19878	----	Water-Supply and Irrigation Paper No. 92 Series M, General Hydrographic Investigations, 8 DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR UNITED STATES GEOLOGICAL SURVEY CHARLES D. WALCOTT, DIRECTOR THE PASSAIC FLOOD OF 1903 BY MARSHALL ORA LEIGHTON [Illustration] WASHINGTON GOVERNMENT PRINTING OFFICE 1904 CONTENTS. Page. Letter of transmittal 7 Introduction 9 Precipitation 11 Descent of flood 14 Highland tributaries and Central Basin 14 Flood at Macopin dam 15 Flood at Beattie's dam, Little Falls 16 Flood flow over Dundee dam 17 Damages 23 General statements 23 Highland tributaries 23 Ramapo River 23 Pequanac and Wanaque rivers 24 Central Basin 25 Lower Valley 25 Paterson 26 Passaic and vicinity 27 Preventive measures 28 General discussion 28 Lower valley improvements 29 Flood catchment 31 Pompton reservoir 31 Ramapo system 33 Wanaque system 34 Midvale reservoir 34 Ringwood reservoir 35 West Brook reservoir 35 Pequanac system 35 Newfoundland reservoir 36 Stickle Pond reservoir 36 Rockaway system 37 Powerville reservoir 37 Longwood Valley reservoir 37 Splitrock Pond 38 Upper Passaic Basin 38 Millington reservoir 38 Saddle River 39 Summary of flood-catchments projects 40 Preferable reservoir sites 40 General conclusions 44 Index 47 ILLUSTRATIONS. Page. PLATE I. _A_, Beattie's dam, Little Falls, N. J., in flood; _B_, Flood-water lines in residence district, Paterson, N. J. 16 II. _A_, Pompton Lakes dam and water front of Ludlum Steel and Iron Company; _B_, Dry bed of Pompton Lake 24 III. Flood district of Paterson, N. J. 24 IV. _A_, Washout at Spruce street, Paterson, N. J.; _B_, River street, Paterson, N. J., after flood 26 V. _A_, Effects of flood in mill district, Paterson, N. J.; _B_, The wreck of a hotel in Paterson, N. J. 26 VI. _A_, Devastation in Hebrew quarter, Paterson, N. J.; _B_, A common example of flood damage 28 VII. _A_, Inundated lands at Passaic, N. J.; _B_, Undamaged bridge across Passaic River after partial subsidence of flood 28 FIG. 1. Comparative flood run-off at Dundee dam, March, 1902, and October, 1903 18 2. Diagram of flood flow at Dundee dam, flood of 1903 20 LETTER OF TRANSMITTAL. DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR, UNITED STATES GEOLOGICAL SURVEY, HYDROGRAPHIC BRANCH, _Washington, D. C., December 4, 1903._ SIR: I have the honor to transmit herewith a manuscript entitled, "Passaic Flood of 1903," prepared by Marshall Ora Leighton, and to request that it be published as one of the series of Water-Supply and Irrigation Papers. This paper is a continuation of Water-Supply and Irrigation Paper No. 88, by George B. Hollister and Mr. Leighton, and describes the flood of October, 1903, which was higher and far more disastrous than the flood of 1902. The occurrence of two great floods in the same basin during so short a period makes the subject worthy of attention, especially as the district is, from a manufacturing and commercial standpoint, one of the most important along the Atlantic coast. Very respectfully, F. H. NEWELL, _Chief Engineer_. HON. CHARLES D. WALCOTT _Director United States Geological Survey_. THE PASSAIC FLOOD OF 1903. By MARSHALL O. LEIGHTON. INTRODUCTION. In the following pages is given a brief history of the disastrous flood which occurred in the Passaic River Basin in October, 1903. In the report by George Buell Hollister and the writer, entitled "The Passaic Flood of 1902," and published by the United States Geological Survey as Water-Supply and Irrigation Paper No. 88, are discussed the principal physiographic features of the drainage basin and their general relations to the stream flow. This report will not repeat this information, and the discussion will be confined to the flood itself. References to local features will be made without explanation, the presumption being that this publication shall accompany the earlier one and be, as it is, a continuation of it. In the present report more attention is given to an estimate of damages than in the earlier work, and remedies by which devastation may be avoided are briefly considered. Passaic River overflowed its banks on October 8, 1903, and remained in flood until October 19. Between these dates there occurred the greatest and most destructive flood ever known along this stream. Ordinarily the channel of the lower Passaic at full bank carries about 12,000 cubic feet of water per second, but at the height of this flood it carried about 35,700 cubic feet per second. The flood period for the entire stream can not be exactly stated, as the overflow did not occur at the same time in different parts of the basin. For example, the gage-height records at Dundee dam show that the flood began to rise on October 8 at 6.30 a. m., and reached a maximum of 9-1/2 inches over the dam crest at 9 p. m. on October 10. Similarly, on Beattie's dam at Little Falls the flood began to rise at midnight on October 7, and reached its maximum at 2 p. m. on October 10, or about thirty-eight hours after the initial rise, the height of the water being 1.29 inches over the crest of the dam. The flood rose on the highland tributaries as follows: On Ramapo River the flood crest passed Hillborn at about 10 a. m. on October 9 and reached Pompton, at the mouth of the river, shortly after noon of the same day. The highest reading recorded on the Geological Survey gage at the feeder of Morris Canal, in Pompton Plains, was 14.3 feet, at about 6 o'clock on the morning of October 10. As this gage is read only once daily it is probable that this reading does not represent the height of the flood crest. Evidence shows that it passed this point on the previous day. Records of the Newark water department show that the flood on Pequanac River began to rise at Macopin dam on October 8 at noon, and rose rapidly to the maximum of 6,000 cubic feet per second at 4 p. m. on October 10. No records are available with reference to the rise of flood on Wanaque River. Observations made on Pompton Plains on the morning of the 11th show that Pompton River was well within its banks at that time; therefore the Ramapo, Wanaque, and Pequanac must have discharged their flood waters some time previous to this hour. The fact is important when considered in connection with the height of water in the main stream at that period. This observation was made only eighteen hours after the maximum height over Beattie's dam at Little Falls, and twelve hours after the flood crest passed Dundee dam. The conditions here outlined illustrate the rapidity with which flood waters are discharged from the Pompton drainage area, and the deterring effect of Great Piece Meadows upon the flood. The rise of the flood on Rockaway River at Old Boonton was almost coincident with that on Pequanac River at Macopin dam. The maximum flow occurred fourteen hours later than the maximum on the Ramapo at Pompton. The flood crest did not reach Chatham on upper Passaic River until the morning of October 11, or about twenty-four hours later than the flood heights in Pompton and Rockaway rivers, and about twelve hours later than the maximum over Dundee dam. Adequate reasons for these differences in flood periods between neighboring points are abundant. They are apparent after a review of the physiographic conditions described in Water-Supply Paper No. 88. The flood of 1903 was the immediate result of an enormous rainfall, and not, as is often the case in north temperate latitudes, the combined effect of rainfall and the rapid melting of accumulated snows. The records of weather-observation stations in northern New Jersey and New York fail to show, throughout their entire observation periods, as great an amount of precipitation in so short a period. The storm which was the immediate cause of the flood occurred principally between October 8 and 11. During that interval rain fell to an average depth of 11.74 inches over the Passaic Basin. The Passaic Basin is fairly well supplied with storage facilities, which, under ordinary circumstances, would temper the severity of floods by holding back a large amount of water. In this case no such effect was produced, as the reservoirs, lakes, and ponds on the drainage area were filled, or practically so, at the beginning of the storm, and there was consequently no available space in which to hold back even an appreciable part of the run-off water. Over some of the dams in the highland region a comparatively small amount of water was being discharged at the beginning of the storm. Therefore, while these storage basins may have had a certain deterring effect upon the rate of flood accumulation, they could not, in the end, assist materially in preventing damages in the lower part of the drainage area. PRECIPITATION. The precipitation records for June, July, August, and September are given below: _Precipitation, in inches, in Passaic Valley and vicinity, June to September, 1903._ -----------------+--------------+--------------+--------------+------------ | June. | July. | August. | September. -----------------+--------------+--------------+--------------+------------ |Normal. |Normal. |Normal. |Normal. | Observed.| Observed.| Observed.| Observed. -----------------+--------------+--------------+--------------+------------ Highland region: | | | | | | | | Dover | 3.29 | 15.02 | 5.54 | 5.47 | 5.08 | 9.04 | 4.02 | 3.39 Chester | 3.48 | 12.80 | 6.42 | 7.59 | 5.16 | 9.35 | 4.60 | ... Charlotteburg | 3.52 | 9.45 | 5.54 | 3.97 | 4.98 | 7.78 | 4.80 | 3.29 Ringwood | ... | 10.13 | ... | 3.08 | ... | 6.17 | ... | 3.06 Red Sandstone | | | | | | | | plain: | | | | | | | | Paterson | 4.31 | 11.17 | 5.32 | 5.40 | 4.31 | 10.89 | 4.86 | 2.88 Hanover | 3.32 | ... | 5.23 | 5.40 | 5.20 | 9.40 | 4.52 | ... River Vale | 3.17 | 10.62 | 4.87 | 3.41 | 4.17 | ... | 3.61 | 2.90 Essex Fells | 3.08 | ... | 7.03 | ... | 5.95 | ... | 3.67 | 1.80 Newark | 3.60 | 11.51 | 4.48 | 4.27 | 4.75 | 14.54 | 3.83 | 4.56 South Orange | 3.57 | 9.28 | 5.43 | 4.22 | 5.05 | 13.75 | 4.04 | 3.80 New York City | 3.13 | 7.42 | 4.26 | 3.23 | 4.70 | 5.96 | 3.72 | 2.60 Plainfield | 3.62 | 10.14 | 5.86 | 4.70 | 4.37 | 6.87 | 4.42 | 7.10 Elizabeth | 3.68 | 8.76 | 5.74 | 4.31 | 4.26 | 7.15 | 4.14 | 4.38 -----------------+--------------+--------------+------|-------+------+----- An examination of the above table shows that throughout the summer of 1903 the precipitation was considerably above normal. The records for June and August indicate extremely wet months, and the July figures are slightly above while the September figures are somewhat below normal. The important fact shown by this table is that disastrous floods may occur after long periods of abundant rains. It has been observed that heavy precipitation may be expected after protracted periods of drought. Such a belief is not altogether fanciful. In the northeastern part of this country the total amount of precipitation is approximately uniform from year to year. The variations, comparatively speaking, are not very wide, and we are therefore led to expect that there are in operation influences which serve to compensate for excesses or deficiencies in our annual rainfall. Therefore after the abundant precipitation of the summer of 1903, an observer might have had some measure of justification in predicting a normally or abnormally dry fall. In view of the actual events the fact must be emphasized that in adopting measures to prevent floods the margin of safety must be extremely wide. The extraordinary rainfall of those three October days can not with assurance be accepted as the maximum. _Precipitation, in inches, in Passaic Valley and vicinity, October 7 to 11, 1903._ ---------------------+------------------+------------------+-------- | From-- | To-- | Station. +------+-----------+------+-----------+ Amount. | Day. | Hour. | Day. | Hour. | ---------------------+------+-----------+------+-----------+-------- Highland region: | | | | | Dover | 7 | | 11 | 9 p.m. | 10.13 Little Falls | 7 | 4 a.m. | 11 | 7 a.m. | 14.13 Charlotteburg | 7 | | 10 | | 12.67 Ringwood | 8 | 11 a.m. | 9 | 8 p.m. | 10.63 | | | | | Red Sandstone plain: | | | | | Paterson | 7 | 5 a.m. | 9 | 3.45 p.m. | 15.04 River Vale | 8 | 8 a.m. | 11 | 6 p.m. | 12.55 Essex Fells | 8 | | 9 | 4 p.m. | 10.66 Newark | 8 | 8.30 a.m. | 11 | 5 a.m. | 12.09 South Orange | 8 | 6 a.m. | 10 | Night | 10.48 ---------------------+------+-----------+------+-----------+-------- The extremely rapid rate of precipitation during the crucial part of the storm is shown by the recording gages placed at observation stations in Newark and New York City. _Hourly records of precipitation at New York observation station, October 8 and 9, 1903_. Inches. Oct. 8, 9 to 10 a. m. 0.08 10 to 11 a. m. .02 11 to 12 m. .32 12 m. to 1 p. m. .10 1 to 2 p. m. .05 2 to 3 p. m. .06 3 to 4 p. m. .34 4 to 5 p. m. .01 5 to 6 p. m. .10 6 to 7 p. m. .02 7 to 8 p. m. .93 8 to 9 p. m. .32 9 to 10 p. m. .24 10 to 11 p. m. .27 11 to 12 p. m. .26 9, 12 to 1 a. m. .30 Oct. 9, 1 to 2 a. m. 0.25 2 to 3 a. m. .75 3 to 4 a. m. .34 4 to 5 a. m. .46 5 to 6 a. m. .41 6 to 7 a. m. .29 7 to 8 a. m. .51 8 to 9 a. m. 1.38 9 to 10 a. m. 1.04 10 to 11 a. m. .08 11 to 12 m. .23 12 m. to 1 p. m. .24 1 to 2 p. m. .31 2 to 3 p. m. .32 3 to 4 p. m. .01 _____ Total 6.92 _Hourly record of precipitation at Newark observation station, October 8-11, 1903_. Inches. Oct. 8, 8.25 to 9 a. m. 0.05 9 to 10 a. m. .04 10 to 11 a. m. .00 11 to 12 m. .00 12 m. to 1 p. m. .14 1 to 2 p. m. .72 2 to 3 p. m. .49 3 to 4 p. m. .11 4 to 5 p. m. 1.05 5 to 6 p. m. .45 6 to 7 p. m. 1.20 7 to 8 p. m. .60 8 to 9 p. m. .24 9 to 10 p. m. .24 10 to 11 p. m. .13 11 to 12 p. m. .17 9, 12 to 1 a. m. .29 1 to 2 a. m. .33 2 to 3 a. m. .62 3 to 4 a. m. .29 4 to 5 a. m. .35 5 to 6 a. m. .26 6 to 7 a. m. .13 Oct. 9, 7 to 8 a. m. 0.29 8 to 9 a. m. .69 9 to 10 a. m. .69 10 to 11 a. m. .39 11 to 12m. .20 12m. to 1 p. m. .39 1 to 2 p. m. .28 2 to 3 p. m. .34 3 to 3.25 p. m. .13 11.50 to 11.55 p. m. .01 10, 3 to 4 a. m. .02 7 to 8 p. m. .07 8 to 9 p. m. .09 9 to 10 p. m. .02 10 to 11 p. m. .04 11 to 12 p. m. .04 11, 12 to 1 a. m. .06 1 to 2 a. m. .09 2 to 3 a. m. .03 3 to 4 a. m. .05 4 to 5 a. m. .01 _____ Total 11.83 From the above tables it may be seen that the maximum rate of precipitation per hour was 1.38 inches at New York and 1.2 inches at Newark. Comparison of the tables on pages 11 and 12 gives an excellent idea of the intensity of the storm. The amount of water falling in a single storm is nearly equal to the total for June, a month of unusual precipitation. The average of the total amounts of precipitation recorded at the various stations in the Passaic area is 11.74 inches. These totals are fairly uniform, none of them varying widely from the average. Therefore the figure 11.74 represents a conservative mean for a calculation of total amount of water over the drainage area. Assuming this as the correct depth, the amount of water which fell on each square mile of the Passaic drainage area during the storm was 27,273,000 cubic feet, or for the whole Passaic drainage area over 27,000,000,000 cubic feet, weighing about 852,000,000 tons. This amount of water would, if properly stored, fill a lake with twenty times the capacity of Greenwood Lake, would cover Central Park in New York City, which has an area of about 1.5 square miles, to a height of 645 feet, and, at the present rate of water consumption in the city of Newark, N. J., would supply the city with water for twenty years. DESCENT OF FLOOD. HIGHLAND TRIBUTARIES AND CENTRAL BASIN. A description of the descent of flood waters from the highland tributaries into the Central Basin has been given in Water-Supply Paper No. 88. It has been shown that the lands of the Central Basin are covered even in ordinary freshets, and that in the event of a great flood the waters merely rise higher, being, for the greater extent, almost quiescent, and beyond the flooding of houses and barns and the destruction of crops, little damage is done. In other words, the flood along this portion is not torrential in character. During the flood of 1903 the water fell so quickly all over this basin, and was collected so rapidly by the small tributaries, that a lake was formed at once which served as a cushion against which the raging torrent of the highland tributaries spent itself without doing extraordinary damage in that immediate region. Bridges which might have been lost in a smaller flood like that of 1902 were actually standing in slack water by the time the mountain torrents appeared in force. These streams caused much destruction higher up in the mountains, but in the Central Basin their energy became potential--a gathering of forces to be loosed upon the lower valley. A discussion of the effects of this will be taken up under the heading "Damages." In Water-Supply Paper No. 88 is given the proportion of flood waters contributed to the Central Basin by each of the tributaries. These figures were computed from the results of gagings maintained for a period sufficient to afford this information within a reasonable approximation. In the case of the storm which resulted in the flood of 1903 it is probable that data referred to can not be safely applied. The flood of 1902 was the result of abundant rains following upon and melting a heavy snow. Weather Bureau records show that neither the depth of the snow nor the amount of subsequent rainfall was uniform, or even approximately so, over the Passaic drainage area. Indeed, so marked was the variation that it was believed that the mean rainfall for all the observation stations on the basin did not bear sufficient relation to observed run-off to allow of any reliable deductions. In the case of the October storm, however, the distribution of rainfall was more nearly uniform, and the run-off from the highland tributaries into the Central Basin must have been proportionately different in amount from that indicated in the upland tributary tables in the report of the previous flood. The data given for the 1902 flood can not, therefore, in the case of the highland tributaries, be applied to the conditions which obtained in the flood of 1903. FLOOD AT MACOPIN DAM. Mr. Morris R. Sherrerd, engineer of the Newark city water board, has furnished flow computations over Macopin intake dam, which is the head of the Newark pipe line. As about 73 per cent of the Pequanac drainage area lies above this intake, the table on page 16 shows roughly an equivalent percentage of the flow contributed by Pequanac River to the Central Basin of the Passaic. In consulting this table it should be borne in mind that the entire run-off of the drainage area above Macopin is about 25,000,000 gallons per day more than the amounts presented in this table. All reservoirs and ponds connected with the conservancy system of the Newark water supply were filled except that at Oakridge, which was about 1.5 feet below the crest of the spillway. _Flow of Pequanac River over Macopin dam, October 7-24, 1903._ [From Newark water department.] Cubic feet. Oct. 8, 6 a. m. to 12 m. 240,600 12m. to 4 p. m. 347,600 4 to 6 p. m. 842,200 8-9, 6 p. m. to 6 a. m. 40,110,000 9, 6 a. m. to 12 m. 51,870,000 12m. to 1 p. m. 15,100,000 1 to 5 p. m. 62,430,000 5 to 10 p. m. 89,040,000 10 to 11 p. m. 19,520,000 9-10, 10 p. m. to 8 a. m. 201,350,000 10, 8 a. m. to 12 m. 75,670,000 12 m. to 6 p. m. 103,650,000 6 to 12 p. m. 73,530,000 11, 12 to 6 a. m. 56,820,000 6 a. m. to 12m. 41,440,000 12 m. to 6 p. m. 32,755,000 6 to 12 p. m. 25,665,000 12, 12 to 6 a. m. 23,800,000 6 a. m. to 12m. 20,725,000 12 m. to 6 p. m. 18,450,000 6 to 12 p. m. 15,105,000 13, 12 to 6 a. m. 13,370,000 6 a. m. to 12 m. 11,890,000 12 m. to 6 p. m. 11,230,000 6 to 12 p. m. 11,230,000 14, 12 to 6 a. m. 9,626,000 6 a. m. to 12 m. 8,690,000 12 m. to 6 p. m. 8,022,000 6 to 12 p. m. 7,353,000 15, 12 to 6 a. m. 6,952,000 6 a. m. to 6 p. m. 12,700,000 15-16, 6 p. m. to 6 a. m. 10,965,000 16, 6 a. m. to 6 p. m. 10,025,000 16-17, 6 p. m. to 6 a. m. 9,091,000 17, 6 a. m. to 6 p. m. 8,690,000 17-18, 6 p. m. to 6 a. m. 9,893,000 18, 6 a. m. to 6 p. m. 10,565,000 18-19, 6 p. m. to 6 a. m. 8,690,000 19, 6 a. m. to 6 p. m. 6,952,000 19-20, 6 p. m. to 6 a. m. 6,150,000 20, 6 a. m. to 6 p. m. 5,882,000 20-21, 6 p. m. to 6 a. m. 5,749,000 21, 6 a. m. to 6 p. m. 5,481,000 21-22, 6 p. m. to 6 a. m. 5,214,000 22, 6 a. m. to 6 p. m. 4,144,000 22-23, 6 p. m. to 6 a. m. 3,677,000 23, 6 a. m. to 6 p. m. 3,877,000 23-24, 6 p. m. to 6 a. m. 5,749,000 24, 6 a. m. to 6 p. m. 5,615,000 FLOOD AT BEATTIE'S DAM, LITTLE FALLS. The flow over Beattie's dam at Little Falls, has been calculated according to coefficients used for the same dam in Water-Supply Paper No. 88. Recorded gage heights show that over the main dam there was a maximum depth of 11.12 feet, which continued from 2 to 8 p. m., on October 10, representing a maximum flow of 31,675 cubic feet per second. (See Pl. I, A.) In the following table is set forth the flow of the river over Beattie's dam during the flood, and for purposes of comparison, the figures for the flood period of March, 1902. It should be borne in mind in consulting this table, that in the case of the flood of 1903 exact dates and hours are given, while the figures for the 1902 flood represent flow determinations at six-hour intervals, beginning with the initial rise of that flood. * * * * * U. S. GEOLOGICAL SURVEY WATER-SUPPLY PAPER NO. 92 PL. I [Illustration: _A._ BEATTIE'S DAM, LITTLE FALLS, N. J., IN FLOOD.] [Illustration: _B._ FLOOD-WATER LINES IN RESIDENCE DISTRICT, PATERSON, N. J.] * * * * * _Flood flow over Beattie's dam during floods of 1902 and 1903._ -----------------+------------+------------+ Date and hour. | 1903. | 1902.[A] | -----------------+------------+------------+ | Sec.-feet. | Sec.-feet. | Oct. 8. 12 p.m | 1,645 | 490 | 9. 6 a.m. | 4,235 | 700 | 12 m. | 8,560 | 1,350 | 6 p.m. | 15,755 | 2,120 | 12 p.m. | 23,927 | 3,540 | 10. 6 a.m. | 28,370 | 4,250 | 12 m. | 31,305 | 4,600 | 6 p.m. | 31,675 | 5,000 | 12 p.m. | 30,770 | 6,500 | 11. 6 a.m. | 29,840 | 7,600 | 12 m. | 28,950 | 8,250 | 6 p.m. | 26,960 | 9,000 | 12 p.m. | 25,530 | 10,200 | 12. 6 a.m. | 24,435 | 11,450 | 12 m. | 22,625 | 14,700 | 6 p.m. | 20,810 | 18,150 | 12 p.m. | 18,655 | 20,650 | 13. 6 a.m. | 17,930 | 22,200 | 12 m. | 16,190 | 22,700 | 6 p.m. | 14,900 | 23,400 | 12 p.m. | 13,615 | 23,300 | 14. 6 a.m. | 12,340 | 22,950 | 12 m. | 11,740 | 22,650 | 6 p.m. | 10,975 | 22,350 | 12 p.m. | 9,820 | 22,100 | 15. 6 a.m. | 9,180 | 21,150 | 12 m. | 8,330 | 19,900 | 6 p.m. | 7,700 | 18,900 | 12 p.m. | 7,005 | 17,350 | 16. 