her to me. I want a nurse for our baby,' that's for Matty, Bob--" "What! _our_ baby!" exclaimed the boy with a sudden blaze of excitement. "Yes--our baby. She calls it _hers_!" "Well, now," said Bobby, after recovering from the fit of laughter and thigh-slapping into which this news had thrown him, "if this don't beat cockfightin' all to nuffin'! why, mother, Hetty'll know baby the moment she claps eyes on it." "Of course she will," said Mrs Frog; "it is really very awkward, an' I can't think what to do. I'm half afraid to tell Hetty." "Oh! don't tell her--don't tell her," cried the boy, whose eyes sparkled with mischievous glee. "It'll be sich fun! If I 'ad on'y the chance to stand be'ind a door an' see the meetin' I wouldn't exchange it--no not for a feed of pork sassengers an' suet pud'n. I must go an' tell this to Tim Lumpy. It'll bust 'im--that's my on'y fear, but I must tell 'im wotever be the consikences." With this stern resolve, to act regardless of results, Bob Frog went off in search of his little friend, whose departure for Canada had been delayed, from some unknown cause, much to Bob's satisfaction. He found Tim on his way to the Beehive, and was induced not only to go with him, but to decide, finally, to enter the Institution as a candidate for Canada. Being well-known, both as to person and circumstances, he was accepted at once; taken in, washed, cropped, and transformed as if by magic. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. SIR RICHARD VISITS THE BEEHIVE, AND SEES MANY SURPRISING THINGS. "My dear Mrs Loper," said Mrs Twitter over a cup of tea, "it is very kind of you to say so, and I really do think you are right, we have done full justice to our dear wee Mita. Who would ever have thought, remembering the thin starved sickly child she was the night that Sam brought her in, that she would come to be such a plump, rosy, lovely child? I declare to you that I feel as if she were one of my own." "She is indeed a very lovely infant," returned Mrs Loper. "Don't you think so, Mrs Larrabel?" The smiling lady expanded her mouth, and said, "very." "But," continued Mrs Twitter, "I really find that the entire care of her is too much for me, for, although dear Mary assists me, her studies require to be attended to, and, do you know, babies interfere with studies dreadfully. Not that I have time to do much in that way at present. I think the Bible is the only book I really study now, so, you see, I've been thinking of adding to our establishment by getting a new servant;--a sort of nursery governess, you know,--a cheap one, of course. Sam quite agrees with me, and, as it happens, I know a very nice little girl just now--a very very poor girl--who helps us so nicely on Sundays in George Yard, and has been recommended to me as a most deserving creature. I expect her to call to-night." "Be cautious, Mrs Twitter," said Mrs Loper. "These _very_ poor girls from the slums of Whitechapel are sometimes dangerous, and, excuse me, rather dirty. Of course, if you know her, that is some security, but I would advise you to be very cautious." "Thank you, my dear," said Mrs Twitter, "I usually am very cautious, and will try to be so on this occasion. I mean her to be rather a sort of nursery governess than a servant.--That is probably the girl." She referred to a rather timid knock at the front door. In another second the domestic announced Hetty Frog, who entered with a somewhat shy air, and seemed fluttered at meeting with unexpected company. "Come in, Hetty, my dear; I'm glad to see you. My friends here know that you are a helper in our Sunday-schools. Sit down, and have a cup of tea. You know why I have sent for you?" "Yes, Mrs Twitter. It--it is very kind. Our Bible-nurse told me, and I shall be so happy to come, because--but I fear I have interrupted you. I--I can easily come back--" "No interruption at all, my dear. Here, take this cup of tea--" "And a crumpet," added Mrs Larrabel, who sympathised with the spirit of hospitality. "Yes, take a crumpet, and let me hear about your last place." Poor Hetty, who was still very weak from her recent illness, and would gladly have been excused sitting down with two strangers, felt constrained to comply, and was soon put at her ease by the kindly tone and manner of the hostess. She ran quickly over the chief points of her late engagements, and roused, without meaning to do so, the indignation of the ladies by the bare mention of the wages she had received for the amount of work done. "Well, my dear," said the homely Mrs Twitter, "we won't be so hard on you here. I want you to assist me with my sewing and darning--of which I have a very great deal--and help to take care of baby." "Very well, ma'am," said Hetty, "when do you wish me to begin my duties?" "Oh! to-morrow--after breakfast will do. It is too late to-night. But before you go, I may as well let you see the little one you are to have charge of. I hear she is awake." There could be no doubt upon that point, for the very rafters of the house were ringing at the moment with the yells which issued from an adjoining room. "Come this way, Hetty." Mrs Loper and Mrs Larrabel, having formed a good opinion of the girl, looked on with approving smiles. The smiles changed to glances of surprise, however, when Hetty, having looked on the baby, uttered a most startling scream, while her eyes glared as though she saw a ghostly apparition. Seizing the baby with unceremonious familiarity, Hetty struck Mrs Twitter dumb by turning it on its face, pulling open its dress, glancing at a bright red spot on its back, and uttering a shriek of delight as she turned it round again, and hugged it with violent affection, exclaiming, "Oh! my blessed Matty!" "The child's name is not Matty; it is Mita," said Mrs Twitter, on recovering her breath. "What _do_ you mean, girl?" "Her name is _not_ Mita, it is Matty," returned Hetty, with a flatness of contradiction that seemed impossible in one so naturally gentle. Mrs Twitter stood, aghast--bereft of the power of speech or motion. Mrs Loper and Mrs Larrabel were similarly affected. They soon recovered, however, and exclaimed in chorus, "What _can_ she mean?" "Forgive me, ma'am," said Hetty, still holding on to baby, who seemed to have an idea that she was creating a sensation of some sort, without requiring to yell, "forgive my rudeness, ma'am, but I really couldn't help it, for this is my long-lost sister Matilda." "Sister Matilda!" echoed Mrs Loper. "Long-lost sister Matilda!" repeated Mrs Larrabel. "This--is--your--long-lost sister Matilda," rehearsed Mrs Twitter, like one in a dream. The situation was rendered still more complex by the sudden entrance of Mr Twitter and his friend Crackaby. "What--what--what's to do _now_, Mariar?" "Sister Matilda!" shouted all three with a gasp. "Lunatics, every one of 'em," murmured Crackaby. It is, perhaps, scarcely necessary to add that a full explanation ensued when the party became calmer; that Mrs Twitter could not doubt the veracity of Hetty Frog, but suspected her sanity; that Mrs Frog was sent for, and was recognised at once by Mr Twitter as the poor woman who had asked him such wild and unmeaning questions the night on which he had found the baby; and that Mr and Mrs Twitter, Mrs Loper, Mrs Larrabel, and Crackaby came to the unanimous conclusion that they had never heard of such a thing before in the whole course of their united lives--which lives, when united, as some statisticians would take a pride in recording, formed two hundred and forty-three years! Poor Mrs Twitter was as inconsolable at the loss of her baby as Mrs Frog was overjoyed at the recovery of hers. She therefore besought the latter to leave little Mita, _alias_ Matty, with her just for one night longer-- only one night--and then she might come for her in the morning, for, you know, it would have been cruel to remove the child from her warm crib at that hour to a cold and comfortless lodging. Of course Mrs Frog readily consented. If Mrs Frog had known the events that lay in the womb of the next few hours, she would sooner have consented to have had her right-hand cut off than have agreed to that most reasonable request. But we must not anticipate. A few of our _dramatis personae_ took both an active and an inactive part in the events of these hours. It is therefore imperative that we should indicate how some of them came to be in that region. About five of the clock in the afternoon of the day in question, Sir Richard Brandon, his daughter and idol Diana, and his young friend Stephen Welland, sat in the dining-room of the West-end mansion concluding an early and rather hasty dinner. That something was pending was indicated by the fact that little Di sat accoutred in her hat and cloak. "We shall have to make haste," said Sir Richard, rising, "for I should not like to be late, and it is a long drive to Whitechapel." "When do they begin?" asked Welland. "They have tea at six, I believe, and then the meeting commences at seven, but I wish to be early that I may have a short conversation with one of the ladies of the Home." "Oh! it will be so nice, and such fun to see the dear little boys. How many are going to start for Canada, to-night, papa?" "About fifty or sixty, I believe, but I'm not sure. They are sent off in batches of varying size from time to time." "Is the demand for them so great?" asked Welland, "I should have thought that Canadian farmers and others would be afraid to receive into their dwellings what is often described as the scum of the London streets." "They were afraid at first, I am told, but soon discovered that the little fellows who came from Miss Macpherson's Home had been subjected to such good training and influences before leaving that they almost invariably turned out valuable and trustworthy workmen. No doubt there are exceptions in this as in every other case, but the demand is, it seems, greater than the supply. It is, however, a false idea that little waifs and strays, however dirty or neglected, are in any sense the scum of London. Youth, in all circumstances, is cream, and only turns into scum when allowed to stagnate or run to waste. Come, now, let us be off. Mr Seaward, the city missionary, is to meet us after the meeting, and show you and me something of those who have fallen very low in the social scale. Brisbane, who is also to be at the meeting, will bring Di home. By the way, have you heard anything yet about that poor comrade and fellow-clerk of yours--Twitter, I think, was his name-- who disappeared so suddenly?" "Nothing whatever. I have made inquiries in all directions--for I had a great liking for the poor fellow. I went also to see his parents, but they seemed too much cut up to talk on the subject at all, and knew nothing of his whereabouts." "Ah! it is a very sad case--very," said Sir Richard, as they all descended to the street. "We might, perhaps, call at their house to-night in passing." Entering a cab, they drove away. From the foregoing conversation the reader will have gathered that the party were about to visit the Beehive, or Home of Industry, and that Sir Richard, through the instrumentality of little Di and the city missionary, had actually begun to think about the poor! It was a special night at the Beehive. A number of diamonds with some of their dust rubbed off--namely, a band of little boys, rescued from the streets and from a probable life of crime, were to be assembled there to say farewell to such friends as took an interest in them. The Hive had been a huge warehouse. It was now converted, with but slight structural alteration, into a great centre of Light in that morally dark region, from which emanated gospel truth and Christian influence, and in which was a refuge for the poor, the destitute, the sin-smitten, and the sorrowful. Not only poverty, but sin-in-rags, was sure of help in the Beehive. It had been set agoing to bring, not the righteous, but sinners, to repentance. When Sir Richard arrived he found a large though low-roofed room crowded with people, many of whom, to judge from their appearance, were, like himself, diamond-seekers from the "west-end," while others were obviously from the "east-end," and had the appearance of men and women who had been but recently unearthed. There were also city missionaries and other workers for God in that humble-looking hall. Among them sat Mr John Seaward and George Brisbane, Esquire. Placing Di and Welland near the latter, Sir Richard retired to a corner where one of the ladies of the establishment was distributing tea to all comers. "Where are your boys, may I ask?" said the knight, accepting a cup of tea. "Over in the left corner," answered the lady. "You can hardly see them for the crowd, but they will stand presently." At that moment, as if to justify her words, a large body of boys rose up, at a sign from the superintending genius of the place, and began to sing a beautiful hymn in soft, tuneful voices. It was a goodly array of dusty diamonds, and a few of them had already begun to shine. "Surely," said Sir Richard, in a low voice, "these cannot be the ragged, dirty little fellows you pick up in the streets?" "Indeed they are," returned the lady. "But--but they seem to me quite respectable and cleanly fellows, not at all like--why, how has the change been accomplished?" "By the united action, sir, of soap and water, needles and thread, scissors, cast-off garments, and Love." Sir Richard smiled. Perchance the reader may also smile; nevertheless, this statement embodied probably the whole truth. When an unkempt, dirty, ragged little savage presents himself, or is presented, at the Refuge, or is "picked up" in the streets, his case is promptly and carefully inquired into. If he seems a suitable character--that is, one who is _utterly_ friendless and parentless, or whose parents are worse than dead to him--he is received into the Home, and the work of transformation--both of body and soul--commences. First he is taken to the lavatory and scrubbed outwardly clean. His elfin locks are cropped close and cleansed. His rags are burned, and a new suit, made by the old women workers, is put upon him, after which, perhaps, he is fed. Then he is sent to a doctor to see that he is internally sound in wind and limb. If passed by the doctor, he receives a brief but important training in the rudiments of knowledge. In all of these various processes Love is the guiding principle of the operator-- love to God and love to the boy. He is made to understand, and to _feel_, that it is in the name of Jesus, for the love of Jesus, and in the spirit of Jesus--not of mere philanthropy--that all this is done, and that his body is cared for _chiefly_ in order that the soul may be won. Little wonder, then, that a boy or girl, whose past experience has been the tender mercies of the world--and that the roughest part of the world--should become somewhat "respectable," as Sir Richard put it, under such new and blessed influences. Suddenly a tiny shriek was heard in the midst of the crowd, and a sweet little voice exclaimed, as if its owner were in great surprise-- "Oh! oh! there is _my_ boy!" A hearty laugh from the audience greeted this outburst, and poor Di, shrinking down, tried to hide her pretty face on Welland's ready arm. Her remark was quickly forgotten in the proceedings that followed--but it was true. There stood, in the midst of the group of boys, little Bobby Frog, with his face washed, his hair cropped and shining, his garments untattered, and himself looking as meek and "respectable" as the best of them. Beside him stood his fast friend Tim Lumpy. Bobby was not, however, one of the emigrant band. Having joined only that very evening, and been cropped, washed, and clothed for the first time, he was there merely as a privileged guest. Tim, also, was only a guest, not having quite attained to the dignity of a full-fledged emigrant at that time. At the sound of the sweet little voice, Bobby Frog's meek look was replaced by one of bright intelligence, not unmingled with anxiety, as he tried unavailingly to see the child who had spoken. We do not propose to give the proceedings of this meeting in detail, interesting though they were. Other matters of importance claim our attention. It will be sufficient to say that mingled with the semi-conversational, pleasantly free-and-easy, intercourse that ensued, there were most interesting short addresses from the lady-superintendents of "The Sailors' Welcome Home" and of the "Strangers' Rest," both of Ratcliff Highway, also from the chief of the Ragged schools in George Yard, and several city missionaries, as well as from city merchants who found time and inclination to traffic in the good things of the life to come as well as in those of the life that now is. Before the proceedings had drawn to a close a voice whispered: "It is time to go, Sir Richard." It was the voice of John Seaward. Following him, Sir Richard and Welland went out. It had grown dark by that time, and as there were no brilliantly lighted shops near, the place seemed gloomy, but the gloom was nothing to that of the filthy labyrinths into which Seaward quickly conducted his followers. "You have no occasion to fear, sir," said the missionary, observing that Sir Richard hesitated at the mouth of one very dark alley. "It would, indeed, hardly be safe were you to come down here alone, but most of 'em know me. I remember being told by one of the greatest roughs I ever knew that at the very corner where we now stand he had _many_ and many a time knocked down and robbed people. That man is now an earnest Christian, and, like Paul, goes about preaching the Name which he once despised." At the moment a dark shadow seemed to pass them, and a gruff voice said, "Good-night, sir." "Was that the man you were speaking of?" asked Sir Richard, quickly. "Oh no, sir," replied Seaward with a laugh; "that's what he was once like, indeed, but not what he is like now. His voice is no longer gruff. Take care of the step, gentlemen, as you pass here; so, now we will go into this lodging. It is one of the common lodging-houses of London, which are regulated by law and under the supervision of the police. Each man pays fourpence a night here, for which he is entitled to a bed and the use of the kitchen and its fire to warm himself and cook his food. If he goes to the same lodging every night for a week he becomes entitled to a free night on Sundays." The room into which they now entered was a long low chamber, which evidently traversed the whole width of the building, for it turned at a right angle at the inner end, and extended along the back to some extent. It was divided along one side into boxes or squares, after the fashion of some eating-houses, with a small table in the centre of each box, but, the partitions being little higher than those of a church-pew, the view of the whole room was unobstructed. At the inner angle of the room blazed a coal-fire so large that a sheep might have been easily roasted whole at it. Gas jets, fixed along the walls at intervals, gave a sufficient light to the place. This was the kitchen of the lodging-house, and formed the sitting-room of the place; and here was assembled perhaps the most degraded and miserable set of men that the world can produce. They were not all of one class, by any means; nor were they all criminal, though certainly many of them were. The place was the last refuge of the destitute; the social sink into which all that is improvident, foolish, reckless, thriftless, or criminal finally descends. Sir Richard and Welland had put on their oldest great-coats and shabbiest wideawakes; they had also put off their gloves and rings and breastpins in order to attract as little attention as possible, but nothing that they could have done could have reduced their habiliments to anything like the garments of the poor creatures with whom they now mingled. If they had worn the same garments for months or years without washing them, and had often slept in them out of doors in dirty places, they might perhaps have brought them to the same level, but not otherwise. Some of the people, however, were noisy enough. Many of them were smoking, and the coarser sort swore and talked loud. Those who had once been in better circumstances sat and moped, or spoke in lower tones, or cooked their victuals with indifference to all else around, or ate them in abstracted silence; while not a few laid their heads and arms on the tables, and apparently slept. For sleeping in earnest there were rooms overhead containing many narrow beds with scant and coarse covering, which, however, the law compelled to be clean. One of the rooms contained seventy such beds. Little notice was taken of the west-end visitors as they passed up the room, though some dark scowls of hatred were cast after them, and a few glanced at them with indifference. It was otherwise in regard to Seaward. He received many a "good-night, sir," as he passed, and a kindly nod greeted him here and there from men who at first looked as if kindness had been utterly eradicated from their systems. One of those whom we have described as resting their heads and arms on the tables, looked hastily up, on hearing the visitors' voices, with an expression of mingled surprise and alarm. It was Sammy Twitter, with hands and visage filthy, hair dishevelled, eyes bloodshot, cheeks hollow, and garments beyond description disreputable. He seemed the very embodiment of woe and degradation. On seeing his old friend Welland he quickly laid his head down again and remained motionless. Welland had not observed him. "You would scarcely believe it, sir," said the missionary, in a low tone; "nearly all classes of society are occasionally represented here. You will sometimes find merchants, lawyers, doctors, military men, and even clergymen, who have fallen step by step, chiefly in consequence of that subtle demon drink, until the common lodging-house is their only home." "Heaven help me!" said Sir Richard; "my friend Brisbane has often told me of this, but I have never quite believed it--certainly never realised it--until to-night. And even now I can hardly believe it. I see no one here who seems as if he ever had belonged to the classes you name." "Do you see the old man in the last box in the room, on the left-hand side, sitting alone?" asked Seaward, turning his back to the spot indicated. "Yes." "Well, that is a clergyman. I know him well. You would never guess it from his wretched clothing, but you might readily believe it if you were to speak to him." "That I will not do," returned the other firmly. "You are right, sir," said Seaward, "I would not advise that you should--at least not here, or now. I have been in the habit of reading a verse or two of the Word and giving them a short address sometimes about this hour. Have you any objection to my doing so now? It won't detain us long." "None in the world; pray, my good sir, don't let me disarrange your plans." "Perhaps," added the missionary, "you would say a few words to--" "No, no," interrupted the other, quickly; "no, they are preaching to _me_ just now, Mr Seaward, a very powerful sermon, I assure you." During the foregoing conversation young Welland's thoughts had been very busy; ay, and his conscience had not been idle, for when mention was made of that great curse strong drink, he vividly recalled the day when he had laughed at Sam Twitter's blue ribbon, and felt uneasy as to how far his conduct on that occasion had helped Sam in his downward career. "My friends," said the missionary aloud, "we will sing a hymn." Some of those whom he addressed turned towards the speaker; others paid no attention whatever, but went on with their cooking and smoking. They were used to it, as ordinary church-goers are to the "service." The missionary understood that well, but was not discouraged, because he knew that his "labour in the Lord" should not be in vain. He pulled out two small hymn-books and handed one to Sir Richard, the other to Welland. Sir Richard suddenly found himself in what was to him a strange and uncomfortable position, called on to take a somewhat prominent part in a religious service in a low lodging-house! The worst of it was that the poor knight could not sing a note. However, his deficiency in this respect was more than compensated by John Seaward, who possessed a telling tuneful voice, with a grateful heart to work it. Young Welland also could sing well, and joined heartily in that beautiful hymn which tells of "The wonderful words of life." After a brief prayer the missionary preached the comforting gospel, and tried, with all the fervour of a sympathetic heart, to impress on his hearers that there really was Hope for the hopeless, and Rest for the weary in Jesus Christ. When he had finished, Stephen Welland surprised him, as well as his friend Sir Richard and the audience generally, by suddenly exclaiming, in a subdued but impressive voice, which drew general attention: "Friends, I had no intention of saying a word when I came here, but, God forgive me, I have committed a sin, which seems to force me to speak and warn you against giving way to strong drink. I had--nay, I _have_--a dear friend who once put on the Blue Ribbon." Here he related the episode at the road-side tavern, and his friend's terrible fall, and wound up with the warning: "Fellow-men, fellow-sinners, beware of being laughed out of good resolves--beware of strong drink. I know not where my comrade is now. He may be dead, but I think not, for he has a mother and father who pray for him without ceasing. Still better, as you have just been told, he has an Advocate with God, who is able and willing to save him to the uttermost. Forgive me, Mr Seaward, for speaking without being asked. I could not help it." "No need to ask forgiveness of me, Mr Welland. You have spoken on the Lord's side, and I have reason to thank you heartily." While this was being said, those who sat near the door observed that a young man rose softly, and slunk away like a criminal, with a face ashy pale and his head bowed down. On reaching the door, he rushed out like one who expected to be pursued. It was young Sam Twitter. Few of the inmates of the place observed him, none cared a straw for him, and the incident was, no doubt, quickly forgotten. "We must hasten now, if we are to visit another lodging-house," said Seaward, as they emerged into the comparatively fresh air of the street, "for it grows late, and riotous drunken characters are apt to be met with as they stagger home." "No; I have had enough for one night," said Sir Richard. "I shall not be able to digest it all in a hurry. I'll go home by the Metropolitan, if you will conduct me to the nearest station." "Come along, then. This way." They had not gone far, and were passing through a quiet side street, when they observed a poor woman sitting on a door-step. It was Mrs Frog, who had returned to sit on the old familiar spot, and watch the shadows on the blind, either from the mere force of habit, or because this would probably be the last occasion on which she could expect to enjoy that treat. A feeling of pity entered Sir Richard's soul as he looked on the poorly clothed forlorn creature. He little knew what rejoicing there was in her heart just then--so deceptive are appearances at times! He went towards her with an intention of some sort, when a very tall policeman turned the corner, and approached. "Why, Giles Scott!" exclaimed the knight, holding out his hand, which Giles shook respectfully, "you seem to be very far away from your beat to-night." "No, sir, not very far, for this is my beat, now. I have exchanged into the city, for reasons that I need not mention." At this point a belated and half-tipsy man passed with his donkey-cart full of unsold vegetables and rubbish. "Hallo! you big blue-coat-boy," he cried politely to Giles, "wot d'ye call _that_?" Giles had caught sight of "_that_" at the same moment, and darted across the street. "Why, it's fire!" he shouted. "Run, young fellow, you know the fire-station!" "_I_ know it," shouted the donkey-man, sobered in an instant, as he jumped off his cart, left it standing, dashed round the corner, and disappeared, while Number 666 beat a thundering tattoo on Samuel Twitter's front door. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THINGS BECOME TOO HOT FOR THE TWITTER FAMILY. Before the thunder of Giles Scott's first rap had ceased, a pane of glass in one of the lower windows burst, and out came dense volumes of smoke, with a red tongue or two piercing them here and there, showing that the fire had been smouldering long, and had got well alight. It was followed by an appalling shriek from Mrs Frog, who rushed forward shouting, "Oh! baby! baby!" "Hold her, sir," said Giles to young Welland, who sprang forward at the same moment. Welland was aware of the immense value of prompt obedience, and saw that Giles was well fitted to command. He seized Mrs Frog and held her fast, while Giles, knowing that there was no time to stand on ceremony, stepped a few paces back, ran at the door with all his might, and applied his foot with his great weight and momentum to it. As the oak is shattered by the thunderbolt, so was Samuel Twitter's door by the foot of Number 666. But the bold constable was met by a volume of black smoke which was too much even for him. It drove him back half suffocated, while, at the same time, it drove the domestic out of the house into his arms. She had rushed from the lower regions just in time to escape death. A single minute had not yet elapsed, and only half-a-dozen persons had assembled, with two or three policemen, who instantly sought to obtain an entrance by a back door. "Hold her, Sir Richard," said Welland, handing the struggling Mrs Frog over. The knight accepted the charge, while Welland ran to the burning house, which seemed to be made of tinder, it blazed up so quickly. Giles was making desperate efforts to enter by a window which vomited fire and smoke that defied him. An upper window was thrown open, and Samuel Twitter appeared in his night-dress, shouting frantically. Stephen Welland saw that entrance or egress by lower window or staircase was impossible. He had been a noted athlete at school. There was an iron spout which ran from the street to the roof. He rushed to that, and sprang up more like a monkey than a man. "Pitch over blankets!" roared Giles, as the youth gained a window of the first floor, and dashed it in. "The donkey-cart!" shouted Welland, in reply, and disappeared. Giles was quick to understand. He dragged--almost lifted--the donkey and cart on to the pavement under the window where Mr Twitter stood waving his hands and yelling. The poor man had evidently lost his reason for the time, and was fit for nothing. A hand was seen to grasp his neck behind, and he disappeared. At the same moment a blanket came fluttering down, and Welland stood on the window-sill with Mrs Twitter in his arms, and a sheet of flame following. The height was about thirty feet. The youth steadied himself for one moment, as if to take aim, and dropped Mrs Twitter, as he might have dropped a bundle. She not only went into the vegetable cart, with a bursting shriek, but right through it, and reached the pavement unhurt--though terribly shaken! Four minutes had not yet elapsed. The crowd had thickened, and a dull rumbling which had been audible for half a minute increased into a mighty roar as the fiery-red engine with its brass-helmeted heroes dashed round the corner, and pulled up with a crash, seeming to shoot the men off. These swarmed, for a few seconds, about the hose, water plug, and nozzles. At the same instant the great fire-escape came rushing on the scene, like some antediluvian monster, but by that time Giles had swept away the debris of the donkey-cart, with Mrs Twitter imbedded therein, and had stretched the blanket with five powerful volunteers to hold it. "Jump, sir, jump!" he cried. Samuel Twitter jumped--unavoidably, for Welland pushed him--just as the hiss and crackle of the water-spouts began. He came down in a heap, rebounded like india-rubber, and was hurled to one side in time to make way for one of his young flock. "The children! the children!" screamed Mrs Twitter, disengaging herself from the vegetables. "Where are they?" asked a brass-helmeted man, quietly, as the head of the Escape went crashing through an upper window. "The top floor! all of 'em there!