6 a.m. | 6,695 | 15,750 | 12 m. | 5,920 | 13,900 | 6 p.m. | 5,620 | 13,300 | 12 p.m. | 5,360 | 11,800 | 17. 6 a.m. | 4,855 | 10,650 | Below full bank | 8,900 | Do. | 8,500 | Do. | 8,100 | Do. | 8,200 | Do. | 7,000 | Do. | 6,250 | Do. | 5,900 | Do. | 5,300 | Do. | 5,200 | Do. | 4,900 | -----------------+------------+------------+ [Footnote A: At six-hour intervals.] FLOOD FLOW OVER DUNDEE DAM. The flood, as indicated by gage heights at Dundee dam, lasted from about 6.30 p. m. October 8 to about midnight October 18. Although the maximum recorded gage height was 19 inches higher than during the flood of 1902, the actual time during which the river was out of its banks was forty-five hours less than at the earlier flood. Examination of fig. 1 shows that the flood of 1903 was decidedly more intense than that of 1902, the maximum height being reached in 1903 in about sixty hours, while in 1902 the maximum was not reached until the expiration of about one hundred and twenty hours. At Dundee dam the familiar break in the progress of the flood took place about thirty-five hours after the initial rise. It occurred before the time of the maximum gage height at the mouth of Pompton River, and there is nothing to indicate that it was caused, as has been claimed, by slack water from the Pompton flood being forced back into Great Piece Meadows. There is no doubt that a part of the Pompton flood was so diverted, but there was maintained throughout at Little Falls a steady pressure, which constantly increased to maximum. This flood check, at Dundee dam was observed in 1902, but it could not be shown to arise from the frequently mentioned phenomena at the mouth of Pompton River. It is important to prove or disprove this hypothesis. If it were found to be true, it could be advantageously taken into consideration in connection with measures for the prevention of flood damages. As the Pompton had no such effect upon the flood flow at Dundee dam in two consecutive historic floods, the writer is inclined to believe that the idea is entirely erroneous. [Illustration: FIG. 1.--Comparative flood run-off at Dundee dam, March, 1902, and October, 1903.] Since the flow curves in fig. 1 were drawn it has been found by careful observation that the depressions which occur in the rise of every flood over Dundee dam are probably due to the carrying away of the flashboards which are placed upon the dam crest in times of low water. A review of the gage heights recorded by floods for several years past shows that the break occurs when the height of water over the dam crest reaches from 40 to 60 inches. The flashboards used upon this dam are usually 18 inches wide, and as they are supported by iron rods, which are of approximately the same strength and are placed upon the dam by one crew of workmen, it may be safely assumed that they are of approximately equal stability and might be expected to fail almost simultaneously along the length of the dam crest. So sudden a decrease in the effectual height of the dam must lower the water on the dam crest markedly, and as every other probable cause has been eliminated in the case of the recent flood, the explanation of the check in the progress of floods over this dam may be safety accepted as due to carrying away of flashboards. This effect should be apparent in the gage-height records only. In the flow diagrams (figs. 1 and 2) the effect would not be the same, but the curve would rise more sharply. Similarly, the measurements at the beginning are not correct, as they are calculated according to gage heights measured from the stone crest of the dam. Therefore, a true flood curve at this point would be much flatter at the beginning and rise sharply at a period coincident with the carrying away of the flashboards. An important difference between the two floods is that the earlier continued longer, but the later one was much higher. The flood of 1902 was caused by the turning of an equivalent of approximately 6 inches of precipitation into the main channel during a period of six days. In the deluge of 1903 there fell 11.74 inches of rain, the greater part of which was precipitated in 36 hours. Thus it is seen that there was in the flood of 1903 a larger rainfall during a much shorter period than in the flood of 1902. Computation shows that the total run-off from the drainage area above Dundee dam during the earlier flood was 13,379,000,000 cubic feet, and that on account of the frozen condition of the ground at that time this amount of water represented practically all of the precipitation. During the flood of 1903 there was a total run-off for the same area of 14,772,000,000 cubic feet, which represents about 66 per cent of the observed precipitation. According to these figures the total amount of run-off in the 1903 flood was only 10 per cent greater than that in 1902, while the actual flood height during the 1903 flood was 27 per cent higher than during the flood of 1902. The above comparison shows, in a striking manner, the effect of the condition of the surface. In the case of the later flood we had, as has been stated in previous pages, an area which had been well watered during the previous summer, and the observed ground-water levels were fairly high. There was, however, sufficient storage capacity in the basin to retain about 34 per cent of the precipitation occurring between October 7 and 11. This water must have been largely absorbed by the earth. The general relations of the floods of 1903 and 1902 can therefore be briefly stated as follows: _General relations of floods of 1903 and 1902._ -----+--------------+--------------+-------------+-------------> |Average | Duration of | Maximum | Total |precipitation.|precipitation.| flood flow. | run-off. | | | | -----+--------------+--------------+-------------+-------------> | _Inches._ | _Days._ |_Sec.-feet._ | _Cubic feet._ 1902 | 6 | 6 | 24,800 |13,379,000,000 1903 | 11.74 | 3 | 35,700 |14,772,000,000 -----+--------------+--------------+-------------+-------------> <-----------+------------- Run-off. | Duration of | flood at | Dundee dam. <-----------+------------- _Per cent._| _Hours._ [B]100 | 270 66 | 225 <-----------+------------- [Footnote B: Approximately] In the following table and fig. 2 are recorded gage heights taken at hourly intervals during the crucial part of the flood and the amount of water expressed in cubic feet per second flowing over the crest of the dam at each gage height. [Illustration: FIG. 2.--Diagram of flood flow at Dundee dam, flood of 1903.] _Flow of Passaic River at Dundee dam, 1903._ ------------------------------------------- Date and hour. | Gage. | Flow. ---------------------+-------+------------- |_Feet._| _Sec.-feet._ Oct. 8. 6.30 a. m. | 0.66 | 780 1 p. m. | 1.50 | 3,175 6.30 p. m. | 2.17 | 5,500 8 p. m. | 2.59 | 7,300 10 p. m. | 3.00 | 9,125 11 p. m. | 3.33 | 10,700 12 p. m. | 3.50 | 11,525 9. 1 a. m. | 3.50 | 11,550 2.30 a. m. | 3.59 | 11,950 4 a. m. | 3.50 | 11,525 6 a. m. | 3.66 | 12,300 8.30 a. m. | 3.75 | 12,775 9.40 a. m. | 4.00 | 14,075 10.55 a. m. | 4.66 | 17,650 12 m. | 4.75 | 18,200 1 p. m. | 5.25 | 21,050 2 p. m. | 5.37 | 21,750 3 p. m. | 5.45 | 22,250 3.45 p. m. | 5.37 | 21,750 4.25 p. m. | 5.29 | 21,300 5 p. m. | 5.23 | 20,950 5.45 p. m. | 5.19 | 20,700 6.30 p. m. | 5.17 | 20,600 7 p. m. | 5.11 | 20,250 8 p. m. | 5.13 | 20,350 9 p. m. | 5.17 | 20,600 10 p. m. | 5.21 | 20,750 11 p. m. | 5.27 | 21,150 12 p. m. | 5.4 | 21,950 10. 1 a. m. | 5.5 | 22,500 2 a. m. | 5.66 | 23,500 3 a. m. | 5.73 | 23,900 4 a. m. | 5.91 | 25,050 5 a. m. | 6.00 | 25,650 6 a. m. | 6.2 | 26,900 7 a. m. | 6.33 | 27,700 8 a. m. | 6.4 | 28,150 9 a. m. | 6.6 | 29,400 10 a. m. | 6.83 | 30,750 11 a. m. | 6.89 | 31,250 11.35 a. m. | 6.97 | 31,750 12 m. | 6.93 | 31,450 1 p. m. | 6.95 | 31,650 2 p. m. | 7.13 | 32,800 3 p. m. | 7.19 | 33,150 4 p. m. | 7.25 | 33,500 5 p. m. | 7.39 | 34,450 6 p. m. | 7.39 | 34,450 7 p. m. | 7.40 | 34,500 8 p. m. | 7.54 | 35,350 9 p. m. | 7.62 | 35,800 10 p. m. | 7.60 | 35,700 11 p. m. | 7.57 | 35,500 12 p. m. | 7.43 | 34,650 11. 1 a. m. | 7.47 | 34,950 2 a. m. | 7.5 | 35,100 3 a. m. | 7.42 | 34,700 4 a. m. | 7.3 | 34,450 5 a. m. | 7.3 | 34,150 6 a. m. | 7.3 | 34,150 7 a. m. | 7.37 | 34,300 8 a. m. | 7.33 | 34,100 9 a. m. | 7.31 | 33,900 10 a. m. | 7.23 | 33,450 11 a. m. | 7.25 | 32,525 12 m. | 7.18 | 33,100 1 p. m. | 7.18 | 33,100 2 p. m. | 7.17 | 33,300 3 p. m. | 7.08 | 32,450 4 p. m. | 7.00 | 31,950 5 p. m. | 6.96 | 31,700 6 p. m. | 6.89 | 31,250 7 p. m. | 6.86 | 31,050 8 p. m. | 6.83 | 30,850 9 p. m. | 6.79 | 30,600 10 p. m. | 6.81 | 30,700 11 p. m. | 6.73 | 30,200 12 p. m. | 6.71 | 30,100 12. 1 a. m. | 6.63 | 29,600 2 a. m. | 6.59 | 29,350 3 a. m. | 6.55 | 29,100 4 a. m. | 6.51 | 28,800 5 a. m. | 6.42 | 28,250 6 a. m. | 6.42 | 28,250 7 a. m. | 6.39 | 28,100 8 a. m. | 6.39 | 28,100 9 a. m. | 6.25 | 27,200 10 a. m. | 6.21 | 26,950 11 a. m. | 6.17 | 26,700 12 m. | 6.05 | 26,100 1 p. m. | 6.06 | 26,050 2 p. m | 5.93 | 25,200 3 p. m. | 5.89 | 24,950 4 p. m. | 5.87 | 24,800 5 p. m. | 5.79 | 24,300 6 p. m | 5.77 | 24,150 7 p. m. | 5.75 | 24,250 8 p. m. | 5.73 | 23,950 9 p. m | 5.63 | 23,300 10 p. m. | 5.59 | 23,100 11 p. m. | 5.54 | 22,750 12 p. m. | 5.49 | 22,450 13. 1 a. m. | 5.44 | 22,200 2 a. m. | 5.39 | 21,000 3 a. m. | 5.35 | 21,650 4 a. m. | 5.30 | 21,350 5 a. m. | 5.24 | 21,000 6 a. m. | 5.21 | 20,850 7 a. m. | 5.16 | 20,525 8 a. m. | 5.13 | 20,350 9 a. m. | 5.08 | 20,100 10 a. m. | 5.04 | 19,800 11 a. m. | 5.00 | 19,560 12 m. | 4.94 | 19,200 1 p. m. | 4.89 | 18,900 2 p. m. | 4.85 | 18,700 3 p. m. | 4.84 | 18,650 4 p. m. | 4.75 | 18,200 5 p. m. | 4.71 | 17,900 6 p. m. | 4.66 | 17,650 7 p. m. | 4.64 | 17,550 8 p. m. | 4.59 | 17,250 9 p. m. | 4.54 | 17,000 10 p. m. | 4.51 | 16,750 11 p. m. | 4.49 | 16,700 12 p. m. | 4.37 | 16,000 14. 1 a. m. | 4.37 | 16,000 2 a. m. | 4.35 | 15,925 3 a. m. | 4.35 | 15,925 4 a. m. | 4.33 | 15,800 5 a. m. | 4.34 | 15,850 6 a. m. | 4.31 | 15,700 7 a. m. | 4.27 | 15,500 8 a. m. | 4.25 | 15,300 9 a. m. | 4.17 | 14,900 10 a. m. | 4.08 | 14,500 11 a. m. | 4.05 | 14,325 12 m. | 4.02 | 14,150 1 p. m. | 4.02 | 14,150 2 p. m. | 4.01 | 14,100 3 p. m. | 3.97 | 13,900 4 p. m. | 3.94 | 13,750 5 p. m. | 3.85 | 13,300 6 p. m. | 3.75 | 12,775 7 p. m. | 3.75 | 12,775 9 p. m. | 3.71 | 12,550 12 p. m. | 3.66 | 12,300 15. 6.30 a. m. | 3.50 | 11,525 1 p. m. | 3.41 | 11,050 6.30 p. m. | 3.41 | 11,050 16. 6.30 a. m. | 3.00 | 9,125 1 p. m. | 3.00 | 9,125 6.30 p. m. | 2.91 | 8,700 17. 6.30 a. m. | 2.5 | 6,900 1 p. m. | 2.5 | 6,900 6.30 p. m. | 2.5 | 6,900 18. 6.30 a. m. | 2.5 | 6,900 1 p.m. | 2.41 | 6,500 6.30 p. m. | 2.33 | 6,200 19. 6.30 a. m. | 2 | 4,900 1 p. m. | 2 | 4,900 6.30 p. m. | 2 | 4,900 DAMAGES. GENERAL STATEMENTS. Estimates of flood damages are always approximations only. It is possible to determine with a fair degree of assurance the cost of replacing structures which have been carried away, to estimate the value of goods destroyed--especially if they be commodities stored in shops or warehouses--to calculate the amount of operatives' wages lost, and in the case of general mercantile business to estimate the damages incurred through consequent reduction of trade. Destruction by flood, however vast, is incomplete. It differs materially from destruction by fire, for often destructible property is of value after floods have passed. Buildings which are inundated still retain value, and many kinds of merchandise are not totally destroyed. Therefore when the amount of damages is calculated there is always to be taken into consideration the fact that a part of the material which has been flooded can be reclaimed, and retains some proportion, at least, of the value which it had previously possessed. Furthermore, damages by flood enter into practically every detail of social and business affairs. There are losses which are severe to one or more persons, and which can not be appreciated except by those whom the floods have actually overtaken. Therefore estimations of flood damages can be only approximate, and while a measure of accuracy may be reached with respect to a part of the losses, there remains a necessity for approximation which can not be classed with carefully computed damages along other lines. HIGHLAND TRIBUTARIES. Along the three northern tributaries, the Ramapo, Wanaque, and Pequanac, and at their confluence with the Pompton, the destruction by flood waters was far greater than along the Rockaway, Whippany, and upper Passaic, or in that area described as the Central Basin. In the drainage areas of the three tributaries last mentioned the waters were higher than in the flood of 1902, but the general effects were of the same nature, and consisted principally of flooded lands, houses, and washouts. There were few radical cases of complete destruction like those which marked the course of the flood in the northern tributaries. The principal interest is therefore confined to the Pompton and the three highland tributaries which discharge into it. _Ramapo River._--The greatest destruction was along the Ramapo. It is the largest of the upland branches, and was therefore the heaviest contributor to the main stream. Throughout the flood period the stream was especially violent, causing great apprehension in the lower valley. The destruction along several stretches of the valley was almost complete. Nearly all the dams failed, and every bridge across the river, with one exception, was carried away. Some small villages were swept bare, and the damages to realty value and personal property were excessive. It was only by strenuous measures that the dam impounding the waters of Tuxedo Lake was saved. If this had failed the destruction along the entire course of the river, even to the cities in the lower valley, would have been enormously increased. The dam at Cranberry Pond, in Arden, failed in the early part of the storm, the flood waters disabling the Tuxedo electric-light plant and inundating the Italian settlements along the river below. The failure of the dam conserving the waters of Nigger Pond, which lies at the head of a small tributary emptying into the Ramapo below Tuxedo, resulted in the inundation of Ramapo village. The village of Sloatsburg was practically obliterated. The damage at Pompton Lakes was especially severe. During the early part of the flood the timber dam of the Ludlum Steel and Iron Company, which raised the water to a height of 27 feet, and afforded 7.04 horsepower per foot fall, was carried away with a part of the headrace. (See Pl. II, _A._) This sudden emptying of Pompton Lake, an expanse of 196 acres (see Pl. II, _B_), was extremely destructive to Pompton Plains, and the destruction of the dams above on Ramapo River, which followed some time after the bursting of the lower dam, refilled Pompton Lake above its former level, and caused greater damage than that which resulted from the failure of Pompton dam itself. The large iron bridge just below the dam was carried away, with the stores of the Ludlum Steel and Iron Company. The river front along this company's property was destroyed, along with coal docks at the head of Morris Canal feeder. The channel of the river below the dam is filled with débris, which will raise the height of the water in the tailrace, and unless it is cleared will diminish the available power at the iron works. It has been authoritatively announced, however, that the power facilities will not be restored, as the Ludlum Steel and Iron Company is preparing to use steam power exclusively. _Pequanac and Wanaque rivers._--Along Pequanac River the principal damage consisted of washed-out roads and destroyed bridges. The large ponded area in this basin was practically full at the time of the flood, and, as measurements at Macopin dam show, the run-off per square mile was extremely large. In the Wanaque drainage area the storage facilities afforded at Greenwood Lake were probably useful in holding back a part of the water for a brief period, but the damages along the stream are comparable to those of the Pequanac. The effect of the flow from these two streams, added to that of the Ramapo, was particularly disastrous over the Pompton Plains. Three * * * * * U. S. GEOLOGICAL SURVEY WATER-SUPPLY PAPER NO. 92 PL. II [Illustration: _A._ POMPTON LAKES DAM AND WATER FRONT OF LUDLUM STEEL AND IRON COMPANY.] [Illustration: _B._ DRY BED OF POMPTON LAKE.] U. S. GEOLOGICAL SURVEY WATER-SUPPLY PAPER NO. 92 PL. III [Illustration: FLOOD DISTRICT OF PATERSON, N. J.] * * * * * bridges at Pompton station, over Wanaque and Pequanac rivers, were carried away, and in the end one bridge only remained over Pompton River, that at Pequanac station. In all about 100 houses were inundated on Pompton Plains, and the damage to roads and culverts was particularly severe. The total loss in the drainage area of Pompton River was $350,000. CENTRAL BASIN. Over the Central Basin there was the usual impounding of flood waters, but the effects were not materially different from those described in the report on the flood of 1902. The damage along this basin from floods of this character is accumulative by reason of the fact that the presence of water over the land for so long a period kills the desirable feed grasses and fosters in their place the coarse meadow grass. This effect has been observed for some years, particularly since the flood of 1896. It is estimated that over the Central Basin the damage to crops and arable land alone arising from the floods of 1902 and 1903 amounts to $300,000. A statement of the damage arising from the later flood can not separately be made, as its effect upon the fertility of the meadow lands can not be determined without the experience of a planting season. LOWER VALLEY. The flow of the stream through the constricted channel at Little Falls and on to Great Falls at Paterson is given in the weir measurements on page 17. It was attended by comparatively large damages, the features of which were not materially different from those described in the previous report. The pumping station of the East Jersey Water Company, situated just below Little Falls dam, did not suffer as severely as during the previous flood, by reason of the fact that extensive and effective barricades were placed so as to keep a large part of the water away from the pumps. This was not accomplished in the flood of 1902. The total damage in this district amounted to nearly $200,000. The channel contours were changed somewhat in this portion of the stream. In the river at the pumping station of the East Jersey Water Company there was completed a somewhat interesting cycle of changes, described in the following extract of a letter from Mr. G. Waldo Smith, chief engineer for the New York aqueduct commissioners, and formerly engineer and superintendent of the East Jersey Water Company: "No better illustration of the old adage, 'The river claims its own,' could be given than that offered by the action of Passaic River at Little Falls, New Jersey, at the point where the works of the East Jersey Water Company have been constructed. These works were built between 1897 and 1900. In the course of the work the river channel for a distance of several thousand feet down stream from the power house was drained and improved, so that the head on the wheels at the ordinary stage of the river was increased about 6 feet. From the time this improvement was completed to March, 1902, through the action of the ordinary flow of water and moderate floods, this head had been reduced about one-third. The great freshet of March, 1902, cut off about another third, and the recent flood has completed the cycle and entirely wiped out the benefit due to the river improvement, and the water at the pumping station stands now at almost precisely the same level that it stood before any improvements were undertaken. New bars were formed in approximately the same location as they existed before, and, so far as possible, except for the changed conditions brought about by the building of the power station, the condition of the river is not dissimilar to that existing when the work was commenced. "In this connection it might be well to state that a New Jersey drainage commission, in blasting out a channel below the Little Falls dam some years ago, dumped a considerable portion of the excavation in the deep water under the Morris Canal viaduct. "The action of the two great floods, March, 1902, and October, 1903, has washed a large part of this material out of this deep hole and piled it up in the river about 300 feet below where the river widens, and reduces the force of the current. "I have made no estimate of the amount of material deposited in the river, but offhand should say that it would be at least 100,000 yards." _Paterson._--The flood district in the city of Paterson (see Pl. III) comprised 196 acres and involved the temporary obstruction of 10.3 miles of streets. Along the streets close to the river banks the height of water was 12 feet, sufficient to inundate the first floors of all the buildings (see Pl. I, _B_), and in some cases to reach to the second floor. During this flood period householders who remained at their homes were compelled to use boats, while in the more exposed places the danger was too great to admit of remaining, and at one time 1,200 persons were housed and fed in the National Guard armory at Paterson. The bridges crossing Passaic River in Passaic, Essex, and Bergen counties were almost completely destroyed, and the damage amounted to $654,811. Within the limits of Paterson, below Great Falls, all of the highway bridges except two were either severely damaged or completely carried away. West street bridge, the first below the falls, was a Melan concrete, steel-arch structure, built in 1897, and costing $65,000. It was composed of three spans, each about 90 feet long. The flood practically split two spans longitudinally, the upstream side of each, equal to about one-third of the width of the bridge, being carried * * * * * U. S. GEOLOGICAL SURVEY WATER-SUPPLY PAPER NO. 92 PL. IV [Illustration: _A._ WASHOUT AT SPRUCE STREET, PATERSON, N. J.] [Illustration: _B._ RIVER STREET, PATERSON, N. J., AFTER FLOOD.] U. S. GEOLOGICAL SURVEY WATER-SUPPLY PAPER NO. 92 PL. V [Illustration: _A._ EFFECTS OF FLOOD IN MILL DISTRICT, PATERSON, N. J.] [Illustration: _B._ THE WRECK OF A HOTEL IN PATERSON, N. J.] * * * * * away. This structure was built to conform to the established grades of streets on both sides of the river and was completely inundated, forming a barrier for floating débris and practically making a dam in the river. Main street bridge is a 3-span, steel-arch structure, which was completely covered during the flood, but was only slightly injured. Arch street bridge, built in 1902 to take the place of a structure carried away by the March flood, was a concrete-arch bridge of three spans. It was undermined at the north pier and collapsed, being practically destroyed. The original cost of this bridge was $34,000. Its piers presented a serious obstruction to the flow of the stream, especially as the channel is very narrow at this point. In addition to this, the bridge was of low grade and admirably adapted for deterring flood flow. Below Arch street bridge all the other structures crossing the Passaic were of iron and were carried away, with the exception of Sixth avenue and Wesel bridges. Those destroyed were designated as follows: Straight street, Hillman street, Moffat, Wagaraw, Fifth avenue, East Thirty-third street, and Broadway bridges. All these structures were built too low, and were inundated during the early stages of the flood. The damage to real property, stock, and household goods in the city of Paterson amounted, according to certified returns, to about $2,700,000. It is impossible to secure correct figures, because merchants and manufacturers refuse to give details of losses, fearing that the publication thereof would affect their credit. General ideas concerning the destruction by the flood can be gathered from Pls. I, _B_, III, IV, V, and VI. _Passaic and vicinity._--Below the city of Paterson destruction was as complete as in Paterson, although the damage was not as great because the improvements were not as valuable. Damage to property, exclusive of public works, in this region, amounted to about $1,250,000. This estimate does not take into consideration losses by manufacturers arising from destruction of raw materials or finished products. The flood was about 4-1/2 feet higher than that of 1902. (See Pl. VII, _A._) On the right bank of Passaic River, in the city of Passaic, the damage was severe, especially to manufacturing plants. In addition to the flood in the Passaic itself, the bursting of Morris Canal, a few miles east of Passaic, flooded Wesel Brook, which in Passaic is used as the tail-race of the Dundee Power Company. The capacity of Wesel Brook channel is limited, and the extraordinary amount of water which was turned into it carried away all culverts and bridges from Richfield to Passaic. Below Passaic, along the river front of Essex County, the damages to bridges amounted to $50,000. (See Pl. VII, _B._) The loss due to washouts in roads throughout the county amounted to $15,000. The effects of the flood were apparent along the entire length of the river and into Newark Bay. The damage from inundation in Newark and vicinity amounted to $753,199. The figures above given with reference to damage along Passaic River are uncommonly accurate, being for the most part the result of a house-to-house canvass by the northern New Jersey flood commission. As has been stated above, tradesmen are reluctant to give full details with reference to their losses through fear of injured credit. Roughly estimating the damage as a whole, and taking into consideration factors which were given to the writer confidentially, the damage throughout the drainage area from this flood will amount to not less than $7,000,000. PREVENTIVE MEASURES. GENERAL DISCUSSION. In the consideration of means of preventing damages by floods every plan proposed falls under one of two general heads--the storage of flood waters or an increase in the capacity of the streams. The first plan involves the construction at selected localities of reservoirs of sufficient size to hold all or a greater part of the waters which run over the surface during and after storms. This plan is not practicable except where valleys or plains are inclosed by high ridges and these ridges approach sufficiently near each other to admit of the economical construction of a bank or dam across the gorge or bed of the stream which flows through, so that the inclosure will be complete and form a water-tight basin. Where such a reservoir exists the water can be held back and gradually let down through properly provided gates so that the channel will not be flooded. For flood purposes alone it would be necessary to provide reservoirs of sufficient capacity to contain the run-off waters resulting from the largest storms. With such provisions it would be necessary to entirely empty the reservoir as soon as possible after a storm had passed and leave its full capacity available for the next storm. It is therefore better, wherever possible, to provide a reservoir capacity considerably larger than that represented by the run-off from the heaviest storms, so that water may be stored for use as power or domestic supply. With such provision it is necessary merely to draw from the reservoir water to a depth equivalent to the stream run-off in the drainage area above. The second plan for prevention of flood damages involves provisions for letting the flood water out rapidly by removing obstructions to its flow by straightening and deepening the channels and providing long embankments, dikes, or levees which rise above the ordinary river level to a height exceeding that of the stream during its highest floods. This plan is most generally followed in the case of large rivers like * * * * * U. S. GEOLOGICAL SURVEY WATER-SUPPLY PAPER NO. 92 PL. VI [Illustration: _A._ DEVASTATION IN HEBREW QUARTER, PATERSON, N. J.] [Illustration: _B._ A COMMON EXAMPLE OF FLOOD DAMAGE.] U. S. GEOLOGICAL SURVEY WATER-SUPPLY PAPER NO. 92 PL. VII [Illustration: _A._ INUNDATED LANDS AT PASSAIC, N. J.] [Illustration: _B._ UNDAMAGED BRIDGE ACROSS PASSAIC RIVER AFTER PARTIAL SUBSIDENCE OF FLOOD.] * * * * * the Mississippi, where the contributing area is enormous and the conservation of the waters would be impracticable even if the nature of the country would admit of the construction of reservoirs. In Switzerland, where the torrents occasioned by the rapidly melting snows are especially destructive, the flood waters are confined by a series of parallel dikes on each side of the river, which have the effect of dividing the flow into several parallel streams. As the main river channel fills and overflows the inner dikes, the overflow water collects into the first series of parallel channels, and when a height is reached at which the second dikes are overflowed the water collects into the third, and so on. This gives an enormous carrying capacity, the limit of which is approached slowly, and therefore abundant opportunity is afforded for preparation upon the part of the riparian owner. The drainage basin of Passaic River is admirably adapted to the development of the conservation system. At its headwaters in the mountains of northern New Jersey are numerous sites for reservoirs. The comparatively limited area draining into Passaic River makes such a scheme relatively inexpensive. On the other hand there is abundant opportunity for effective work in removing obstructions and straightening and deepening the channel of the lower river. So that, all things considered, the prevention of flood damages in the Passaic Basin can be best accomplished by a combination of the two general methods above outlined. LOWER VALLEY IMPROVEMENTS. The channel of Passaic River below Great Falls, at Paterson, is of limited capacity. To anyone making an inspection, especially within the city of Paterson, it is readily apparent that the river bed has for years been considered a legitimate field for encroachment. Owners of lands fronting on the river have increased their holdings by filling in beyond the channel line. Buildings have been erected upon these tracts and the builders have not hesitated to extend retaining walls still farther into the river bed. Refuse from the city's streets, light and unstable in character, has been freely deposited upon the bank to be carried out into the river. Thus the channel has been constricted laterally, the bottom raised, and there is left for the flood waters no alternative than that of extending themselves in the upward direction. It would seem that this, at least, should have been unobstructed. Such, however, is not the case. The bridges across the Passaic have apparently been erected without reference to channel capacity. The authorities have evidently considered it more important to retain established approach levels than to provide proper capacity for river water. As an example the following instance may be cited: During the flood of 1902 a steel truss bridge across the river in Paterson was carried away. The point of crossing was one of the narrowest places in the stream and it should have been clear to everyone that the space beneath the bridge was not large enough to carry flood waters. It should have been apparent that a new bridge, if erected at that point, must be higher than the old one, to be thoroughly safe. Notwithstanding, the new bridge was erected at the level of the old one, and in addition to this, it was a concrete arch structure, and the great piers and low arch springs reduced the former channel capacity about 15 per cent. This new bridge, as might be expected, collapsed during the October flood. Along the entire course of the stream in the lower valley we find a continuation of instances of unreasonable encroachment and ill-considered bridge engineering, and there is opportunity for relieving a large part of the purely local obstructions by straightening the channel at chosen points. Although this matter has not been thoroughly investigated it is readily apparent to one traversing the river bank that considerable relief may be secured in this manner. Damage, however, can not be prevented by this means alone. It would, of course, be possible to erect high and resistant levees along the entire course of the river, but this would be extremely expensive and would destroy the water front for commercial purposes. In fact, such a plan is quite visionary. At the present time there are no obstructions in lower Passaic River the removal of which would give relief in the event of floods like those of 1902 and 1903. When one considers the amount of water which was carried into the lower valley, the heights which it reached, and the area which it inundated, the futility of any local improvement except levee construction is emphasized. The present channel of the river will not carry without damage the amount of water recently thrown into it, and while it is important to provide regulations which will in the future prevent encroachment, and which will correct the evils now present along the channel, these measures can not, operating of themselves, give relief from flood devastation. Immunity from flood destruction in the Passaic must come, if it ever comes, from the construction of flood-catchment reservoirs in the uplands. It is not necessary to spend any great amount of time in determining the cause of floods upon the Passaic. A review of the flood history of this river shows that in every case floods arise from extraordinary precipitation. High waters occur through the melting of snows and during periods of abundant rain. The heavy floods which have been regarded as extraordinary are clearly the result of unusual conditions of precipitation. The river carries the usual flood waters, and no damage is done until the water poured into it is far beyond its carrying capacity. Therefore the provisions which are made for preventing damage by floods must, if they be effective, be designed to meet extraordinary conditions, and means which would prove effectual in ordinary cases will not stand the test. In order to appreciate the extent of the flood in the lower valley it is necessary to visit the flooded area and observe the points of flood height. Unless one does this he will be very readily deceived when he considers means of flood prevention. FLOOD CATCHMENT. Among the highland tributaries of Passaic River there are three principal areas where storage reservoirs for flood catchment may be placed: (1) The Ramapo, Wanaque, and Pequanac drainage basins, from which the waters are carried into the central basin by Pompton River; (2) the Rockaway drainage basin, and (3) the upper Passaic drainage basin. The remaining principal tributary of Passaic River, the Whippany, is not well provided with storage reservoir sites. The combined capacity of catchment reservoirs which could be constructed in these drainage areas is considerably more than the volume of the heaviest known rainfall, that of October 8-11, 1903. In the description of reservoir possibilities in the following pages the data with reference to many of the basins are computed from planimeter and other measurements, the United States Geological Survey topographic maps being used as a base. The measurements are therefore not of refined accuracy but suffice for the purpose in view--that of showing flood catchment possibilities. POMPTON RESERVOIR. There are in the Pompton system several sites on Ramapo, Wanaque, and Pequanac rivers which, if utilized, would afford sufficient storage for flood catchment purposes, but the entire flow of the river system may be conserved in what has been described as the Pompton reservoir. This project was first presented by Mr. C. C. Vermeule in the year 1884, the details being described at some length in the Engineering News, of April 12 of that year, pages 169-171. In this article Mr. Vermeule presented the possibilities of Pompton reservoir for use as an additional water supply for the city of New York, at the time when the Quaker Bridge reservoir on the Croton watershed was being considered. A few pertinent quotations from this article may be of interest: This basin, subdivided by minor ridges which cross it, furnishes several admirable sites for large storage reservoirs, with catchments from 50 to 400 square miles in area, lying above on the primitive rock of the Highlands. About 6 miles of the northeastern end of the basin is cut off by Hook Mountain, a small ridge of trap which crosses it from east to west, inclosing a basin 21 square miles in area, known as Pompton Plains, having its outlet at Mountain View, 5 miles west of Paterson, at a pass in Hook Mountain, through which the Pompton River flows to join the Passaic, 2 miles below. This pass is the gateway by which the Delaware, Lackawanna and Western Railroad, the New York and Greenwood Lake Railway, and the Morris Canal enter the plains. The basin is also crossed near its head, above Pompton, by the New York, Susquehanna and Western Railroad. The Pompton River has a drainage area above Mountain View of 420 square miles. It is formed near the head of the basin by the confluence of the Pequanac from the northwest, the Wanaque from the north, and the Ramapo from the northeast. * * * The entire flow from this watershed may be stored by building a dam across the gap at Mountain View and converting Pompton Plains into a great lake covering an area of 21 square miles. The elevation of the river at the gap is 168 feet. The slopes in the basin being gentle up to an elevation of 220 feet and abrupt beyond it, it will be advisable to take this as the minimum or low-water level of our reservoir. It is generally estimated that 25 per cent of the volume of the mean annual rain on a given catchment is sufficient reservoir capacity to fully utilize the flood flows. We have long series of observations of rainfall at three points, which may be taken to fairly represent the Passaic catchment. At Newark the mean annual rainfall is 46.2 inches, at Paterson, 50 inches, and at Lake Hopatcong, 42. The last being on the Highlands, like most of our watersheds, is perhaps the safest to use. Now, 25 per cent of 42.5 inches, 10.62 inches, which, on 420 square miles, give a volume of 10,362,000,000 cubic feet, the necessary capacity of reservoir. By raising our reservoir to 240 feet when full we secure a capacity of 10,493,000,000 cubic feet, or ample to utilize the heaviest floods of the watershed. This gives a beautiful sheet of water 21.1 square miles in area, with bold, rocky shores, and a depth at dam of 72 feet. We secure the above capacity by uncovering but 22 per cent of the reservoir bottom; and, as we shall presently see, we shall rarely need more than half this storage, and probably not oftener than once in ten years will we expose over 10 per cent of the area. By building side dams to keep certain flats always flowed this may be reduced to 5 per cent; and this area will be pretty evenly distributed around 36 miles of uninhabited shore line, leaving the reservoir open to no valid sanitary objections. On the contrary, by relieving the remainder of the Passaic Basin of the flood waters of the Pompton, which now flow large areas of flat land during wet seasons, the sanitary condition of the valley would be much improved. In constructing this reservoir Mr. Vermeule stated that the following work would be necessary: The removal of the Delaware, Lackawanna and Western Railroad from the basin by changing the alignment for 6 miles. It may be done without increase of length or detriment to the alignment. Three and one-fourth miles of the Morris Canal must be rebuilt. No engineering difficulties are involved. Of the New York and Greenwood Lake Railway, 9 miles would have to be rebuilt. The New York, Susquehanna and Western Railroad would be slightly shifted or raised for 3-3/4 miles. A dam 2,400 feet long and 80 feet in height, with tunnels, wasteweir, and accessory works would be required at Mountain View. The situation is such that an ample wasteweir may be built at a low-side dam on the solid rock of Hook Mountain remote from the dam, and outlets may be had by tunneling the same ridge. Hence the dam may be a plain, heavy earthen embankment; built, of course, with every precaution but subject to less than the usual dangers of such works. However, a masonry dam might readily be substituted. There would be 14,000 acres of arable land, swamps, and rough mountain land flowed. The works are estimated to cost as follows: Railroad and canal diversions $505,000 Dam and accessory works 1,162,000 Land damages 1,400,000 _________ Total 3,067,000 A recomputation of the drainage area above Mountain View, made by the northern New Jersey flood commission, shows that it is 380 square miles in extent. It was decided by this commission that the construction of this reservoir would be the most approved method of preventing disastrous floods in the lower valley of the Passaic. By raising a dam to a height of 202 feet above tide, 8 inches of water on the drainage area above might be held back, which, it was believed, would be a sufficient maximum for flood catchment. With this amount of storage the estimates of the flood commission showed that the remainder of the drainage area would not turn a sufficient amount of water into the lower valley channel to cause flood damages. It was also demonstrated by the flood commission that by increasing the height of the dam an opportunity would be afforded for conserving water, and at the maximum height of 220 feet above tide sufficient storage capacity would be available to provide 5,000 horsepower at Little Falls, Great Falls, and Dundee dam throughout all dry seasons. The value of such a storage reservoir for municipal water-supply purposes is self-evident. The cost of Mountain View reservoir would be about $3,340,000. Developed for flood catchment with the spillway of the dam at 202 feet above sea level the area of the reservoir would be 13.4 square miles, and the storage capacity 7,200,000,000 cubic feet. RAMAPO SYSTEM. Along the Ramapo Valley there are alternative propositions, one of which involves the construction of a dam below Darlington and another across the head of Pompton Lake. In either case the water might be raised to the 300-foot contour, and if the dam across Pompton Lake were constructed a continuous lake would be formed extending 10-1/2 miles to Hillburn, N. Y. The improvement in either case would be positive, for as the country surrounding is hilly or mountainous it affords excellent opportunity for the location of summer homes and parks, the lake being a potent factor in beautifying the situation and increasing the value of the surrounding region. There are, nevertheless, several things to be taken into consideration, the most important of which are the improvements which have been made by wealthy residents along the valley where it has already been developed as a summer resort. By the construction of a dam at Darlington 1,100 feet long and 70 feet high, the water would be raised to the 300-foot contour. The reservoir would have a water area of 2,064 acres, and the approximate storage capacity of 2,325,000,000 cubic feet. A dam across the head of Pompton Lake 2,850 feet long and 100 feet high would raise the surface of the proposed lake to the 300-foot contour. This reservoir would have an area of 6.19 square miles and a capacity of 6,300,000,000 cubic feet, equal to 17.5 inches run-off from the drainage area. Here the measure of safety is wide, and if there were drawn from the lake an amount of water equal to 12 inches on the drainage area there would still be 5.5 inches which could be used for compensating purposes. The construction of either one of the above-described reservoirs would involve interstate complications, as the 300-foot contour in Ramapo Valley includes a considerable part of the State of New York. This obstacle was deemed insurmountable by the northern New Jersey flood commission, and that commission directed studies to a reservoir which at the time of maximum flood would not back water into New York State to a greater height than it already rises during such floods. The following description is taken from the report of the engineering committee of the flood commission: An admirable dam site is offered on Ramapo River about 2 miles above Oakland village. The drainage area tributary to this point is about 140 square miles in extent, the country for the most part being quick-spilling and upland. By constructing there a dam 700 feet long and 65 feet high a reservoir with a water surface of 2.8 square miles would be afforded, the flow-line elevation being 280 feet above tide. The capacity of such a reservoir would be 1,768,000,000 cubic feet, equal to about 5.5 inches on the drainage area. WANAQUE SYSTEM. Near the headwaters of Wanaque River is Greenwood Lake, a large body of water described in Water-Supply Paper No. 88. Its value as a flood catchment basin is somewhat uncertain, as it is used as a storage feeder for Morris Canal. The surface level of this lake is controlled by gates, which naturally are operated by the canal authorities for the benefit of the canal. Therefore it is the object to store as great a volume of water as possible, and the water falls below the dam crest at the outlet of the lake only when the dam opens in dry seasons and makes it necessary. Under such conditions there is no certainty that storage capacity will be available during the time of a great storm, and in fact Greenwood Lake has been overflowing at the commencement of the storms which caused both of the recent floods. In view of the condition expressed above it will be necessary in providing for flood catchment in the Wanaque drainage area to omit entirely from consideration the possibility of assistance from Greenwood Lake. Below this point in the basin are several sites at which could be raised dams, which would effectually retain a large proportion at least of storm run-off. They may be described as follows: _Midvale reservoir_.