--top flo-o-o-r!" "No--no-o-o! some on the second fl-o-o-or!" yelled Mr Twitter. "I say _top--floo-o-o-r_," repeated the wife. "You forget--baby--ba-i-by!" roared the husband. A wild shriek was Mrs Twitter's reply. The quiet man with the brass helmet had run up the Escape quite regardless of these explanations. At the same time top windows were opened up, and little night-dressed figures appeared at them all, apparently making faces, for their cries were drowned in the shouts below. From these upper windows smoke was issuing, but not yet in dense, suffocating volumes. The quiet man of the Escape entered a second floor window through smoke and flames as though he were a salamander. The crowd below gave him a lusty cheer, for it was a great surging crowd by that time; nevertheless it surged within bounds, for a powerful body of police kept it back, leaving free space for the firemen to work. A moment or two after the quiet fireman had entered, the night-dressed little ones disappeared from the other windows and congregated, as if by magic, at the window just above the head of the Escape. Almost simultaneously the fly-ladder of the Escape--used for upper windows--was swung out, and when the quiet fireman had got out on the window-sill with little Lucy in his arms and little Alice held by her dress in his teeth, its upper rounds touched his knees, as if with a kiss of recognition! He descended the fly-ladder, and shoved the two terrified little ones somewhat promptly into the canvas shoot, where a brother fireman was ready to pilot them together xxx to the ground. Molly being big had to be carried by herself, but Willie and Fred went together. During all this time poor Mrs Frog had given herself over to the one idea of screaming "baby! bai-e-by!" and struggling to get free from the two policemen, who had come to the relief of Sir Richard, and who tenderly restrained her. In like manner Mr and Mrs Twitter, although not absolutely in need of restraint, went about wringing their hands and making such confused and contradictory statements that no one could understand what they meant, and the firemen quietly went on with their work quite regardless of their existence. "Policeman!" said Sam Twitter, looking up in the face of Number 666, with a piteous expression, and almost weeping with vexation, "_nobody_ will listen to me. I would go up myself, but the firemen won't let me, and my dear wife has such an idea of sticking to truth that when they ask her, `Is your baby up there?' she yells `No, not _our_ baby,' and before she can explain she gasps, and then I try to explain, and that so bamboozles--" "_Is_ your baby there?" demanded Number 666 vehemently. "Yes, it is!" cried Twitter, without the slightest twinge of conscience. "What room?" "That one," pointing to the left side of the house on the first floor. Just then part of the roof gave way and fell into the furnace of flame below, leaving visible the door of the very room to which Twitter had pointed. A despairing groan escaped him as he saw it, for now all communication seemed cut off, and the men were about to pull the Escape away to prevent its being burned, while, more engines having arrived, something like a mountain torrent of water was descending on the devoted house. "Stop, lads, a moment," said Giles, springing upon the Escape. He might have explained to the firemen what he had learned, but that would have taken time, and every second just then was of the utmost value. He was up on the window-sill before they well understood what he meant to do. The heat was intolerable. A very lake of fire rolled beneath him. The door of the room pointed out by Twitter was opposite--fortunately on the side furthest from the centre of fire, but the floor was gone. Only two great beams remained, and the one Giles had to cross was more than half burned through. It was a fragile bridge on which to pass over an abyss so terrible. But heroes do not pause to calculate. Giles walked straight across it with the steadiness of a rope-dancer, and burst in the scarred and splitting door. The smoke here was not too dense to prevent his seeing. One glance revealed baby Frog lying calmly in her crib as if asleep. To seize her, wrap her in the blankets, and carry her to the door of the room, was the work of a moment, but the awful abyss now lay before him, and it seemed to have been heated seven times. The beam, too, was by that time re-kindling with the increased heat, and the burden he carried prevented Giles from seeing, and balancing himself so well. He did not hesitate, but he advanced slowly and with caution. A dead silence fell on the awe-stricken crowd, whose gaze was concentrated now on the one figure. The throbbing of the engines was heard distinctly when the roar of excitement was thus temporarily checked. As Giles moved along, the beam cracked under his great weight. The heat became almost insupportable. His boots seemed to shrivel up and tighten round his feet. "He's gone! No, he's not!" gasped some of the crowd, as the tall smoke and flame encompassed him, and he was seen for a moment to waver. It was a touch of giddiness, but by a violent impulse of the will he threw it off, and at the same time bounded to the window, sending the beam, which was broken off by the shock, hissing down into the lake of fire. The danger was past, and a loud, continuous, enthusiastic cheer greeted gallant Number 666 as he descended the chute with the baby in his arms, and delivered it alive and well, and more solemn than ever, to its mother--its _own_ mother! When Sir Richard Brandon returned home that night, he found it uncommonly difficult to sleep. When, after many unsuccessful efforts, he did manage to slumber, his dreams re-produced the visions of his waking hours, with many surprising distortions and mixings--one of which distortions was, that all the paupers in the common lodging-houses had suddenly become rich, while he, Sir Richard, had as suddenly become poor, and a beggar in filthy rags, with nobody to care for him, and that these enriched beggars came round him and asked him, in quite a facetious way, "how he liked it!" Next morning, when the worthy knight arose, he found his unrested brain still busy with the same theme. He also found that he had got food for meditation, and for discussion with little Di, not only for some time to come, but, for the remainder of his hours. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. THE OCEAN AND THE NEW WORLD. Doctors tell us that change of air is usually beneficial, often necessary, nearly always agreeable. Relying on the wisdom of this opinion, we propose now to give the reader who has followed us thus far a change of air--by shifting the scene to the bosom of the broad Atlantic--and thus blow away the cobwebs and dust of the city. Those who have not yet been out upon the great ocean cannot conceive-- and those who have been out on it may not have seen--the splendours of a luminous fog on a glorious summer morning. The prevailing ideas in such circumstances are peace and liquidity! the only solid object visible above, below, or around, being the ship on which you stand. Everything else is impalpable, floating, soft, and of a light, bright, silvery grey. The air is warm, the sea is glass; it is circular, too, like a disc, and the line where it meets with the sky is imperceptible. Your little bark is the centre of a great crystal ball, the limit of which is Immensity! As we have said, peace, liquidity, luminosity, softness, and warmth prevail everywhere, and the fog, or rather, the silvery haze--for it is dry and warm as well as bright--has the peculiar effect of deadening sound, so that the quiet little noises of ship-board rather help than destroy the idea of that profound tranquillity which suggests irresistibly to the religious mind the higher and sweeter idea of "the peace of God." But, although intensely still, there is no suggestion of death in such a scene. It is only that of slumber! for the ocean undulates even when at rest, and sails flap gently even when there is no wind. Besides this, on the particular morning to which we call attention, a species of what we may call "still life" was presented by a mighty iceberg--a peaked and towering mountain of snowy white and emerald blue--which floated on the sea not a quarter of a mile off on the starboard bow. Real life also was presented to the passengers of the noble bark which formed the centre of this scene, in the form of gulls floating like great snowflakes in the air, and flocks of active little divers rejoicing unspeakably on the water. The distant cries of these added to the harmony of nature, and tended to draw the mind from mere abstract contemplation to positive sympathy with the joys of other animals besides one's-self. The only discordant sounds that met the ears of those who voyaged in the bark _Ocean Queen_ were the cacklings of a creature in the hen-coops which had laid an egg, or thought it had done so, or wished to do so, or, having been sea-sick up to that time, perhaps, endeavoured to revive its spirits by recalling the fact that it once did so, and might perhaps do so again! By the way there was also one other discord, in the form of a pugnacious baby, which whimpered continuously, and, from some unaccountable cause, refused to be comforted. But that was a discord which, as in some musical chords, seemed rather to improve the harmony-- at least in its mother's ears. The _Ocean Queen_ was an emigrant ship. In her capacious hull, besides other emigrants, there were upwards of seventy diamonds from the Beehive in Spitalfields on their way to seek their fortunes in the lands that are watered by such grand fresh-water seas as Lakes Superior and Huron and Michigan and Ontario, and such rivers as the Ottawa and the Saint Lawrence. Robert Frog and Tim Lumpy were among those boys, so changed for the better in a few months that, as the former remarked, "their own mothers wouldn't know 'em," and not only improved in appearance, but in spirit, ay, and even to some small extent in language--so great had been the influence for good brought to bear on them by Christian women working out of love to God and souls. "Ain't it lovely?" said Tim. "Splendacious!" replied Bob. The reader will observe that we did not say the language had, at that time, been _much_ improved! only to some small extent. "I've seen pictur's of 'em, Bob," said Tim, leaning his arms on the vessel's bulwarks as he gazed on the sleeping sea, "w'en a gen'l'man came to George Yard with a magic lantern, but I never thought they was so big, or that the holes in 'em was so blue." "Nor I neither," said Bob. They referred, of course, to the iceberg, the seams and especially the caverns in which graduated from the lightest azure to the deepest indigo. "Why, I do believe," continued Bobby, as the haze grew a little thinner, "that there's rivers of water runnin' down its sides, just like as if it was a mountain o' loaf-sugar wi' the fire-brigade a-pumpin' on it. An' see, there's waterfalls too, bigger I do b'lieve than the one I once saw at a pantomime." "Ay, an' far prettier too," said Tim. Bobby Frog did not quite see his way to assent to that. The waterfalls on the iceberg were bigger, he admitted, than those in the pantomime, but then, there was not so much glare and glitter around them. "An' I'm fond of glare an' glitter," he remarked, with a glance at his friend. "So am I, Bob, but--" At that instant the dinner-bell rang, and the eyes of both glittered-- they almost glared--as they turned and made for the companion-hatch, Bob exclaiming, "Ah, that's the thing that _I'm_ fond of; glare an' glitter's all wery well in its way, but it can't 'old a candle to grub!" Timothy Lumpy seemed to have no difference of opinion with his friend on that point. Indeed the other sixty-eight boys seemed to be marvellously united in sentiment about it, for, without an exception, they responded to that dinner-bell with a promptitude quite equal to that secured by military discipline! There was a rattling of feet on decks and ladderways for a few seconds, and then all was quiet while a blessing was asked on the meal. For many years Miss Annie Macpherson has herself conducted parties of such boys to Canada, but the party of which we write happened to be in charge of a gentleman whom we will name the Guardian; he was there to keep order, of course, but in truth this was not a difficult matter, for the affections of the boys had been enlisted, and they had already learned to practise self-restraint. That same day a whale was seen. It produced a sensation among the boys that is not easily described. Considerately, and as if on purpose, it swam round the ship and displayed its gigantic proportions; then it spouted as though to show what it could do in that line, and then, as if to make the performance complete and reduce the Westminster Aquarium to insignificance, it tossed its mighty tail on high, brought it down with a clap like thunder, and finally dived into its native ocean followed by a yell of joyful surprise from the rescued waifs and strays. There were little boys, perhaps even big ones, in that band, who that day received a lesson of faith from the whale. It taught them that pictures, even extravagant ones, represent great realities. The whale also taught them a lesson of error, as was proved by the remark of one waif to a brother stray:-- "I say, Piggie, it ain't 'ard _now_, to b'lieve that the whale swallered Jonah." "You're right, Konky." Strange interlacing of error with error traversed by truth in this sublunary sphere! Piggie was wrong in admitting that. Konky was right, for, as every one knows, or ought to know, it was not a whale at all that swallowed Jonah, but a "great fish" which was "prepared" for the purpose. But the voyage of the _Ocean Queen_ was not entirely made up of calms, and luminous fogs, and bergs, and whales, and food. A volume would be required to describe it all. There was much foul weather as well as fair, during which periods a certain proportion of the little flock, being not very good sailors, sank to depths of misery which they had never before experienced--not even in their tattered days--and even those of them who had got their "sea-legs on," were not absolutely happy. "I say, Piggie," asked the waif before mentioned of his chum, (or dosser), Konky, "'ow long d'ee think little Mouse will go on at his present rate o' heavin'?" "I can't say," answered the stray, with a serious air; "I ain't studied the 'uman frame wery much, but I should say, 'e'll bust by to-morrow if 'e goes on like 'e's bin doin'." A tremendous sound from little Mouse, who lay in a neighbouring bunk, seemed to justify the prophecy. But little Mouse did not "bust." He survived that storm, and got his sea-legs on before the next one. The voyage, however, was on the whole propitious, and, what with school-lessons and Bible-lessons and hymn-singing, and romping, and games of various kinds instituted and engaged in by the Guardian, the time passed profitably as well as pleasantly, so that there were, perhaps, some feelings of regret when the voyage drew to an end, and they came in sight of that Great Land which the Norsemen of old discovered; which Columbus, re-discovering, introduced to the civilised world, and which, we think, ought in justice to have been named Columbia. And now a new era of life began for those rescued waifs and strays-- those east-end diamonds from the great London fields. Canada--with its mighty lakes and splendid rivers, its great forests and rich lands, its interesting past, prosperous present, and hopeful future--opened up to view. But there was a shadow on the prospect, not very extensive, it is true, but dark enough to some of them just then, for here the hitherto united band was to be gradually disunited and dispersed, and friendships that had begun to ripen under the sunshine of Christian influence were to be broken up, perhaps for ever. The Guardian, too, had to be left behind by each member as he was severed from his fellows and sent to a new home among total strangers. Still there were to set off against these things several points of importance. One of these was that the Guardian would not part with a single boy until the character of his would-be employer was inquired into, and his intention to deal kindly and fairly ascertained. Another point was, that each boy, when handed over to an employer, was not to be left thereafter to care for himself, but his interests were to be watched over and himself visited at intervals by an emissary from the Beehive, so that he would not feel friendless or forsaken even though he should have the misfortune to fall into bad hands. The Guardian also took care to point out that, amid all these leave-takings and partings, there was One who would "never leave nor forsake" them, and to whom they were indebted for the first helping hand, when they were in their rags and misery, and forsaken of man. At last the great gulf of Saint Lawrence was entered, and here the vessel was beset with ice, so that she could not advance at a greater rate than two or three miles an hour for a considerable distance. Soon, however, those fields of frozen sea were passed, and the end of the voyage drew near. Then was there a marvellous outbreak of pens, ink, and paper, for the juvenile flock was smitten with a sudden desire to write home before going to the interior of the new land. It was a sad truth that many of the poor boys had neither parent nor relative to correspond with, but these were none the less eager in their literary work, for had they not Miss Macpherson and the ladies of the Home to write to? Soon after that, the party landed at the far-famed city of Quebec, each boy with his bag containing change of linen, and garments, a rug, etcetera; and there, under a shed, thanks were rendered to God for a happy voyage, and prayer offered for future guidance. Then the Guardian commenced business. He had momentous work to do. The Home of Industry and its work are well-known in Canada. Dusty diamonds sent out from the Beehive were by that time appreciated, and therefore coveted; for the western land is vast, and the labourers are comparatively few. People were eager to get the boys, but the character of intending employers had to be inquired into, and this involved care. Then the suitability of boys to situations had to be considered. However, this was finally got over, and a few of the reclaimed waifs were left at Quebec. This was the beginning of the dispersion. "I don't like it at all," said Bobby Frog to his friend Tim Lumpy, that evening in the sleeping car of the railway train that bore them onward to Montreal; "they'll soon be partin' you an' me, an' that'll be worse than wallerin' in the mud of Vitechapel." Bobby said this with such an expression of serious anxiety that his little friend was quite touched. "I hope not, Bob," he replied. "What d'ee say to axin' our Guardian to put us both into the same sitivation?" Bobby thought that this was not a bad idea, and as they rolled along these two little waifs gravely discussed their future prospects. It was the same with many others of the band, though not a few were content to gaze out of the carriage windows, pass a running commentary on the new country, and leave their future entirely to their Guardian. Soon, however, the busy little tongues and brains ceased to work, and ere long were steeped in slumber. At midnight the train stopped, and great was the sighing and groaning, and earnest were the requests to be let alone, for a batch of the boys had to be dropped at a town by the way. At last they were aroused, and with their bags on their shoulders prepared to set off under a guide to their various homes. Soon the sleepiness wore off, and, when the train was about to start, the reality of the parting seemed to strike home, and the final handshakings and good wishes were earnest and hearty. Thus, little by little, the band grew less and less. Montreal swallowed up a good many. While there the whole band went out for a walk on the heights above the reservoir with their Guardian, guided by a young Scotsman. "That's a jolly-lookin' 'ouse, Tim," said Bob Frog to his friend. The Scotsman overheard the remark. "Yes," said he, "it is a nice house, and a good jolly man owns it. He began life as a poor boy. And do you see that other villa--the white one with the green veranda among the trees? That was built by a man who came out from England just as you have done, only without anybody to take care of him; God however cared for him, and now you see his house. He began life without a penny, but he had three qualities which will make a man of any boy, no matter what circumstances he may be placed in. He was truthful, thorough, and trustworthy. Men knew that they might believe what he said, be sure of the quality of what he did, and could rely upon his promises. There was another thing much in his favour, he was a total abstainer. Drink in this country ruins hundreds of men and women, just as in England. Shun drink, boys, as you would a serpent." "I wouldn't shun a drink o' water just now if I could get it," whispered Bobby to his friend, "for I'm uncommon thirsty." At this point the whole band were permitted to disperse in the woods, where they went about climbing and skipping like wild squirrels, for these novel sights, and scents, and circumstances were overwhelmingly delightful after the dirt and smoke of London. When pretty well breathed--our waifs were grown too hardy by that time to be easily exhausted--the Guardian got them to sit round him and sing that sweet hymn: "Shall we gather at the river?" And tears bedewed many eyes, for they were reminded that there were yet many partings in store before that gathering should take place. And now the remnant of the band--still a goodly number--proceeded in the direction of the far west. All night they travelled, and reached Belleville, where they were received joyfully in the large house presented as a free gift to Miss Macpherson by the Council of the County of Hastings. It served as a "Distributing Home" and centre in Canada for the little ones till they could be placed in suitable situations, and to it they might be returned if necessary, or a change of employer required it. This Belleville Home was afterwards burned to the ground, and rebuilt by sympathising Canadian friends. But we may not pause long here. The far west still lies before us. Our gradually diminishing band must push on. "It's the sea!" exclaimed the boy who had been named little Mouse, _alias_ Robbie Dell. "No, it ain't," said Konky, who was a good deal older; "it's a lake." "Ontario," said the Guardian, "one of the noble fresh-water seas of Canada." Onward, ever onward, is the watchword just now--dropping boys like seed-corn as they go! Woods and fields, and villas, and farms, and waste-lands, and forests, and water, fly past in endless variety and loveliness. "A panoramy without no end!" exclaimed Tim Lumpy after one of his long gazes of silent admiration. "_Wot_ a diff'rence!" murmured Bobby Frog. "Wouldn't mother an' daddy an' Hetty like it, just!" The city of Toronto came in sight. The wise arrangements for washing in Canadian railway-cars had been well used by the boys, and pocket-combs also. They looked clean and neat and wonderfully solemn as they landed at the station. But their fame had preceded them. An earnest crowd came to see the boys, among whom were some eager to appropriate. "I'll take that lad," said one bluff farmer, stepping forward, and pointing to a boy whose face had taken his fancy. "And I want six boys for our village," said another. "I want one to learn my business," said a third, "and I'll learn him as my own son. Here are my certificates of character from my clergyman and the mayor of the place I belong to." "I like the looks of that little fellow," said another, pointing to Bob Frog, "and should like to have him." "Does you, my tulip?" said Bobby, whose natural tendency to insolence had not yet been subdued; "an' don't you vish you may get 'im!" It is but justice to Bobby, however, to add, that this remark was made entirely to himself. To all these flattering offers the Guardian turned a deaf ear, until he had passed through the crowd and marshalled his boys in an empty room of the depot. Then inquiries were made; the boys' characters and capacities explained; suitability on both sides considered; the needs of the soul as well as the body referred to and pressed; and, finally, the party went on its way greatly reduced in numbers. Thus they dwindled and travelled westward until only our friend Bobby, Tim, Konky, and little Mouse remained with the Guardian, whose affections seemed to intensify as fewer numbers were left on which they might concentrate. Soon the little Mouse was caught. A huge backwoods farmer, who could have almost put him in his coat-pocket, took a fancy to him. The fancy seemed to be mutual, for, after a tearful farewell to the Guardian, the Mouse went off with the backwoodsman quite contentedly. Then Konky was disposed of. A hearty old lady with a pretty daughter and a slim son went away with him in triumph, and the band was reduced to two. "I do believe," whispered Bob to Tim, "that he's goin' to let us stick together after all." "You are right, my dear boy," said the Guardian, who overheard the remark. "A family living a considerable distance off wishes to have two boys. I have reason to believe that they love the Lord Jesus, and will treat you well. So, as I knew you wished to be together, I have arranged for your going to live with them." As the journey drew to a close, the Guardian seemed to concentrate his whole heart on the little waifs whom he had conducted so far, and he gave them many words of counsel, besides praying with and for them. At last, towards evening, the train rushed into a grand pine-wood. It soon rushed out of it again and entered a beautiful piece of country which was diversified by lakelet and rivulet, hill and vale, with rich meadow lands in the hollows, where cattle browsed or lay in the evening sunshine. The train drew up sharply at a small road-side station. There was no one to get into the cars there, and no one to get out except our two waifs. On the road beyond stood a wagon with a couple of spanking bays in it. On the platform stood a broad-shouldered, deep-chested, short-legged farmer with a face like the sun, and a wide-awake on the back of his bald head. "Mr Merryboy, I presume?" said the Guardian, descending from the car. "The same. Glad to see you. Are these my boys?" He spoke in a quick, hearty, off-hand manner, but Bobby and Tim hated him at once, for were they not on the point of leaving their last and best friend, and was not this man the cause? They turned to their Guardian to say farewell, and, even to their own surprise, burst into tears. "God bless you, dear boys," he said, while the guard held open the door of the car as if to suggest haste; "good-bye. It won't be _very_ long I think before I see you again. Farewell." He sprang into the car, the train glided away, and the two waifs stood looking wistfully after it with the first feelings of desolation that had entered their hearts since landing in Canada. "My poor lads," said Mr Merryboy, laying a hand on the shoulder of each, "come along with me. Home is only six miles off, and I've got a pair of spanking horses that will trundle us over in no time." The tone of voice, to say nothing of "home" and "spanking horses," improved matters greatly. Both boys thought, as they entered the wagon, that they did not hate him quite so much as at first. The bays proved worthy of their master's praise. They went over the road through the forest in grand style, and in little more than half an hour landed Bobby and Tim at the door of their Canadian home. It was dark by that time, and the ruddy light that shone in the windows and that streamed through the door as it opened to receive them seemed to our waifs like a gleam of celestial light. CHAPTER NINETEEN. AT HOME IN CANADA. The family of Mr Merryboy was a small one. Besides those who assisted him on the farm--and who were in some cases temporary servants--his household consisted of his wife, his aged mother, a female servant, and a small girl. The latter was a diamond from the London diggings, who had been imported the year before. She was undergoing the process of being polished, and gave promise of soon becoming a very valuable gem. It was this that induced her employer to secure our two masculine gems from the same diggings. Mrs Merryboy was a vigorous, hearty, able-bodied lady, who loved work very much for the mere exercise it afforded her; who, like her husband, was constitutionally kind, and whose mind was of that serious type which takes concern with the souls of the people with whom it has to do as well as with their bodies. Hence she gave her waif a daily lesson in religious and secular knowledge; she reduced work on the Sabbath-days to the lowest possible point in the establishment, and induced her husband, who was a little shy as well as bluff and off-hand, to institute family worship, besides hanging on her walls here and there sweet and striking texts from the Word of God. Old Mrs Merryboy, the mother, must have been a merry girl in her youth; for, even though at the age of eighty and partially deaf, she was extremely fond of a joke, practical or otherwise, and had her face so seamed with the lines of appreciative humour, and her nutcracker mouth so set in a smile of amiable fun, and her coal-black eyes so lit up with the fires of unutterable wit, that a mere glance at her stirred up your sources of comicality to their depths, while a steady gaze usually resulted in a laugh, in which she was sure to join with an apparent belief that, whatever the joke might be, it was uncommonly good. She did not speak much. Her looks and smiles rendered speech almost unnecessary. Her figure was unusually diminutive. Little Martha, the waif, was one of those mild, reticent, tiny things that one feels a desire to fondle without knowing why. Her very small face was always, and, as Bobby remarked, awfully grave, yet a ready smile must have lurked close at hand somewhere, for it could be evoked by the smallest provocation at any time, but fled the instant the provoking cause ceased. She seldom laughed, but when she did the burst was a hearty one, and over immediately. Her brown hair was smooth, her brown eyes were gentle, her red mouth was small and round. Obedience was ingrained in her nature. Original action seemed never to have entered her imagination. She appeared to have been born with the idea that her sphere in life was to do as she was directed. To resist and fight were to her impossibilities. To be defended and kissed seemed to be her natural perquisites. Yet her early life had been calculated to foster other and far different qualities, as we shall learn ere long. Tim Lumpy took to this little creature amazingly. She was so little that by contrast he became quite big, and felt so! When in Martha's presence he absolutely felt big and like a lion, a roaring lion capable of defending her against all comers! Bobby was also attracted by her, but in a comparatively mild degree. On the morning after their arrival the two boys awoke to find that the windows of their separate little rooms opened upon a magnificent prospect of wood and water, and that, the partition of their apartment consisting of a single plank-wall, with sundry knots knocked out, they were not only able to converse freely, but to peep at each other awkwardly--facts which they had not observed the night before, owing to sleepiness. "I say, Tim," said Bob, "you seem to have a jolly place in there." "First-rate," replied Tim, "an' much the same as your own. I had a good squint at you before you awoke. Isn't the place splendacious?" "Yes, Tim, it is. I've been lookin' about all the mornin' for Adam an' Eve, but can't see 'em nowhere." "What d'ee mean?" "Why, that we've got into the garden of Eden, to be sure." "Oh! stoopid," returned Tim, "don't you know that they was both banished from Eden?" "So they was. I forgot that. Well, it don't much matter, for there's a prettier girl than Eve here. Don't you see her? Martha, I think they called her--down there by the summer-'ouse, feedin' the hanimals, or givin' 'em their names." "There you go again, you ignorant booby," said Tim; "it wasn't Eve as gave the beasts their names. It was Adam." "An' wot's the difference, I should like to know? wasn't they both made _one_ flesh? However, I think little Martha would have named 'em better if she'd bin there. What a funny little thing she is!" "Funny!" returned Tim, contemptuously; "she's a _trump_!" During the conversation both boys had washed and rubbed their faces till they absolutely shone like rosy apples. They also combed and brushed their hair to such an extent that each mass lay quite flat on its little head, and bade fair to become solid, for the Guardian's loving counsels had not been forgotten, and they had a sensation of wishing to please him even although absent. Presently the house, which had hitherto been very quiet, began suddenly to resound with the barking of a little dog and the noisy voice of a huge man. The former rushed about, saying "Good-morning" as well as it could with tail and tongue to every one, including the household cat, which resented the familiarity with arched back and demoniacal glare. The latter stamped about on the wooden floors, and addressed similar salutations right and left in tones that would have suited the commander of an army. There was a sudden stoppage of the hurricane, and a pleasant female voice was heard. "I say, Bob, that's the missus," whispered Tim through a knot-hole. Then there came another squall, which seemed to drive madly about all the echoes in the corridors above and in the cellars below. Again the noise ceased, and there came up a sound like a wheezy squeak. "I say, Tim, that's the old 'un," whispered Bob through the knot-hole. Bob was right, for immediately on the wheezy squeak ceasing, the hurricane burst forth in reply: "Yes, mother, that's just what I shall do. You're always right. I never knew such an old thing for wise suggestions! I'll set both boys to milk the cows after breakfast. The sooner they learn the better, for our new girl has too much to do in the house to attend to that; besides, she's either clumsy or nervous, for she has twice overturned the milk-pail. But after all, I don't wonder, for that red cow has several times showed a desire to fling a hind-leg into the girl's face, and stick a horn in her gizzard. The boys won't mind that, you know. Pity that Martha's too small for the work; but she'll grow--she'll grow." "Yes, she'll grow, Franky," replied the old lady, with as knowing a look as if the richest of jokes had been cracked. The look was, of course, lost on the boys above, and so was the reply, because it reached them in the form of a wheezy squeak. "Oh! I say! Did you ever! Milk the keows! On'y think!" whispered Bob. "Ay, an' won't I do it with my mouth open too, an' learn 'ow to send the stream up'ards!" said Tim. Their comments were cut short by the breakfast-bell; at the same time the hurricane again burst forth: "Hallo! lads--boys! Youngsters! Are you up?