--By building a dam 60 feet high and 1,200 feet long across Wanaque River near Midvale, a reservoir would be formed which would have a water surface of 2.1 square miles and a capacity of 1,491,000,000 cubic feet. The drainage area above this site is 83 square miles, and the storage capacity would therefore be equal to about 7.7 inches on the drainage area. The construction of this project would involve the relocation of about 4-1/2 miles of the New York and Greenwood Lake Railroad; the damages apart from this would be nominal, the cost of the entire reservoir construction being about $1,000,000. _Ringwood reservoir_.--Ringwood Creek runs through a gorge about 1 mile above its confluence with the Wanaque. Above this is a well-defined basin. A dam about 70 feet high and 585 feet long would create a lake having an area of 520 acres, the surface of which would be 380 feet above sea level. The drainage area tributary to this point has an area of about 20 square miles, and as the proposed reservoir would have a capacity of 915,800,000 cubic feet, there could be conserved a run-off of 20 inches. Allowing for a flood run-off of 12 inches there would still be available for compensating purposes 8 inches on the basin, equal to 373,550,000 cubic feet. The construction of this reservoir would involve the relocation of about 2 miles of the Ringwood branch of the New York and Greenwood Lake Railroad, and the condemnation of comparatively valuable improvements in the proposed basin. _West Brook reservoir_.--The drainage from 5.7 square miles might be conserved by the erection of a dam on West Brook, a tributary of Wanaque River, which enters it from the west. There is an available site at which a dam 280 feet high might be erected. At this elevation the length along the top would be about 1,150 feet and about 2,330,000,000 cubic feet of water would be impounded. Little benefit would be derived from such a reservoir, as the limited drainage area affords a comparatively small proportion of flood run-off that might be well cared for at a lower point. For compensating purposes, however, a reservoir might be constructed here, the capacity of which could be adjusted to the actual demands. If the dam were raised to a height of about 280 feet from the base the storage afforded would be equal to 176 inches on the watershed, or about four average years of precipitation, which is far beyond all probable storage necessities. The maximum available storage capacity is given in this case merely to show possibilities. PEQUANAC SYSTEM. There are few available reservoir sites of large size along the lower reaches of Pequanac River. In the upper basin, however, there is a sufficient available storage capacity to afford almost complete control of destructive floods from that part of the drainage area. Large tracts are already reserved by the city of Newark for collection of municipal supply, and the storage capacity developed is sufficient to serve the city throughout the driest seasons. The total capacity of Clinton, Oakridge, and Canistear reservoirs is about 1,155,000,000 cubic feet. These basins are not available for flood catchment, as the water is used for city purposes and an endeavor is made to have in storage at all times the largest possible amount. The condition is exactly similar to that described in the case of Greenwood Lake. In considering the means for the construction of flood-catchment reservoirs in Pequanac Basin there must be taken into account the conservation and delivery of the Newark supply. The adjustments with reference to the amount of water available at Macopin intake would have to be met, and if the system were interfered with compensation therefore would be taken into consideration. _Newfoundland reservoir_.--Pequanac River passes through a deep gorge between Copperas and Kanouse mountains, just below the village of Newfoundland. This point has been considered an excellent site for the construction of a dam, and in the installation of the present water-supply system of Newark it is proposed that the entire valley in which Newfoundland is situated be overflowed. The site is one of the most advantageous known for the creation of a flood-catchment basin. If a dam 50 feet high were erected across this gorge, a lake would be formed which would have a surface area of 3.15 square miles and a capacity of 3,267,200,000 cubic feet, equal to a storage of about 30.5 inches on the 46.12 square miles of contributing drainage area. This would afford complete protection in case of a sudden run-off of 12 inches, would provide for the supply of the city of Newark without greatly disturbing the present storage system of that city, and would still yield a large amount of water for compensating purposes in dry seasons. The construction of Newfoundland reservoir would be very expensive, as it would involve the flooding of Newfoundland Village, in which there is considerable improved property. About 3 miles of the track of the New York, Susquehanna and Western Railroad would be submerged, as well as a considerable mileage of macadamized highways. On the whole, however, the Newfoundland reservoir project is the most favorable which can be found on the Pequanac Basin. There are above this point numerous reservoir sites, but their combined capacity would not be equal to that of the proposed Newfoundland reservoir, and the construction would be probably quite as expensive. _Stickle Pond reservoir_.--Below Newfoundland there are few available places at which water could be stored. Stickle Pond is probably the best adapted of any of those available. If a dam 1,050 feet long and 80 feet high were erected across the river about 1 mile below the present outlet of Stickle Pond, a lake would be formed having a surface area of 422 acres and a storage capacity of about 800,000,000 cubic feet. The drainage area above this dam would be approximately 4 square miles. This is a comparatively small amount of storage, yet it would provide for all flood catchment in that comparatively limited area and would be of assistance at times in compensating the dry flow of the Pequanac. ROCKAWAY SYSTEM. Rockaway River offers a greater number of available reservoir sites than either of the other highland tributaries of the Passaic. Some of the reservoirs which could be constructed could be used solely as catchment areas to hold back flood waters, while the capacity of others would be so much greater than any single flood run-off that they might serve also as compensating reservoirs. A large dam is now in process of erection at Old Boonton, conserving a considerable amount for the water for the municipal supply of Jersey City. This reservoir can not be depended upon as a flood-catchment area, as it will be the aim of those in authority to maintain the water in it as high as possible. _Powerville reservoir_.--A short distance above Boonton the erection of a comparatively small dam would flood a large, irregular, flat basin having an area of a little more than 4-1/2 square miles and extending up the Rockaway Valley to Rockaway Village, up Beaver Brook to Beech Glen, and north and south for considerable distances. The probable capacity of this reservoir has been estimated, and it is fairly certain that it is considerably more than would be sufficient for flood catchment. Its construction would, moreover, improve the entire valley and be of advantage to many interests. The northern New Jersey flood commission has selected for investigation a reservoir site on Rockaway River at Powerville. By the erection of a dam across the stream at this point, 28 feet in height and 470 feet long, a reservoir 4.6 square miles in area, with a capacity of 1,565,000,000 cubic feet, would be afforded. The drainage area above this point is 114 square miles. The cost of such a reservoir is estimated at $600,000. North from Powerville, near the confines of the proposed Powerville reservoir, there is an available reservoir site along Stony Brook. By the erection of a dam 1,100 feet long and 120 feet high a lake would be formed 645 acres in extent, which would serve as a flood-catchment basin and a compensating reservoir. This reservoir would hold approximately 850,000,000 cubic feet. The construction of a reservoir at this place offers no engineering difficulties, and the project may be regarded as extremely favorable. Dixons Pond, west of Rockaway Valley and northwest of Powerville, is a small sheet of water which lies in a valley which might be flooded to a greater height. By the erection of a dam 450 feet long and 30 feet high a lake of 136 acres would be created, which would form a part of the flood catchment and compensating service. _Longwood Valley reservoir_.--A large storage basin is afforded in Longwood Valley which, if developed to its full extent, would extend from a point about a mile below Lower Longwood 7 miles up the headwaters and reach to about 1-1/2 miles above Petersburg. An alternative proposition is afforded which involves the submerging of less than half this area. A dam 800 feet long and 55 feet high might be erected across a gorge about 1 mile south of Petersburg. There would be formed a lake of about 1.247 square miles, or 800 acres in extent. The hamlet of Petersburg would be submerged, but the damages from the destruction of improved property would not be very great, as the improvements and the land are not especially valuable. This reservoir would have a capacity of about 964,000,000 cubic feet and the surface would be at a height of 800 feet above sea level. The alternative plan, that of using a longer stretch of the valley for reservoir purposes, would involve the construction about 1 mile below Lower Longwood of a dam 1,300 feet long and 110 feet high. The reservoir thus formed would be 1,900 acres in extent and contain approximately 3,447,000,000 cubic feet. The drainage area above this dam is limited, and if the reservoir were drawn down to an amount equivalent to 15 inches upon the drainage area there would still remain an enormous amount of water which could be used in a compensatory way to tide over dry seasons. _Splitrock Pond._--By erecting a dam 550 feet long and 30 feet high across a gorge at the outlet of Splitrock Pond, a lake could be formed having an area of 625 acres and adding to the present storage capacity of the lake an amount approximately equal to 475,000,000 cubic feet, equivalent to 38.75 inches on the drainage area. Thus it is seen that if this reservoir were drawn down an amount equivalent to 15 inches on the drainage area, which would without doubt give sufficient protection from all floods, there would still remain a storage capacity of 23.75 inches for compensating purposes in addition to the amount now available in Splitrock Pond. This project is one of the most attractive in the Rockaway Basin, as the damages which would be caused by flooding would be, comparatively speaking, nil. The property is, however, now owned by the East Jersey Water Company, and is prized highly as a reservoir site by that corporation. UPPER PASSAIC BASIN. _Millington reservoir._--There is an area of swamp land, comprising a part of the drainage area of upper Passaic River above Millington, which is known as Great Passaic Swamp. It is bounded on the south by a long, narrow trap ridge known as Long Hill, the summit of which ranges from 400 to 500 feet in elevation, or roughly 200 feet above the border of this swamp. To the northwest the land rises gradually toward Trowbridge Mountains, while to the northeast is the terminal moraine. The outlet of Passaic River at Millington is by a narrow gorge, which offers natural facilities for the erection of a dam. The whole situation is exceptionally good, and the surface of a reservoir might be fixed at any elevation between 240 and 300 feet above sea level. With the surface of the reservoir at 300 feet a dam 1,600 feet long and 90 feet high would be required. This lake would have an area of 28.46 square miles. The drainage area above Millington has, however, an area of only 53.6 square miles, and the proposed reservoir would therefore cover more than half of this. Therefore the conservation of so large a quantity of water would not be necessary nor advisable, unless the beautifying of the surrounding country were an object to be taken into consideration, which might be profitable. A better project, however, would be to construct a dam at Millington 900 feet long and 50 feet high, the crest being about 260 feet above sea level. There would be formed a lake with an area of 19.41 square miles, and a capacity of 1,477,600,000 cubic feet, equal to 9.864 feet on the drainage area. This project is too great for the necessities here presented, and would not be wisely considered unless it were found advantageous to improve the country generally as a place of suburban residence. The land which would be flooded with the reservoir crest at 260 feet is of a wet, swampy character, and its value for agricultural purposes is somewhat doubtful. Such construction would involve the flooding of 13 miles of road, which, however, would not involve a great loss of invested capital, as the roads generally are of a poor character. A second alternative would involve the construction of a dam across the Millington gorge, 550 feet long and 30 feet high, raising the water to 240 feet above sea level and creating a lake of 14.40 square miles. This would conserve 4,026,000,000 cubic feet, equal to 2.69 feet on the drainage area. This would be ample for flood purposes and would still afford a large impounded area, as the drawing off of an amount equal to 10 or even 15 inches on the watershed would not reduce the size of the lake to any great extent. The whole project here presented involves few difficulties, and as the drainage area above is of small extent, the mere question of conserving the flood waters could be met without great difficulty. The natural advantages, however, are so great and the land included within Great Passaic Swamp is of so little value that the surrounding country would be improved and beautified by the construction of such a reservoir. The opportunity for varying the character of the reservoir to meet the ideas of those interested seems unexampled, and as a whole it presents an extremely interesting field which may be profitably exploited. SADDLE RIVER. This stream has been described in the report on the flood of 1902, already referred to. It contributes a large amount of water to the main artery of the Passaic below Dundee dam, and as the river channel at that point is overburdened under the present conditions because of lack of slope and numerous catchments, together with what is known as the Wallington Bend, it increases very materially the damage caused by floods. The most effectual remedy in the case of Saddle River floods is that of construction of flood catchments. No studies have been made of the situation in the Saddle River drainage area, but a superficial inspection of the basin shows that opportunities for the construction of flood-catchment reservoirs are not numerous. SUMMARY OF FLOOD-CATCHMENT PROJECTS. By following the plans described in the preceding pages absolute flood catchments may be provided above Little Falls on the Passaic Basin for 551.7 square miles, leaving only 221.2 square miles from which flood run-off would flow immediately. The accomplishment of this would involve the construction of Pompton reservoir, which would withhold all flood waters from the northern tributaries. It would leave unprovided for 20.2 square miles on the Rockaway, 71.7 square miles on the Whippany, 46.2 square miles on the upper Passaic, and 83.7 square miles tributary to the Central Basin and not included above. Leaving Pompton reservoir out of consideration, and conserving flood run-off on the Ramapo, Wanaque, and Pequanac rivers, there would be absolute flood catchment up to a 12-inch run-off over 494.8 square miles above Little Falls. This would leave 278.1 square miles unprovided for, the run-off from which would not overburden the channel in the lower valley, provided, of course, that channel were improved to a maximum carrying capacity. PREFERABLE RESERVOIR SITES. The following table and discussion of preferable sites for flood prevention are taken from the report of the engineering committee of the northern New Jersey flood commission: Table showing detailed facts regarding possible reservoir sites on Passaic drainage basin. KEY: A: Area of watershed. B: Area of reservoir. C: Height of dam. D: Length of dam. E: Elevation of flow line. F: Storage, watershed. G: Storage capacity. H: Total cost. --------------+-----+------+-----+------+------+-------+-------+--------- Reservoir. | A | B | C | D | E | F | G | H --------------+-----+------+-----+------+------+-------+-------+--------- | Sq. | Sq. |Feet.| Feet.| Feet.|Inches.|Million| | mi. | mi. | | | | | c.f. | Ramapo | 140 | 2.8 | 65 | 1,700| 280 | 5.5 | 1,768 | $900,000 Wanaque | 83 | 2.1 | 60 | 1,200| 275 | 7.7 | 1,491 |1,000,000 Newfoundland | 52 | 1.8 | 40 | 430| 780 | 8 | 966 |1,800,000 Rockaway | 114 | 4.6 | 28 | 470| 520 | 6 | 1,565 | 600,000 Millington | 56 | 15.8 | 25 | 220| 245 | 31 | 4,060 | 370,000 Great Piece | 773 | 37 | 21 | 1,500| 178.5| 9[C]| 8,950 |2,625,000 Mountain View | 380 | 13.4 | 42 | 2,150| 202 | 8 | 7,200 |3,340,000 Do. | 380 | 13.9 | 44 | 2,380| 204 | 9 | 7,900 |3,460,000 Do. | 380 | 14.3 | 46 | 2,470| 206 | 10 | 8,700 |3,590,000 Do. | 380 | 17.4 | 60 | 3,000| 220 | 17 |15,000 |5,260,000 --------------+-----+------+-----+------+------+-------+-------+--------- [Footnote C: Including water discharged through fixed openings, in a flood similar to that of October, 1903. Maximum discharge, 12,000 cubic feet per second.] With the exception of the Millington reservoir site where the cost of the dam is a small factor, the elevation of flow line in the various reservoirs which determines the capacity was fixed so as to afford an approximate storage equal to a run-off of about 8 inches from the drainage area above each dam site. This amount is somewhat in excess of the run-off for the flood of October, 1903. It was found impracticable on the Rockaway reservoir site to provide for a storage greater than 6 inches. On the Wanaque the amount which can be stored falls slightly under 8 inches, while on the Ramapo it is possible to obtain only 5-1/2 inches, by reason of the fact that with a greater storage capacity the slack water would reach into New York State. The economical height for a dam at the lower end of the Great Piece Meadow, if such dam is provided with fixed discharge openings which will carry a maximum outflow of 12,000 cubic feet per second, will provide a reservoir which will dispose of a run-off of 9 inches on the drainage area above. The following combinations of reservoir sites, with their respective drainage areas, proportional storage, and estimated costs, give the facts necessary for final deductions: --------------+---------------+-----------+---------------+----------- | Drainage | Water | Equivalent | Site. | area. |collected. | area | Cost. | | | retarded. | --------------+---------------+-----------+---------------+----------- |_Square miles._| _Inches._ |_Square miles._| Ramapo | 140 | 5.5 | 96.25 | $900,000 Wanaque | 83 | 7.7 | 80 | 1,000,000 Pequanac | 52 | 8 | 52 | 1,800,000 Rockaway | 114 | 6 | 85.5 | 600,000 |---------------+-----------+----------------+---------- Total | 389 | | 313.75 | 4,300,000 |======================================================= Ramapo | 140 | 5.5 | 96.25 | 900,000 Wanaque | 83 | 7.7 | 80 | 1,000,000 Rockaway | 114 | 6 | 85.5 | 600,000 Millington | 56 | 31 | 56 | 370,000 Total | 393 | | 317.75 | 3,870,000 |======================================================= Great Piece | 773 | 4.5 | 435 | 2,625,000 Mountain View | 380 | 8 | 380 | 3,340,000 --------------+---------------+-----------+---------------+----------- The necessity to retard the flow of or provide storage for approximately 380 square miles of highland drainage area has been determined after careful study, and there has been deduced an amount which may safely be expected to represent the maximum for the highest floods. When the highland tributaries are sufficiently checked the natural storage on Great Piece Meadow in its effect upon flood control becomes more apparent. Our investigations show that the holding back of the flood flow--that is, 8 inches run-off on approximately 380 square miles of flashy drainage area above Great Piece Meadow--is necessary to reduce the discharge in the river through the city of Paterson to 14,000 cubic feet per second for a flood similar to that of 1903. From the foregoing table, in which different reservoir projects are compared, it is seen that only the reservoirs designated as Great Piece and Mountain View will fulfill the requirements within a reasonable limit of cost. It is also shown that a combination of any other available sites would involve the expenditure of more money for their construction and the control of less tributary drainage area than is fulfilled by the demands of the Passaic drainage basin. We are therefore brought to the conclusion that only two of the projects above set forth will be effective. First, the construction of a regulating dam on the main stream above Little Falls, which we have called the "Great Piece" Meadow Reservoir, and second, the building of a dam at Mountain View across Pompton River. The relative cost of these reservoirs, constructed for flood control exclusively, is $2,625,000 for that on Great Piece Meadow and $3,340,000 for the Mountain View site. Details of these estimates are as follows: _Estimate of cost of Great Piece Reservoir, dam at Little Falls._ [Elevation of flow line, 178.5 feet. Storage and disposal of 9 inches collected.[D]] Earth excavation, 17,600 cubic yards, at 35 cents $6,160 Rock excavation, 8,800 cubic yards, at $2 17,600 Rubble masonry, 29,100 cubic yards, at $5 145,500 Ashlar masonry, 1,800 cubic yards, at $12 21,600 Facework of rubble masonry, 2,850 square yards, at $1.50 4,275 Concrete masonry, 250 cubic yards, at $6 1,500 Slope paving, 300 cubic yards, at $2 600 Crushed stone, 150 cubic yards, at $1.50 225 60-inch cast-iron pipe in place, 360 tons, at $35 12,600 Relocation of railroads, Erie, 5 miles, at $20,000; Delaware, Lackawanna and Western, 4.5 miles, at $40,000 280,000 Relocation of highways 170,000 Real estate: Above Mountain View 500,000 Additional for village of Singac 100,000 22,000 acres, at $50 1,100,000 ---------- 2,360,000 Add for engineering and contingencies 240,000 ---------- 2,600,000 Protection of pipe lines, Newark and Jersey City 25,000 ---------- 2,625,000 The effectiveness of a reservoir built upon the lines proposed in the case of Great Piece Meadow depends upon the adjustment of outflow so that the channel below will not be overborne, while at the same time sufficient storage capacity is afforded to hold temporarily the water which enters above the dam in amount greater than the carrying capacity of the outflow apertures. The dam across Passaic River above Little Falls would be provided with apertures which would discharge 12,000 cubic feet per second under the maximum head in the storage basin. As the flood rises these apertures would discharge a constantly increasing amount of water to the maximum, and for a considerable time thereafter the maximum would be maintained, the discharge decreasing after the flood according to the height of water remaining in the reservoir. [Footnote D: Includes water discharged through fixed openings for a flood similar to that of October, 1903. Maximum flow, 12,000 cubic feet per second.] _Estimated cost of Mountain View Reservoir._ [Elevation of flow line, 202 feet. Storage of 8 inches on watershed.] Earth excavation: Stripping dam base, 83,500 cubic yards, at $0.30 $25,050 Core wall trench, 24,900 cubic yards, at $1 24,900 Rock excavation, 10,100 cubic yards, at $2 20,200 Rock fill in dam, 197,000 cubic yards, at $1.25 246,250 Rubble masonry, 23,200 cubic yards, at $5 116,000 Concrete, 30,000 cubic yards, at $6 180,000 Gate chambers and tunnels 65,000 Reconstruction of highways 142,400 Reconstruction of railroads 815,000 Real estate 1,360,000 ---------- 2,994,800 Engineering and contingencies 325,200 ---------- 3,320,000 Protection of Newark pipe line 20,000 ---------- Total cost 3,340,000 [Same for elevation of flow line, 204 feet. Storage of 9 inches on watershed.] Earth excavation: Stripping dam base, 85,200 cubic yards, at $0.30 $25,560 Core wall trench, 26,000 cubic yards, at $1 26,000 Rock excavation, 10,600 cubic yards, at $2 21,200 Rock fill in dam, 214,000 cubic yards, at $1.25 267,500 Rubble masonry, 24,500 cubic yards, at $5 122,500 Concrete, 30,500 cubic yards, at $6 183,000 Gate chambers and tunnels 65,000 Reconstruction of highways 142,400 Reconstruction of railroads 815,000 Real estate 1,435,000 ---------- 3,103,160 Engineering and contingencies 336,840 ---------- 3,440,000 Protection of Newark pipe line 20,000 ---------- Total cost 3,460,000 The final recommendation of the committee involves the consideration of two projects for flood storage, one on Great Piece Meadow and the other above Mountain View on the Pompton. In making such recommendations the committee is of the opinion that it must take into account matters of engineering policy with regard to future needs and contingencies, as well as the bare necessities of the present. If there were none other than the single problem of prevention the committee would advise the construction of the reservoir on Great Piece Meadow by reason of its smaller probable cost and its equal efficiency. It is plain, however, that there are many important features of public policy involved in the subject at hand. Population in the valley of the Passaic is developing so rapidly that in only a few years the present sources of water supply will be inadequate. The whole subject of water supply for northern New Jersey demands immediate consideration, and it would not be wise to take up the matter of prevention of flood damage in the Passaic without basing the value of every project upon its adaptability for use in future water-supply needs. By expending $2,600,000 a great reservoir could be constructed upon Great Piece Meadow which could not be adapted for any purposes except to regulate floods; it would stand in season and out of season a huge feature of the valley and entirely useless and inoperative save on the occasion of high water. However great might be the needs of the inhabitants of the Passaic Valley for a conserved water supply, the construction on the meadows, representing an enormous expenditure, would furnish no solution of the problem. It would admit of no enlargement for water-supply storage and would be available for no purpose except flood regulation. When we consider the Mountain View project, however, we find that as a measure for the prevention of flood damages it fulfills all the requirements and provides in addition all the possibilities and advantages demanded inevitably in the near future. The Mountain View site is an ideal one for the reservoir, and its initial development for flood catchment does not involve the expenditure of a dollar that would be lost in the development of the basin to greater capacities for water supply. From its lowest level, at 202 feet above tide, to its maximum capacity, at a level of 220, there would be no depreciation. Every dollar spent in the initial construction would be effective in the maximum development. The probable cost of Mountain View reservoir, estimated at $3,340,000, exceeds that of Great Piece by $700,000. It is realized that to many persons this margin may seem very wide. Let us consider briefly just what it really represents. Suppose, for example, that the Great Piece project is constructed at a cost of $2,600,000. After the elapse of a few years it will be necessary to provide additional storage in the Passaic highlands for water supply or the maintenance of water power. The Mountain View reservoir, or its equivalent in capacity and cost, will then be necessary. The situation will then be as follows: By constructing the Great Piece reservoir in preference to the Mountain View for flood catchment, $700,000 would be saved. We can consider that this amount might be expended to pay a part of the cost of additional conservation above referred to. If, on the other hand, Mountain View had been constructed, there would have been paid on the final cost of conservance the sum of $3,340,000, which, as stated in previous pages, would also have effected flood relief. There would then be the difference between $2,600,000 and $700,000, or $1,900,000, which represents the actual loss which would accrue by reason of the construction of Great Piece reservoir. The engineering committee, after presenting the merits of both Great Piece Meadow and Mountain View projects, therefore recommends the adoption of the latter in spite of its greater cost, because it is believed that in the end the construction of the Great Piece project would involve an expenditure not warranted by public economy or general expediency. GENERAL CONCLUSIONS. 1. Great floods in the Passaic Basin arise only after a specially violent precipitation. 2. Under present conditions floods may be expected at frequent intervals. 3. A part of the damage along the lower valley is the result of encroachments on the part of individuals and public and private corporations. 4. The channel in the lower valley may be improved at certain points by straightening it and judiciously making cut-offs. 5. Without the construction of numerous levees the lower valley channel can not be made to carry great flood waters without damage. 6. Immunity from floods can be effected only by the construction of catchment reservoirs in the highlands or levees in the lowlands. 7. Levee construction would involve more damage than is now caused by floods, and the cost thereof would be prohibitive. 8. Flood catchment reservoirs may be constructed economically and provide storage to compensate for the dry-season flow, thereby maintaining water power at Paterson, Passaic, and other points, and providing for municipal water supply in the future. INDEX. Arch street bridge, Paterson, destruction of; 27 Beattie's dam, flood flow at; 16-17 flood period at; 9 view of; 16 Bridges, destruction of; 26-27 Capacity of streams, increase in; 28 Central Basin, damage in; 24 flood in, descent of; 14-15 Charlotteburg, rainfall at; 11, 12 Chatham, flood period at; 10 Chester, rainfall at; 11 Cranberry Pond, dam at, failure of; 24 Damages, discussion of; 23-28 Darlington, reservoir site at; 33 Dixons Pond, reservoir site at; 37 Dover, rainfall at; 11, 12 Drought, relation of rainfall to; 12 Dundee dam, flood flow over; 17-22 flood flow over, diagram showing; 20 flood period at; 9 floods at, comparison of, figure showing; 18 East Jersey Water Company, damage at pumping station of; 25-26 Elizabeth, rainfall at; 11 Essex Fells, rainfall at; 11, 12 Flood, descent of; 14-22 period of; 9-10 prevention of; 28-44 Flood damage, plates showing; 26, 28 Floods, general conclusions concerning; 44-45 Great Passaic Swamp, reservoir site at; 38-39 Great Piece reservoir, cost of, estimate of; 42 Greenwood Lake, use of; 34 Hanover, rainfall at; 11 Hebrew quarter, Paterson, devastation in, plate showing; 28 Highland tributaries, damages along; 23-25 descent of flood in; 14-15 Hotel, wreck of, plate showing; 26 Little Falls, dam at, view of; 16 damage at; 25-26 flood flow at; 16-17 flood period at; 9 rainfall at; 12 Longwood Valley, reservoir site in; 37 Lower Longwood, reservoir site near; 38 Lower Valley, damage in; 25-28 improvements in, discussion of; 29-31 Ludlum Steel and Iron Company, water front of; 24 Macopin dam, flood flow at; 15-16 flood period at; 10 Main street bridge, Paterson, destruction of; 27 Midvale, proposed reservoir near; 34 Mill district, Paterson, effects of flood in, plate showing; 26 Millington, reservoir site near; 38-39, 40 Mountain View, reservoir site at; 31-33, 40 Mountain View reservoir, cost of, estimate of; 43 New York City, rainfall at; 11, 13 Newark, rainfall at; 11, 12, 13 Newark water department, information furnished by; 16 Newell, F. H., letter of transmittal by; 7 Newfoundland, reservoir site near; 36, 40 Nigger Pond, dam at, failure of; 24 Oakland, reservoir site near; 34 Obstructions to flow of Passaic River, discussion of; 29-30 Old Boonton, flood period at; 10 Passaic, damage at; 27-28 inundated lands at, plate showing; 28 Passaic Basin, reservoir sites in upper; 38-39 storage facilities in, effect of; 11 Passaic River, bridge over, plate showing; 28 flood flow of; 17-22 diagram showing; 20 flood period on; 10 floods on, comparison of, diagram showing; 18 flow of, obstructions to; 29-30 Passaic Valley, rainfall in; 11, 12 Paterson, damage at; 26-27 flood district of, plate showing; 24 flood-water lines in residence district of, plate showing; 16 Hebrew quarter in, devastation in, plate showing; 28 mill district, effects of flood in, plate showing; 26 rainfall at; 11, 12 residence district, flood-water lines in, plate showing; 16 views in; 16, 24, 26, 28 Pequanac Basin, reservoir sites in; 35-36, 40, 41 Pequanac River, damage along; 24 flood flow of; 16 flood period on; 10 Petersburg, reservoir site near; 37 Plainfield, rainfall at; 11 Pompton Lake, dry bed of, plate showing; 24 reservoir site at; 33-35 Pompton Lakes, damage at; 24 Pompton Lakes dam, plate showing; 24 Pompton Plains, damage at; 24 highest water at; 10 Pompton reservoir, discussion of; 31-33 Powerville, reservoir site near; 37 Precipitation, amount of; 11-14 Prevention of floods, discussion of; 28-45 Rainfall, amount of; 11-14 relation of drought to; 12 Ramapo River, damages along; 23-24 flood on, time of; 9 Ramapo Valley, reservoir sites in; 33-34, 40, 41 Reservoir sites, comparison of; 40-44 Reservoirs for preventing floods, discussion of; 28, 31-40 Residence district, Paterson, flood-water lines in, plate showing; 16 Ringwood, rainfall at; 11, 12 Ringwood Creek, reservoir site on; 35 River street, Paterson, view of; 26 River Vale, rainfall at; 11, 12 Rockaway Basin, reservoir sites on; 37-38, 40, 41 Rockaway River, flood period on; 10 Saddle River, reservoir sites on; 39-40 Sherrerd, M. R., aid by; 15 Smith, G. W., quoted on changes in channel at Little Falls; 25 South Orange, rainfall at; 11, 12 Splitrock Pond, reservoir site on; 38 Spruce street, Paterson, washout at, plate showing; 26 Stickle Pond, proposed reservoir at; 36 Stony Brook, reservoir site on; 37 Storage reservoirs for preventing floods, discussion of; 28, 31-40 Streams, capacity of, increase in; 28 Vermeule, C. C., quoted on Pompton reservoir; 31-32 Wanaque Basin, reservoir sites in; 34-35, 40, 41 West Street Bridge, Paterson, destruction of; 26 West Brook, reservoir site on; 35 PUBLICATIONS OF UNITED STATES GEOLOGICAL SURVEY. The publications of the United States Geological Survey consist of (1) Annual Reports; (2) Monographs; (3) Professional Papers; (4) Bulletins; (5) Mineral Resources; (6) Water-Supply and Irrigation Papers; (7) Topographic Atlas of United States, folios and separate sheets thereof; (8) Geologic Atlas of United States, folios thereof. The classes numbered 2, 7, and 8 are sold at cost of publication; the others are distributed free. A circular giving complete lists may be had on application. The Bulletins, Professional Papers, and Water-Supply Papers treat of a variety of subjects, and the total number issued is large. They have therefore been classified into the following series: A, Economic geology; B, Descriptive geology; C, Systematic geology and paleontology; D, Petrography and mineralogy; E, Chemistry and physics; F, Geography; G, Miscellaneous; H, Forestry; I, Irrigation; J, Water storage; K, Pumping water; L, Quality of water; M, General hydrographic investigations; N, Water power; O, Underground waters; P, Hydrographic progress reports. The following Water-Supply Papers are out of stock, and can no longer be supplied: Nos. 1-14, 19, 20, 22, 29-33, 46, 57-64. Complete lists of series I to P follow. (WS=Water-Supply Paper; B=Bulletin; PP=Professional Paper.) SERIES I--IRRIGATION. WS 2. Irrigation near Phoenix, Ariz., by A. P. Davis. 1897. 98 pp., 31 pls. and maps. WS 5. Irrigation practice on the Great Plains, by E. B. Cowgill. 1897. 39 pp., 11 pls. WS 9. Irrigation near Greeley, Colo., by David Boyd. 1897. 90 pp., 21 pls. WS 10. Irrigation in Mesilla Valley, New Mexico, by F. C. Barker. 1898. 51 pp., 11 pls. WS 13. Irrigation systems in Texas, by W. F. Hutson. 1898. 68 pp., 10 pls. WS 17. Irrigation near Bakersfield, Cal., by C. E. Grunsky. 1898. 96 pp., 16 pls. WS 18. Irrigation near Fresno, Cal., by C. E. Grunsky. 1898. 94 pp., 14 pls. WS 19. Irrigation near Merced, Cal., by C. E. Grunsky. 1899. 59 pp., 11 pls. WS 23. Water-right problems of Bighorn Mountains, by Elwood Mead. 1899. 62 pp., 7 pls. WS 32. Water resources of Porto Rico, by H. M. Wilson. 1899. 48 pp., 17 pls. and maps. WS 43. Conveyance of water in irrigation canals, flumes, and pipes, by Samuel Fortier. 1901. 86 pp., 15 pls. WS 70. Geology and water resources of the Patrick and Goshen Hole quadrangles, Wyoming, by G. I. Adams. 1902. 50 pp., 11 pls. WS 71. Irrigation systems of Texas, by T. U. Taylor. 1902. 137 pp., 9 pls. WS 74. Water resources of the State of Colorado, by A. L. Fellows. 1902. 151 pp., 14 pls. WS 87. Irrigation in India (second edition), by H. M. Wilson. 1903. 238 pp., 27 pls. The following papers also relate especially to irrigation: Irrigation in India, by H. M. Wilson, in Twelfth Annual, Pt. II; two papers on irrigation engineering, by H. M. Wilson, in Thirteenth Annual, Pt. III. SERIES J--WATER STORAGE. WS 33. Storage of water on Gila River, Arizona, by J. B. Lippincott. 1900. 98 pp., 33 pls. WS 40. The Austin dam, by Thomas U. Taylor. 1900. 51 pp., 16 pls. WS 45. Water storage on Cache Creek, California, by A. E. Chandler. 1901. 48 pp., 10 pls. WS 46. Physical characteristics of Kern River, California, by F. H. Olmsted, and Reconnaissance of Yuba River, California, by Marsden Manson. 1901. 57 pp., 8 pls. WS 58. Storage of water on Kings River, California, by J. B. Lippincott. 1902. 100 pp., 32 pls. WS 68. Water storage in Truckee Basin, California-Nevada, by L. H. Taylor. 1902. 90 pp., 8 pls. WS 73. Water storage on Salt River, Arizona, by A. P. Davis. 1902. 54 pp., 25 pls. WS 86. Storage reservoirs of Stony Creek, California, by Burt Cole. 1903. 62 pp., 16 pls. WS 89. Water resources of Salinas Valley, California, by Homer Hamlin. 1903.--pp., 12 pls. The following paper also should be noted under this heading: Reservoirs for irrigation, by J. D. Schuyler, in Eighteenth Annual, Pt. IV. SERIES K--PUMPING WATER. WS 1. Pumping water for irrigation, by Herbert M. Wilson. 1896. 57 pp., 9 pls. WS 8. Windmills for irrigation, by E. C. Murphy. 1897. 49 pp., 8 pls. WS 14. Tests of pumps and water lifts used in irrigation, by O. P. Hood. 1898. 91 pp., 1 pl. WS 20. Experiments with windmills, by T. O. Perry. 1899. 97 pp., 12 pls. WS 29. Wells and windmills in Nebraska, by E. H. Barbour. 1899. 85 pp., 27 pls. WS 41. The windmill; its efficiency and economic use, Pt. I, by E. C. Murphy. 1901. 72 pp., 14 pls. WS 42. The windmill, Pt. II (continuation of No. 41). 1901. 73-147 pp., 15-16 pls. WS 91. Natural features and economic development of Sandusky, Maumee, Muskingum, and Miami drainage areas in Ohio, by B. H. Flynn and M. S. Flynn. 1904.--pp. SERIES L--QUALITY OF WATER. WS 3. Sewage irrigation, by G. W. Rafter. 1897. 100 pp., 4 pls. WS 22. Sewage irrigation, Pt. II, by G. W. Rafter. 1899. 100 pp., 7 pls. WS 72. Sewage pollution near New York City, by M. O. Leighton. 1902. 75 pp., 8 pls. WS 76. Flow of rivers near New York City, by H. A. Pressey. 1903. 108 pp., 13 pls. WS 79. Normal and polluted waters in northeastern United States, by M. O. Leighton. 1903. 192 pp., 15 pls. SERIES M--GENERAL HYDROGRAPHIC INVESTIGATIONS. WS 56. Methods of stream measurement. 1901. 51 pp., 12 pls. WS 64. Accuracy of stream measurements, by E. C. Murphy. 1902. 99 pp., 4 pls. WS 76. Observations on the flow of rivers in the vicinity of New York City, by H. A. Pressey. 1902. 108 pp., 13 pls. WS 80. The relation of rainfall to run-off, by G. W. Rafter. 1903. 104 pp. WS 81. California hydrography, by J. B. Lippincott. 1903. 488 pp., 1 pl. WS 88. The Passaic flood of 1902, by G. B. Hollister and M. O. Leighton. 1903. 56 pp., 15 pls. WS 91. Natural features and economic development of the Sandusky, Maumee, Muskingum, and Miami drainage areas in Ohio, by B. H. Flynn and M. S. Flynn. 1904.--pp. WS 92. The Passaic flood of 1903, by M. O. Leighton. 1904.--pp., 7 pls. SERIES N--WATER POWER. WS 24. Water resources of State of New York, Pt. I, by G. W. Rafter. 1899. 92 pp., 13 pls. WS 25. Water resources of State of New York, Pt. II, by G. W. Rafter. 1899. 100-200 pp., 12 pls. WS 44. Profiles of rivers, by Henry Gannett. 1901. 100 pp., 11 pls. WS 62. Hydrography of the Southern Appalachian Mountain region, Pt. I, by H. A. Pressey. 1902. 95 pp., 25 pls. WS 63. Hydrography of the Southern Appalachian Mountain region, Pt. II, by H. A. Pressey. 1902. 96-190 pp., 26-44 pls. WS 69. Water powers of the State of Maine, by H. A. Pressey. 1902. 124 pp., 14 pls. SERIES O--UNDERGROUND WATERS. WS 4. A reconnaissance in southeastern Washington, by I. C. Russell. 1897. 96 pp., 7 pls. WS 6. Underground waters of southwestern Kansas, by Erasmus Haworth. 1897. 65 pp., 12 pls. WS 7. Seepage waters of northern Utah, by Samuel Fortier. 1897. 50 pp., 3 pls. WS 12. Underground waters of southeastern Nebraska, by N. H. Darton. 1898. 56 pp., 21 pls. WS 21. Wells of northern Indiana, by Frank Leverett. 1899. 82 pp., 2 pls. WS 26. Wells of southern Indiana (continuation of No. 21), by Frank Leverett. 1899. 64 pp. WS 30. Water resources of the lower peninsula of Michigan, by A. C. Lane. 1899. 97 pp., 7 pls. WS 31. Lower Michigan mineral waters, by A. C. Lane. 1899. 97 pp., 4 pls. WS 34. Geology and water resources of a portion of southeastern South Dakota, by J. E. Todd. 1900. 34 pp., 19 pls. WS 53. Geology and water resources of Nez Perces County, Idaho, Pt. I, by I. C. Russell. 1901. 86 pp., 10 pls. WS 54. Geology and water resources of Nez Perces County, Idaho, Pt. II, by I. C. Russell. 1901. 87-141 pp. WS 55. Geology and water resources of a portion of Yakima County, Wash., by G. O. Smith. 1901. 68 pp., 7 pls. WS 57. Preliminary list of deep borings in the United States, Pt. I, by N. H. Darton. 1902. 60 pp. WS 59. Development and application of water in southern California, Pt. I, by J. B. Lippincott. 1902. 95 pp., 11 pls. WS 60. Development and application of water in southern California, Pt. II, by J. B. Lippincott. 1902. 96-140 pp. WS 61. Preliminary list of deep borings in the United States, Pt. II, by N. H. Darton. 1902. 67 pp. WS 67. The motions of underground waters, by C. S. Slichter. 1902. 106 pp., 8 pls. B 199. Geology and water resources of the Snake River Plains of Idaho, by I. C. Russell. 1902. 192 pp., 25 pls. WS 77. Water resources of Molokai, Hawaiian Islands, by Waldemar Lindgren. 1903. 62 pp., 4 pls. WS 78. Preliminary report on artesian basins in southwestern Idaho and southeastern Oregon, by I. C. Russell. 1903. 52 pp., 2 pls. PP 17. Preliminary report on the geology and water resources of Nebraska west of the one hundred and third meridian, by N. H. Darton. 1903. 69 pp., 43 pls. WS 90. Geology and water resources of a part of the lower James River Valley, South Dakota, by J. E. Todd and C. M. Hall. 1904.--pp., 23 pls. The following papers also relate to this subject: Underground waters of Arkansas Valley in eastern Colorado, by G. K. Gilbert, in Seventeenth Annual, Pt. II; Preliminary report on artesian waters of a portion of the Dakotas, by N. H. Darton, in Seventeenth Annual, Pt. II; Water resources of Illinois, by Frank Leverett, in Seventeenth Annual, Pt. II; Water resources of Indiana and Ohio, by Frank Leverett, in Eighteenth Annual, Pt. IV; New developments in well boring and irrigation in eastern South Dakota, by N. H. Darton, in Eighteenth Annual, Pt. IV; Rock waters of Ohio, by Edward Orton, in Nineteenth Annual, Pt. IV; Artesian well prospects in Atlantic Coastal Plain region, by N. H. Darton, Bulletin No. 138. SERIES P--HYDROGRAPHIC PROGRESS REPORTS. Progress reports may be found in the following publications: For 1888-89, Tenth Annual, Pt. II; for 1889-90, Eleventh Annual, Pt. II; for 1890-91, Twelfth Annual, Pt. II; for 1891-92, Thirteenth Annual, Pt. III; for 1893-94, Bulletin No. 131; for 1895, Bulletin No. 140; for 1896, Eighteenth Annual, Pt. IV, WS 11; for 1897, Nineteenth Annual, Pt. IV, WS 15, 16; for 1898, Twentieth Annual, Pt. IV, WS 27, 28; for 1899, Twenty-first Annual, Pt. IV, WS 35-39; for 1900, Twenty-second Annual, Pt. IV, WS 47-52; for 1901, WS 65, 66, 76; for 1902, WS 82-85. Correspondence should be addressed to THE DIRECTOR, UNITED STATES GEOLOGICAL SURVEY, WASHINGTON, D. C. 