--ah! here you are. Good-morning, and as tidy as two pins. That's the way to get along in life. Come now, sit down. Where's Martha? Oh! here we are. Sit beside me, little one." The hurricane suddenly fell to a gentle breeze, while part of a chapter of the Bible and a short prayer were read. Then it burst forth again with redoubled fury, checked only now and then by the unavoidable stuffing of the vent-hole. "You've slept well, dears, I hope?" said Mrs Merryboy, helping each of our waifs to a splendid fried fish. Sitting there, partially awe-stricken by the novelty of their surroundings, they admitted that they had slept well. "Get ready for work then," said Mr Merryboy, through a rather large mouthful. "No time to lose. Eat--eat well--for there's lots to do. No idlers on Brankly Farm, I can tell you. And we don't let young folk lie abed till breakfast-time every day. We let you rest this morning, Bob and Tim, just by way of an extra refresher before beginning. Here, tuck into the bread and butter, little man, it'll make you grow. More tea, Susy," (to his wife). "Why, mother, you're eating nothing--nothing at all. I declare you'll come to live on air at last." The old lady smiled benignly, as though rather tickled with that joke, and was understood by the boys to protest that she had eaten more than enough, though her squeak had not yet become intelligible to them. "If you do take to living on air, mother," said her daughter-in-law, "we shall have to boil it up with a bit of beef and butter to make it strong." Mrs Merryboy, senior, smiled again at this, though she had not heard a word of it. Obviously she made no pretence of hearing, but took it as good on credit, for she immediately turned to her son, put her hand to her right ear, and asked what Susy said. In thunderous tones the joke was repeated, and the old lady almost went into fits over it, insomuch that Bob and Tim regarded her with a spice of anxiety mingled with their amusement, while little Martha looked at her in solemn wonder. Twelve months' experience had done much to increase Martha's love for the old lady, but it had done nothing to reduce her surprise; for Martha, as yet, did not understand a joke. This, of itself, formed a subject of intense amusement to old Mrs Merryboy, who certainly made the most of circumstances, if ever woman did. "Have some more fish, Bob," said Mrs Merryboy, junior. Bob accepted more, gratefully. So did Tim, with alacrity. "What sort of a home had you in London, Tim?" asked Mrs Merryboy. "Well, ma'am, I hadn't no home at all." "No home at all, boy; what do you mean? You must have lived somewhere." "Oh yes, ma'am, I always lived somewheres, but it wasn't nowheres in partikler. You see I'd neither father nor mother, an' though a good old 'ooman did take me in, she couldn't purvide a bed or blankets, an' her 'ome was stuffy, so I preferred to live in the streets, an' sleep of a night w'en I couldn't pay for a lodgin', in empty casks and under wegitable carts in Covent Garden Market, or in empty sugar 'ogsheads. I liked the 'ogsheads best w'en I was 'ungry, an' that was most always, 'cause I could sometimes pick a little sugar that was left in the cracks an' 'oles, w'en they 'adn't bin cleaned out a'ready. Also I slep' under railway-arches, and on door-steps. But sometimes I 'ad raither disturbed nights, 'cause the coppers wouldn't let a feller sleep in sitch places if they could 'elp it." "Who are the `coppers?'" asked the good lady of the house, who listened in wonder to Tim's narration. "The coppers, ma'am, the--the--pl'eece." "Oh! the police?" "Yes, ma'am." "Where in the world did they expect you to sleep?" asked Mrs Merryboy with some indignation. "That's best known to themselves, ma'am," returned Tim; "p'raps we might 'ave bin allowed to sleep on the Thames, if we'd 'ad a mind to, or on the hatmosphere, but never 'avin' tried it on, I can't say." "Did you lead the same sort of life, Bob?" asked the farmer, who had by that time appeased his appetite. "Pretty much so, sir," replied Bobby, "though I wasn't quite so 'ard up as Tim, havin' both a father and mother as well as a 'ome. But they was costly possessions, so I was forced to give 'em up." "What! you don't mean that you forsook them?" said Mr Merryboy with a touch of severity. "No, sir, but father forsook me and the rest of us, by gettin' into the Stone Jug--wery much agin' my earnest advice,--an' mother an' sister both thought it was best for me to come out here." The two waifs, being thus encouraged, came out with their experiences pretty freely, and made such a number of surprising revelations, that the worthy backwoodsman and his wife were lost in astonishment, to the obvious advantage of old Mrs Merryboy, who, regarding the varying expressions of face around her as the result of a series of excellent jokes, went into a state of chronic laughter of a mild type. "Have some more bread and butter, and tea, Bob and some more sausage," said Mrs Merryboy, under a sudden impulse. Bob declined. Yes, that London street-arab absolutely declined food! So did Tim Lumpy! "Now, my lads, are you quite sure," said Mr Merryboy, "that you've had enough to eat?" They both protested, with some regret, that they had. "You couldn't eat another bite if you was to try, could you?" "Vell, sir," said Bob, with a spice of the `old country' insolence strong upon him, "there's no sayin' what might be accomplished with a heffort, but the consikences, you know, might be serious." The farmer received this with a thunderous guffaw, and, bidding the boys follow him, went out. He took them round the farm buildings, commenting on and explaining everything, showed them cattle and horses, pigs and poultry, barns and stables, and then asked them how they thought they'd like to work there. "Uncommon!" was Bobby Frog's prompt reply, delivered with emphasis. "Fust rate!" was Tim Lumpy's sympathetic sentiment. "Well, then, the sooner we begin the better. D'you see that lot of cord-wood lying tumbled about in the yard, Bob?" "Yes, sir." "You go to work on it, then, and pile it up against that fence, same as you see this one done. An' let's see how neatly you'll do it. Don't hurry. What we want in Canada is not so much to see work done quickly as done well." Taking Tim to another part of the farm, he set him to remove a huge heap of stones with a barrow and shovel, and, leaving them, returned to the house. Both boys set to work with a will. It was to them the beginning of life; they felt that, and were the more anxious to do well in consequence. Remembering the farmer's caution, they did not hurry, but Tim built a cone of stones with the care and artistic exactitude of an architect, while Bobby piled his billets of wood with as much regard to symmetrical proportion as was possible in the circumstances. About noon they became hungry, but hunger was an old foe whom they had been well trained to defy, so they worked on utterly regardless of him. Thereafter a welcome sound was heard--the dinner-bell! Having been told to come in on hearing it, they left work at once, ran to the pump, washed themselves, and appeared in the dining-room looking hot, but bright and jovial, for nothing brightens the human countenance so much, (by gladdening the heart), as the consciousness of having performed duty well. From the first this worthy couple, who were childless, received the boys into their home as sons, and on all occasions treated them as such. Martha Mild, (her surname was derived from her character), had been similarly received and treated. "Well, lads," said the farmer as they commenced the meal--which was a second edition of breakfast, tea included, but with more meat and vegetables--"how did you find the work? pretty hard--eh?" "Oh! no, sir, nothink of the kind," said Bobby, who was resolved to show a disposition to work like a man and think nothing of it. "Ah, good. I'll find you some harder work after dinner." Bobby blamed himself for having been so prompt in reply. "The end of this month, too, I'll have you both sent to school," continued the farmer with a look of hearty good-will, that Tim thought would have harmonised better with a promise to give them jam-tart and cream. "It's vacation time just now, and the schoolmaster's away for a holiday. When he comes back you'll have to cultivate mind as well as soil, my boys, for I've come under an obligation to look after your education, and even if I hadn't, I'd do it to satisfy my own conscience." The _couleur-de-rose_ with which Bob and Tim had begun to invest their future faded perceptibly on hearing this. The viands, however, were so good that it did not disturb them very much. They ate away heartily, and in silence. Little Martha was not less diligent, for she had been busy all the morning in the dairy and kitchen, playing, rather than working, at domestic concerns, yet in her play doing much real work, and acquiring useful knowledge, as well as an appetite. After dinner the farmer rose at once. He was one of those who find it unnecessary either to drink or smoke after meals. Indeed, strong drink and tobacco were unknown in his house, and, curiously enough, nobody seemed to be a whit the worse for their absence. There were some people, indeed, who even went the length of asserting that they were all the better for their absence! "Now for the hard work I promised you, boys; come along." CHAPTER TWENTY. OCCUPATIONS AT BRANKLY FARM. The farmer led our two boys through a deliciously scented pine-wood at the rear of his house, to a valley which seemed to extend and widen out into a multitude of lesser valleys and clumps of woodland, where lakelets and rivulets and waterfalls glittered in the afternoon sun like shields and bands of burnished silver. Taking a ball of twine from one of his capacious pockets, he gave it to Bobby along with a small pocket-book. "Have you got clasp-knives?" he asked. "Yes, sir," said both boys, at once producing instruments which were very much the worse for wear. "Very well, now, here is the work I want you to do for me this afternoon. D'you see the creek down in the hollow yonder--about half a mile off?" "Yes, yes, sir." "Well, go down there and cut two sticks about ten feet long each; tie strings to the small ends of them; fix hooks that you'll find in that pocket-book to the lines. The creek below the fall is swarming with fish; you'll find grasshoppers and worms enough for bait if you choose to look for 'em. Go, and see what you can do." A reminiscence of ancient times induced Bobby Frog to say "Walke-e-r!" to himself, but he had too much wisdom to say it aloud. He did, however, venture modestly to remark-- "I knows nothink about fishin', sir. Never cotched so much as a eel in--" "When I give you orders, _obey_ them!" interrupted the farmer, in a tone and with a look that sent Bobby and Tim to the right-about double-quick. They did not even venture to look back until they reached the pool pointed out, and when they did look back Mr Merryboy had disappeared. "Vell, I say," began Bobby, but Tim interrupted him with, "Now, Bob, you _must_ git off that 'abit you've got o' puttin' v's for double-u's. Wasn't we told by the genl'm'n that gave us a partin' had-dress that we'd never git on in the noo world if we didn't mind our p's and q's? An' here you are as regardless of your v's as if they'd no connection wi' the alphabet." "Pretty cove _you_ are, to find fault wi' _me_," retorted Bob, "w'en you're far wuss wi' your haitches--a-droppin' of 'em w'en you shouldn't ought to, an' stickin' of 'em in where you oughtn't should to. Go along an' cut your stick, as master told you." The sticks were cut, pieces of string were measured off, and hooks attached thereto. Then grasshoppers were caught, impaled, and dropped into a pool. The immediate result was almost electrifying to lads who had never caught even a minnow before. Bobby's hook had barely sunk when it was seized and run away with so forcibly as to draw a tremendous "Hi! hallo!! ho!!! I've got 'im!!!" from the fisher. "Hoy! hurroo!!" responded Tim, "so've I!!!" Both boys, blazing with excitement, held on. The fish, bursting, apparently, with even greater excitement, rushed off. "He'll smash my stick!" cried Bob. "The twine's sure to go!" cried Tim. "Hold o-o-on!" This command was addressed to his fish, which leaped high out of the pool and went wriggling back with a heavy splash. It did not obey the order, but the hook did, which came to the same thing. "A ten-pounder if he's a' ounce," said Tim. "You tell that to the horse--hi ho! stop that, will you?" But Bobby's fish was what himself used to be--troublesome to deal with. It would not "stop that." It kept darting from side to side and leaping out of the water until, in one of its bursts, it got entangled with Tim's fish, and the boys were obliged to haul them both ashore together. "Splendid!" exclaimed Bobby, as they unhooked two fine trout and laid them on a place of safety; "At 'em again!" At them they went, and soon had two more fish, but the disturbance created by these had the effect of frightening the others. At all events, at their third effort their patience was severely tried, for nothing came to their hooks to reward the intense gaze and the nervous readiness to act which marked each boy during the next half-hour or so. At the end of that time there came a change in their favour, for little Martha Mild appeared on the scene. She had been sent, she said, to work with them. "To play with us, you mean," suggested Tim. "No, father said work," the child returned simply. "It's jolly work, then! But I say, old 'ooman, d'you call Mr Merryboy father?" asked Bob in surprise. "Yes, I've called him father ever since I came." "An' who's your real father?" "I have none. Never had one." "An' your mother?" "Never had a mother either." "Well, you air a curiosity." "Hallo! Bob, don't forget your purliteness," said Tim. "Come, Mumpy; father calls you Mumpy, doesn't he?" "Yes." "Then so will I. Well, Mumpy, as I was goin' to say, you may come an' _work_ with my rod if you like, an' we'll make a game of it. We'll play at work. Let me see where shall we be?" "In the garden of Eden," suggested Bob. "The very thing," said Tim; "I'll be Adam an' you'll be Eve, Mumpy." "Very well," said Martha with ready assent. She would have assented quite as readily to have personated Jezebel or the Witch of Endor. "And I'll be Cain," said Bobby, moving his line in a manner that was meant to be persuasive. "Oh!" said Martha, with much diffidence, "Cain was wicked, wasn't he?" "Well, my dear Eve," said Tim, "Bobby Frog is wicked enough for half-a-dozen Cains. In fact, you can't cane him enough to pay him off for all his wickedness." "Bah! go to bed," said Cain, still intent on his line, which seemed to quiver as if with a nibble. As for Eve, being as innocent of pun-appreciation as her great original probably was, she looked at the two boys in pleased gravity. "Hi! Cain's got another bite," cried Adam, while Eve went into a state of gentle excitement, and fluttered near with an evidently strong desire to help in some way. "Hallo! got 'im again!" shouted Tim, as his rod bent to the water with jerky violence; "out o' the way, Eve, else you'll get shoved into Gihon." "Euphrates, you stoopid!" said Cain, turning his Beehive training to account. Having lost his fish, you see, he could afford to be critical while he fixed on another bait. But Tim cared not for rivers or names just then, having hooked a "real wopper," which gave him some trouble to land. When landed, it proved to be the finest fish of the lot, much to Eve's satisfaction, who sat down to watch the process when Adam renewed the bait. Now, Bobby Frog, not having as yet been quite reformed, and, perhaps, having imbibed some of the spirit of his celebrated prototype with his name, felt a strong impulse to give Tim a gentle push behind. For Tim sat in an irresistibly tempting position on the bank, with his little boots overhanging the dark pool from which the fish had been dragged. "Tim," said Bob. "Adam, if you please--or call me father, if you prefer it!" "Well, then, father, since I haven't got an Abel to kill, I'm only too 'appy to have a Adam to souse." Saying which, he gave him a sufficient impulse to send him off! Eve gave vent to a treble shriek, on beholding her husband struggling in the water, and Cain himself felt somewhat alarmed at what he had done. He quickly extended the butt of his rod to his father, and dragged him safe to land, to poor Eve's inexpressible relief. "What d'ee mean by that, Bob?" demanded Tim fiercely, as he sprang towards his companion. "Cain, if you please--or call me son, if you prefers it," cried Bob, as he ran out of his friend's way; "but don't be waxy, father Adam, with your own darlin' boy. I couldn't 'elp it. You'd ha' done just the same to me if you'd had the chance. Come, shake 'ands on it." Tim Lumpy was not the boy to cherish bad feeling. He grinned in a ghastly manner, and shook the extended hand. "I forgive you, Cain, but please go an' look for Abel an' pitch into _him_ w'en next you git into that state o' mind, for it's agin common-sense, as well as history, to pitch into your old father so." Saying which, Tim went off to wring out his dripping garments, after which the fishing was resumed. "Wot a remarkable difference," said Bobby, breaking a rather long silence of expectancy, as he glanced round on the splendid landscape which was all aglow with the descending sun, "'tween these 'ere diggin's an' Commercial Road, or George Yard, or Ratcliff 'Ighway. Ain't it, Tim?" Before Tim could reply, Mr Merryboy came forward. "Capital!" he exclaimed, on catching sight of the fish; "well done, lads, well done. We shall have a glorious supper to-night. Now, Mumpy, you run home and tell mother to have the big frying-pan ready. She'll want your help. Ha!" he added, turning to the boys, as Martha ran off with her wonted alacrity, "I thought you'd soon teach yourselves how to catch fish. It's not difficult here. And what do you think of Martha, my boys?" "She's a trump!" said Bobby, with decision. "Fust rate!" said Tim, bestowing his highest conception of praise. "Quite true, lads; though why you should say `fust' instead of first-rate, Tim, is more than I can understand. However, you'll get cured of such-like queer pronunciations in course of time. Now, I want you to look on little Mumpy as your sister, and she's a good deal of your sister too in reality, for she came out of that same great nest of good and bad, rich and poor--London. Has she told you anything about herself yet?" "Nothin', sir," answered Bob, "'cept that when we axed--asked, I mean--I ax--ask your parding--she said she'd neither father nor mother." "Ah! poor thing; that's too true. Come, pick up your fish, and I'll tell you about her as we go along." The boys strung their fish on a couple of branches, and followed their new master home. "Martha came to us only last year," said the farmer. "She's a little older than she looks, having been somewhat stunted in her growth, by bad treatment, I suppose, and starvation and cold in her infancy. No one knows who was her father or mother. She was `found' in the streets one day, when about three years of age, by a man who took her home, and made use of her by sending her to sell matches in public-houses. Being small, very intelligent for her years, and attractively modest, she succeeded, I suppose, in her sales, and I doubt not the man would have continued to keep her, if he had not been taken ill and carried to hospital, where he died. Of course the man's lodging was given up the day he left it. As the man had been a misanthrope--that's a hater of everybody, lads--nobody cared anything about him, or made inquiry after him. The consequence was, that poor Martha was forgotten, strayed away into the streets, and got lost a second time. She was picked up this time by a widow lady in very reduced circumstances, who questioned her closely; but all that the poor little creature knew was that she didn't know where her home was, that she had no father or mother, and that her name was Martha. "The widow took her home, made inquiries about her parentage in vain, and then adopted and began to train her, which accounts for her having so little of that slang and knowledge of London low life that you have so much of, you rascals! The lady gave the child the pet surname of Mild, for it was so descriptive of her character. But poor Martha was not destined to have this mother very long. After a few years she died, leaving not a sixpence or a rag behind her worth having. Thus little Mumpy was thrown a third time on the world, but God found a protector for her in a friend of the widow, who sent her to the Refuge--the Beehive as you call it--which has been such a blessing to you, my lads, and to so many like you, and along with her the 10 pounds required to pay her passage and outfit to Canada. They kept her for some time and trained her, and then, knowing that I wanted a little lass here, they sent her to me, for which I thank God, for she's a dear little child." The tone in which the last sentence was uttered told more than any words could have conveyed the feelings of the bluff farmer towards the little gem that had been dug out of the London mines and thus given to him. Reader, they are prolific mines, those East-end mines of London! If you doubt it, go, hear and see for yourself. Perhaps it were better advice to say, go and dig, or help the miners! Need it be said that our waifs and strays grew and flourished in that rich Canadian soil? It need not! One of the most curious consequences of the new connection was the powerful affection that sprang up between Bobby Frog and Mrs Merryboy, senior. It seemed as if that jovial old lady and our London waif had fallen in love with each other at first sight. Perhaps the fact that the lady was intensely appreciative of fun, and the young gentleman wonderfully full of the same, had something to do with it. Whatever the cause, these two were constantly flirting with each other, and Bob often took the old lady out for little rambles in the wood behind the farm. There was a particular spot in the woods, near a waterfall, of which this curious couple were particularly fond, and to which they frequently resorted, and there, under the pleasant shade, with the roar of the fall for a symphony, Bob poured out his hopes and fears, reminiscences and prospects into the willing ears of the little old lady, who was so very small that Bob seemed quite a big man by contrast. He had to roar almost as loud as the cataract to make her hear, but he was well rewarded. The old lady, it is true, did not speak much, perhaps because she understood little, but she expressed enough of sympathy, by means of nods, and winks with her brilliant black eyes, and smiles with her toothless mouth, to satisfy any boy of moderate expectations. And Bobby _was_ satisfied. So, also, were the other waifs and strays, not only with old granny, but with everything in and around their home in the New World. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. TREATS OF ALTERED CIRCUMSTANCES AND BLUE-RIBBONISM. Once again we return to the great city, and to Mrs Frog's poor lodging. But it is not poor now, for the woman has at last got riches and joy-- such riches as the ungodly care not for, and a joy that they cannot understand. It is not all riches and joy, however. The Master has told us that we shall have "much tribulation." What then? Are we worse off than the unbelievers? Do _they_ escape the tribulation? It is easy to prove that the Christian has the advantage of the worldling, for, while both have worries and tribulation without fail, the one has a little joy along with these--nay, much joy if you choose--which, however, will end with life, if not before; while the other has joy unspeakable and full of glory, which will increase with years, and end in absolute felicity! Let us look at Mrs Frog's room now, and listen to her as she sits on one side of a cheerful fire, sewing, while Hetty sits on the other side, similarly occupied, and Matty, _alias_ Mita, lies in her crib sound asleep. It is the same room, the same London atmosphere, which no moral influence will ever purify, and pretty much the same surroundings, for Mrs Frog's outward circumstances have not altered much in a worldly point of view. The neighbours in the court are not less filthy and violent. One drunken nuisance has left the next room, but another almost as bad has taken his place. Nevertheless, although not altered much, things are decidedly improved in the poor pitiful dwelling. Whereas, in time past, it used to be dirty, now it is clean. The table is the same table, obviously, for you can see the crack across the top caused by Ned's great fist on that occasion when, failing rather in force of argument while laying down the law, he sought to emphasise his remarks with an effective blow; but a craftsman has been at work on the table, and it is no longer rickety. The chair, too, on which Mrs Frog sits, is the same identical chair which missed the head of Bobby Frog that time he and his father differed in opinion on some trifling matter, and smashed a panel of the door; but the chair has been to see the doctor, and its constitution is stronger now. The other chair, on which Hetty sits, is a distinct innovation. So is baby's crib. It has replaced the heap of straw which formerly sufficed, and there are two low bedsteads in corners which once were empty. Besides all this there are numerous articles of varied shape and size glittering on the walls, such as sauce-pans and pot-lids, etcetera, which are made to do ornamental as well as useful duty, being polished to the highest possible degree of brilliancy. Everywhere there is evidence of order and care, showing that the inmates of the room are somehow in better circumstances. Let it not be supposed that this has been accomplished by charity. Mrs Samuel Twitter is very charitable, undoubtedly. There can be no question as to that; but if she were a hundred times more charitable than she is, and were to give away a hundred thousand times more money than she does give, she could not greatly diminish the vast poverty of London. Mrs Twitter had done what she could in this case, but that was little, in a money point of view, for there were others who had stronger claims upon her than Mrs Frog. But Mrs Twitter had put her little finger under Mrs Frog's chin when her lips were about to go under water, and so, figuratively, she kept her from drowning. Mrs Twitter had put out a hand when Mrs Frog tripped and was about to tumble, and thus kept her from falling. When Mrs Frog, weary of life, was on the point of rushing once again to London Bridge, with a purpose, Mrs Twitter caught the skirt of her ragged robe with a firm but kindly grasp and held her back, thus saving her from destruction; but, best of all, when the poor woman, under the influence of the Spirit of God, ceased to strive with her Maker and cried out earnestly, "What must I do to be saved?" Mrs Twitter grasped her with both hands and dragged her with tender violence towards the Fold, but not quite into it. For Mrs Twitter was a wise, unselfish woman, as well as good. At a certain point she ceased to act, and said, "Mrs Frog, go to your own Hetty, and she will tell you what to do." And Mrs Frog went, and Hetty, with joyful surprise in her heart, and warm tears of gratitude in her eyes, pointed her to Jesus the Saviour of mankind. It was nothing new to the poor woman to be thus directed. It is nothing new to almost any one in a Christian land to be pointed to Christ; but it _is_ something new to many a one to have the eyes opened to see, and the will influenced to accept. It was so now with this poor, self-willed, and long-tried--or, rather, long-resisting--woman. The Spirit's time had come, and she was made willing. But now she had to face the difficulties of the new life. Conscience--never killed, and now revived--began to act. "I must work," she said, internally, and conscience nodded approval. "I must drink less," she said, but conscience shook her head. "It will be very hard, you see," she continued, apologetically, "for a poor woman like me to get through a hard day without just _one_ glass of beer