21074	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 21074-h.htm or 21074-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/0/7/21074/21074-h/21074-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/0/7/21074/21074-h.zip) AFLOAT ON THE FLOOD by LAWRENCE J. LESLIE [Frontispiece: They were being swept downstream at a tremendous pace] M. A. Donohue & Company Chicago -------- New York Copyright, 1915, By The New York Book Company CONTENTS CHAPTER I THE EVERGREEN RIVER ON THE RAMPAGE II LENDING A HELPING HAND III ON THE TREMBLING BRIDGE IV A BRAVE RESCUE V THE PRICE THEY PAID VI COMRADES IN DISTRESS VII THE SUBMERGED FARM-HOUSE VIII REFUGEES OF THE ROOF IX PREPARING FOR THE WORST X "ALL ABOARD!" XI GOOD CHEER BY THE CAMP FIRE XII THE WILD DOG PACK XIII THE DEFENCE OF THE CAMP XIV UNWELCOME GUESTS XV BOSE PAYS FOR HIS BOARD XVI AFTER THE FLOOD--CONCLUSION AFLOAT ON THE FLOOD CHAPTER I THE EVERGREEN RIVER ON THE RAMPAGE "What's the latest weather report down at the post office, Max?" "More rain coming, they say, and everybody is as gloomy as a funeral." "My stars! the poor old town of Carson is getting a heavy dose this spring, for a fact; nothing but rain, rain, and then some more rain." "Never was anything to beat it, Bandy-legs, and they say even the oldest inhabitant can't remember when the Evergreen River was at a higher stage than it is right now." "Here comes our chum, Toby Jucklin, and he looks as if he might be bringing some news with him. Hi! Toby, what's the latest?" The new arrival, who was somewhat out of breath with hurrying, surveyed the two boys who stood there awaiting his arrival, with an expression of almost comical uneasiness on his face. Truth to tell, whenever Toby became in any way excited, and often when he was perfectly calm, his tongue played him cruel tricks, so that he stuttered, and stumbled fearfully; until suddenly stopping he would draw in a long breath, give a sharp whistle, and having thus obtained a grip on himself often proceeded to speak as intelligibly as any one. "M-m-mills and s-s-shops all closed down, so's to let w-w-workers have c-c-chance to save their h-h-household goods!" he went on to say in a labored manner. The boy who had been called Bandy-legs by Max, and whose rather crooked lower limbs were undoubtedly responsible for the nickname among his school fellows, gave a whistle to indicate the depth of his feelings. Toby may have had an obstruction in his vocal cords, but he could run like a streak; on the other hand, while Bandy-legs could not be said to have an elegant walk, which some hateful fellows compared to the waddle of a duck, there was nothing the matter with his command of language, for he could rattle on like the machinery in one of Carson's mills. "And," he went on to say, excitedly, "the last news I heard was that school would have to stay closed all of next week, because the water is on the campus now, and likely to get in the cellars before the river goes down again. Which means we'll have a week's vacation we didn't count on." Somehow even that important event, which at another time would have caused the boys to throw their hats into the air with glee, did not seem to create a ripple of applause among the three young chaps. Carson was threatened with a terrible disaster, the greatest in all her history, and even these boys could experience something of the sensation of awe that had begun to pass through the whole community. The Evergreen River that ran past the town was already bank-full; and all manner of terrifying reports kept circulating among the panic-stricken people of that section of the State, adding to their alarm and uneasiness. More rain meant accessions to the flood, already augmented by the melting of vast quantities of snow up in the mountains, owing to the sudden coming of Spring. Besides this, some people claimed to know that the great reservoir which supplied water to many towns, was not as secure as it might be, and they spread reports of cracks discovered that might suddenly bring about another Johnstown disaster. It was a strange spectacle that the three boy friends looked upon as they stood on the street corner that Saturday morning. Water had already invaded many of the buildings in the lower section of the town, and in every direction could be seen excited families moving their household goods to higher levels. Horses and wagons were at a premium that morning, and from the way things looked just then it might not be long before every boat that was owned within five miles would be needed to rescue people imprisoned in their homes, or to carry valuable goods out of the reach of the terrible flood. The three young fellows whom we meet on this dark morning in the history of the enterprising little town of Carson were chums who had for many moons been accustomed to spending their vacations together in the woods, or on the waters. In all they were five close friends, but Owen Hastings, a cousin of Max, and who had made his home with him, was at present away in Europe with another uncle; and Steve Dowdy happened to be somewhere else in town, perhaps helping his father remove his stock of groceries from his big store, which being in the lower part of town was apt to suffer from the rising waters. In previous volumes of this series we have followed the fortunes of these chums with considerable pleasure; and those who have been fortunate enough to have read one or more of these stories will need no further introduction to the trio. But while they may have passed through numerous exciting episodes in the days that were gone, the outlook that faced them now seemed to promise even more thrilling adventures. No wonder all of them showed signs of excitement, when all around them men and women were moving swiftly to gather up their possessions, or standing in groups watching the swiftly passing flood, if their homes chanced to be safely out of reach of the river's utmost grip. A heavy wooden bridge crossed the river at Carson. This had withstood the floods of many previous Springs, but it was getting rather old and shaky, and predictions were circulating that there was danger of its being carried away, sooner or later, so that the more timid people kept aloof from it now. The four chums had only a short time before returned from an Eastern camping trip up amidst the hills about fifteen miles from town. They had experienced some strange adventures while in camp, most of which hinged upon an event that had taken place in Carson one windy night, when the big round-top of a visiting circus blew down in a sudden gale, and many of the menagerie animals were set free. At the time of their home-coming the boys had certainly never anticipated that there would be a renewal of activity in such a short time. Why, it seemed that they had hardly become settled again at their studies when the rapid rising of the Evergreen River on Friday night brought the town of Carson face to face with a threatened disaster that might yet be appalling. "Does anybody know where Steve is?" asked Max, when they had been observing the remarkable sights that were taking place all around them for some little time, now laughing at some comical spectacle, and again springing to help a little girl who was staggering under a heavy load, or a woman who needed assistance, for all of them had generous hearts. "He told me early this morning that his father had a dozen hands employed carrying the stuff up out of the basement of the grocery store and taking it to the second story," Bandy-legs replied. "I wish I'd known that," remarked Max; "for I'd have offered to help, because my house happens to be well up on the highest ground in town, and nothing could hurt us, even if the reservoir did burst, which I surely hope it won't." They exchanged uneasy glances when Max mentioned the possibility of that disaster coming upon the unhappy valley, which would suffer seriously enough from the flood without that appalling happening coming to pass. "D-d-don't mention it, Max, p-p-please," said Toby, with a gloomy shake of his head; "because while my f-f-folks might be out of d-d-danger from a regular f-f-flood, if a monster wave of water came a s-s-sweepin' along down here, it'd sure ketch us, and make our p-p-place look like a howling wilderness." "Same with me," added the third boy; "but I don't believe that reservoir's goin' to play hob with things, like some people say. They're shaking in their shoes right now about it; but if the new rain that's aheadin' this way'd only get switched off the track I reckon we'd manage to pull through here in Carson without a terrible loss. I'd say go down and help Mr. Dowdy, Max, but I just heard a man tell that everything in the cellar had been moved, and they were cleaning out the lower floor so's not to take chances." "But we might get around and see if we couldn't help somebody move," suggested Max; "it would be only play for us, but would mean a whole lot to them." "S-s-second the motion," assented Toby, quickly. "And say, fellows, I was just thinking about that poor widow, Mrs. Badger, and her t-t-three children. Her house is on low g-g-ground, ain't it; and the water must be around the d-d-doorsill right now. G-g-give the word, Max, and let's s-s-scoot around there to see." Max was the acknowledged leader of the chums, and as a rule the others looked to him to take command whenever any move was contemplated. "That was a bright thought of yours, Toby," he now said, as he shot a look full of boyish affection toward his stuttering chum; "if you do get balled up in your speech sometimes, there's nothing the matter with your heart, which is as big as a bushel basket. So come on, boys, and we'll take a turn around that way to see what three pair of willing hands can find to do for the widow and her flock." They had to make a little circuit because the water was coming up further in some of the town streets all the tune, with a rather swift current that threatened to undermine the foundations of numerous flimsy buildings, if the flood lasted long. "Whew! just look out there at the river, would you?" exclaimed Bandy-legs, when they came to a spot where an unobstructed view could be obtained of the yellow flood that was whirling past the town at the rate of many miles an hour, carrying all sorts of strange objects on its bosom, from trees and logs, to hencoops and fence rails. They stood for a minute or so to gaze with ever increasing interest at the unusual spectacle. Then as the three boys once more started to make their tortuous way along, avoiding all manner of obstacles, Max went on to say: "Pretty hard to believe that's our old friend the Evergreen River, generally so clear and pretty in the summer time, and with such good fishing in places up near where the Big Sunflower and the Elder branches join. And to think how many times we've skated for twenty miles up and down in winter; yet look there now, and you'd almost believe it was the big Mississippi flowing past." "And mebbe you noticed," observed Toby, warmly, "how f-f-funny the b-b-bridge looks with the w-w-water so near the s-s-span. Let me tell you, if ever she does g-g-get up so's to wash the roadway, g-g-good-bye to b-b-bridge. I wouldn't want to be on it right then." "Nor me, either," Max added; "but that bridge has weathered a whole lot of floods, and let's hope it won't go out this time either; though we do need a new one the worst kind. But here's the widow's place, boys, and seems like she does need help. The water's creeping up close to her door, and inside another hour it would be all over the floors of her cottage. There she is, looking out now, and with three kids hanging to her dress. Let's ask her where we could take her stuff near by. She hasn't got so much but that we might save most of it." The poor woman looked white and frightened, and indeed there was reason she should with that flood closing in on her little home and her helpless family. When the three chums proposed to carry the best of her belongings to higher ground she thanked them many times. It happened that she had a friend whose home was not far away, and on a good elevation; so anything that could be taken there she might have stored in their barn, where doubtless the friend would allow her to stay temporarily, until the river receded. Accordingly the stout boys settled down to business, and were soon staggering under heavy loads, just as many other people in Carson chanced to be doing at that time. It was slow and laborious work, and Max knew that they would never be able to get some of the heavier articles to a place of safety. Although they did not represent any great commercial value, still they were all in all to Mrs. Badger. Just then an idea came into his head which he hastened to put into execution. An empty wagon was passing, and Max recognized it as belonging to his father. Mr. Hastings, realizing the need of all the conveyances that could be obtained, had sent his man down town with the conveyance, so as to be of assistance to those in distress. Calling to the man Max soon had him backing up to the cottage, and the heavier things, such as the cook stove, beds, wash tubs and other household articles were soon loaded. In this fashion the possessions of the widow were saved from being water soaked, for before they had taken the last thing out the river was lapping her doorstep greedily, and steadily rising all the while. Having dismissed the driver with his wagon, to go and make himself useful elsewhere, Max and his two chums were walking slowly along, wondering what next they might do, when a fourth boy was seen hurrying toward them. "There comes Steve," announced Bandy-legs, whose quick eyesight had discovered the approach of the other chum, "and chances are he's bringing some news, because he carries the map on his face. 'Touch-and-Go Steve' we call him, because he's ready to fly off his base at the first crack of the gun; but he's sure got plenty now to excite him. Hello! Steve, how's things getting on at the store?" "Oh! my dad's got his stock out of reach of the water, all that could be hurt by a soaking; and he thinks the brick building will stand if the reservoir don't give way; but did you hear that the river is above the danger line by two feet; higher than ever before known, and rising like a race-horse all the time? Gee whiz! what's the answer to this question; where's this thing going to end?" and Steve looked at his three chums as he put this question; but they only shook their heads in reply, and stared dolefully out on the swiftly rushing river. CHAPTER II LENDING A HELPING HAND "What we see here isn't all of the trouble by a lot," Max ventured, as they stood and watched the remarkable sights all around them. "I should say not," Steve quickly added; "already they've begun to get reports of washouts down below, where houses have left their foundations, and gone off on the current; while barns, chicken coops, pig pens and fences are being swept away by dozens and scores. It's going to be the most terrible flood that ever visited this section. I only hope nobody gets drowned in it, that's all." "I met Gus French a while back," Bandy-legs happened to remember, though he had said nothing of the circumstance before, there being so many exciting events taking place right along, "and he told me they were a heap worried at their house." "What for?" demanded Steve, who had a weakness for the pretty sister of Gus, though of late there had existed a foolish coolness between them, founded on some small happening that grew into a misunderstanding; "their house stands higher than a whole lot in town, and I don't see why they'd worry." "Oh! it ain't that," the other boy hastened to say; "but p'raps you didn't know that yesterday Mazie Dunkirk and Bessie French went to stay over Sunday with an aunt of the French girl's about twenty miles down the river; and they say that the old house is on pretty low ground, so that if the river rises much more she might be carried off the foundation!" Steve gave a half groan, and Max too turned a little white, for the Mazie whom Bandy-legs referred to was a very good friend of his, whom he had always escorted to barn dances and singing school, and also skated with winters. "If I had a friend who owned a good motorboat now," said Steve, between his set teeth, "I give you my word I'd like to borrow the same." "W-w-what for?" demanded Toby, appalled at the thought of any one venturing out on that swirling river in a puny powerboat. "I'd take chances, and run down below to see if I could be of any help to the folks there," Steve went on to say, gloomily; "but I don't know anybody that I might borrow even a skiff from." "Yes, and if you did, the chances are he'd think twice before loaning you his boat," Max told him. "In the first place he'd expect you to snag the craft, and sink the same, because you do everything with such a rush and whoop. And then again, the way things look around here every boat that's owned within five miles of town will be needed to rescue people from second-story windows before to-morrow night." "D-d-do you think it's g-g-going to be as b-b-bad as all that, Max?" "I'm afraid so, Toby, if half of all that rain gets here, with the river more than out of its banks now. But, Steve, I wouldn't worry about the girls if I were you. Long before this Bessie's relatives have taken the horses, and made for the higher ground of the hills. Even if you did manage to get down there you'd find the house empty, and have all your work for nothing." Steve did not answer, but his face remained unusually serious for a long time, since he was doubtless picturing all sorts of terrible things happening to the girls who were visiting down the river. As the morning advanced more and more discouraging reports kept circulating through the stricken town. The river was rising at a rate that promised to cause its waves to lap the roadway of the bridge by night-time; and everybody believed this structure was bound to go out before another dawn. It was about the middle of the morning when the four chums, in wandering around bent on seeing everything that was going on during such exciting times, came upon a scene that aroused their immediate indignation. Several rough half-grown young rowdies had pretended to offer to assist a poor old crippled storekeeper remove his stock of candies and cakes from the threatened invasion of the waters, already lapping his door and creeping across the floor of his little shop. Their intentions however were of a far different character, for they had commenced to pounce upon the dainties on his shelves, despite his weak if energetic protests. "What you shoutin' about, old codger?" demanded one of the three bullies, as he crammed his pockets with whatever he fancied in the line of candy; "the water's coming right in and grab all your stock, anyway; so, what difference does it make if we just lick up a few bites? Mebbe we'll help get the rest of your stuff out of this, if so be we feels like workin'. So close your trap now, and let up on that yawp!" Max and the others heard this sort of talk as they stopped outside the door of the little candy shop in which, as small lads, they could remember having spent many a spare penny. It filled them with indignation, first because they thought a good deal of the poor old crippled man who made a scant living selling small toys and candies to the school children; and second on account of the fact that they knew this set of rowdies of old, having had many disputes with them in the past. Their former leader, Ted Shatter, had been missed from his accustomed haunts for some time now, and it was whispered that he had been sent to a reform school by his father, who wielded considerable power in political circles, but could not expect to keep his lawless boy from arrest if he continued to defy the authorities as he had been doing. Since then the "gang" had been led by a new recruit, named Ossie Kemp; and the other two with him were the old offenders, who have appeared before now in the stories of this series, Amiel Toots and Shack Beggs. "Back me up, boys," said Max, hastily turning to his three chums, "and we'll run that crowd out of there in a hurry, or know the reason why." "We'll stand by you, Max," replied Bandy-legs, quickly. "You b-b-bet we will," added Toby, aggressively doubling up his fists. "To the limit!" echoed Steve, stooping down to secure a stout stick his roving eye chanced to alight upon, and which appealed to his fighting instincts as just the thing for an emergency like this. Max immediately pushed straight into the little store, and, as he expected would be the case, his eyes fell first upon the raiding bullies, and then the slight figure of the distressed crippled storekeeper, wringing his hands as he faced complete ruin, between his inhuman persecutors and the pitiless flood. At the entrance of a new lot of boys the poor old man gave a cry of despair, as though he believed that this would complete his misfortune; then as he recognized Max Hastings a sudden gleam of renewed hope struggled across his face; for Max had a splendid reputation in Carson, and was looked up to as a fine fellow who would certainly never descend to inflicting pain on a helpless cripple. "What's going on here?" demanded Max, as the three rowdies turned to face the newcomers, and, made cowardly by guilt, looked ready to sneak away. "We're the advance guard of those coming to help you, Mr. McGirt; what are these boys doing here, and did you tell them to fill their pockets with your stock?" "No, no, not at all!" cried the storekeeper, in a quivering voice; "they burst in on me and I asked them to please carry some of the stock I've tied up in packages to higher ground, for I shall be ruined if I lose what little I've got; but they just laughed at me, and started to taking whatever they fancied. I would not mind if only they saved my property first, and then treated themselves afterwards." Max frowned fiercely at the three skulking boys. He had purposely spoken as if there might be men coming on the run to assist old Mr. McGirt; for he knew the aggressive natures of at least Shack and Ossie, though Amiel Toots was a craven who generally struck behind one's back and then ran off; and Max did not care to engage in any fight at such a time and with such a crew. "If you don't empty every pocket, and then clear out of here, I'll see that you are accused of robbery; and when there's a flood like this they often hang looters to the lamp-posts, perhaps you know? The people won't stand for anything like that. Hurry and put everything back or I'll see that you land in the lock-up. Steve, be ready to step out and give the signal to the Chief if I tell you to. Turn that other pocket inside-out, Amiel Toots. You did expect to make a fine haul here, didn't you? Instead of helping the poor old man save his stock you thought you might as well have it as the water. Are you all through? Then break away, and good riddance to the lot of you for a pack of cowards and thieves!" Amiel Toots slunk away with a cowed look; Shack Beggs and Ossie Kemp followed him out of the door, but they were black in the face with rage and fear; and the look they shot at Max showed that should the opportunity ever come to even the score they would only too willingly accept chances in order to wipe the slate clean. "And now, Mr. McGirt, we're ready to help you any way we can," continued Max, once the three young desperadoes had departed to seek new pastures for exploiting their evil natures; "where could we carry these packages you've got done up? And while we're on our way, perhaps you could get the rest of your stock ready. We'll fetch back the empty baskets." The poor cripple's peaked face glowed with renewed hope, for he had been hovering on the brink of despair. "Oh! how glad I am you came when you did," he said, in trembling tones; "I would have lost everything I had in the world, between the water and those young ruffians. One of them even had the audacity to ask me why I had bothered cleaning out my cash drawer. If I could only move my stuff up the hill to Mr. Ben Rollins' print shop I'm almost sure he would find a corner where I could store the packages until the river went down again, for he is a very good friend of mine." "All right," said Steve, "and we know Mr. Rollins well, too. I've even helped him gather up news for his weekly paper, _Town Topics_. So load up, fellows, and we'll see what can be done. It wouldn't only take a few trips to carry this lot of stuff up there." Each boy took all he could carry and started off, while the store-keeper commenced hurriedly packing the balance of his stock in trade into bundles, pleased with the new outlook ahead, and grateful for these young friends who had come so unexpectedly to his assistance in his darkest hour of need. After all it was hardly more than fun for Max and his comrades, because they were all fairly stout fellows, and accustomed to an active outdoor life. They were back again before the owner of the little shop expected they could have gone half the distance. "It's all right, sir," Bandy-legs hastened to assure Mr. McGirt; "the editor of the paper happened to be there, hurrying out some handbills warning people to prepare for the worst that might come; and he said you were quite welcome to store your stuff in his shed. He only wished everybody else down in the lower part of town could save their belongings, too; but there's bound to be an awful loss, he says. Now, let's load up again, fellers; I feel that I could stagger along under what I've gathered together here; and this trip ought to pretty well clean things up, hadn't it, Max?" "I think it will," replied the other, also collecting a load as large as he believed himself able to carry. "And if I can find our man with his wagon, Mr. McGirt, I'll have him take what furniture you've got in that little room back there, and put it with your stock in the print shop." "Thank you a thousand times, Max," said the old cripple; and somehow those four lads fancied that they had been repaid many times over for what they had done as they saw his wrinkled face lose its look of worry and taken on a smile of fresh hope and gratitude. It happened that Max did run across their hired man busily engaged in carrying some one's furniture up the hill; and he agreed to look after the cripple the very next thing. "Be sure you make him ride with you, Conrad," was the last thing Max told the man, who faithfully promised to look after the little old storekeeper, and see that he got to a place of-safety. It was now getting along toward noon. No sun shone above, indeed, they had seen nothing but a leaden sky for a number of days; which of course added to the gloom that surrounded the unfortunate town, as well as the farms and hamlets strung along the valley through which the Evergreen River flowed. "Get together again after we've had some lunch!" Steve told his three mates, as they started for their respective homes--rather reluctantly; because so many exciting things seemed to be happening every half hour that none of them wanted to miss any more than they could help. Indeed, it is a question whether anything less serious than satisfying the cravings of hunger, always an important subject with a growing boy, would have induced them to go home at all. "How high was it the last report?" asked Bandy-legs; for somehow there always seems to be a peculiar fascination about learning the worst, when floods rage, and destruction hovers overhead. "Two feet, nine inches above the danger line, and still coming up an inch an hour, with another big rain promised soon!" replied Steve, promptly, though he did not seem to take any particular pride in the fact that all previous records had already been broken by the usually peaceful Evergreen stream. "G-g-gosh!" gasped Toby, "there never was, and never will be again such a fierce time in old Carson. B-b-beats that morning I found all them animals from the c-c-circus a gathered in my back yard where I had my own little m-m-menagerie. S-s-see you later, everybody," and with that he actually started on a run for home, doubtless only thinking that he might in this way shorten the time he would be forced to stay away from the river front, where things were happening it seemed, every minute of the day. Few regular meals were served in Carson that day. People were too much alarmed over the dismal prospect facing the manufacturing town to think of taking things easy. They stayed on the streets, and gathered in groups, talking about the flood, and trying to find some loophole of hope; but many pale faces could be seen among the women, and there was an increasing demand for wagons to haul household goods from the lower sections to places of safety. That was certainly a day never to be forgotten in Carson; and what made it even worse was the gloomy outlook which the weather predictions held out to those already in the grip of the greatest flood in the history of the valley. CHAPTER III ON THE TREMBLING BRIDGE Once more the four chums came together at a given point, filled with a desire to see with their own eyes the strange sights that were transpiring continually all around them. The excitement constantly grew in volume, and everywhere groups of men and women, as well as children, could be seen discussing the latest news, or it might be industriously trying to save their possessions from the greedy river. Many of the younger generation failed to realize the gravity of the situation. All this bustle was in the nature of a picnic to them. They shouted, and called to one another, as they ran hither and thither, watching the unusual scenes. Many times they had to be warned of the danger they ran when playing close to the swift current that was eddying through the lower streets. Steve Dowdy was always eager to collect the latest news. He had more than once declared that he meant to be a reporter when he grew up, for he practiced the art of cross-questioning people whenever he had a chance; and Max, who had noticed how well he did this, more than once told him he would make a good lawyer instead. When he joined the others they fully expected that he would have something new to tell them, nor were they mistaken. "Last word is that the railroad has gone out of commission," Steve announced. "In the name of goodness, do you mean it's been washed away, where it runs along the river?" exclaimed Bandy-legs, his face showing more or less dismay. "Well, I don't know that it's as bad as that," Steve admitted; "but the water's up so deep over the tracks that orders have been given to abandon all trains until there's a change." "Which I should think would be a wise thing to do," Max remarked; "because they couldn't tell but what they'd run into a gap, and a train be lost. Railroads have troubles enough without taking such risks." "But what if the river keeps booming along like this for a week?" suggested Bandy-legs, prone to imagine things much worse than they were in truth. "Not much danger of that," ventured Steve; "but even then why should it matter to us if trains couldn't run?" "Huh! how long d'ye think the town of Carson could live without grub?" was what the other flung at him. "Every day the visible food supply would keep on getting lower and lower, with everything going out and nothing coming in. And deliver me from running up against a regular _famine_. A feller has got to eat if he wants to live, don't he?" "You do, we know that, Bandy-legs, and so does Toby here," jeered Steve; "but it strikes me you forget the farmer community when you talk about our going hungry. A good many might be kept from coming into town with loads, but there'd be enough to keep things moving along. What's the use bothering about that; plenty of other things to keep you guessing. It'd ease my mind a heap for instance if I just knew the girls had left that house of Asa French down below, and taken to higher ground. Can't help thinking they might be foolish enough to try and stay there till the water got so high all around that only a boat could be of any use, and they mightn't have one. I even tried to see if I could borrow a boat of any kind, but you couldn't right now, for love or money. Everybody's holding on to what they've got." "W-w-well, when it's f-f-flooding like it is now, don't you reckon it's the right thing to keep an ark, if so be you g-g-got one? Where'd old Noah a been if he'd allowed himself to be tempted to b-b-bargain for his b-b-boat when the rain started to come down? Wish I had even a canoe myself; I'd feel easier a h-h-heap, let me tell you." Toby was beginning to take the thing very seriously. He seldom laughed now, and many of the rather pitiful sights he saw all around him made an indelible impression on his mind. "Worse luck we can't see all that's coming down the river," ventured Steve, presently. "The water's getting so high that it's hard to find a place where you can look out over the whole valley. And I've fetched my camera along, too, hoping to snatch off a few pictures to remember this flood by. Tell you what, fellows, I've got a good notion to go out on the bridge, and snap off some views." "Pretty risky!" suggested Max. "They're warning everybody to keep away from the bridge," added Bandy-legs, as he shook his head dubiously, yet seemed inclined to side with Steve; for like all boys, the spirit of daring and love for adventure lay strong within him. To the surprise of the others Toby piped up just then in a strain they had not imagined would appeal to him. "That's what the t-t-timid ones keep on saying," he observed; "but I d-d-don't think the old bridge'll get shaky till the current of the r-r-river really hits up against the roadway hard. Now, mebbe some of you've been awonderin' what made me fetch this coil of new clothes line along, danglin' from my arm? W-w-want to k-k-know?" "To be sure we do, Toby, so rattle it off, won't you?" said Steve. "All r-r-right, I will," the accommodating Toby assured him. "Well, you s-s-see, there's so many hencoops afloatin' along seems like there might be a dog or a rooster settin' on top of one, and I thought if I had a chance to get out on the b-b-bridge span I'd try and rope one of the same. I've p-p-practiced throwing a lariat some, and I t-t-think I might snatch somethin' from a watery g-g-grave." The others laughed at the suggestion. In imagination they could see Toby tossing his noosed rope wildly out over the rushing waters, and only to make many a miss. At the same time Steve chose to encourage him for reasons of his own. With Bandy-legs hesitating, if only he could get Toby to support his suggestion, there was a pretty good chance that conservative Max would give in to superior numbers. So Steve commenced to handle his little camera, which he had slung over his shoulder with a stout strap. "The sun don't shine, but it's pretty light right now at one o'clock," he went on to say, meaningly; "and I'm dead sure I could pick up some dandy pictures of the river, and also of poor old Carson, flood-bound. Bandy-legs, how about you; won't you come along with Toby and me out on the bridge?" The appeal proved to be the finishing stroke, since Bandy-legs had been balancing on the fence. "All right, Steve, count on me; and, Max, say you'll go along too, if all the rest of us do," he hastened to say. Max laughed. "Do you know what you make me think of, you fellows?" he told them; "well, of the time Steve here went in swimming, when there was even a suspicion of ice along the edge of the pond. I can see him now, up to his neck, nearly frozen stiff with the chill, and his teeth rattling in his head as he tried to grin, and called out to the rest of us: 'Come on in, fellows; the water's fine!' But if my three chums are bent on taking risks with that old bridge, I reckon I'll have to join the procession, and go out there along with you. Besides, I've been thinking that we might have a chance to do some rescue work, because any old time somebody is apt to come down the swollen river hanging to a floating log or a frame house. I'm surprised that it hasn't happened before now." "Well, come on, and don't let's stand around here talking so long," Steve urged, for he was nearly always in a great hurry, which fact had been the main cause for his school mates dubbing him "Touch-and-Go-Steve." As the four boys approached the bridge they must have felt more or less qualms of nervous apprehension, because the prospect was appalling, with the river up only a comparatively few feet below the centre of the span. But each hesitated to let his companions see that he felt timid in the least; and assuming a carelessness that he was far from feeling, Steve was the first to set foot on the approach to the bridge that spanned the Evergreen River. Several men called out to warn them that it was dangerous, but no one really attempted to stop them from walking out. As the water was already commencing to lap the roadway at the end, they had to pick their steps; but once out toward the middle it seemed as though confidence began to return. Pride kept all of the boys from allowing anything like a tremor to appear in their voices when they exchanged remarks. At the same time all of them felt the quivering of the structure, and could understand what a mighty force was commencing to pluck at its supports. When these were undermined, if such a thing should happen, the whole affair would go with a rush, and they realized what that would mean. Steve immediately busied himself in snapping off several pictures, posing his chums so that they would enter into his views of the flood as seen from the river bridge. In this interesting work he forgot the peril he was running; while Max and Toby and Bandy-legs found plenty to do in looking all around, and watching the strange spectacle of floating trees or logs wedge up against the bridge at various places until they began to form quite a barricade. "That's what will tell against the bridge more than anything else," Max remarked, as he pointed to where a tree was being pressed by the rush of the water, so that it kept striking against the abutment on the side toward Carson. "When a certain quantity of floating stuff begins to exert all its push against the bridge it'll have to go. We've got to keep our eyes open, boys, and be ready to skip out of here if we see another big tree coming down." "There's another hencoop, and, Toby, what do I see on the bridge but a big Plymouth Rock rooster!" exclaimed Bandy-legs, excitedly, "so Johnny get your gun, or else your rope, and let's see what sort of a cowboy you c'n be." Toby ran along the upper side of the bridge, and with his rope coiled awaited a chance to let fly. The conditions were not as favorable as he might have liked, for the railing seemed to be somewhat in the way; and an object moving swiftly toward him did not offer any great hope for his success in casting the lariat; but when the proper time had arrived he bravely let fly. "Whoop! see it drop right over the old rooster would you?" yelled Bandy-legs; "pull as quick as you can, Toby! Aw! you're slow as molasses in winter, and it just slipped over his back. And now he's running under the bridge, and you won't have fricasseed chicken for supper to-night, as you expected." "B-b-but you all saw how I d-d-dropped the n-n-noose right over him, didn't you? And that c-c-counts some. When I g-g-get the hang of the thing I expect to do a heap b-b-better. Watch out for another hencoop, Bandy-legs, that's a good feller. I'm sure enjoying myself first-rate." "Well, looks to me like something coming along up there again," remarked Bandy-legs, who had splendid eyesight, and was sometimes called "Eagle Eye" by his comrades. "A dog this time, seems like," suggested Steve, carelessly. "I wonder now if I could get his picture when he comes closer? It'd be worth keeping, just to show what sort of things you'll meet up with when there's a big flood on. I reckon I'll try it anyhow; no damage done if I make a foozle." He hunted up a suitable place, where he thought the light would be most serviceable, and then started to focus his camera on a spot which he selected; when the drifting piece of wreckage reached that position it would be at the proper distance for effective work, and he could press the button with the belief that he had obtained a good picture. Max was intently looking up the river. All these things interested him, naturally, though deep down in his heart he knew that they were taking big risks in remaining out on the bridge when others more sensible or less adventurous carefully refrained from trusting themselves to view the flood from so dangerous a standpoint. The three other boys heard Max give utterance to a startled exclamation. It was not his nature to betray excitement unless there was some very good excuse for doing so, and consequently Steve turned his head to look over his shoulder and ask: "What ails you, Max, old chum? The shaking didn't feel any worse, did if? I'd hate some myself to go with the old bridge, if she does take a notion to cut loose from her moorings, and head down the valley; and, Max, if you reckon we'd better quit this monkey business, and go ashore, why, I'll call it off, though I did want to get this one picture the worst kind." "Wait!" said Max, quickly; "we couldn't go now, no matter how much we wanted to!" "Oh! why not?" exclaimed Bandy-legs, looking anxious, as he fancied he felt a new and sickening swaying to the bridge; and unconsciously he gripped the railing while speaking, as though desirous of having something substantial to hold on to. "Because, unless I'm away off in my guess," said Max, positively, "that object on that roof of a cabin you thought was a dog is a little child; and we've got to try our level best to save it when the wreckage gets down to the bridge!" His words almost stunned the others. They stood and gazed at the swiftly approaching floating object as though unable to believe their very eyes; but soon Steve managed to find his voice, for he bellowed: "Max, it is, for a fact, a poor little abandoned child, crouching there, and like as not nearly frightened out of its life. Oh! I wonder what's become of its mother and father? P'raps they've been drowned. Max, what can we do to save it? Think as fast as ever you did in all your life. I'd never get over it if we let that helpless child sweep under the bridge like that rooster did. It'd haunt me the rest of my days. Max, haven't you thought up a plan?" "Yes, and it's the only way we can have a chance," replied the other, quickly. "Here, let me have the noose end of your rope, Toby; I'm going to slip it around under my arms. Then you three get hold, and I'll climb over the railing here, just where that cabin roof is going to pass under. Too bad that there's so much room, because it won't stick fast; so I must drop down on the roof and grab the child. Everything depends on how you can get me up again. It's all got to be done like a flash, you see. And if the rope holds, I'll do my part, I promise you." "Count on us, Max, and here's hoping you do get hold of the poor little thing!" said Steve, who had laid his camera aside, the better to use both hands. They nerved themselves for the coming ordeal. Teeth were tightly clenched, and every muscle summoned to do its full duty. Nor could the emergency be long delayed, because that drifting wreckage of a cabin was approaching them swiftly, borne on the wild current of the flood, and in another ten seconds would have reached the middle of the span of the bridge! CHAPTER IV A BRAVE RESCUE They could hear shouting on the shore, though not daring to pay any attention to it just then, lest it distract their minds from the dangerous business they had on hand. No doubt some one had discovered that a little child was coming floating down on the swollen current of the river, and the startling news was being communicated from mouth to mouth with the astonishing celerity with which such things can travel. Had the boys but glanced toward the bank they would have seen people running madly to and fro, and gathering in