to strengthen me." Conscience did all her work by looks alone. She was naturally dumb, but she had a grand majestic countenance with great expressive eyes, and at the mention of _one_ glass of beer she frowned so that poor Mrs Frog almost trembled. At this point Hetty stepped into the conversation. All unaware of what had been going on in her mother's mind, she said, suddenly, "Mother, I'm going to a meeting to-night; will you come?" Mrs Frog was quite willing. In fact she had fairly given in and become biddable like a little child,--though, after all, that interesting creature does not always, or necessarily, convey the most perfect idea of obedience! It was a rough meeting, composed of rude elements, in a large but ungilded hall in Whitechapel. The people were listening intently to a powerful speaker. The theme was strong drink. There were opponents and sympathisers there. "It is the greatest curse, I think, in London," said the speaker, as Hetty and her mother entered. "Bah!" exclaimed a powerful man beside whom they chanced to sit down. "I've drank a lot on't an' don't find it no curse, at all." "Silence," cried some in the audience. "I tell 'ee it's all barn wot 'e's talkin'," said the powerful man. "Put 'im out," cried some of the audience. But the powerful man had a powerful look, and a great bristly jaw, and a fierce pair of eyes which had often been blackened, and still bore the hues of the last fight; no one, therefore, attempted to put him out, so he snapped his fingers at the entire meeting, said, "Bah!" again, with a look of contempt, and relapsed into silence, while the speaker, heedless of the slight interruption, went on. "Why, it's a Blue Ribbon meeting, Hetty," whispered Mrs Frog. "Yes, mother," whispered Hetty in reply, "that's one of its names, but its real title, I heard one gentleman say, is the Gospel-Temperance Association, you see, they're very anxious to put the gospel first and temperance second; temperance bein' only one of the fruits of the gospel of Jesus." The speaker went on in eloquent strains pleading the great cause--now drawing out the sympathies of his hearers, then appealing to their reason; sometimes relating incidents of deepest pathos, at other times convulsing the audience with touches of the broadest humour, insomuch that the man who said "bah!" modified his objections to "pooh!" and ere long came to that turning-point where silence is consent. In this condition he remained until reference was made by the speaker to a man-- not such a bad fellow too, when sober--who, under the influence of drink, had thrown his big shoe at his wife's head and cut it so badly that she was even then--while he was addressing them--lying in hospital hovering between life and death. "That's me!" cried the powerful man, jumping up in a state of great excitement mingled with indignation, while he towered head and shoulders above the audience, "though how _you_ come for to 'ear on't beats me holler. An' it shows 'ow lies git about, for she's _not_ gone to the hospital, an' it wasn't shoes at all, but boots I flung at 'er, an' they only just grazed 'er, thank goodness, an' sent the cat flyin' through the winder. So--" A burst of laughter with mingled applause and cheers cut off the end of the sentence and caused the powerful man to sit down in much confusion, quite puzzled what to think of it all. "My friend," said the speaker, when order had been restored, "you are mistaken. I did not refer to you at all, never having seen or heard of you before, but there are too many men like you--men who would be good men and true if they would only come to the Saviour, who would soon convince them that it is wise to give up the drink and put on the blue ribbon. Let it not be supposed, my friends, that I say it is the _duty_ of every one to put on the blue ribbon and become a total abstainer. There are circumstances in which a `little wine' may be advisable. Why, the apostle Paul himself, when Timothy's stomach got into a chronic state of disease which subjected him, apparently, to `frequent infirmities,' advised him to take a `little wine,' but he didn't advise him to take many quarts of beer, or numerous glasses of brandy and water, or oceans of Old Tom, or to get daily fuddled on the poisons which are sold by many publicans under these names. Still less did Paul advise poor dyspeptic Timothy to become his own medical man and prescribe all these medicines to himself, whenever he felt inclined for them. Yes, there are the old and the feeble and the diseased, who may, (observe I don't say who _do_, for I am not a doctor, but who _may_), require stimulants under medical advice. To these we do not speak, and to these we would not grudge the small alleviation to their sad case which may be found in stimulants; but to the young and strong and healthy we are surely entitled to say, to plead, and to entreat--put on the blue ribbon if you see your way to it. And by the young we mean not only all boys and girls, but all men and women in the prime of life, ay, and beyond the prime, if in good health. Surely you will all admit that the young require no stimulants. Are they not superabounding in energy? Do they not require the very opposite--sedatives, and do they not find these in constant and violent muscular exercise?" With many similar and other arguments did the speaker seek to influence the mass of human beings before him, taking advantage of every idea that cropped up and every incident in the meeting that occurred to enforce his advice--namely, total abstinence for the young and the healthy-- until he had stirred them up to a state of considerable enthusiasm. Then he said:-- "I am glad to see you enthusiastic. Nothing great can be done without enthusiasm. You may potter along the even tenor of your way without it, but you'll never come to much good, and you'll never accomplish great things, without it. What is enthusiasm? Is it not seeing the length, breadth, height, depth, and bearing of a good thing, and being zealously affected in helping to bring it about? There are many kinds of enthusiasts, though but one quality of enthusiasm. Weak people show their enthusiasm too much on the surface. Powerful folk keep it too deep in their hearts to be seen at all. What then, are we to scout it in the impulsive because too obvious; to undervalue it in the reticent because almost invisible? Nay, let us be thankful for it in any form, for the _thing_ is good, though the individual's manner of displaying it may be faulty. Let us hope that the too gushing may learn to clap on the breaks a little--a very little; but far more let us pray that the reticent and the self-possessed, and the oh!--dear--no--you'll--never-- catch--me--doing--that--sort--of--thing people, may be enabled to get up more steam. Better far in my estimation the wild enthusiast than the self-possessed and self-sufficient cynic. Just look at your gentlemanly cynic; good-natured very likely, for he's mightily pleased with himself and excessively wise in regard to all things sublunary. Why, even he has enthusiasm, though not always in a good cause. Follow him to the races. Watch him while he sees the sleek and beautiful creatures straining every muscle, and his own favourite drawing ahead, inch by inch, until it bids fair to win. Is _that_ our cynic, bending forward on his steed, with gleaming eyes and glowing cheek, and partly open mouth and quick-coming breath, and so forgetful of himself that he swings off his hat and gives vent to a lusty cheer as the favourite passes the winning-post? "But follow him still further. Don't let him go. Hold on to his horse's tail till we see him safe into his club, and wait there till he has dined and gone to the opera. There he sits, immaculate in dress and bearing, in the stalls. It is a huge audience. A great star is to appear. The star comes on--music such as might cause the very angels to bend and listen. "The sweet singer exerts herself; her rich voice swells in volume and sweeps round the hall, filling every ear and thrilling every heart, until, unable to restrain themselves, the vast concourse rises _en masse_, and, with waving scarf and kerchief, thunders forth applause! And what of our cynic? There he is, the wildest of the wild--for he happens to love music--shouting like a maniac and waving his hat, regardless of the fact that he has broken the brim, and that the old gentleman whose corns he has trodden on frowns at him with savage indignation. "Yes," continued the speaker, "the whole world is enthusiastic when the key-note of each individual, or class of individuals, is struck; and shall _we_ be ashamed of our enthusiasm for this little bit of heavenly blue, which symbolises the great fact that those who wear it are racing with the demon Drink to save men and women, (ourselves included, perhaps), from his clutches; racing with Despair to place Hope before the eyes of those who are blindly rushing to destruction; racing with Time to snatch the young out of the way of the Destroyer before he lays hand on them; and singing--ay, shouting--songs of triumph and glory to God because of the tens of thousands of souls and bodies already saved; because of the bright prospect of the tens of thousands more to follow; because of the innumerable voices added to the celestial choir, and the glad assurance that the hymns of praise thus begun shall not die out with our feeble frames, but will grow stronger in sweetness as they diminish in volume, until, the river crossed, they shall burst forth again with indescribable intensity in the New Song. "Some people tell us that these things are not true. Others say they won't last. My friends, I know, and many of you know, that they _are_ true, and even if they were _not_ to last, have we not even now ground for praise? Shall we not rejoice that the lifeboat has saved some, because others have refused to embark and perished? But we don't admit that these things won't last. Very likely, in the apostolic days, some of the unbelievers said of them and their creed, `How long will it last?' If these objectors be now able to take note of the world's doings, they have their answer from Father Time himself; for does he not say, `Christianity has lasted nearly nineteen hundred years, and is the strongest moral motive-power in the world to-day?' The Blue Ribbon, my friends, or what it represents, is founded on Christianity; therefore the principles which it represents are sure to stand. Who will come now and put it on?" "I will!" shouted a strong voice from among the audience, and up rose the powerful man who began the evening with "bah!" and "pooh!" He soon made his way to the platform amid uproarious cheering, and donned the blue. "Hetty," whispered Mrs Frog in a low, timid voice, "I think I would like to put it on too." If the voice had been much lower and more timid, Hetty would have heard it, for she sat there watching for her mother as one might watch for a parent in the crisis of a dread disease. She knew that no power on earth can change the will, and she had waited and prayed till the arrow was sent home by the hand of God. "Come along, mother," she said--but said no more, for her heart was too full. Mrs Frog was led to the platform, to which multitudes of men, women, and children were pressing, and the little badge was pinned to her breast. Thus did that poor woman begin her Christian course with the fruit of self-denial. She then set about the work of putting her house in order. It was up-hill work at first, and very hard, but the promise did not fail her, "Lo! I am with you alway." In all her walk she found Hetty a guardian angel. "I must work, Hetty, dear," she said, "for it will never do to make you support us all; but what am I to do with baby? There is no one to take charge of her when I go out." "I am quite able to keep the whole of us, mother, seeing that I get such good pay from the lady I work for, but as you want to work, I can easily manage for baby. You know I've often wished to speak of the Infant Nursery in George Yard. Before you sent Matty away I wanted you to send her there, but--" Hetty paused. "Go on, dear. I was mad agin' you an' your religious ways; wasn't that it?" said Mrs Frog. "Well, mother, it don't matter now, thank God. The Infant Nursery, you know, is a part of the Institution there. The hearts of the people who manage it were touched by the death of so many thousands of little ones every year in London through want and neglect, so they set up this nursery to enable poor widowed mothers and others to send their babies to be cared for--nursed, fed, and amused in nice airy rooms--while the mothers are at work. They charge only fourpence a day for this, and each baby has its own bag of clothing, brush and comb, towel and cot. They will keep Matty from half-past seven in the morning till eight at night for you, so that will give you plenty of time to work, won't it, mother?" "It will indeed, Hetty, and all for fourpence a day, say you?" "Yes, the ordinary charge is fourpence, but widows get it for twopence for each child, and, perhaps, they may regard a deserted wife as a widow! There is a fine of twopence per hour for any child not taken away after eight, so you'll have to be up to time, mother." Mrs Frog acted on this advice, and thus was enabled to earn a sufficiency to enable her to pay her daily rent, to clothe and feed herself and child, to give a little to the various missions undertaken by the Institutions near her, to put a little now and then into the farthing bank, and even to give a little in charity to the poor! Now, reader, you may have forgotten it, but if you turn back to near the beginning of this chapter, you will perceive that all we have been writing about is a huge digression, for which we refuse to make the usual apology. We return again to Mrs Frog where we left her, sitting beside her cheerful fire, sewing and conversing with Hetty. "I can't bear to think of 'im, Hetty," said Mrs Frog. "You an' me sittin' here so comfortable, with as much to eat as we want, an' to spare, while your poor father is in a cold cell. He's bin pretty bad to me of late, it's true, wi' that drink, but he wasn't always like that, Hetty; even you can remember him before he took to the drink." "Yes, mother, I can, and, bless the Lord, he may yet be better than he ever was. When is his time up?" "This day three weeks. The twelve months will be out then. We must pray for 'im, Hetty." "Yes, mother. I am always prayin' for him. You know that." There was a touch of anxiety in the tones and faces of both mother and daughter as they talked of the father, for his home-coming might, perhaps, nay probably would, be attended with serious consequences to the renovated household. They soon changed the subject to one more agreeable. "Isn't Bobby's letter a nice one, mother?" said Hetty, "and so well written, though the spellin' might have been better; but then he's had so little schoolin'." "It just makes my heart sing," returned Mrs Frog. "Read it again to me, Hetty. I'll never tire o' hearin' it. I only wish it was longer." The poor mother's wish was not unnatural, for the letter which Bobby had written was not calculated to tax the reader's patience, and, as Hetty hinted, there was room for improvement, not only in the spelling but in the writing. Nevertheless, it had carried great joy to the mother's heart. We shall therefore give it _verbatim et literatim_. Brankly Farm--Kanada. "Deer Mutrer. wen i left you i promisd to rite so heer gos. this Plase is eaven upon arth. so pritty an grand. O you never did see the likes. ide park is nuffin to it, an as for Kensintn gardings--wy to kompair thems rediklis. theres sitch a nice little gal here. shes wun of deer mis mukfersons gals--wot the vestenders calls a wafe and sometimes a strai. were all very fond of er spesially tim lumpy. i shuvd im in the river wun dai. my--ow e spluterd. but e was non the wus--all the better, mister an mistress meryboi aint that a joly naim are as good as gold to us. we as prairs nite and mornin an no end o witls an as appy as kings and kueens a-sitin on there throns. give all our luv to deer father, an etty an baiby an mis mukferson an mister olland an all our deer teechers. sai we'll never forgit wot they told us. your deer sun Bobby." "Isn't it beautiful?" said Mrs Frog, wiping away a tear with the sock she was darning in preparation for her husband's return. "Yes, mother. Bless the people that sent 'im out to Canada," said Hetty, "for he would never have got on here." There came a tap to the door as she spoke, and Mrs Twitter, entering, was received with a hearty welcome. "I came, Mrs Frog," she said, accepting the chair--for there was even a third chair--which Hetty placed for her, "to ask when your husband will be home again." Good Mrs Twitter carefully avoided the risk of hurting the poor woman's feelings by needless reference to jail. "I expect him this day three weeks, ma'am," replied Mrs Frog. "That will do nicely," returned Mrs Twitter. "You see, my husband knows a gentleman who takes great pleasure in getting con--in getting men like Ned, you know, into places, and giving them a chance of--of getting on in life, you understand?" "_Yes_, ma'am, we must all try to git on in life if we would keep in life," said Mrs Frog, sadly. "Well, there is a situation open just now, which the gentleman--the same gentleman who was so kind in helping us after the fire; you see we all need help of one another, Mrs Frog--which the gentleman said he could keep open for a month, but not longer, so, as I happened to be passing your house to-night on my way to the Yard, to the mothers' meeting, I thought I'd just look in and tell you, and ask you to be sure and send Ned to me the moment he comes home." "I will, ma'am, and God bless you for thinkin' of us so much." "Remember, now," said Mrs Twitter, impressively, "_before_ he has time to meet any of his old comrades. Tell him if he comes straight to me he will hear something that will please him very much. I won't tell you what. That is my message to him. And now, how is my Mita? Oh! I need not ask. There she lies like a little angel!" (Mrs Twitter rose and went to the crib, but did not disturb the little sleeper.) "I wish I saw roses on her little cheeks and more fat, Mrs Frog." Mrs Frog admitted that there was possible improvement in the direction of roses and fat, but feared that the air, (it would have been more correct to have said the smoke and smells), of the court went against roses and fat, somehow. She was thankful, however, to the good Lord for the health they all enjoyed in spite of local disadvantages. "Ah!" sighed Mrs Twitter, "if we could only transport you all to Canada--" "Oh! ma'am," exclaimed Mrs Frog, brightening up suddenly, "we've had _such_ a nice letter from our Bobby. Let her see it, Hetty." "Yes, and so nicely written, too," remarked Hetty, with a beaming face, as she handed Bobby's production to the visitor, "though he doesn't quite understand yet the need for capital letters." "Never mind, Hetty, so long as he sends you capital letters," returned Mrs Twitter, perpetrating the first pun she had been guilty of since she was a baby; "and, truly, this is a charming letter, though short." "Yes, it's rather short, but it might have been shorter," said Mrs Frog, indulging in a truism. Mrs Twitter was already late for the mothers' meeting, but she felt at once that it would be better to be still later than to disappoint Mrs Frog of a little sympathy in a matter which touched her feelings so deeply. She sat down, therefore, and read the letter over, slowly, commenting on it as she went along in a pleasant sort of way, which impressed the anxious mother with, not quite the belief, but the sensation that Bobby was the most hopeful immigrant which Canada had received since it was discovered. "Now, mind, send Ned up _at once_," said the amiable lady when about to quit the little room. "Yes, Mrs Twitter, I will; good-night." CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. NED FROG'S EXPERIENCES AND SAMMY TWITTER'S WOES. But Ned Frog, with strong drink combined, rendered fruitless all the efforts that were put forth in his behalf at that time. When discharged with a lot of other jail-birds, none of whom, however, he knew, he sauntered leisurely homeward, wondering whether his wife was alive, and, if so, in what condition he should find her. It may have been that better thoughts were struggling in his breast for ascendency, because he sighed deeply once or twice, which was not a usual mode with Ned of expressing his feelings. A growl was more common and more natural, considering his character. Drawing nearer and nearer to his old haunts, yet taking a roundabout road, as the moth is drawn to the candle, or as water descends to its level, he went slowly on, having little hope of comfort in his home, and not knowing very well what to do. As he passed down one of the less frequented streets leading into Whitechapel, he was arrested by the sight of a purse lying on the pavement. To become suddenly alive, pick it up, glance stealthily round, and thrust it into his pocket, was the work of an instant. The saunter was changed into a steady businesslike walk. As he turned into Commercial Street, Ned met Number 666 full in the face. He knew that constable intimately, but refrained from taking notice of him, and passed on with an air and expression which were meant to convey the idea of infantine innocence. Guilty men usually over-reach themselves. Giles noted the air, and suspected guilt, but, not being in a position to prove it, walked gravely on, with his stern eyes straight to the front. In a retired spot Ned examined his "find." It contained six sovereigns, four shillings, threepence, a metropolitan railway return ticket, several cuttings from newspapers, and a recipe for the concoction of a cheap and wholesome pudding, along with a card bearing the name of Mrs Samuel Twitter, written in ink and without any address. "You're in luck, Ned," he remarked to himself, as he examined these treasures. "Now, old boy you 'aven't stole this 'ere purse, so you ain't a thief; you don't know w'ere Mrs S.T. lives, so you can't find 'er to return it to 'er. Besides, it's more than likely she won't feel the want of it--w'ereas I feels in want of it wery much indeed. Of course it's my dooty to 'and it over to the p'lice, but, in the first place, I refuse to 'ave any communication wi' the p'lice, friendly or otherwise; in the second place, I 'ad no 'and in makin' the laws, so I don't feel bound to obey 'em; thirdly, I'm both 'ungry an' thirsty, an' 'ere you 'ave the remedy for them afflictions, so, fourthly--'ere goes!" Having thus cleared his conscience, Ned committed the cash to his vest pocket, and presented the purse with its remaining contents to the rats in a neighbouring sewer. Almost immediately afterwards he met an Irishman, an old friend. "Terence, my boy, well met!" he said, offering his hand. "Hooroo! Ned Frog, sure I thought ye was in limbo!" "You thought right, Terry; only half-an-hour out. Come along, I'll stand you somethin' for the sake of old times. By the way, have you done that job yet?" "What job?" "Why, the dynamite job, of course." "No, I've gi'n that up," returned the Irishman with a look of contempt. "To tell you the honest truth, I don't believe that the way to right Ireland is to blow up England. But there's an Englishman you'll find at the Swan an' Anchor--a sneakin' blackguard, as would sell his own mother for dhrink--he'll help you if you wants to have a hand in the job. I'm off it." Notwithstanding this want of sympathy on that point, the two friends found that they held enough in common to induce a prolonged stay at the public-house, from which Ned finally issued rather late at night, and staggered homewards. He met no acquaintance on the way, and was about to knock at his own door when the sound of a voice within arrested him. It was Hetty, praying. The poor wife and daughter had given up hope of his returning at so late an hour that night, and had betaken themselves to their usual refuge in distress. Ned knew the sound well, and it seemed to rouse a demon in his breast, for he raised his foot with the intention of driving in the door, when he was again arrested by another sound. It was the voice of little Matty, who, awaking suddenly out of a terrifying dream, set up a shrieking which at once drowned all other sounds. Ned lowered his foot, thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood gazing in a state of indecision at the broken pavement for a few minutes. "No peace there," he said, sternly. "Prayin' an' squallin' don't suit me, so good-night to 'ee all." With that he turned sharp round, and staggered away, resolving never more to return! "Is that you, Ned Frog?" inquired a squalid, dirty-looking woman, thrusting her head out of a window as he passed. "No, 'tain't," said Ned, fiercely, as he left the court. He went straight to a low lodging-house, but before entering tied his money in a bit of rag, and thrust it into an inner pocket of his vest, which he buttoned tight, and fastened his coat over it. Paying the requisite fourpence for the night's lodging, he entered, and was immediately hailed by several men who knew him, but being in no humour for good fellowship, he merely nodded and went straight up to his lowly bed. It was one of seventy beds that occupied the entire floor of an immense room. Police supervision had secured that this room should be well ventilated, and that the bedding should be reasonably clean, though far from clean-looking, and Ned slept soundly in spite of drink, for, as we have said before, he was unusually strong. Next day, having thought over his plans in bed, and, being a man of strong determination, he went forth to carry them into immediate execution. He went to a lofty tenement in the neighbourhood of Dean and Flower Street, one of the poorest parts of the city, and hired a garret, which was so high up that even the staircase ended before you reached it, and the remainder of the upward flight had to be performed on a ladder, at the top of which was a trap-door, the only entrance to Ned's new home. Having paid a week's rent in advance he took possession, furnished the apartment with one old chair, one older table, one bundle of straw in a sack, one extremely old blanket, and one brand-new pipe with a corresponding ounce or two of tobacco. Then he locked the trap-door, put the key in his pocket, and descended to the street, where at Bird-fair he provided himself with sundry little cages and a few birds. Having conveyed these with some food for himself and the little birds to his lodging he again descended to the street, and treated himself to a pint of beer. While thus engaged he was saluted by an old friend, the owner of a low music-hall, who begged for a few minutes' conversation with him outside. "Ned," he said, "I'm glad I fell in with you, for I'm uncommon 'ard up just now." "I never lends money," said Ned, brusquely turning away. "'Old on, Ned, I don't want yer money, bless yer. I wants to _give_ you money." "Oh! that's quite another story; fire away, old man." "Well, you see, I'm 'ard up, as I said, for a man to keep order in my place. The last man I 'ad was a good 'un, 'e was. Six futt one in 'is socks, an' as strong as a 'orse, but by ill luck one night, a sailor-chap that was bigger than 'im come in to the 'all, an' they 'ad a row, an' my man got sitch a lickin' that he 'ad to go to hospital, an' 'e's been there for a week, an' won't be out, they say, for a month or more. Now, Ned, will you take the job? The pay's good an' the fun's considerable. So's the fightin', sometimes, but you'd put a stop to that you know. An', then, you'll 'ave all the day to yourself to do as you like." "I'm your man," said Ned, promptly. Thus it came to pass that the pugilist obtained suitable employment as a peacemaker and keeper of order, for a time at least, in one of those disreputable places of amusement where the unfortunate poor of London are taught lessons of vice and vanity which end often in vexation of spirit, not only to themselves, but to the strata of society which rest above them. One night Ned betook himself to this temple of vice, and on the way was struck by the appearance of a man with a barrow--a sort of book-stall on wheels--who was pushing his way through the crowded street. It was the man who at the temperance meeting had begun with "bah!" and "pooh!" and had ended by putting on the Blue Ribbon. He had once been a comrade of Ned Frog, but had become so very respectable that his old chum scarcely recognised him. "Hallo! Reggie North, can that be you?" North let down his barrow, wheeled round, and held out his hand with a hearty, "how are 'ee, old man? W'y you're lookin' well, close cropped an' comfortable, eh! Livin' at Her Majesty's expense lately? Where d'ee live now, Ned? I'd like to come and see you." Ned told his old comrade the locality of his new abode. "But I say, North, how respectable you are! What's come over you? not become a travellin' bookseller, have you?" "That's just what I am, Ned." "Well, there's no accountin' for taste. I hope it pays." "Ay, pays splendidly--pays the seller of the books and pays the buyers better." "How's that?" asked Ned, in some surprise, going up to the barrow; "oh! I see, Bibles." "Yes, Ned, Bibles, the Word of God. Will you buy one?" "No, thank 'ee," said Ned, drily. "Here, I'll make you a present o' one, then," returned North, thrusting a Bible into the other's hand; "you can't refuse it of an old comrade. Good-night. I'll look in on you soon." "You needn't trouble yourself," Ned called out as his friend went off; and he felt half inclined to fling the Bible after him, but checked himself. It was worth money! so he put it in his pocket and went his way. The hall was very full that night, a new comic singer of great promise having been announced, and oh! it was sad to see the youths of both sexes, little more than big boys and girls, who went there to smoke, and drink, and enjoy ribald songs and indecent jests! We do not mean to describe the proceedings. Let it suffice to say that, after one or two songs and a dance had been got through, Ned, part of whose duty it was to announce the performances, rose and in a loud voice said-- "Signor Twittorini will now sing." The Signor stepped forward at once, and was received with a roar of enthusiastic laughter, for anything more lugubrious and woe-begone than the expression of his face had never been seen on these boards before. There was a slight look of shyness about him, too, which increased the absurdity of the thing, and it was all _so natural_, as one half-tipsy woman remarked. So it was--intensely natural--for Signor Twittorini was no other than poor Sammy Twitter in the extremest depths of his despair. Half-starved, half-mad, yet ashamed to return to his father's house, the miserable boy had wandered in bye streets, and slept in low lodging-houses as long as his funds lasted. Then he tried to get employment with only partial success, until at last, recollecting that he had been noted among his companions for a sweet voice and a certain power of singing serio-comic songs, he thought of a low music-hall into which he had staggered one evening when drunk--as much with misery as with beer. The manager, on hearing a song or two, at once engaged him and brought him out. As poor Sammy knew nothing about acting, it was decided that he should appear in his own garments, which, being shabby-genteel, were pretty well suited for a great Italian singer in low society. But Sammy had over-rated his own powers. After the first burst of applause was over, he stood gazing at the audience with his mouth half open, vainly attempting to recollect the song he meant to sing, and making such involuntary contortions with his thin visage, that a renewed burst of laughter broke forth. When it had partially subsided, Sammy once more opened his mouth, gave vent to a gasp, burst into tears, and rushed from the stage. This was the climax! It brought down the house! Never before had they seen such an actor. He was inimitable, and the people made the usual demand for an _encore_ with tremendous fervour, expecting that Signor Twittorini would repeat the scene, probably with variations, and finish off with the promised song. But poor Sammy did not respond. "I see,--you can improvise," said the manager, quite pleased, "and I've no objection when it's well done like that; but you'd better go on now, and stick to the programme." "I can't sing," said Sammy, in passionate despair. "Come, come, young feller, I don't like actin' _off_ the stage, an' the audience is gittin' impatient." "But I tell you I can't sing a note," repeated Sam. "What! D'ye mean to tell me you're not actin'?" "I wish I was!" cried poor Sam, glancing upward with tearful eyes and clasping his hands. "Come now. You've joked enough. Go on and do your part," said the puzzled manager. "But I tell you I'm _not_ joking. I couldn't sing just now if you was to give me ten thousand pounds!" It might have been the amount of the sum stated, or the tone in which it was stated--we know not--but the truth of what Sam said was borne so forcibly in upon the manager, that he went into a violent passion; sprang at Sam's throat; hustled him towards a back door, and kicked him out into a back lane, where he sat down on an empty packing case, covered his face with his hands, bowed his head on his knees, and wept. The manager returned on the stage, and, with a calm voice and manner, which proved himself to be a very fair actor, stated that Signor Twittorini had met with a sudden disaster--not a very serious one-- which, however, rendered it impossible for him to re-appear just then, but that, if sufficiently recovered, he would appear towards the close of the evening. This, with a very significant look and gesture from Ned Frog, quieted the audience to the extent at least of inducing them to do nothing worse than howl continuously for ten minutes, after which they allowed the performances to go on, and saved the keeper of order the trouble of knocking down a few of the most unruly. Ned was the first to quit the hall when all was over. He did so by the back door, and found Sam still sitting on the door-step. "What's the matter with ye, youngster?" he said, going up to him. "You've made a pretty mess of it to-night." "I couldn't help it--indeed I couldn't. Perhaps I'll do better next time." "Better! ha! ha! You couldn't ha' done better--if you'd on'y gone on. But why do ye sit there?" "Because I've nowhere to go to." "There's plenty o' common lodgin'-'ouses, ain't there?" "Yes, but I haven't got a single rap." "Well, then, ain't there the casual ward? Why don't you go there? You'll git bed and board for nothin' there." Having put this question, and received no answer, Ned turned away without further remark. Hardened though Ned was to suffering, there was something in the fallen boy's face that had touched this fallen man. He turned back with a sort of remonstrative growl, and re-entered the back lane, but Signor Twittorini was gone. He had heard the manager's voice, and fled. A policeman directed him to the nearest casual ward, where the lowest stratum of abject poverty finds its nightly level. Here he knocked with trembling hand. He was received; he was put in a lukewarm bath and washed; he was fed on gruel and a bit of bread--quite sufficient to allay the cravings of hunger; he was shown to a room in which appeared to be a row of corpses--so dead was the silence--each rolled in a covering of some dark brown substance, and stretched out stiff on a trestle with a canvas bottom. One of the trestles was empty. He was told he might appropriate it. "Are they dead?" he asked, looking round with a shudder. "Not quite," replied his jailer, with a short laugh, "but dead-beat most of 'em--tired out, I should say, and disinclined to move." Sam Twitter fell on the couch, drew the coverlet over him, and became a brown corpse like the rest, while the guardian retired and locked the door to prevent the egress of any who might chance to come to life again. In the morning Sam had a breakfast similar to the supper; was made to pick oakum for a few hours by way of payment for hospitality, and left with a feeling that he had at last reached the lowest possible depth of degradation. So he had in that direction, but there are other and varied depths in London--depths of crime and of sickness, as well as of suffering and sorrow! Aimlessly he wandered about for another day, almost fainting with hunger, but still so ashamed to face his father and mother that he would rather have died than done so. Some touch of pathos, or gruff tenderness mayhap, in Ned Frog's voice, induced him to return at night to the scene of his discreditable failure, and await the pugilist's coming out. He followed him a short way, and then running forward, said-- "Oh, sir! I'm very low!" "Hallo! Signor Twittorini again!" said Ned, wheeling round, sternly. "What have I to do with your being low? I've been low enough myself at times, an' nobody helped--" Ned checked himself, for he knew that what he said was false. "I think I'm dying," said Sam, leaning against a house for support. "Well, if you do die, you'll be well out of it all," replied Ned, bitterly. "What's your name?" "Twitter," replied Sam, forgetting in his woe that he had not intended to reveal his real name. "Twitter--Twitter. I've heard that name before. Why, yes. Father's name Samuel--eh? Mother alive--got cards with Mrs Samuel Twitter on 'em, an' no address?" "Yes--yes. How do you come to know?" asked Sam in surprise. "Never you mind that, youngster, but you come along wi' me. I've got a sort o' right to feed you. Ha! ha! come along." Sam became frightened at this sudden burst of hilarity, and shrank away, but Ned grasped him by the arm, and led him along with such decision, that resistance he felt would be useless. In a few minutes he was in Ned's garret eating bread and cheese with ravenous satisfaction. "Have some beer!" said Ned, filling a pewter pot. "No--no--no--no!" said Sam, shuddering as he turned his head away. "Well, youngster," returned Ned, with a slight look of surprise, "please yourself, and here's your health." He drained the pot to the bottom, after which, dividing his straw into two heaps, and throwing them into two corners, he bade Sam lie down and rest. The miserable boy was only too glad to do so. He flung himself on the little heap pointed out, and the last thing he remembered seeing before the "sweet restorer" embraced him was the huge form of Ned Frog sitting in his own corner with his back to the wall, the pewter pot at his elbow, and a long clay pipe in his mouth. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. HOPES REVIVE. Mr Thomas Balls, butler to Sir Richard Brandon, standing with his legs wide apart and his hands under his coat tails in the servants' hall, delivered himself of the opinion that "things was comin' to a wonderful pass when Sir Richard Brandon would condescend to go visitin' of a low family in Whitechapel." "But the family is no more low than you are, Mr Balls," objected Jessie Summers, who, being not very high herself, felt that the remark was slightly personal. "Of course not, my dear," replied Balls, with a paternal smile. "I did not for a moment mean that Mr Samuel Twitter was low in an offensive sense, but in a social sense. Sir Richard, you know, belongs to the hupper ten, an' he 'as not been used to associate with people so much further down in the scale. Whether he's right or whether he's wrong ain't for me to say. I merely remark that, things being as they are, the master 'as come to a wonderful pass." "It's all along of Miss Diana," said Mrs Screwbury. "That dear child 'as taken the firm belief into her pretty 'ead that all people are equal in the sight of their Maker, and that we should look on each other as brothers and sisters, and you know she can twist Sir Richard round her little finger, and she's taken a great fancy to that Twitter family ever since she's been introduced to them at that 'Ome of Industry by Mr Welland, who used to be a great friend of their poor boy that ran away. And Mrs Twitter goes about the 'Ome, and among the poor so much, and can tell her so many stories about poor people, that she's grown quite fond of her." "But we _ain't_ all equal, Mrs Screwbury," said the cook, recurring, with some asperity, to a former remark, "an' nothink you or anybody else can ever say will bring me to believe it." "Quite right, cook," said Balls. "For instance, no one would ever admit that I was as good a cook as you are, or that you was equal to Mrs Screwbury as a nurse, or that any of us could compare with Jessie Summers as a 'ouse-maid, or that I was equal to Sir Richard in the matters of edication, or station, or wealth. No, it is in the more serious matters that concern our souls that we are equal, and I fear that when Death comes, he's not very particular as to who it is he's cuttin' down when he's got the order." A ring at the bell cut short this learned discourse. "That's for the cab," remarked Mr Balls as he went out. Now, while these things were taking place at the "West-End," in the "East-End" the Twitters were assembled round the social board enjoying themselves--that is to say, enjoying themselves as much as in the circumstances was possible. For the cloud that Sammy's disappearance had thrown over them was not to be easily or soon removed. Since the terrible day on which he was lost, a settled expression of melancholy had descended on the once cheery couple, which extended in varying degree down to their youngest. Allusion was never made to the erring one; yet it must not be supposed he was forgotten. On the contrary, Sammy was never out of his parents' thoughts. They prayed for him night and morning aloud, and at all times silently. They also took every possible step to discover their boy's retreat, by means of the ordinary police, as well as detectives whom they employed for the purpose of hunting Sammy up: but all in vain. It must not be supposed, however, that this private sorrow induced Mrs Twitter selfishly to forget the poor, or intermit her labours among them. She did not for an hour relax her efforts in their behalf at George Yard and at Commercial Street. At the Twitter social board--which, by the way, was spread in another house not far from that which had been burned--sat not only Mr and Mrs Twitter and all the little Twitters, but also Mrs Loper, who had dropped in just to make inquiries, and Mrs Larrabel, who was anxious to hear what news they had to tell, and Mr Crackaby, who was very sympathetic, and Mr Stickler, who was oracular. Thus the small table was full. "Mariar, my dear," said Mr Twitter, referring to some remarkable truism which his wife had just uttered, "we must just take things as we find 'em. The world is not goin' to change its course on purpose to please _us_. Things might be worse, you know, and when the spoke in your wheel is at its lowest there must of necessity be a rise unless it stands still altogether." "You're right, Mr Twitter. I always said so," remarked Mrs Loper, adopting all these sentiments with a sigh of resignation. "If we did not submit to fortune when it is adverse, why then we'd have to--have to--" "Succumb to it," suggested Mrs Larrabel, with one of her sweetest smiles. "No, Mrs Larrabel, I never succumb--from principle I never do so. The last thing that any woman of good feeling ought to do is to succumb. I would bow to it." "Quite right, ma'am, quite right," said Stickler, who now found time to speak, having finished his first cup of tea and second muffin; "to bow is, to say the least of it, polite and simple, and is always safe, for it commits one to nothing; but then, suppose that Fortune is impolite and refuses to return the bow, what, I ask you, would be the result?" As Mrs Loper could not form the slightest conception what the result would be, she replied with a weak smile and a request for more sausage. These remarks, although calculated to enlist the sympathies of Crackaby and excite the mental energies of Twitter, had no effect whatever on those gentlemen, for the latter was deeply depressed, and his friend Crackaby felt for him sincerely. Thus the black sheep remained victorious in argument--which was not always the case. Poor Twitter! He was indeed at that time utterly crestfallen, for not only had he lost considerably by the fire--his house having been uninsured--but business in the city had gone wrong somehow. A few heavy failures had occurred among speculators, and as these had always a row of minor speculators at their backs, like a row of child's bricks, which only needs the fall of one to insure the downcome of all behind it, there had been a general tumble of speculative bricks, tailing off with a number of unspeculative ones, such as tailors, grocers, butchers, and shopkeepers generally. Mr Twitter was one of the unspeculative unfortunates, but he had not come quite down. He had only been twisted uncomfortably to one side, just as a toy brick is sometimes seen standing up here and there in the midst of surrounding wreck. Mr Twitter was not absolutely ruined. He had only "got into difficulties." But this was a small matter in his and his good wife's eyes compared with the terrible fall and disappearance of their beloved Sammy. He had always been such a good, obedient boy; and, as his mother said, "_so_ sensitive." It never occurred to Mrs Twitter that this sensitiveness was very much the cause of his fall and disappearance, for the same weakness, or cowardice, that rendered him unable to resist the playful banter of his drinking comrades, prevented him from returning to his family in disgrace. "You have not yet advertised, I think?" said Crackaby. "No, not yet," answered Twitter; "we cannot bear to publish it. But we have set several detectives on his track. In fact we expect one of them this very evening; and I shouldn't wonder if that was him," he added, as a loud knock was heard at the door. "Please, ma'am," said the domestic, "Mr Welland's at the door with another gentleman. 'E says 'e won't come in--'e merely wishes to speak to you for a moment." "Oh! bid 'em come in, bid 'em come in," said Mrs Twitter in the exuberance of a hospitality which never turned any one away, and utterly regardless of the fact that her parlour was extremely small. Another moment, and Stephen Welland entered, apologising for the intrusion, and saying that he merely called with Sir Richard Brandon, on their way to the Beehive meeting, to ask if anything had been heard of Sam. "Come in, and welcome, _do_," said Mrs Twitter to Sir Richard, whose face had become a not unfamiliar one at the Beehive meetings by that time. "And Miss Diana, too! I'm _so_ glad you've brought her. Sit down, dear. Not so near the door. To be sure there ain't much room anywhere else, but--get out of the way, Stickler." The black sheep hopped to one side instantly, and Di was accommodated with his chair. Stickler was one of those toadies who worship rank for its own sake. If a lamp-post had been knighted Stickler would have bowed down to it. If an ass had been what he styled "barrow-knighted," he would have lain down and let it walk over him--perhaps would even have solicited a passing kick--certainly would not have resented one. "Allow me, Sir Richard," he said, with some reference to the knight's hat. "Hush, Stickler!" said Mrs Twitter. The black sheep hushed, while the bustling lady took the hat and placed it on the sideboard. "Your stick, Sir Richard," said Stickler, "permit--" "Hold your tongue, Stickler," said Mrs Twitter. The black sheep held his tongue--between his teeth,--and wished that some day he might have the opportunity of punching Mrs Twitter's head, without, if possible, her knowing who did it. Though thus reduced to silence, he cleared his throat in a demonstratively subservient manner and awaited his opportunity. Sir Richard was about to apologise for the intrusion when another knock was heard at the outer door, and immediately after, the City Missionary, John Seaward, came in. He evidently did not expect to see company, but, after a cordial salutation to every one, said that he had called on his way to the meeting. "You are heartily welcome. Come in," said Mrs Twitter, looking about for a chair, "come, sit beside me, Mr Seaward, on the stool. You'll not object to a humble seat, I know." "I am afraid," said Sir Richard, "that the meeting has much to answer for in the way of flooding you with unexpected guests." "Oh! dear, no, sir, I love unexpected guests--the more unexpected the more I--Molly, dear," (to her eldest girl), "take all the children up-stairs." Mrs Twitter was beginning to get confused in her excitement, but the last stroke of generalship relieved the threatened block and her anxieties at the same time. "But what of Sam?" asked young Welland in a low tone; "any news yet?" "None," said the poor mother, suddenly losing all her vivacity, and looking so pitifully miserable that the sympathetic Di incontinently jumped off her chair, ran up to her, and threw her arms round her neck. "Dear, darling child," said Mrs Twitter, returning the embrace with interest. "But I have brought you news," said the missionary, in a quiet voice which produced a general hush. "News!" echoed Twitter with sudden vehemence. "Oh! Mr Seaward," exclaimed the poor mother, clasping her hands and turning pale. "Yes," continued Seaward; "as all here seem to be friends, I may tell you that Sam has been heard of at last. He has not, indeed, yet been found, but he has been seen in the company of a man well-known as a rough disorderly character, but who it seems has lately put on the blue ribbon, so we may hope that his influence over Sam will be for good instead of evil." An expression of intense thankfulness escaped from the poor mother on hearing this, but the father became suddenly much excited, and plied the missionary with innumerable questions, which, however, resulted in nothing, for the good reason that nothing more was known. At this point the company were startled by another knock, and so persuaded was Mrs Twitter that it must be Sammy himself, that she rushed out of the room, opened the door, and almost flung herself into the arms of Number 666. "I--I--beg your pardon, Mr Scott, I thought that--" "No harm done, ma'am," said Giles. "May I come in?" "Certainly, and most welcome." When the tall constable bowed his head to pass under the ridiculously small doorway, and stood erect in the still more ridiculously small parlour, it seemed as though the last point of capacity had been touched, and the walls of the room must infallibly burst out. But they did not! Probably the house had been built before domiciles warranted to last twenty years had come into fashion. "You have found him!" exclaimed Mrs Twitter, clasping her hands and looking up in Giles's calm countenance with tearful eyes. "Yes, ma'am, I am happy to tell you that we have at last traced him. I have just left him." "And does he know you have come here? Is he expecting us?" asked the poor woman breathlessly. "Oh! dear, no, ma'am, I rather think that if he knew I had come here, he would not await my return, for the young gentleman does not seem quite willing to come home. Indeed he is not quite fit; excuse me." "How d'you know he's not willing?" demanded Mr Twitter, who felt a rising disposition to stand up for Sammy. "Because I heard him say so, sir. I went into the place where he was, to look for some people who are wanted, and saw your son sitting with a well-known rough of the name of North, who has become a changed man, however, and has put on the blue ribbon. I knew North well, and recognised your son at once. North seemed to have been trying to persuade your boy to return," ("bless him! bless him!" from Mrs Twitter), "for I heard him say as I passed--`Oh! no, no, no, I can _never_ return home!'" "Where is he? Take me to him at once. My bonnet and shawl, Molly!" "Pardon me, ma'am," said Giles. "It is not a very fit place for a lady--though there are _some_ ladies who go to low lodging-houses regularly to preach; but unless you go for that purpose it--" "Yes, my dear, it would be quite out of place," interposed Twitter. "Come, it is _my_ duty to go to this place. Can you lead me to it, Mr Scott?" "Oh! and I should like to go too--so much, so _very_ much!" It was little Di who spoke, but her father said that the idea was preposterous. "Pardon me, Sir Richard," said Mr Seaward, "this happens to be my night for preaching in the common lodging-house where Mr Scott says poor Sam is staying. If you choose to accompany me, there is nothing to prevent your little daughter going. Of course it would be as well that no one whom the boy might recognise should accompany us, but his father might go and stand at the door outside, while the owner of the lodging might be directed to tell Sam that some one wishes to see him." "Your plan is pretty good, but I will arrange my plans myself," said Mr Twitter, who suddenly roused himself to action with a degree of vigour that carried all before it. "Go and do your own part, Mr Seaward. Give no directions to the proprietor of the lodging, and leave Sammy to me. I will have a cab ready for him, and his mother in the cab waiting, with a suit of his own clothes. Are you ready?" "Quite ready," said the missionary, amused as well as interested by the good man's sudden display of resolution. Mrs Twitter, also, was reduced to silence by surprise, as well as by submission. Sir Richard agreed to go and take Di with him, if Giles promised to hold himself in readiness within call. "You see," he said, "I have been in similar places before now, but--not with my little child!" As for Loper, Larrabel, Crackaby, Stickler, and Company--feeling that it would be improper to remain after the host and hostess were gone; that it would be equally wrong to offer to go with them, and quite inappropriate to witness the home-coming,--they took themselves off, but each resolved to flutter unseen in the neighbourhood until he, or she, could make quite sure that the prodigal had returned. It was to one of the lowest of the common lodging-houses that Sam Twitter the younger had resorted on the night he had been discovered by Number 666. That day he had earned sixpence by carrying a carpet bag to a railway station. One penny he laid out in bread, one penny in cheese. With the remaining fourpence he could purchase the right to sit in the lodging-house kitchen, and to sleep in a bed in a room with thirty or forty homeless ones like himself. On his way to this abode of the destitute, he was overtaken by a huge man with a little bit of blue ribbon in his button-hole. "Hallo! young feller," exclaimed the man, "you're the chap that was livin' wi' Ned Frog the night I called to see 'im--eh! Sam Twitter, ain't you?" "Yes," said young Sam, blushing scarlet with alarm at the abruptness of the question. "Yes, I am. T-Twitter _is_ my name. You're the man that gave him the Bible, are you not, whom he turned out of his house for tryin' to speak to him about his soul?" "The same, young feller. That's me, an' Reggie North is my name. He'd 'ave 'ad some trouble to turn me out _once_, though, but I've given up quarrellin' and fightin' now, havin' enlisted under the banner of the Prince of Peace," replied the man, who was none other than our Bible-salesman, the man who contributed the memorable speech--"Bah!" and "Pooh!" at the Gospel-temperance meeting. "Where are you going?" Sam, who never could withhold information or retain a secret if asked suddenly, gave the name of the common lodging-house to which he was bound. "Well, I'm going there too, so come along." Sam could not choose but go with the man. He would rather have been alone, but could not shake him off. Entering, they sat down at a table together near the kitchen fire, and North, pulling out of his pocket a small loaf, cut it in two and offered Sam half. Several men were disputing in the box or compartment next to them, and as they made a great noise, attracting the attention of all around, North and his friend Sam were enabled the more easily to hold confidential talk unnoticed, by putting their heads together and chatting low as they ate their frugal meal. "What made you leave Ned?" asked North. "How did you know I'd left him?" "Why, because if you was still with him you wouldn't be here!" This was so obvious that Sam smiled; but it was a sad apology for a smile. "I left him, because he constantly offered me beer, and I've got such an awful desire for beer now, somehow, that I can't resist it, so I came away. And there's no chance of any one offering me beer in this place." "Not much," said North, with a grin. "But, young feller," (and there was something earnestly kind in the man's manner here), "if you feel an _awful_ desire for drink, you'd better put on this." He touched his bit of blue ribbon. "No use," returned Sam, sorrowfully, "I once put it on, and--and--I've broke the pledge." "That's bad, no doubt; but what then?" returned North; "are we never to tell the truth any more 'cause once we told a lie? Are we never to give up swearin' 'cause once we uttered a curse? The Lord is able to save us, no matter how much we may have sinned. Why, sin is the very thing He saves us from--if we'll only come to Him." Sam shook his head, but the manner of the man had attracted him, and eventually he told all his story to him. Reggie North listened earnestly, but the noise of the disputants in the next box was so great that they rose, intending to go to a quieter part of the large room. The words they heard at the moment, however, arrested them. The speaker was, for such a place, a comparatively well-dressed man, and wore a top-coat. He was discoursing on poverty and its causes. "It is nothing more nor less," he said, with emphasis, "than the absence of equality that produces so much poverty." "Hear! hear!" cried several voices, mingled with which, however, were the scoffing laughs of several men who knew too well and bitterly that the cause of their poverty was not the absence of equality, but, drink with improvidence. "What right," asked the man, somewhat indignantly, "what right has Sir Crossly Cowel, for instance, the great capitalist, to his millions that 'e don't know what to do with, when we're starvin'?" (Hear!) "He didn't earn these millions; they was left to 'im by his father, an' _he_ didn't earn 'em, nor did his grandfather, or his great-grandfather, and so, back an' back to the time of the robber who came over with William--the greatest robber of all--an' stole the money, or cattle, from our forefathers." (Hear! hear!) "An' what right has Lord Lorrumdoddy to the thousands of acres of land he's got?" (`Ha! you may say that!' from an outrageously miserable-looking man, who seemed too wretched to think, and only spoke for a species of pastime.) "What right has he, I say, to his lands? The ministers of religion, too, are to be blamed, for they toady the rich and uphold the unjust system. My friends, it is these rich capitalists and landowners who oppress the people. What right have they, I ask again, to their wealth, when the inmates of this house, and thousands of others, are ill-fed and in rags? If I had my way," (_Hear_! hear! and a laugh), "I would distribute the wealth of the country, and have no poor people at all such as I see before me--such as this poor fellow," (laying his hand on the shoulder of the outrageously miserable man, who said `Just so' feebly, but seemed to shrink from his touch). "Do I not speak the truth?" he added, looking round with the air of a man who feels that he carries his audience with him. "Well, mister, I ain't just quite clear about that," said Reggie North, rising up and looking over the heads of those in front of him. There was an immediate and complete silence, for North had both a voice and a face fitted to command attention. "I'm not a learned man, you see, an' hain't studied the subjec', but isn't there a line in the Bible which says, `Blessed are they that consider the poor?' Now it do seem to me that if we was all equally rich, there would be no poor to consider, an' no rich to consider 'em!" There was a considerable guffaw at this, and the argumentative man was about to reply, but North checked him with-- "'Old on, sir, I ain't done yet. You said that Sir Cowley Cross--" "Crossly Cowel," cried his opponent, correcting. "I ax your pardon; Sir Crossly Cowel--that 'e 'ad no right to 'is millions, 'cause 'e didn't earn 'em, and because 'is father left 'em to 'im. Now, I 'ad a grandmother with one eye, poor thing--but of coorse that's nothin' to do wi' the argiment--an' she was left a fi' pun note by 'er father as 'ad a game leg--though that's nothin' to do wi' the argiment neither. Now, what puzzles me is, that if Sir Cow--Cross--" A great shout of laughter interrupted North here, for he looked so innocently stupid, that most of the audience saw he was making game of the social reformer. "What puzzles me is," continued North, "that if Sir Crossly Cowel 'as no right to 'is millions, my old grandmother 'ad no right to 'er fi' pun note!" ("Hear, hear," and applause.) "I don't know nothin' about that there big thief Willum you mentioned, nor yet Lord Lorrumdoddy, not bein' 'ighly connected, you see, mates, but no doubt this gentleman believes in 'is principles--" "Of course I does," said the social reformer indignantly. "Well, then," resumed North, suddenly throwing off his sheepish look and sternly gazing at the reformer while he pointed to the outrageously miserable man, who had neither coat, vest, shoes, nor socks, "do you see that man? If you are in earnest, take off your coat and give it to him. What right have you to two coats when he has none?" The reformer looked surprised, and the proposal was received with loud laughter; all the more that he seemed so little to relish the idea of parting with one of his coats in order to prove the justice of his principles, and his own sincerity. To give his argument more force, Reggie North took a sixpence from his pocket and held it up. "See here, mates, when I came to this house I said to myself, `The Lord 'as given me success to-day in sellin' His word,'--you know, some of you, that I'm a seller of Bibles and Testaments?" "Ay, ay, old boy. _We_ know you," said several voices. "And I wasn't always that," added North. "_That's_ true, anyhow," said a voice with a laugh. "Well. For what I was, I might thank drink and a sinful heart. For what I am I thank the Lord. But, as I was goin' to say, I came here intendin' to give this sixpence--it ain't much, but it's all I can spare--to some poor feller in distress, for I practise what I preach, and I meant to do it in a quiet way. But it seems to me that, seein' what's turned up, I'll do more good by givin' it in a public way--so, there it is, old man," and he put the sixpence on the table in front of the outrageously miserable man, who could hardly believe his eyes. The change to an outrageously jovial man, with the marks of misery still strong upon him, was worthy of a pantomime, and spoke volumes; for, small though the sum might seem to Sir Crossly Cowel, or Lord Lorrumdoddy, it represented a full instead of an empty stomach and a peaceful instead of a miserable night to one wreck of humanity. The poor man swept the little coin into his pocket and rose in haste with a "thank 'ee," to go out and invest it at once, but was checked by North. "Stop, stop, my fine fellow! Not quite so fast. If you'll wait till I've finished my little business here, I'll take you to where you'll get some warm grub for nothin', and maybe an old coat too." Encouraged by such brilliant prospects, the now jovially-miserable man sat down and waited while North and Sam went to a more retired spot near the door, where they resumed the confidential talk that had been interrupted. "The first thing you must do, my boy," said North, kindly, "is to return to your father's 'ouse; an' that advice cuts two ways--'eaven-ward an' earth-ward." "Oh! no, no, _no_, I can never return home," replied Sam, hurriedly, and thinking only of the shame of returning in his wretched condition to his earthly father. It was at this point that the couple had come under the sharp stern eye of Number 666, who, as we have seen, went quietly out and conveyed the information direct to the Twitter family. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. THE RETURNING PRODIGAL. For a considerable time the Bible-seller plied Sam with every argument he could think of in order to induce him to return home, and he was still in the middle of his effort when the door opened, and two young men of gentlemanly appearance walked in, bearing a portable harmonium between them. They were followed by one of the ladies of the Beehive, who devote all their time--and, may we not add, all their hearts--to the rescue of the perishing. Along with her came a tall, sweet-faced girl. She was our friend Hetty Frog, who, after spending her days at steady work, spent some of her night hours in labours of love. Hetty was passionately fond of music, and had taught herself to play the harmonium sufficiently to accompany simple hymns. After her came the missionary, whose kind face was familiar to most of the homeless ones there. They greeted him with good-natured familiarity, but some of their faces assumed a somewhat vinegar aspect when the tall form of Sir Richard Brandon followed Seaward. "A bloated haristocrat!" growled one of the men. "Got a smart little darter, anyhow," remarked another, as Di, holding tight to her father's hand, glanced from side to side with looks of mingled pity and alarm. For poor little Di had a not uncommon habit of investing everything in _couleur de rose_, and the stern reality which met her had not the slightest tinge of that colour. Di had pictured to herself clean rags and picturesque poverty. The reality was dirty rags and disgusting poverty. She had imagined sorrowful faces. Had she noted them when the missionary passed, she might indeed have seen kindly looks; but when her father passed there were only scowling faces, nearly all of which were unshaven and dirty. Di had not thought at all of stubbly beards or dirt! Neither had she thought of smells, or of stifling heat that it was not easy to bear. Altogether poor little Di was taken down from a height on that occasion to which she never again attained, because it was a false height. In after years she reached one of the true heights--which was out of sight higher than the false one! There was something very businesslike in these missionaries, for there was nothing of the simply amateur in their work--like the visit of Di and her father. They were familiar with the East-end mines; knew where splendid gems and rich gold were to be found, and went about digging with the steady persistence of the labourer, coupled, however, with the fire of the enthusiast. They carried the harmonium promptly to the most conspicuous part of the room, planted it there, opened it, placed a stool in front of it, and one of the brightest diamonds from that mine--in the person of Hetty Frog--sat down before it. Simply, and in sweet silvery tones, she sang--"Come to the Saviour." The others joined--even Sir Richard Brandon made an attempt to sing--as he had done on a previous occasion, but without much success, musically speaking. Meanwhile, John Seaward turned up the passage from which he had prepared to speak that evening. And so eloquent with nature's simplicity was the missionary, that the party soon forgot all about the Twitters while the comforting Gospel was being urged upon the unhappy creatures around. But _we_ must not forget the Twitters. They are our text and sermon just now! Young Sam Twitter had risen with the intention of going out when the missionary entered, for words of truth only cut him to the heart. But his companion whispered him to wait a bit. Soon his attention was riveted. While he sat there spell-bound, a shabby-genteel man entered and sat down beside him. He wore a broad wide-awake, very much slouched over his face, and a coat which had once been fine, but now bore marks of having been severely handled--as if recently rubbed by a drunken wearer on whitewashed and dirty places. The man's hands were not so dirty, however, as one might have expected from his general appearance, and they trembled much. On one of his fingers was a gold ring. This incongruity was lost on Sam, who was too much absorbed to care for the new comer, and did not even notice that he pushed somewhat needlessly close to him. These things were not, however, lost on Reggie North, who regarded the man with some surprise, not unmixed with suspicion. When, after a short time, however, this man laid his hand gently on that of Sam and held it, the boy could no longer neglect his eccentricities. He naturally made an effort to pull the hand away, but the stranger held it fast. Having his mind by that time entirely detached from the discourse of the missionary, Sam looked at the stranger in surprise, but could not see his face because of the disreputable wide-awake which he wore. But great was his astonishment, not to say alarm, when he felt two or three warm tears drop on his hand. Again he tried to pull it away, but the strange man held it tighter. Still further, he bent his head over it and kissed it. A strange unaccountable thrill ran through the boy's frame. He stooped, looked under the brim of the hat, and beheld his father! "Sammy--dear, dear Sammy," whispered the man, in a husky voice. But Sammy could not reply. He was thunderstruck. Neither could his father speak, for he was choking. But Reggie North had heard enough. He was quick-witted, and at once guessed the situation. "Now then, old gen'lm'n," he whispered, "don't you go an' make a fuss, if you're wise. Go out as quiet as you came in, an' leave this young 'un to me. It's all right. I'm on _your_ side." Samuel Twitter senior was impressed with the honesty of the man's manner, and the wisdom of his advice. Letting go the hand, after a parting squeeze, he rose up and left the room. Two minutes later, North and Sammy followed. They found the old father outside, who again grasped his son's hand with the words, "Sammy, my boy--dear Sammy;" but he never got further than that. Number 666 was there too. "You'll find the cab at the end of the street, sir," he said, and next moment Sammy found himself borne along--not unwillingly--by North and his father. A cab door was opened. A female form was seen with outstretched arms. "Mother!" "Sammy--darling--" The returning prodigal disappeared into the cab. Mr Twitter turned round. "Thank you. God bless you, whoever you are," he said, fumbling in his vest pocket; having forgotten that he represented an abject beggar, and had no money there. "No thanks to me, sir. Look higher," said the Bible-seller, thrusting the old gentleman almost forcibly into the vehicle. "Now then, cabby, drive on." The cabby obeyed. Having already received his instructions he did not drive home. Where he drove to is a matter of small consequence. It was to an unknown house, and a perfect stranger to Sammy opened the door. Mrs Twitter remained in the cab while Sammy and his father entered the house, the latter carrying a bundle in his hand. They were shown into what the boy must have considered--if he considered anything at all just then--a preposterously small room. The lady of the house evidently expected them, for she said, "The bath is quite ready, sir." "Now, Sammy,--dear boy," said Mr Twitter, "off with your rags--and g-git into that b-bath." Obviously Mr Twitter did not speak with ease. In truth it was all he could do to contain himself, and he felt that his only chance of bearing up was to say nothing more than was absolutely necessary in short ejaculatory phrases. Sammy was deeply touched, and began to wash his dirty face with a few quiet tears before taking his bath. "Now then, Sammy--look sharp! You didn't use--to--be--so--slow! eh?" "No, father. I suppose it--it--is want of habit. I haven't undressed much of late." This very nearly upset poor Mr Twitter. He made no reply, but assisted his son to disrobe with a degree of awkwardness that tended to delay progress. "It--it's not too hot--eh?" "Oh! no, father. It's--it's--v-very nice." "Go at it with a will, Sammy. Head and all, my boy--down with it. And don't spare the soap. Lots of soap here, Sammy--no end of soap!" The truth of which Mr Twitter proceeded to illustrate by covering his son with a lather that caused him quickly to resemble whipped cream. "Oh! hold on, father, it's getting into my eyes." "My boy--dear Sammy--forgive me. I didn't quite know what I was doing. Never mind. Down you go again, Sammy--head and all. That's it. Now, that's enough; out you come." "Oh! father," said the poor boy, while invisible tears trickled over his wet face, as he stepped out of the bath, "it's so good of you to forgive me so freely." "Forgive you, my son! forgive! why, I'd--I'd--" He could say no more, but suddenly clasped Sammy to his heart, thereby rendering his face and person soap-suddy and wet to a ridiculous extent. Unclasping his arms and stepping back, he looked down at himself. "You dirty boy! what d'you mean by it?" "It's your own fault, daddy," replied Sam, with a hysterical laugh, as he enveloped himself in a towel. A knock at the bath-room door here produced dead silence. "Please, sir," said a female voice, "the lady in the cab sends to say that she's gettin' impatient." "Tell the lady in the cab to drive about and take an airing for ten minutes," replied Mr Twitter with reckless hilarity. "Yes, sir." "Now, my boy, here's your toggery," said the irrepressible father, hovering round his recovered son like a moth round a candle--"your best suit, Sammy; the one you used to wear only on Sundays, you extravagant fellow." Sammy put it on with some difficulty from want of practice, and, after combing out and brushing his hair, he presented such a changed appearance that none of his late companions could have recognised him. His father, after fastening up his coat with every button in its wrong hole, and causing as much delay as possible by assisting him to dress, finally hustled him down-stairs and into the cab, where he was immediately re-enveloped by Mrs Twitter. He was not permitted to see any one that night, but was taken straight to his room, where his mother comforted, prayed with, fed and fondled him, and then allowed him to go to bed. Next morning early--before breakfast--Mrs Twitter assembled all the little Twitters, and put them on chairs in a row--according to order, for Mrs Twitter's mind was orderly in a remarkable degree. They ranged from right to left thus:-- Molly, Willie, Fred, Lucy, and Alice--with Alice's doll on a doll's chair at the left flank of the line. "Now children," said Mrs Twitter, sitting down in front of the row with an aspect so solemn that they all immediately made their mouths very small and their eyes very large--in which respect they brought themselves into wonderful correspondence with Alice's doll. "Now children, your dear brother Sammy has come home." "Oh! how nice! Where has he been? What has he seen? Why has he been away so long? How jolly!" were the various expressions with which the news was received. "Silence." The stillness that followed was almost oppressive, for the little Twitters had been trained to prompt obedience. To say truth they had not been difficult to train, for they were all essentially mild. "Now, remember, when he comes down to breakfast you are to take no notice whatever of his having been away--no notice at all." "Are we not even to say good-morning or kiss him, mamma?" asked little Alice with a look of wonder. "Dear child, you do not understand me. We are all charmed to see Sammy back, and so thankful--so glad--that he has come, and we will kiss him and say whatever we please to him _except_," (here she cast an awful eye along the line and dropped her voice), "_except_ ask him _where--he-- has--been_." "Mayn't we ask him how he liked it, mamma?" said Alice. "Liked what, child?" "Where he has been, mamma." "No, not a word about where he has been; only that we are so glad, so very glad, to see him back." Fred, who had an argumentative turn of mind, thought that this would be a rather demonstrative though indirect recognition of the fact that Sammy had been _somewhere_ that was wrong, but, having been trained to unquestioning obedience, Fred said nothing. "Now, dolly," whispered little Alice, bending down, "'member dat--you're so glad Sammy's come back; mustn't say more--not a word more." "It is enough for you to know, my darlings," continued Mrs Twitter, "that Sammy has been wandering and has come back." "Listen, Dolly, you hear? Sammy's been wandering an' come back. Dat's 'nuff for you." "You see, dears," continued Mrs Twitter, with a slightly perplexed look, caused by her desire to save poor Sammy's feelings, and her anxiety to steer clear of the slightest approach to deception, "you see, Sammy has been long away, and has been very tired, and won't like to be troubled with too many questions at breakfast, you know, so I want you all to talk a good deal about anything you like--your lessons,--for instance, when he comes down." "Before we say good-morning, mamma, or after?" asked Alice, who was extremely conscientious. "Darling child," exclaimed the perplexed mother, "you'll never take it in. What I want to impress on you is--" She stopped, suddenly, and what it was she meant to impress we shall never more clearly know, for at that moment the foot of Sammy himself was heard on the stair. "Now, mind, children, not a word--not--a--word!" The almost preternatural solemnity induced by this injunction was at once put to flight by Sammy, at whom the whole family flew with one accord and a united shriek--pulling him down on a chair and embracing him almost to extinction. Fortunately for Sammy, and his anxious mother, that which the most earnest desire to obey orders would have failed to accomplish was brought about by the native selfishness of poor humanity, for, the first burst of welcome over, Alice began an elaborate account of her Dolly's recent proceedings, which seemed to consist of knocking her head against articles of furniture, punching out her own eyes and flattening her own nose; while Fred talked of his latest efforts in shipbuilding; Willie of his hopes in regard to soldiering, and Lucy of her attempts to draw and paint. Mr and Mrs Twitter contented themselves with gazing on Sammy's somewhat worn face, and lying in watch, so that, when Alice or any of the young members of the flock seemed about to stray on the forbidden ground, they should be ready to descend, like two wolves on the fold, remorselessly change the subject of conversation, and carry all before them. Thus tenderly was that prodigal son received back to his father's house. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. CANADA AGAIN--AND SURPRISING NEWS. It is most refreshing to those who have been long cooped up in a city to fly on the wings of steam to the country and take refuge among the scents of flowers and fields and trees. We have said this, or something like it, before, and remorselessly repeat it--for it is a grand truism. Let us then indulge ourselves a little with a glance at the farm of Brankly in Canada. Lake Ontario, with its expanse of boundless blue, rolls like an ocean in the far distance. We can see it from the hill-top where the sweet-smelling red-pines grow. At the bottom of the hill lies Brankly itself, with its orchards and homestead and fields of golden grain, and its little river, with the little saw-mill going as pertinaciously as if it, like the river, had resolved to go on for ever. Cattle are there, sheep are there, horses and wagons are there, wealth and prosperity are there, above all happiness is there, because there also dwells the love of God. It is a good many years, reader, since you and I were last here. Then, the farm buildings and fences were brand-new. Now, although of course not old, they bear decided traces of exposure to the weather. But these marks only give compactness of look and unity of tone to everything, improving the appearance of the place vastly. The fences, which at first looked blank and staring, as if wondering how they had got there, are now more in harmony with the fields they enclose. The plants which at first struggled as if unwillingly on the dwelling-house, now cling to it and climb about it with the affectionate embrace of old friends. Everything is improved--Well, no, not everything. Mr Merryboy's legs have not improved. They will not move as actively as they were wont to do. They will not go so far, and they demand the assistance of a stick. But Mr Merryboy's spirit has improved--though it was pretty good before, and his tendency to universal philanthropy has increased to such an extent that the people of the district have got into a way of sending their bad men and boys to work on his farm in order that they may become good! Mrs Merryboy, however, has improved in every way, and is more blooming than ever, as well as a trifle stouter, but Mrs Merryboy senior, although advanced spiritually, has degenerated a little physically. The few teeth that kept her nose and chin apart having disappeared, her mouth has also vanished, though there is a decided mark which tells where it was--especially when she speaks or smiles. The hair on her forehead has become as pure white as the winter snows of Canada. Wrinkles on her visage have become the rule, not the exception, but as they all run into comical twists, and play in the forms of humour, they may, perhaps, be regarded as a physical improvement. She is stone deaf now, but this also may be put to the credit side of her account, for it has rendered needless those awkward efforts to speak loud and painful attempts to hear which used to trouble the family in days gone by. It is quite clear, however, when you look into granny's coal-black eyes, that if she were to live to the age of Methuselah she will never be blind, nor ill-natured, nor less pleased with herself, her surroundings, and the whole order of things created! But who are these that sit so gravely and busily engaged with breakfast as though they had not the prospect of another meal that year? Two young men and a young girl. One young man is broad and powerful though short, with an incipient moustache and a fluff of whisker. The other is rather tall, slim, and gentlemanly, and still beardless. The girl is little, neat, well-made, at the budding period of life, brown-haired, brown-eyed, round, soft--just such a creature as one feels disposed to pat on the head and say, "My little pet!" Why, these are two "waifs" and a "stray!" Don't you know them? Look again. Is not the stout fellow our friend Bobby Frog, the slim one Tim Lumpy, and the girl Martha Mild? But who, in all London, would believe that these were children who had bean picked out of the gutter? Nobody--except those good Samaritans who had helped to pick them up, and who could show you the photographs of what they once were and what they now are. Mr Merryboy, although changed a little as regards legs, was not in the least deteriorated as to lungs. As Granny, Mrs Merryboy, and the young people sat at breakfast he was heard at an immense distance off, gradually making his way towards the house. "Something seems to be wrong with father this morning, I think," said Mrs Merryboy, junior, listening. Granny, observing the action, pretended to listen, and smiled. "He's either unusually jolly or unusually savage--a little more tea, mother," said Tim Lumpy, pushing in his cup. Tim, being father-and-motherless, called Mr Merryboy father and the wife mother. So did Martha, but Bobby Frog, remembering those whom he had left at home, loyally declined, though he did not object to call the elder Mrs Merryboy granny. "Something for good or evil must have happened," said Bobby, laying down his knife and fork as the growling sound drew nearer. At last the door flew open and the storm burst in. And we may remark that Mr Merryboy's stormy nature was, if possible, a little more obtrusive than it used to be, for whereas in former days his toes and heels did most of the rattling-thunder business, the stick now came into play as a prominent creator of din--not only when flourished by hand, but often on its own account and unexpectedly, when propped clumsily in awkward places. "Hallo! good people all, how are 'ee? morning--morning. Boys, d'ee know that the saw-mill's come to grief?" "No, are you in earnest, father?" cried Tim, jumping up. "In earnest! Of course I am. Pretty engineers you are. Sawed its own bed in two, or burst itself. Don't know which, and what's more I don't care. Come, Martha, my bantam chicken, let's have a cup of tea. Bother that stick, it can't keep its legs much better than myself. How are you, mother? Glorious weather, isn't it?" Mr Merryboy ignored deafness. He continued to speak to his mother just as though she heard him. And she continued to nod and smile, and make-believe to hear with more demonstration of face and cap than ever. After all, her total loss of hearing made little difference, her sentiments being what Bobby Frog in his early days would have described in the words, "Wot's the hodds so long as you're 'appy?" But Bobby had now ceased to drop or misapply his aitches--though he still had some trouble with his R's. As he was chief engineer of the saw-mill, having turned out quite a mechanical genius, he ran down to the scene of disaster with much concern on hearing the old gentleman's report. And, truly, when he and Tim reached the picturesque spot where, at the water's edge among fine trees and shrubs, the mill stood clearly reflected in its own dam, they found that the mischief done was considerable. The machinery, by which the frame with its log to be sawn was moved along quarter-inch by quarter-inch at each stroke, was indeed all right, but it had not been made self-regulating. The result was that, on one of the attendant workmen omitting to do his duty, the saw not only ripped off a beautiful plank from a log, but continued to cross-cut the end of the heavy framework, and then proceeded to cut the iron which held the log in its place. The result, of course, was that the iron refused to be cut, and savagely revenged itself by scraping off, flattening down, turning up, and otherwise damaging, the teeth of the saw! "H'm! that comes of haste," muttered Bob, as he surveyed the wreck. "If I had taken time to make the whole affair complete before setting the mill to work, this would not have happened." "Never mind, Bob, we must learn by experience, you know," said Tim, examining the damage done with a critical eye. "Luckily, we have a spare saw in the store." "Run and fetch it," said Bob to the man in charge of the mill, whose carelessness had caused the damage, and who stared silently at his work with a look of horrified resignation. When he was gone Bob and Tim threw off their coats, rolled up their sleeves to the shoulder, and set to work with a degree of promptitude and skill which proved them to be both earnest and capable workmen. The first thing to be done was to detach the damaged saw from its frame. "There," said Bob, as he flung it down, "you won't use your teeth again on the wrong subject for some time to come. Have we dry timber heavy enough to mend the frame, Tim?" "Plenty--more than we want." "Well, you go to work on it while I fix up the new saw." To work the two went accordingly--adjusting, screwing, squaring, sawing, planing, mortising, until the dinner-bell called them to the house. "So soon!" exclaimed Bob; "dinner is a great bother when a man is very busy." "D'ye think so, Bob? Well, now, I look on it as a great comfort-- specially when you're hungry." "Ah! but that's because you are greedy, Tim. You always were too fond o' your grub." "Come, Bob, no slang. You know that mother doesn't like it. By the way, talkin' of mothers, is it on Wednesday or Thursday that you expect _your_ mother?" "Thursday, my boy," replied Bob, with a bright look. "Ha! that _will_ be a day for me!" "So it will, Bob, I'm glad for your sake," returned Tim with a sigh, which was a very unusual expression of feeling for him. His friend at once understood its significance. "Tim, my boy, I'm sorry for you. I wish I could split my mother in two and give you half of her." "Yes," said Tim, somewhat absently, "it is sad to have not one soul in the world related to you." "But there are many who care for you as much as if they were relations," said Bob, taking his friend's arm as they approached the house. "Come along, come along, youngsters," shouted Mr Merryboy from the window, "the dinner's gettin' cold, and granny's gettin' in a passion. Look sharp. If you knew what news I have for you you'd look sharper." "What news, sir?" asked Bob, as they sat down to a table which did not exactly "groan" with viands--it was too strong for that--but which was heavily weighted therewith. "I won't tell you till after dinner--just to punish you for being late; besides, it might spoil your appetite." "But suspense is apt to spoil appetite, father, isn't it?" said Tim, who, well accustomed to the old farmer's eccentricities, did not believe much in the news he professed to have in keeping. "Well, then, you must just lose your appetites, for I won't tell you," said Mr Merryboy firmly. "It will do you good--eh! mother, won't a touch of starvation improve them, bring back the memory of old times-- eh?" The old lady, observing that her son was addressing her, shot forth such a beam of intelligence and goodwill that it was as though a gleam of sunshine had burst into the room. "I knew you'd agree with me--ha! ha! you always do, mother," cried the farmer, flinging his handkerchief at a small kitten which was sporting on the floor and went into fits of delight at the attention. After dinner the young men were about to return to their saw-mill when Mr Merryboy called them back. "What would you say, boys, to hear that Sir Richard Brandon, with a troop of emigrants, is going to settle somewhere in Canada?" "I would think he'd gone mad, sir, or changed his nature," responded Bob. "Well, as to whether he's gone mad or not I can't tell--he may have changed his nature, who knows? That's not beyond the bounds of possibility. Anyway, he is coming. I've got a letter from a friend of mine in London who says he read it in the papers. But perhaps you may learn more about it in _that_." He tossed a letter to Bob, who eagerly seized it. "From sister Hetty," he cried, and tore it open. The complete unity and unanimity of this family was well illustrated by the fact, that Bob began to read the letter aloud without asking leave and without apology. "Dearest Bob," it ran, "you will get this letter only a mail before our arrival. I had not meant to write again, but cannot resist doing so, to give you the earliest news about it. Sir Richard has changed his mind! You know, in my last, I told you he had helped to assist several poor families from this quarter--as well as mother and me, and Matty. He is a real friend to the poor, for he doesn't merely fling coppers and old clothes at them, but takes trouble to find out about them, and helps them in the way that seems best for each. It's all owing to that sweet Miss Di, who comes so much about here that she's almost as well-known as Giles Scott the policeman, or our missionary. By the way, Giles has been made an Inspector lately, and has got no end of medals and a silver watch, and other testimonials, for bravery in saving people from fires, and canals, and cart wheels, and--he's a wonderful man is Giles, and they say his son is to be taken into the force as soon as he's old enough. He's big enough and sensible enough already, and looks twice his age. After all, if he can knock people down, and take people up, and keep order, what does it matter how young he is? "But I'm wandering, I always do wander, Bob, when I write to you! Well, as I was saying, Sir Richard has changed his mind and has resolved to emigrate himself, with Miss Di and a whole lot of friends and work-people. He wants, as he says, to establish a colony of like-minded people, and so you may be sure that all who have fixed to go with him are followers of the Lord Jesus--and not ashamed to say so. As I had already taken our passages in the _Amazon_ steamer--" "The _Amazon_!" interrupted Mr Merryboy, with a shout, "why, that steamer has arrived already!" "So it has," said Bob, becoming excited; "their letter must have been delayed, and they must have come by the same steamer that brought it; why, they'll be here immediately!" "Perhaps to-night!" exclaimed Mrs Merryboy. "Oh! _how_ nice!" murmured Martha, her great brown eyes glittering with joy at the near prospect of seeing that Hetty about whom she had heard so much. "Impossible!" said Tim Lumpy, coming down on them all with his wet-blanket of common-sense. "They would never come on without dropping us a line from Quebec, or Montreal, to announce their arrival." "That's true, Tim," said Mr Merryboy, "but you've not finished the letter, Bob--go on. Mother, mother, what a variety of faces you _are_ making!" This also was true, for old Mrs Merryboy, seeing that something unusual was occurring, had all this time been watching the various speakers with her coal-black eyes, changing aspect with their varied expressions, and wrinkling her visage up into such inexpressible contortions of sympathetic good-will, that she really could not have been more sociable if she had been in full possession and use of her five senses. "As I had already," continued Bob, reading, "taken our passages in the _Amazon_ steamer, Sir Richard thought it best that we should come on before, along with his agent, who goes to see after the land, so that we might have a good long stay with you, and dear Mr and Mrs Merryboy, who have been so kind to you, before going on to Brandon--which, I believe, is the name of the place in the backwoods where Sir Richard means us all to go to. I don't know exactly where it is--and I don't know anybody who does, but that's no matter. Enough for mother, and Matty, and me to know that it's within a few hundred miles of you, which is very different from three thousand miles of an ocean! "You'll also be glad to hear that Mr Twitter with all his family is to join this band. It quite puts me in mind of the story of the Pilgrim Fathers, that I once heard in dear Mr Holland's meeting hall, long ago. I wish he could come too, and all his people with him, and all the ladies from the Beehive. Wouldn't that be charming! But, then,--who would be left to look after London? No, it is better that they should remain at home. "Poor Mr Twitter never quite got the better of his fire, you see, so he sold his share in his business, and is getting ready to come. His boys and girls will be a great help to him in Canada, instead of a burden as they have been in London--the younger ones I mean, of course, for Molly, and Sammy, and Willie have been helping their parents for a long time past. I don't think Mrs Twitter quite likes it, and I'm sure she's almost breaking her heart at the thought of leaving George Yard. It is said that their friends Mrs Loper, Mrs Larrabel, Stickler, and Crackaby, want to join, but I rather think Sir Richard isn't very keen to have them. Mr Stephen Welland is also coming. One of Sir Richard's friends, Mr Brisbane I think, got him a good situation in the Mint-- that's where all the money is coined, you know--but, on hearing of this expedition to Canada, he made up his mind to go there instead; so he gave up the Mint--very unwillingly, however, I believe, for he wanted very much to go into the Mint. Now, no more at present from your loving and much hurried sister, (for I'm in the middle of packing), Hetty." Now, while Bob Frog was in the act of putting Hetty's letter in his pocket, a little boy was seen on horseback, galloping up to the door. He brought a telegram addressed to "Mr Robert Frog." It was from Montreal, and ran thus: "We have arrived, and leave this on Tuesday forenoon." "Why, they're almost here _now_," cried Bob. "Harness up, my boy, and off you go--not a moment to lose!" cried Mr Merryboy, as Bob dashed out of the room. "Take the bays, Bob," he added in a stentorian voice, thrusting his head out of the window, "and the biggest wagon. Don't forget the rugs!" Ten minutes later, and Bob Frog, with Tim Lumpy beside him, was driving the spanking pair of bays to the railway station. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. HAPPY MEETINGS. It was to the same railway station as that at which they had parted from their guardian and been handed over to Mr Merryboy years before that Bobby Frog now drove. The train was not due for half an hour. "Tim," said Bob after they had walked up and down the platform for about five minutes, "how slowly time seems to fly when one's in a hurry!" "Doesn't it?" assented Tim, "crawls like a snail." "Tim," said Bob, after ten minutes had elapsed, "what a difficult thing it is to wait patiently when one's anxious!" "Isn't it!" assented Tim, "so hard to keep from fretting and stamping." "Tim," said Bob, after twenty minutes had passed, "I wonder if the two or three dozen people on this platform are all as uncomfortably impatient as I am." "Perhaps they are," said Tim, "but certainly possessed of more power to restrain themselves." "Tim," said Bob, after the lapse of five-and-twenty minutes, "did you ever hear of such a long half-hour since you were born?" "Never," replied the sympathetic Tim, "except once long ago when I was starving, and stood for about that length of time in front of a confectioner's window till I nearly collapsed and had to run away at last for fear I should smash in the glass and feed." "Tim, I'll take a look round and see that the bays are all right." "You've done that four times already, Bob." "Well, I'll do it five times, Tim. There's luck, you know, in odd numbers." There was a sharpish curve on the line close to the station. While Bob Frog was away the train, being five minutes before its time, came thundering round the curve and rushed alongside the platform. Bob ran back of course and stood vainly trying to see the people in each carriage as it went past. "Oh! _what_ a sweet eager face!" exclaimed Tim, gazing after a young girl who had thrust her head out of a first-class carriage. "Let alone sweet faces, Tim--this way. The third classes are all behind." By this time the train had stopped, and great was the commotion as friends and relatives met or said good-bye hurriedly, and bustled into and out of the carriages--commotion which was increased by the cheering of a fresh band of rescued waifs going to new homes in the west, and the hissing of the safety valve which took it into its head at that inconvenient moment to let off superfluous steam. Some of the people rushing about on that platform and jostling each other would have been the better for safety valves! poor Bobby Frog was one of these. "Not there!" he exclaimed despairingly, as he looked into the last carriage of the train. "Impossible," said Tim, "we've only missed them; walk back." They went back, looking eagerly into carriage after carriage--Bob even glancing under the seats in a sort of wild hope that his mother might be hiding there, but no one resembling Mrs Frog was to be seen. A commotion at the front part of the train, more pronounced than the general hubbub, attracted their attention. "Oh! where is he--where is he?" cried a female voice, which was followed up by the female herself, a respectable elderly woman, who went about the platform scattering people right and left in a fit of temporary insanity, "where is my Bobby, where _is_ he, I say? Oh! _why_ won't people git out o' my way? _Git_ out o' the way," (shoving a sluggish man forcibly), "where are you, Bobby? Bo-o-o-o-o-by!" It was Mrs Frog! Bob saw her, but did not move. His heart was in his throat! He _could_ not move. As he afterwards said, he was struck all of a heap, and could only stand and gaze with his hands clasped. "Out o' the _way_, young man!" cried Mrs Frog, brushing indignantly past him, in one of her erratic bursts. "Oh! Bobby--where _has_ that boy gone to?" "Mother!" gasped Bob. "Who said that?" cried Mrs Frog, turning round with a sharp look, as if prepared to retort "you're another" on the shortest notice. "Mother!" again said Bob, unclasping his hands and holding them out. Mrs Frog had hitherto, regardless of the well-known effect of time, kept staring at heads on the level which Bobby's had reached when he left home. She now looked up with a startled expression. "Can it--is it--oh! Bo--" she got no further, but sprang forward and was caught and fervently clasped in the arms of her son. Tim fluttered round them, blowing his nose violently though quite free from cold in the head--which complaint, indeed, is not common in those regions. Hetty, who had lost her mother in the crowd, now ran forward with Matty. Bob saw them, let go his mother, and received one in each arm-- squeezing them both at once to his capacious bosom. Mrs Frog might have fallen, though that was not probable, but Tim made sure of her by holding out a hand which the good woman grasped, and laid her head on his breast, quite willing to make use of him as a convenient post to lean against, while she observed the meeting of the young people with a contented smile. Tim observed that meeting too, but with very different feelings, for the "sweet eager face" that he had seen in the first-class carriage belonged to Hetty! Long-continued love to human souls had given to her face a sweetness--and sympathy with human spirits and bodies in the depths of poverty, sorrow, and deep despair had invested it with a pitiful tenderness and refinement--which one looks for more naturally among the innocent in the higher ranks of life. Poor Tim gazed unutterably, and his heart went on in such a way that even Mrs Frog's attention was arrested. Looking up, she asked if he was took bad. "Oh! dear no. By no means," said Tim, quickly. "You're tremblin' so," she returned, "an' it ain't cold--but your colour's all right. I suppose it's the natur' o' you Canadians. But only to think that my Bobby," she added, quitting her leaning-post, and again seizing her son, "that my Bobby should 'ave grow'd up, an' his poor mother knowed nothink about it! I can't believe my eyes--it ain't like Bobby a bit, yet some'ow I _know_ it's 'im! Why, you've grow'd into a gentleman, you 'ave." "And you have grown into a flatterer," said Bob, with a laugh. "But come, mother, this way; I've brought the wagon for you. Look after the luggage, Tim--Oh! I forgot. This is Tim, Hetty--Tim Lumpy. You remember, you used to see us playing together when we were city Arabs." Hetty looked at Tim, and, remembering Bobby's strong love for jesting, did not believe him. She smiled, however, and bowed to the tall good-looking youth, who seemed unaccountably shy and confused as he went off to look after the luggage. "Here is the wagon; come along," said Bob, leading his mother out of the station. "The waggin, boy; I don't see no waggin." "Why, there, with the pair of bay horses." "You don't mean the carridge by the fence, do you?" "Well, yes, only we call them wagons here." "An' you calls the 'osses _bay_ 'osses, do you?" "Well now, _I_ would call 'em beautiful 'osses, but I suppose bay means the same thing here. You've got strange ways in Canada." "Yes, mother, and pleasant ways too, as I hope you shall find out ere long. Get in, now. Take care! Now then, Hetty--come, Matty. How difficult to believe that such a strapping young thing can be the squalling Matty I left in London!" Matty laughed as she got in, by way of reply, for she did not yet quite believe in her big brother. "Do you drive, Tim; I'll stay inside," said Bob. In another moment the spanking bays were whirling the wagon over the road to Brankly Farm at the rate of ten miles an hour. Need it be said that the amiable Merryboys did not fail of their duty on that occasion? That Hetty and Matty took violently to brown-eyed Martha at first sight, having heard all about her from Bob long ago--as she of them; that Mrs Merryboy was, we may say, one glowing beam of hospitality; that Mrs Frog was, so to speak, one blazing personification of amazement, which threatened to become chronic--there was so much that was contrary to previous experience and she was so slow to take it in; that Mr Merryboy became noisier than ever, and that, what between his stick and his legs, to say nothing of his voice, he managed to create in one day hubbub enough to last ten families for a fortnight; that the domestics and the dogs were sympathetically joyful; that even the kitten gave unmistakeable evidences of unusual hilarity-- though some attributed the effect to surreptitiously-obtained cream; and, finally, that old granny became something like a Chinese image in the matter of nodding and gazing and smirking and wrinkling, so that there seemed some danger of her terminating her career in a gush of universal philanthropy--need all this be said, we ask? We think not; therefore we won't say it. But it was not till Bob Frog got his mother all to himself, under the trees, near the waterfall, down by the river that drove the still unmended saw-mill, that they had real and satisfactory communion. It would have been interesting to have listened to these two--with memories and sympathies and feelings towards the Saviour of sinners so closely intertwined, yet with knowledge and intellectual powers in many respects so far apart. But we may not intrude too closely. Towards the end of their walk, Bob touched on a subject which had been uppermost in the minds of both all the time, but from which they had shrunk equally, the one being afraid to ask, the other disinclined to tell. "Mother," said Bob, at last, "what about father?" "Ah! Bobby," replied Mrs Frog, beginning to weep, gently, "I know'd ye would come to that--you was always so fond of 'im, an' he was so fond o' you too, indeed--" "I know it, mother," interrupted Bob, "but have you never heard of him?" "Never. I might 'ave, p'r'aps, if he'd bin took an' tried under his own name, but you know he had so many aliases, an' the old 'ouse we used to live in we was obliged to quit, so p'r'aps he tried to find us and couldn't." "May God help him--dear father!" said the son in a low sad voice. "I'd never 'ave left 'im, Bobby, if he 'adn't left me. You know that. An' if I thought he was alive and know'd w'ere he was, I'd go back to 'im yet, but--" The subject was dropped here, for the new mill came suddenly into view, and Bob was glad to draw his mother's attention to it. "See, we were mending that just before we got the news you were so near us. Come, I'll show it to you. Tim Lumpy and I made it all by ourselves, and I think you'll call it a first-class article. By the way, how came you to travel first-class?" "Oh! that's all along of Sir Richard Brandon. He's sitch a liberal gentleman, an' said that as it was by his advice we were goin' to Canada, he would pay our expenses; and he's so grand that he never remembered there was any other class but first, when he took the tickets, an' when he was show'd what he'd done he laughed an' said he wouldn't alter it, an' we must go all the way first-class. He's a strange man, but a good 'un!" By this time they had reached the platform of the damaged saw-mill, and Bob pointed out, with elaborate care, the details of the mill in all its minute particulars, commenting specially on the fact that most of the telling improvements on it were due to the fertile brain and inventive genius of Tim Lumpy. He also explained the different kinds of saws--the ripping saw, and the cross-cut saw, and the circular saw, and the eccentric saw--just as if his mother were an embryo mill-wright, for he _felt_ that she took a deep interest in it all, and Mrs Frog listened with the profound attention of a civil engineer, and remarked on everything with such comments as--oh! indeed! ah! well now! ain't it wonderful? amazin'! an' you made it all too! Oh! Bobby!--and other more or less appropriate phrases. On quitting the mill to return to the house they saw a couple of figures walking down another avenue, so absorbed in conversation that they did not at first observe Bob and his mother, or take note of the fact that Matty, being a bouncing girl, had gone after butterflies or some such child-alluring insects. It was Tim Lumpy and Hetty Frog. And no wonder that they were absorbed, for was not their conversation on subjects of the profoundest interest to both?--George Yard, Whitechapel, Commercial Street, Spitalfields, and the Sailor's Home, and the Rests, and all the other agencies for rescuing poor souls in monstrous London, and the teachers and school companions whom they had known there and never could forget! No wonder, we say, that these two were absorbed while comparing notes, and still less wonder that they were even more deeply absorbed when they got upon the theme of Bobby Frog--so much loved, nay, almost worshipped, by both. At last they observed Mrs Frog's scarlet shawl--which was very conspicuous--and her son, and tried to look unconscious, and wondered with quite needless surprise where Matty could have gone to. Bobby Frog, being a sharp youth, noted these things, but made no comment to any one, for the air of Canada had, somehow, invested this waif with wonderful delicacy of feeling. Although Bob and his mother left off talking of Ned Frog somewhat abruptly, as well as sorrowfully, it does not follow that we are bound to do the same. On the contrary, we now ask the reader to leave Brankly Farm rather abruptly, and return to London for the purpose of paying Ned a visit. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. A STRANGE VISIT AND ITS RESULTS. Edward Frog, bird-fancier, pugilist, etcetera, (and the etcetera represents an unknown quantity), has changed somewhat like the rest, for a few years have thinned the short-cropped though once curly locks above his knotted forehead, besides sprinkling them with grey. But in other respects he has not fallen off--nay he has rather improved, owing to the peculiar system of diet and discipline and regularity of life to which, during these years, he has been subjected. When Ned returned from what we may style his outing, he went straight to the old court with something like a feeling of anxiety in his heart, but found the old home deserted and the old door, which still bore deep marks of his knuckle, on the upper panels and his boots on the lower, was padlocked. He inquired for Mrs Frog, but was told she had left the place long ago,--and no one knew where she had gone. With a heavy heart Ned turned from the door and sauntered away, friendless and homeless. He thought of making further inquiries about his family, but at the corner of the street smelt the old shop that had swallowed up so much of his earnings. "If I'd on'y put it all in the savin's bank," he said bitterly, stopping in front of the gin-palace, "I'd 'ave bin well off to-day." An old comrade turned the corner at that moment. "What! Ned Frog!" he cried, seizing his hand and shaking it with genuine goodwill. "Well, this _is_ good luck. Come along, old boy!" It was pleasant to the desolate man to be thus recognised. He went along like an ox to the slaughter, though, unlike the ox, he knew well what he was going to. He was "treated." He drank beer. Other old friends came in. He drank gin. If good resolves had been coming up in his mind earlier in the day he forgot them now. If better feelings had been struggling for the mastery, he crushed them now. He got drunk. He became disorderly. He went into High Street, Whitechapel, with a view to do damage to somebody. He succeeded. He tumbled over a barrow, and damaged his own shins. He encountered Number 666 soon after, and, through his influence, passed the night in a police cell. After this Ned gave up all thought of searching for his wife and family. "Better let 'em alone," he growled to himself on being discharged from the police-office with a caution. But, as we have said or hinted elsewhere, Ned was a man of iron will. He resolved to avoid the public-house, to drink in moderation, and to do his drinking at home. Being as powerful and active as ever he had been, he soon managed, in the capacity of a common labourer, to scrape enough money together to enable him to retake his old garret, which chanced to be vacant. Indeed its situation was so airy, and it was so undesirable, that it was almost always vacant. He bought a few cages and birds; found that the old manager of the low music-hall was still at work and ready to employ him, and thus fell very much into his old line of life. One night, as he was passing into his place of business--the music-hall--a man saw him and recognised him. This was a city missionary of the John Seaward type, who chanced to be fishing for souls that night in these troubled waters. There are many such fishermen about, thank God, doing their grand work unostentatiously, and not only rescuing souls for eternity, but helping, more perhaps than even the best informed are aware of, to save London from tremendous evil. What it was in Ned Frog that attracted this man of God we know note but, after casting his lines for some hours in other places, he returned to the music-hall and loitered about the door. At a late hour its audience came pouring out with discordant cries and ribald laughter. Soon Ned appeared and took his way homeward. The missionary followed at a safe distance till he saw Ned disappear through the doorway that led to his garret. Then, running forward, he entered the dark passage and heard Ned's heavy foot clanking on the stone steps as he mounted upwards. The sound became fainter, and the missionary, fearing lest he should fail to find the room in which his man dwelt--for there were many rooms in the old tenement--ran hastily up-stairs and paused to listen. The footsteps were still sounding above him, but louder now, because Ned was mounting a wooden stair. A few seconds later a heavy door was banged, and all was quiet. The city missionary now groped his way upwards until he came to the highest landing, where in the thick darkness he saw a light under a door. With a feeling of uncertainty and a silent prayer for help he knocked gently. The door was opened at once by a middle-aged woman, whose outline only could be seen, her back being to the light. "Is it here that the man lives who came up just now?" asked the missionary. "What man?" she replied, fiercely, "I know nothink about men, an' 'ave nothink to do with 'em. Ned Frog's the on'y man as ever comes 'ere, an' _he_ lives up there." She made a motion, as if pointing upwards somewhere, and banged the door in her visitor's face. "Up there!" The missionary had reached the highest landing, and saw no other gleam of light anywhere. Groping about, however, his hand struck against a ladder. All doubt as to the use of this was immediately banished, for a man's heavy tread was heard in the room above as he crossed it. Mounting the ladder, the missionary, instead of coming to a higher landing as he had expected, thrust his hat against a trap-door in the roof. Immediately he heard a savage human growl. Evidently the man was in a bad humour, but the missionary knocked. "Who's there?" demanded the man, fiercely, for his visitors were few, and these generally connected with the police force. "May I come in?" asked the missionary in a mild voice--not that he put the mildness on for the occasion. He was naturally mild--additionally so by grace. "Oh! yes--you may come in," cried the man, lifting the trap-door. The visitor stepped into the room and was startled by Ned letting fall the trap-door with a crash that shook the whole tenement. Planting himself upon it, he rendered retreat impossible. It was a trying situation, for the man was in a savage humour, and evidently the worse for drink. But missionaries are bold men. "Now," demanded Ned, "what may _you_ want?" "I want your soul," replied his visitor, quietly. "You needn't trouble yourself, then, for the devil's got it already." "No--he has not got it _yet_, Ned." "Oh! you know me then?" "No. I never saw you till to-night, but I learned your name accidentally, and I'm anxious about your soul." "You don't know me," Ned repeated, slowly, "you never saw me till to-night, yet you're anxious about my soul! What stuff are you talkin'! 'Ow can that be?" "Now, you have puzzled _me_," said the missionary. "I cannot tell how that can be, but it is no `stuff' I assure you. I think it probable, however, that your own experience may help you. Didn't you once see a young girl whom you had never seen before, whom you didn't know, whom you had never even heard of, yet you became desperately anxious to win her?" Ned instantly thought of a certain woman whom he had often abused and beaten, and whose heart he had probably broken. "Yes," he said, "I did; but then I had falled in love wi' her at first sight, and you can't have falled in love wi' _me_, you know." Ned grinned at this idea in spite of himself. "Well, no," replied the missionary, "not exactly. You're not a very lovable object to look at just now. Nevertheless, I _am_ anxious about your soul _at first sight_. I can't tell how it is, but so it is." "Come, now," said Ned, becoming suddenly stern. "I don't believe in your religion, or your Bible, or your prayin' and psalm-singin'. I tell you plainly, I'm a infidel. But if you can say anything in favour o' your views, fire away; I'll listen, only don't let me have any o' your sing-songin' or whinin', else I'll kick you down the trap-door and down the stair an' up the court and out into the street--speak out, like a man." "I will speak as God the Holy Spirit shall enable me," returned the missionary, without the slightest change in tone or manner. "Well, then, sit down," said Ned, pointing to the only chair in the room, while he seated himself on the rickety table, which threatened to give way altogether, while the reckless man swung his right leg to and fro quite regardless of its complainings. "Have you ever studied the Bible?" asked the missionary, somewhat abruptly. "Well, no, of course not. I'm not a parson, but I have read a bit here and there, an' it's all rubbish. I don't believe a word of it." "There's a part of it," returned the visitor, "which says that God maketh his rain to fall on the just and on the unjust. Do you not believe that?" "Of course I do. A man can't help believin' that, for he sees it--it falls on houses, fields, birds and beasts as well." "Then you _do_ believe a word of it?" "Oh! come, you're a deal too sharp. You know what I mean." "No," said his visitor, quickly, "I don't quite know what you mean. One who professes to be an infidel professes more or less intelligent disbelief in the Bible, yet you admit that you have never studied the book which you profess to disbelieve--much less, I suppose, have you studied the books which give us the evidences of its truth." "Don't suppose, Mr parson, or missioner, or whatever you are," said Ned, "that you're goin' to floor me wi' your larnin'. I'm too old a bird for that. Do you suppose that I'm bound to study everything on the face o' the earth like a lawyer before I'm entitled to say I don't believe it. If I see that a thing don't work well, that's enough for me to condemn it." "You're quite right there. I quite go with that line of reasoning. By their fruits shall ye know them. A man don't usually go to a thistle to find grapes. But let me ask you, Ned, do you usually find that murderers, drunkards, burglars, thieves, and blackguards in general are students of the Bible and given to prayer and psalm-singing?" "Ha! ha! I should rather think not," said Ned, much tickled by the supposition. "Then," continued the other, "tell me, honestly, Ned, do you find that people who read God's Word and sing His praise and ask His blessing on all they do, are generally bad fathers, and mothers, and masters, and servants, and children, and that from their ranks come the worst people in society?" "Now, look here, Mr missioner," cried Ned, leaping suddenly from the table, which overturned with a crash, "I'm one o' them fellers that's not to be floored by a puff o' wind. I can hold my own agin most men wi' fist or tongue. But I like fair-play in the ring or in argiment. I have _not_ studied this matter, as you say, an' so I won't speak on it. But I'll look into it, an' if you come back here this day three weeks I'll let you know what I think. You may trust me, for when I say a thing I mean it." "Will you accept a Testament, then," said the missionary, rising and pulling one out of his pocket. "No, I won't," said Ned, "I've got one." The missionary looked surprised, and hesitated. "Don't you believe me?" asked Ned, angrily. "At first I did not," was the reply, "but now that I stand before your face and look in your eyes I _do_ believe you." Ned gave a cynical laugh. "You're easy to gull," he said; "why, when it serves my purpose I can lie like a trooper." "I know that," returned the visitor, quietly, "but it serves your purpose to-night to speak the truth. I can see that. May I pray that God should guide you?" "Yes, you may, but not here. I'll have no hypocritical goin' down on my knees till I see my way to it. If I don't see my way to it, I'll let you know when you come back this day three weeks." "Well, I'll pray for you in my own room, Ned Frog." "You may do what you like in your own room. Good-night." He lifted the trap-door as he spoke, and pointed downward. The missionary at once descended after a brief "good-night," and a pleasant nod. Ned just gave him time to get his head out of the way when he let the trap fall with a clap like thunder, and then began to pace up and down his little room with his hands in his pockets and his chin on his breast. After a short time he went to a corner of the room where stood a small wooden box that contained the few articles of clothing which he possessed. From the bottom of this he fished up the New Testament that had been given to him long ago by Reggie North. Drawing his chair to the table and the candle to his elbow, the returned convict opened the Book, and there in his garret began for the first time to read in earnest the wonderful Word of Life! CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. THE GREAT CHANGE. Punctual to the day and the hour, the missionary returned to Ned's garret. Much and earnestly had he prayed, in the meantime, that the man might be guided in his search after truth, and that to himself might be given words of wisdom which might have weight with him. But the missionary's words were not now required. God had spoken to the rough man by his own Word. The Holy Spirit had carried conviction home. He had also revealed the Saviour, and the man was converted before the missionary again saw him. Reader, we present no fancy portrait to you. Our fiction had its counterpart in actual life. Ned Frog, in essential points at least, represents a real man--though we have, doubtless, saddled on his broad shoulders a few unimportant matters, which perhaps did not belong to him. "I believe that this is God's Word, my friend," he said, extending his hand, the moment the missionary entered, "and in proof of that I will now ask you to kneel with me and pray." You may be sure that the man of God complied gladly and with a full heart. We may not, however, trace here the after-course of this man in detail. For our purpose it will suffice to say that this was no mere flash in the pan. Ned Frog's character did not change. It only received a new direction and a new impulse. The vigorous energy and fearless determination with which he had in former days pursued sin and self-gratification had now been turned into channels of righteousness. Very soon after finding Jesus for himself, he began earnestly to desire the salvation of others, and, in a quiet humble way, began with the poor people in his own stair. But this could not satisfy him. He was too strong both in body and mind to be restrained, and soon took to open-air preaching. "I'm going to begin a mission," he said, one day, to the missionary who had brought him to the Saviour. "There are many stout able fellows here who used to accept me as a leader in wickedness, and who will, perhaps, agree to follow me in a new walk. Some of them have come to the Lord already. I'm goin', sir, to get these to form a band of workers, and we'll take up a district." "Good," said the missionary, "there's nothing like united action. What part of the district will you take up yourself, Ned?" "The place where I stand, sir," he replied. "Where I have sinned there will I preach to men the Saviour of sinners." And he did preach, not with eloquence, perhaps, but with such fervour that many of his old comrades were touched deeply, and some were brought to Christ and joined his "Daniel Band." Moreover, Ned kept to his own district and class. He did not assume that all rich church-goers are hypocrites, and that it was his duty to stand in conspicuous places and howl to them the message of salvation, in tones of rasping discord. No, it was noted by his mates, as particularly curious, that the voice of the man who could, when he chose, roar like a bull of Bashan, had become soft and what we may style entreative in its tone. Moreover, he did not try to imitate clerical errors. He did not get upon a deadly monotone while preaching, as so many do. He simply _spoke_ when he preached-- spoke loud, no doubt, but in a tone precisely similar to that in which, in former days, he would have seriously advised a brother burglar to adopt a certain course, or to carefully steer clear of another course, in order to gain his ends or to avoid falling into the hands of the police. Thus men, when listening to him, came to believe that he was really speaking to them in earnest, and not "preaching!" Oh! that young men who aim at the high privilege of proclaiming the "good news" would reflect on this latter point, and try to steer clear of that fatal rock on which the Church--not the Episcopal, Presbyterian, or any other Church, but the whole Church militant--has been bumping so long to her own tremendous damage! One point which told powerfully with those whom Ned sought to win was, that he went about endeavouring, as far as in him lay, to undo the evil that he had done. Some of it could never be undone--he felt that bitterly. Some could be remedied--he rejoiced in that and went about it with vigour. For instance, he owed several debts. Being a handy fellow and strong, he worked like a horse, and soon paid off his debts to the last farthing. Again, many a time had he, in days gone by, insulted and defamed comrades and friends. These he sought out with care and begged their pardon. The bulldog courage in him was so strong that in former days he would have struck or insulted any man who provoked him, without reference to his, it might be, superior size or strength. He now went as boldly forward to confess his sin and to apologise. Sometimes his apologies were kindly received, at other times he was rudely repelled and called a hypocrite in language that we may not repeat, but he took it well; he resented nothing now, and used to say he had been made invulnerable since he had enlisted under the banner of the Prince of Peace. Yet, strange to say, the man's pugilistic powers were not rendered useless by his pacific life and profession. One day he was passing down one of those streets where even the police prefer to go in couples. Suddenly a door burst open and a poor drunken woman was kicked out into the street by a big ruffian with whom Ned was not acquainted. Not satisfied with what he had done, the rough proceeded to kick the woman, who began to scream "murder!" A crowd at once collected, for, although such incidents were common enough in such places, they always possessed sufficient interest to draw a crowd; but no one interfered, first, because no one cared, and, second, because the man was so big and powerful that every one was afraid of him. Of course Ned interfered, not with an indignant statement that the man ought to be ashamed of himself, but, with the quiet remark-- "She's only a woman, you know, an' can't return it." "An' wot 'ave _you_ got to do with it?" cried the man with a savage curse, as he aimed a tremendous blow at Ned with his right-hand. Our pugilist expected that. He did not start or raise his hands to defend himself, he merely put his head to one side, and the huge fist went harmlessly past his ear. Savagely the rough struck out with the other fist, but Ned quietly, yet quickly put his head to the other side, and again the fist went innocently by. A loud laugh and cheer from the crowd greeted this, for, apart altogether from the occasion of the disagreement, this turning of the head aside was very pretty play on the part of Ned--being a remarkably easy-looking but exceedingly difficult action, as all boxers know. It enabled Ned to smile in the face of his foe without doing him any harm. But it enraged the rough to such an extent, that he struck out fast as well as hard, obliging Ned to put himself in the old familiar attitude, and skip about smartly. "I don't want to hurt you, friend," said Ned at last, "but I _can_, you see!" and he gave the man a slight pat on his right cheek with one hand and a tap on the forehead with the other. This might have convinced the rough, but he would not be convinced. Ned therefore gave him suddenly an open-handed slap on the side of the head which sent him through his own doorway; through his own kitchen--if we may so name it--and into his own coal-cellar, where he measured his length among cinders and domestic _debris_. "I didn't want to do it, friends," said Ned in a mild voice, as soon as the laughter had subsided, "but, you see, in the Bible--a book I'm uncommon fond of--we're told, as far as we can, to live peaceably with all men. Now, you see, I couldn't live peaceably wi' this man to-day. He wouldn't let me, but I think I'll manage to do it some day, for I'll come back here to-morrow, and say I'm sorry I had to do it. Meanwhile I have a word to say to you about this matter." Here Ned got upon the door-step of his adversary, and finished off by what is sometimes styled "improving the occasion." Of course, one of the first things that Ned Frog did, on coming to his "right mind," was to make earnest and frequent inquiries as to the fate of his wife and family. Unfortunately the man who might have guided him to the right sources of information--the City missionary who had brought him to a knowledge of the truth--was seized with a severe illness, which not only confined him to a sick-bed for many weeks, but afterwards rendered it necessary that he should absent himself for a long time from the sphere of his labours. Thus, being left to himself, Ned's search was misdirected, and at last he came to the heart-breaking conclusion that they must have gone, as he expressed it, "to the bad;" that perhaps his wife had carried out her oft-repeated threat, and drowned herself, and that Bobby, having been only too successful a pupil in the ways of wickedness, had got himself transported. To prosecute his inquiries among his old foes, the police, was so repugnant to Ned that he shrank from it, after the failure of one or two attempts, and the only other source which might have been successful he failed to appeal to through his own ignorance. He only knew of George Yard and the Home of Industry by name, as being places which he had hated, because his daughter Hetty was so taken up with them. Of course he was now aware that the people of George Yard did good work for his new Master, but he was so ignorant of the special phase of their work at the beginning of his Christian career that he never thought of applying to them for information. Afterwards he became so busy with his own special work, that he forgot all about these institutions. When the missionary recovered and returned to his work, he at once--on hearing for the first time from Ned his family history--put him on the scent, and the discovery was then made that they had gone to Canada. He wrote immediately, and soon received a joyful reply from Hetty and a postscript from Bobby, which set his heart singing and his soul ablaze with gratitude to a sparing and preserving God. About that time, however, the robust frame gave way under the amount of labour it was called on to perform. Ned was obliged to go into hospital. When there he received pressing invitations to go out to Canada, and offers of passage-money to any extent. Mrs Frog also offered to return home without delay and nurse him, and only waited to know whether he would allow her. Ned declined, on the ground that he meant to accept their invitation and go to Canada as soon as he was able to undertake the voyage. A relapse, however, interfered with his plans, and thus the visit, like many other desirable events in human affairs, was, for a time, delayed. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. HOME AGAIN. Time passed away, and Bobby Frog said to his mother one morning, "Mother, I'm going to England." It was a fine summer morning when he said this. His mother was sitting in a bower which had been constructed specially for her use by her son and his friend Tim Lumpy. It stood at the foot of the garden, from which could be had a magnificent view of the neighbouring lake. Rich foliage permitted the slanting sunbeams to quiver through the bower, and little birds, of a pert conceited nature, twittered among the same. Martha Mild--the very embodiment of meek, earnest simplicity, and still a mere child in face though almost a woman in years--sat on a wooden stool at Mrs Frog's feet reading the Bible to her. Martha loved the Bible and Mrs Frog; they were both fond of the bower; there was a spare half-hour before them;--hence the situation, as broken in upon by Bobby. "To England, Bobby?" "To England, mother." Martha said nothing, but she gave a slight--an almost imperceptible-- start, and glanced at the sturdy youth with a mingled expression of anxiety and surprise. The surprise Bob had expected; the anxiety he had hoped for; the start he had not foreseen, but now perceived and received as a glorious fact! Oh! Bobby Frog was a deep young rascal! His wild, hilarious, reckless spirit, which he found it so difficult to curb, even with all surroundings in his favour, experienced a great joy and sensation of restfulness in gazing at the pretty, soft, meek face of the little waif. He loved Martha, but, with all his recklessness, he had not the courage to tell her so, or to ask the condition of her feelings with regard to himself. Being ingenious, however, and with much of the knowing nature of the "stray" still about him, he hit on this plan of killing two birds with one stone, as it were, by briefly announcing his intentions to his mother; and the result was more than he had hoped for. "Yes, mother, to England--to London. You see, father's last letter was not at all satisfactory. Although he said he was convalescent and hoped to be able to travel soon, it seemed rather dull in tone, and now several posts have passed without bringing us a letter of any kind from him. I am beginning to feel anxious, and so as I have saved a good bit of money I mean to have a trip to old England and bring Daddy out with me." "That will be grand indeed, my son. But will Mr Merryboy let ye go, Bobby?" "Of course he will. He lets me do whatever I please, for he's as fond o' me as if he were my father." "No; he ain't that," returned Mrs Frog, with a shake of the head; "your father was rough, Bobby, specially w'en in liquor, but he 'ad a kind 'art at bottom, and he was very fond o' you, Bobby--almost as fond as he once was o' me. Mr Merryboy could never come up to 'im in _that_." "Did I say he came up to him, mother? I didn't say he was as fond o' me as my own father, but _as if he was_ my father. However, it's all arranged, and I go off at once." "Not before breakfast, Bobby?" "No, not quite. I never do anything important on an empty stomach, but by this time to-morrow I hope to be far on my way to the sea-coast, and I expect Martha to take good care of you till I come back." "I'll be _sure_ to do that," said Martha, looking up in Mrs Frog's face affectionately. Bob Frog noted the look, and was satisfied. "But, my boy, I shan't be here when you come back. You know my visit is over in a week, and then we go to Sir Richard's estate." "I know that, mother, but Martha goes with you there, to help you and Hetty and Matty to keep house while Tim Lumpy looks after the farm." "Farm, my boy, what nonsense are you talking?" "No nonsense, mother, it has all been arranged this morning, early though it is. Mr Merryboy has received a letter from Sir Richard, saying that he wants to gather as many people as possible round him, and offering him one of his farms on good terms, so Mr Merryboy is to sell this place as soon as he can, and Tim and I have been offered a smaller farm on still easier terms close to his, and not far from the big farm that Sir Richard has given to his son-in-law Mr Welland--" "Son-in-law!" exclaimed Mrs Frog. "Do you mean to say that Mr Welland, who used to come down an' preach in the lodgin'-'ouses in Spitalfields 'as married that sweet hangel Miss Di?" "I do mean that, mother. I could easily show him a superior angel, of course," said Bob with a steady look at Martha, "but he has done pretty well, on the whole." "Pretty well!" echoed Mrs Frog indignantly; "he couldn't 'ave done better if 'e'd searched the wide world over." "There I don't agree with you," returned her son; "however, it don't matter--Hallo! there goes granny down the wrong path!" Bob dashed off at full speed after Mrs Merryboy, senior, who had an inveterate tendency, when attempting to reach Mrs Frog's bower, to take a wrong turn, and pursue a path which led from the garden to a pretty extensive piece of forest-land behind. The blithe old lady was posting along this track in a tremulo-tottering way when captured by Bob. At the same moment the breakfast-bell rang; Mr Merryboy's stentorian voice was immediately heard in concert; silvery shouts from the forest-land alluded to told where Hetty and Matty had been wandering, and a rush of pattering feet announced that the dogs of the farm were bent on being first to bid the old gentleman good-morning. As Bob Frog had said, the following day found him far on his way to the sea-coast. A few days later found him on the sea,--wishing, earnestly, that he were on the land! Little more than a week after that found him in London walking down the old familiar Strand towards the city. As he walked slowly along the crowded thoroughfare, where every brick seemed familiar and every human being strange, he could not help saying to himself mentally, "Can it be possible! was it here that I used to wander in rags? Thank God for the rescue and for the rescuers!" "Shine yer boots, sir?" said a facsimile of his former self. "Certainly, my boy," said Bob, at once submitting himself to the operator, although, his boots having already been well "shined," the operation was an obvious absurdity. The boy must have felt something of this, for, when finished, he looked up at his employer with a comical expression. Bob looked at him sternly. "They were about as bright before you began on 'em," he said. "They was, sir," admitted the boy, candidly. "How much?" demanded the old street boy. "On'y one ha'penny, sir," replied the young street boy, "but ven the day's fine, an' the boots don't want much shinin', we gin'rally expecs a penny. Gen'l'min _'ave_ bin known to go the length of tuppence." Bob pulled out half-a-crown and offered it. The boy grinned, but did not attempt to take it. "Why don't you take it, my boy?" "You _don't_ mean it, do you?" asked the boy, as the grin faded and the eyes opened. "Yes, I do. Here, catch. I was once like you. Christ and Canada have made me what you see. Here is a little book that will tell you more about that." He chanced to have one of Miss Macpherson's _Canadian Homes for London Wanderers_ in his pocket, and gave it to the little shoe-black,--who was one of the fluttering free-lances of the metropolis, not one of the "Brigade." Bob could not have said another word to have saved his life. He turned quickly on his heel and walked away, followed by a fixed gaze and a prolonged whistle of astonishment. "How hungry I used to be here," he muttered as he walked along, "so uncommon hungry! The smell of roasts and pies had something to do with it, I think. Why, there's the shop--yes, the very shop, where I stood once gazing at the victuals for a full hour before I could tear myself away. I do think that, for the sake of starving boys, to say nothing of men, women, and girls, these grub-shops should be compelled to keep the victuals out o' the windows and send their enticing smells up their chimneys!" Presently he came to a dead stop in front of a shop where a large mirror presented him with a full-length portrait of himself, and again he said mentally, "Can it be possible!" for, since quitting London he had never seen himself as others saw him, having been too hurried, on both occasions of passing through Canadian cities, to note the mirrors there. In the backwoods, of course, there was nothing large enough in the way of mirror to show more than his good-looking face. The portrait now presented to him was that of a broad-chested, well-made, gentlemanly young man of middle height, in a grey Tweed suit. "Not _exactly_ tip-top, A1, superfine, you know, Bobby," he muttered to himself with the memory of former days strong upon him, "but--but-- perhaps not altogether unworthy of--of--a thought or two from little Martha Mild." Bob Frog increased in stature, it is said, by full half an inch on that occasion, and thereafter he walked more rapidly in the direction of Whitechapel. With sad and strangely mingled memories he went to the court where his early years had been spent. It was much the same in disreputableness of aspect as when he left it. Time had been gnawing at it so long that a few years more or less made little difference on it, and its inhabitants had not improved much. Passing rapidly on he went straight to the Beehive, which he had for long regarded as his real home, and there, once again, received a hearty welcome from its ever busy superintendent and her earnest workers; but how different his circumstances now from those attending his first reception! His chief object, however, was to inquire the way to the hospital in which his father lay, and he was glad to learn that the case of Ned Frog was well-known, and that he was convalescent. It chanced that a tea-meeting was "on" when he arrived, so he had little more at the time than a warm shake of the hand from his friends in the Home, but he had the ineffable satisfaction of leaving behind him a sum sufficient to give a sixpence to each of the miserable beings who were that night receiving a plentiful meal for their bodies as well as food for their souls--those of them, at least, who chose to take the latter. None refused the former. On his way to the hospital he saw a remarkably tall policeman approaching. "Well, you _are_ a long-legged copper," he muttered to himself, with an irrepressible laugh as he thought of old times. The old spirit seemed to revive with the old associations, for he felt a strong temptation to make a face at the policeman, execute the old double-shuffle, stick his thumb to the end of his nose, and bolt! As the man drew nearer he did actually make a face in spite of himself--a face of surprise--which caused the man to stop. "Excuse me," said Bob, with much of his old bluntness, "are not you Number 666?" "That is not my number now, sir, though I confess it was once," answered the policeman, with a humorous twinkle of the eye. Bobby noticed the word "sir," and felt elated. It was almost more than waif-and-stray human nature could stand to be respectfully "sirred" by a London policeman--his old foe, whom, in days gone by and on occasions innumerable, he had scorned, scouted, and insulted, with all the ingenuity of his fertile brain. "Your name is Giles Scott, is it not?" he asked. "It is, sir." "Do you remember a little ragged boy who once had his leg broken by a runaway pony at the West-end--long ago?" "Yes, as well as if I'd seen him yesterday. His name was Bobby Frog, and a sad scamp he was, though it is said he's doing well in Canada." "He must 'ave changed considerable," returned Bob, reverting to his old language with wonderful facility, "w'en Number 666 don't know 'im. Yes, in me, Robert Frog, Esquire, of Chikopow Farm, Canada Vest, you be'old your ancient henemy, who is on'y too 'appy to 'ave the chance of axin your parding for all the trouble he gave you, an' all the 'ard names he called you in days gone by." Bobby held out his hand as he spoke, and you may be sure our huge policeman was not slow to grasp it, and congratulate the stray on his improved circumstances. We have not time or space to devote to the conversation which ensued. It was brief, but rapid and to the point, and in the course of it Bob learned that Molly was as well, and as bright and cheery as ever--also somewhat stouter; that Monty was in a fair way to become a real policeman, having just received encouragement to expect admission to the force when old enough, and that he was in a fair way to become as sedate, wise, zealous, and big as his father; also, that little Jo aimed at the same honourable and responsible position, and was no longer little. Being anxious, however, to see his father, Bob cut the conversation short, and, having promised to visit his old enemy, hastened away. The ward of the hospital in which Bob soon found himself was a sad place. Clean and fresh, no doubt, but very still, save when a weary sigh or a groan told of suffering. Among the beds, which stood in a row, each with its head against the wall, one was pointed out on which a living skeleton lay. The face was very very pale, and it seemed as if the angel of death were already brooding over it. Yet, though so changed, there was no mistaking the aspect and the once powerful frame of Ned Frog. "I'd rather not see any one," whispered Ned, as the nurse went forward and spoke to him in a low voice, "I'll soon be home--I think." "Father, _dear_ father," said Bob, in a trembling, almost choking voice, as he knelt by the bedside and took one of his father's hands. The prostrate man sprang up as if he had received an electric shock, and gazed eagerly into the face of his son. Then, turning his gaze on the nurse, he said-- "I'm not dreaming, am I? It's true, is it? Is this Bobby?" "Whether he's Bobby or not I can't say," replied the nurse, in the tone with which people sometimes address children, "but you're not dreaming-- it _is_ a gentleman." "Ah! then I _am_ dreaming," replied the sick man, with inexpressible sadness, "for Bobby is no gentleman." "But it _is_ me, daddy," cried the poor youth, almost sobbing aloud as he kissed the hand he held, "why, you old curmudgeon, I thought you'd 'ave know'd the voice o' yer own son! I've grow'd a bit, no doubt, but it's me for all that. Look at me!" Ned did look, with all the intensity of which he was capable, and then fell back on his pillow with a great sigh, while a death-like pallor overspread his face, almost inducing the belief that he was really dead. "No, Bobby, I ain't dead yet," he said in a low whisper, as his terrified son bent over him. "Thank God for sendin' you back to me." He stopped, but, gradually, strength returned, and he again looked earnestly at his son. "Bobby," he said, in stronger tones, "I thought the end was drawin' near--or, rather, the beginnin'--the beginnin' o' the New Life. But I don't feel like that now. I feel, some'ow, as I used to feel in the ring when they sponged my face arter a leveller. I did think I was done for this mornin'. The nurse thought so too, for I 'eerd her say so; an' the doctor said as much. Indeed I'm not sure that my own 'art didn't say so--but I'll cheat 'em all yet, Bobby, my boy. You've put new life into my old carcase, an' I'll come up to the scratch yet--see if I don't." But Ned Frog did not "come up to the scratch." His work for the Master on earth was finished--the battle fought out and the victory gained. "Gi' them all my love in Canada, Bobby, an' say to your dear mother that I _know_ she forgives me--but I'll tell her all about that when we meet--in the better land." Thus he died with his rugged head resting on the bosom of his loved and loving son. CHAPTER THIRTY. THE NEW HOME. Once again, and for the last time, we shift our scene to Canada--to the real backwoods now--the Brandon Settlement. Sir Richard, you see, had been a noted sportsman in his youth. He had chased the kangaroo in Australia, the springbok in Africa, and the tiger in India, and had fished salmon in Norway, so that his objections to the civilised parts of Canada were as strong as those of the Red Indians themselves. He therefore resolved, when making arrangements to found a colony, to push as far into the backwoods as was compatible with comfort and safety. Hence we now find him in the _very_ far West. We decline to indicate the exact spot, because idlers, on hearing of its fertility and beauty and the felicity of its inhabitants, might be tempted to crowd to it in rather inconvenient numbers. Let it suffice to say, in the language of the aborigines, that it lies towards the setting sun. Around Brandon Settlement there are rolling prairies, illimitable pasture-land, ocean-like lakes, grand forests, and numerous rivers and rivulets, with flat-lands, low-lands, high-lands, undulating lands, wood-lands, and, in the far-away distance, glimpses of the back-bone of America--peaked, and blue, and snow-topped. The population of this happy region consists largely of waifs with a considerable sprinkling of strays. There are also several families of "haristocrats," who, however, are not "bloated"--very much the reverse. The occupation of the people is, as might be expected, agricultural; but, as the colony is very active and thriving and growing fast, many other branches of industry have sprung up, so that the hiss of the saw and the ring of the anvil, the clatter of the water-mill, and the clack of the loom, may be heard in all parts of it. There is a rumour that a branch of the Great Pacific Railway is to be run within a mile of the Brandon Settlement; but that is not yet certain. The rumour, however, has caused much joyful hope to some, and rather sorrowful anxiety to others. Mercantile men rejoice at the prospect. Those who are fond of sport tremble, for it is generally supposed, though on insufficient grounds, that the railway-whistle frightens away game. Any one who has travelled in the Scottish Highlands and seen grouse close to the line regarding your clanking train with supreme indifference, must doubt the evil influence of railways on game. Meanwhile, the sportsmen of Brandon Settlement pursue the buffalo and stalk the deer, and hunt the brown and the grizzly bear, and ply rod, net, gun, and rifle, to their hearts' content. There is even a bank in this thriving settlement--a branch, if we mistake not, of the flourishing Bank of Montreal--of which a certain Mr Welland is manager, and a certain Thomas Balls is hall-porter, as well as general superintendent, when not asleep in the hall-chair. Mrs Welland, known familiarly as Di, is regarded as the mother of the settlement--or, more correctly, the guardian angel--for she is not yet much past the prime of life. She is looked upon as a sort of goddess by many people; indeed she resembles one in mind, face, figure, and capacity. We use the last word advisedly, for she knows and sympathises with every one, and does so much for the good of the community, that the bare record of her deeds would fill a large volume. Amongst other things she trains, in the way that they should go, a family of ten children, whose adoration of her is said to be perilously near to idolatry. She also finds time to visit an immense circle of friends. There are no poor in Brandon Settlement yet, though there are a few sick and a good many aged, to whom she ministers. She also attends on Sir Richard, who is part of the Bank family, as well as a director. The good knight wears well. His time is divided between the children of Di, the affairs of the settlement, and a neighbouring stream in which the trout are large and pleasantly active. Mrs Screwbury, who spent her mature years in nursing little Di, is renewing her youth by nursing little Di's little ones, among whom there is, of course, another little Di whom her father styles Di-licious. Jessie Summers assists in the nursery, and the old cook reigns in the Canadian kitchen with as much grace as she formerly reigned in the kitchen at the "West-End." Quite close to the Bank buildings there is a charming villa, with a view of a lake in front and a peep through the woods at the mountains behind, in which dwells the cashier of the Bank with his wife and family. His name is Robert Frog, Esquire. His wife's name is Martha. His eldest son, Bobby--a boy of about nine or ten--is said to be the most larky boy in the settlement. We know not as to that, but any one with half an eye can see that he is singularly devoted to his mild little brown-eyed mother. There is a picturesque little hut at the foot of the garden of Beehive Villa, which is inhabited by an old woman. To this hut Bobby the second is very partial, for the old woman _is_ exceedingly fond of Bobby--quite spoils him in fact--and often entertains him with strange stories about a certain lion of her acquaintance which was turned into a lamb. Need we say that this old woman is Mrs Frog? The Bank Cashier offered her a home in Beehive Villa, but she prefers the little hut at the foot of the garden, where she sits in state to receive visitors and is tenderly cared for by a very handsome young woman named Matty, who calls her "mother". Matty is the superintendent of a neighbouring school, and it is said that one of the best of the masters of that school is anxious to make Matty and the school his own. If so, that master must be a greedy fellow--all things considered. There is a civil engineer--often styled by Bob Frog an uncivil engineer--who has planned all the public works of the settlement, and is said to have a good prospect of being engaged in an important capacity on the projected railway. But of this we cannot speak authoritatively. His name is T Lampay, Esquire. Ill-natured people assert that when he first came to the colony his name was Tim Lumpy, and at times his wife Hetty calls him Lumpy to his face, but, as wives do sometimes call their husbands improper names, the fact proves nothing except the perversity of woman. There is a blind old woman in his establishment, however, who has grown amiably childish in her old age, who invariably calls him Tim. Whatever may be the truth as to this, there is no question that he is a thriving man and an office-bearer in the Congregational church, whose best Sabbath-school teacher is his wife Hetty, and whose pastor is the Reverend John Seaward--a man of singular good fortune, for, besides having such men as Robert Frog, T. Lampay, and Sir Richard Brandon to back him up and sympathise with him on all occasions, he is further supported by the aid and countenance of Samuel Twitter, senior, Samuel Twitter, junior, Mrs Twitter, and all the other Twitters, some of whom are married and have twitterers of their own. Samuel Twitter and his sons are now farmers! Yes, reader, you may look and feel surprised to hear it, but your astonishment will never equal that of old Twitter himself at finding himself in that position. He never gets over it, and has been known, while at the tail of the plough, to stop work, clap a hand on each knee, and roar with laughter at the mere idea of his having taken to agriculture late in life! He tried to milk the cows when he first began, but, after having frightened two or three animals into fits, overturned half a dozen milk-pails, and been partially gored, he gave it up. Sammy is his right-hand man, and the hope of his declining years. True, this right-hand has got the name of being slow, but he is considered as pre-eminently sure. Mrs Twitter has taken earnestly to the sick, since there are no poor to befriend. She is also devoted to the young--and there is no lack of them. She is likewise strong in the tea-party line, and among her most favoured guests are two ladies named respectively Loper and Larrabel, and two gentlemen named Crackaby and Stickler. It is not absolutely certain whether these four are a blessing to the new settlement or the reverse. Some hold that things in general would progress more smoothly if they were gone; others that their presence affords excellent and needful opportunity for the exercise of forbearance and charity. At all events Mrs Twitter holds that she could not live without them, and George Brisbane, Esquire, who owns a lovely mansion on the outskirts of the settlement, which he has named Lively Hall, vows that the departure of that quartette would be a distinct and irreparable loss to society in Brandon Settlement. One more old friend we have to mention, namely, Reggie North, who has become a colporteur, and wanders far and near over the beautiful face of Canada, scattering the seed of Life with more vigour and greater success than her sons scatter the golden grain. His periodical visits to the settlement are always hailed with delight, because North has a genial way of relating his adventures and describing his travels, which renders it necessary for him to hold forth as a public lecturer at times in the little chapel, for the benefit of the entire community. On these occasions North never fails, you may be quite sure, to advance his Master's cause. Besides those whom we have mentioned, there are sundry persons of both sexes who go by such names as Dick Swiller, Blobby, Robin, Lilly Snow, Robbie Dell, and Little Mouse, all of whom are grown men and women, and are said to have originally been London waifs and strays. But any one looking at them in their backwoods prosperity would pooh-pooh the idea as being utterly preposterous! However this may be, it is quite certain that they are curiously well acquainted with the slums of London and with low life in that great city. These people sometimes mention the name of Giles Scott, and always with regret that that stalwart policeman and his not less stalwart sons are unable to see their way to emigrate, but if they did, as Bobby Frog the second asks, "what would become of London?" "They'd make such splendid backwoodsmen," says one. "And the daughters would make such splendid wives for backwoodsmen," says another. Mr Merryboy thinks that Canada can produce splendid men of its own without importing them from England, and Mrs Merryboy holds that the same may be said in regard to the women of Canada, and old granny, who is still alive, with a face like a shrivelled-up potato, blinks with undimmed eyes, and nods her snow-white head, and beams her brightest smile in thorough approval of these sentiments. Ah, reader! Brandon Settlement is a wonderful place, but we may not linger over it now. The shadows of our tale have lengthened out, and the sun is about to set. Before it goes quite down let us remind you that the Diamonds which you have seen dug out, cut, and polished, are only a few of the precious gems that lie hidden in the dust of the great cities of our land; that the harvest might be very great, and that the labourers at the present time are comparatively few. THE END.