larger clusters than ever wherever they could get a chance to see out upon the raging waters. Max had calculated things carefully. He did not want to make any mistake when he clambered over the railing, because such a thing might be fatal to whatever hope he had of rescuing the child. They could now see plainly that it was a little boy. He was clinging to some part of the surging roof, which seemed to be in danger of capsizing at any moment, for it wobbled fearfully. Max prayed that it would hold its own until he had been given a chance to do his part. He also hoped that he would have sufficient strength in his arms to snatch the child, and then hold him, while his chums tugged and pulled to get them both safely up to the bridge. As he watched the coming of the fragment of a roof, he was doing some nice calculating, making up his mind just how he must seize upon the one he wished to save, and allow nothing to keep him from obtaining full possession. He had feared that the child might have been tied there by his mother, and had such proven to be the case a rescue must have been well nigh hopeless; but the closer the onrushing object came the more Max assured himself that there did not seem to be any obstacle to his success. He was over the rail now. Those on shore must have seen what the boy meant to try and accomplish, for all of a sudden a terrible hush had fallen on the gathered groups. Every eye was doubtless glued on the figure that clung to the rail out there, over the rushing waters, waiting for the proper second to arrive. Women unconsciously hugged their own little ones all the tighter to their breasts, perhaps sending up sincere thanks that it was not their child in peril; and at the same time mute prayers must have gone out from many hearts that the brave boy succeed in his mission. "Steady, Max, old pal!" said Steve, who was braced there for the expected strain. "Don't worry about us, for we'll back you up. Get a clutch on him, and the rest is going to be easy. Ready now!" Max heard all this but was paying no attention to what was being said. His whole mind was concentrated on the swaying roof of the wrecked cabin, and the piteous sight of that frightened little fellow clinging desperately there. He could not depend on anything his chums might decide, but must himself judge of the proper time to drop down. The swiftness of the current had to be taken into consideration, as well as the swaying of the wreckage. When he felt sure of himself Max suddenly let go his precarious hold on the lower part of the railing. It was a bold thing to do, and must have sent a shudder through many a breast ashore, as men and women held their breath, and stared at the thrilling spectacle. Fortunately Max Hastings was no ordinary lad. He not only had a faculty for laying out plans, but the ability to execute the same as well. And besides that, his love of outdoor life had given him such a muscular development that athletic feats were possible with him such as would have proven rank failures with many other boys. His judgment proved accurate, for he dropped exactly upon the fragment of the cabin roof, and directly in front of the crouching child. The little fellow must have been watching him, for instantly two hands were outstretched toward Max as though some intuition told the child that his only hope of escape from the angry flood lay in the coming of this boy. Like a flash Max swooped down upon him. His movements were wonderfully quick, because he knew that this was absolutely necessary when coping with such a treacherous enemy as that moving flood. He snatched the child up in one arm and held him almost fiercely to his breast. If the little fellow gave utterance to any sort of cry Max failed to hear it, though that in itself might not be so very strange, for there were all sorts of roaring sounds in his ears just then. Almost at the same instant he felt himself roughly plucked off his feet, and being swung upward. His comrades were tugging at the rope savagely, knowing that unless they were very speedy Max would find himself engulfed in the waters; and the work of rescue be made doubly difficult. The rope proved equal to the terrific strain, thanks to Toby's good judgment when selecting a braided line with which to play the role of cow puncher and lariat thrower. Max felt the water around his legs, but that was all, for he did not go down any further than his knees; and yet the suction was tremendous even at that. He was now being slowly but surely drawn upward, and this was a task that called for the united powers of the three who had hold of the rope. Bandy-legs had been wise enough to wrap the end around a beam that projected from the flooring of the bridge. He did not know what might happen, and was determined that Max should not be swept away on the flood, if it came to the worst. When they had drawn their comrade far enough up so that Steve, calling on the others to hold fast, bent down and took the child from the grasp of Max, it was an easy matter for the latter to clamber over the rail himself. Steve was already holding the rescued child up so that those on shore could see that the attempt at rescue had met with a glorious success; for he was naturally proud of his chum's work. A deep-throated hum broke out; it was the sound of human voices gathering force; and then a wild salvo of cheers told that the good people of Carson could appreciate a brave deed when they saw it, no matter if disaster did hover over the town, and kept them shivering with a dread of what was coming next. Some of the more impetuous would have started to rush out on the bridge, in order to tell Max what they thought of him; only that several cool-headed men kept these impulsive ones back. "Keep off!" they kept shouting, waving the crowd away; "if you rushed out there now it would be the last straw to send the bridge loose from its moorings. Stay where you are, men, women! You would only invite a terrible tragedy by going on the bridge!" "Bring the child to us, boys!" some of the men shouted, waving to the little group out there; since the mountain was not to be allowed to come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain. "Take him across, Max!" said Bandy-legs. "Steve, you take him!" urged Max, not wishing to be lionized, because he happened to be an unusually modest lad, and it bothered him to have men and women wanting to shake him by the hand, telling him how brave he was, and all that. Steve wanted to protest, but he could see that his chum really meant it, and did not intend to allow himself to be made a hero of, if he could help it. "Oh! all right then, I'll go, Max, while you look out for my camera, like a good fellow. But see here, if you think I'll let anybody mistake me for the one who grabbed up this baby from the raft at the risk of his life, you've got another guess coming to you, that's right. I'm meaning to tell everybody that it was Max Hastings did it. Huh! any fellow could just keep hold of the end of a rope, and pull up like we did. That was the easiest part of it. You wait and see if you get out as slick as you think you will. They'll remember, and lay for you later on. If you will do these things, why, you've got to take your medicine, that's all." So saying Steve hurried toward the shore, carrying the little child tenderly in his arms. Doubtless some one would be sure to recognize the small chap who had had such a narrow escape from a terrible fate; and if not just then, he would be well looked after until his folks turned up later on. The wildest sort of reception was given Steve when he once got ashore. He could be seen trying to fend off the many hands that were outstretched to seize upon his digits, and give them a squeeze of approval, for deeds like this arouse the warmest sentiments in the human heart. In vain did Steve declare that it had been Max who had taken all the risks in the endeavor to save a precious little life; but the crowd would not keep back, and insisted that he let them do him honor. He had done his part in the rescue work at least, and was entitled to their congratulations, and they would not be denied. Steve hastened to push his burden into the arms of the first woman who manifested the least desire to get hold of the child; and after that he pressed his way out of the crowd, heading once more for the imperiled bridge. "Better come off there, now, Steven!" warned a gentleman who was standing near the approach to the structure; "there isn't one chance in a thousand that she'll hold out much longer, and it might be all your lives are worth to go down with the wreck when the time comes!" But Steve was young, and filled with the spirit of adventure. Besides, after having been out there so long he had become partly used to the sickening tremor, and did not mind its warning as much as before. "That's for Max to say, Mr. Harding," he called back. "If he thinks it's getting too dangerous for us, we'll sure come in right away. I've got to leave it with Max." Two minutes later and he joined his chums, who were still near the middle of the bridge, again looking up the river anxiously. "See another baby coming along?" demanded Steve, as he joined them. "Not yet, I'm glad to say," replied Max, who was not so inflated over the grand success that had attended his first life saving effort that he wanted other opportunities to confront them immediately. "L-l-looked like they came near p-p-pulling you to p-p-pieces, Steve," remarked Toby, with a grin. "That's right," agreed Steve, frowning; "everybody tried to grab my hand at the same time, and me a telling them all the while I didn't have a thing to do with saving the child, only hauling on the rope. Say, I know now why you wouldn't go ashore, Max; you didn't want to be mobbed, did you? It's just terrible I'm telling you all. If I ever save anybody's life I'm going to take to the woods right away, till everybody forgets it." "I saw Mr. Harding talking to you; what did he say?" asked Max, smiling a little to find that Steve was so modest. "Oh! like a good many more of 'em he thinks we're taking too big chances staying right along out here, and that we ought to come ashore," Steve replied. "He means it for our good, all right," ventured Bandy-legs, "and you know, fellers, he had a boy drowned year before last, so I reckon he's worried about us more than a little. What did you tell him, Steve?" "That I'd leave it to Max here," came the reply. "Which is putting a lot of responsibility on my poor shoulders," remarked that worthy, with a shrug. "Well, you're our leader, and as long as we believe you know best we expect to follow out your ideas," Steve went on to say. "That sounds pretty fine, Steve," observed Max; "but right now if I told you I thought we'd better go ashore you'd kick like a steer." "Oh! well, you see there doesn't seem to be any very great danger as long as a big tree ain't swooping down to strike the bridge a crack; and besides, what if another baby happened to come sailing along on a raft, what'd we think of ourselves if we'd gone up on the bank, and couldn't even make a break to save it?" Steve argued fairly well, and Max did not attempt to press the matter. To tell the truth he was tempted to linger to the very last in the hope of being instrumental in doing more good. If one child had been sent adrift in the flood, perhaps there might be others also in need of succor. And so Max, usually so cautious, allowed himself to be tempted to linger even when his better judgment warned him of the terrible risks they ran. "Some of that crowd think we're sillies for staying out here, don't they, Steve?" Bandy-legs asked, after a little time had elapsed, without their sighting any more precious cargoes coming down on the flood. "Yes, I heard a lot of 'em say things that way, because they've got a notion in their heads the bridge is agoin' out any old minute. But there's another lot that don't believe shucks. I heard one boy say there wasn't a bit of danger, and that we got all the credit of being mighty reckless and brave without taking any big risk." "Bet you I can give a guess who that was," ventured Bandy-legs, instantly. "Let's hear, then," Steve told him. "It sounds like that braggin' Shack Beggs," was the guess Bandy-legs hazarded. "Go up head, old scout," chuckled Steve; "because you hit it the first shot. Yes, that's who it was, Shack Beggs, and both the other bullies were along with him, watching everything we did out here, and looking like they'd be mighty well pleased if the old bridge did break loose and carry us all down river, hanging on like a parcel of half drowned rats." "I wouldn't put it past them to help things along, if only they knew how they could start the bridge loose," Bandy-legs affirmed, positively, which showed what sort of an opinion he had for the trio of tough boys whom they had chased off, at the time they were robbing poor old Mr. McGirt, who kept the little candy shop that had been invaded by the rising waters. "L-l-lucky for us they d-d-don't know h-h-how," said Toby, vigorously. "It seems that when you get to talking about any one they're almost sure to appear," Max told them; "and look who's coming out on the bridge now." "Why, it's Shack Beggs, sure it is!" declared Steve. "Wonder what's he's up to?" muttered Bandy-legs. "We'd all better keep our peepers on that feller if he comes around. Why, I wouldn't put it past him to give one of us a sudden shove, and then laugh like he was crazy to see what a splash we made when we fell in. If I ketch him trying anything like that, mark my words Shack Beggs'll take a header into the river as quick as a flash. He'll find that two c'n play at that game!" CHAPTER V THE PRICE THEY PAID "Look at him, would you?" ventured Bandy-legs, a minute later. "He acts like he was trying to see if the bridge was steady, the way he's trying to shake it. Bet you he feels that quivering, and it's giving him a bad case of cold feet already. They went and dared him to come out here, and Shack never would stand for a dare, you know. But he's sorry he came." The other boy approached them. He was looking more serious than most people had ever seen him appear. Just as Bandy-legs said, no doubt he had been forced into testing the bridge by some dare on the part of his cronies, who had told him he didn't have the nerve to go Max and his crowd one better by walking all the way across the bridge, so as to be the last who could say he had done it. While still keeping a sharp lookout up the river the four chums awaited the coming of Shack Beggs; and that the caution given by Bandy-legs had fallen on good ground where it took root, was proven by the way they moved back from the railing. If the young desperado had any bold intention of trying to upset one of the three chums into the river, he would not find it so easy to carry out his reckless plan, for they were evidently on the alert, and ready to match cunning with cunning. Shack shuffled forward slowly. He may have originally thought it would be the easiest thing in the world to walk across the bridge and back; but that was before he had set foot on the quivering planks, and experienced the full effect of that sickening vibration. Now he walked as though he might be stepping on eggs. Several times he even stopped, and looked around. Perhaps he simply wanted to know how far out from the shore he might be; or else he felt an almost irresistible yearning to hurry back to safety and tell his cronies they could try the trick for themselves, if they wanted. Some sort of pride caused him to come on. Max and his friends were there, and Shack Beggs would sooner die than let them see he lacked the stamina they were so freely showing. All the same he looked anything but happy as he drew closer. It was one thing to stand on a firm foundation ashore, and look out at the heaving flood, and another to find himself there surrounded by the waters, with but a slender thread connecting him with either bank, and all that furious flood trying its best to break this asunder. "Better come back, Shack!" could be heard in a rasping voice from the shore, and Ossie Kemp was seen making a megaphone out of his two hands. Shack would no doubt have liked to do this same thing; but he felt that it must look too much like cowardice in the eyes of Max, whom he hated so bitterly. Besides he had started out to show the people of Carson that these four chums did not monopolize all the courage in town; and it was really too late to turn back now. So Shack came slowly on until he had reached the others. Under ordinary conditions he would never have ventured to say a single word to any one of the four chums; or if he did, it would have probably been in the nature of an ugly growl, and some sarcastic comment on their personal appearance, with the sinister hope of provoking a dispute that might lead to a scuffle. Things somehow seemed different now. Shack must have left most of his pugnacious disposition ashore; when his nerves were quivering with each sickening shake of the bridge he could not find it in him to assume his customary boastful look. And seeing Max close Shack even ventured to speak decently to him, something he would never have dreamed of doing had the conditions been other than they were. "The fellers they sez I dassent cross over tuh t'other end uh the bridge; an' I allowed it could be done easy like," he went on to say; "what d'ye think 'bout me adoin' the same? Is she safe enough?" "We wouldn't be here if we didn't think so," Max told him; "and I guess there isn't any more danger on the other side than in the middle." "T'anks!" Shack jerked out; and then as the bridge gave a little harder quiver than usual he looked frightened, and even clutched frenziedly at the railing. Bandy-legs must have fancied that the other was reaching out to lay hands on him, for he immediately shouted: "Keep back there! Don't you dare touch a finger to me, or I'll see that you go over the railing head-first! We're on to your sly tricks, Shack Beggs! You didn't come out here for nothing, I take it!" Shack however had managed to overcome his sudden fear. He shot a black scowl in the direction of Bandy-legs, and then once more started to move along; but by now his timidity had over-mastered his valor, as was made manifest in the way he kept moving his hand along the railing, as though unwilling to try to stand alone. Although they no longer had any reason to feel that the other meant them any ill turn, the four chums watched him curiously. "I'd just like to be able to give the bridge a good shake," Bandy-legs declared, "to see him crumple up, and yell. Chances are it'd scare him out of a year's growth." "Huh! better not try any fool play like that," suggested Steve; "because there's too much tremble to the old thing right now to suit me. If Max only said the word I'd be willing to skip out of this, that's right." "S-s-s'pose we all did run for it," remarked Toby, who had been silent a long time; "wouldn't Shack come c-c-chasing after us like h-h-hot cakes, though?" "We'll limit our stay to another five minutes, no more," Max told them. "I put it at that because I believe before then we'll be able to say whether that thing coming down the river is a raft with somebody aboard, or just a jumble of logs, and stuff set afloat by the high water." Apparently none of the others had up to then noticed what Max referred to, and consequently there was a craning, of necks, and a straining of eyes, until Steve was fain to call out "rubber!" in his jocular way. There was something in sight, far up the river. If they only had their field glass along with them it would be easy to tell the nature of the object; but lacking so useful an article they could only possess their souls in patience, and wait. The seconds passed, and all the while the current of the river was bringing that object closer to them. Max found himself wishing it would hasten, for truth to tell he did not much like the way the bridge was trembling now. Instead of occasional vibrations it seemed to be a steady pull, as though the force of the flood had reached a point where it could not be much longer held back. Some of those ashore were shouting to them again, as though their fears had broken out once more, and they wished the boys would not persist in taking such great chances, even though in a good cause. A minute had gone. "Looks like a raft to me," announced Bandy-legs, presently, and the others were inclined to agree with him that far. "But is there any one aboard?" asked Max. "I c'n see something there, but just what it might be I wouldn't like to say," the boy with the eagle eye announced. Still they lingered, although those heavings were gradually growing a trifle more pronounced all the while. They must have shattered what little nerve Shack Beggs had remaining, for although he had not gone more than half way between the four chums and the further shore, he had turned around, and was now approaching them again. His face looked strangely ghastly, owing to his deadly fear; and the way in which Shack tried to force a grin upon it only made matters worse. He had the appearance of one who was solemnly promising himself that if only he might be allowed to reach a haven of safety again he would never more be guilty of attempting such a silly act on account of a dare. In fact, Shack was watching the chums eagerly every second of the time now. He depended on them to serve as his barometer. Should they make a sudden move toward the Carson side of the river he was in readiness to fairly fly along, in the hope of catching up with them. Max turned his attention once more up the stream, and toward that approaching floating object. He wondered whether he was going to be called upon to once more make use of that friendly rope in rescuing some flood sufferer from peril. After all Bandy-legs was not so sure about its being a raft. He began to hedge, and change his mind. "Might be only a bunch of fence rails, and such stuff, that's got driven together in the flood, and is coming down on us in a heap," he announced. Max had about come to the same conclusion himself, though hesitating to announce his opinion while the others seemed to have an entirely different idea about the thing. "But do you see that dark object on it move any?" he asked Bandy-legs. "Well, now, seemed to me it did move just then," came the answer, that caused the boys to once more rivet their gaze on the approaching float, while their nerves began, to tingle with suspense. A few seconds later and Toby declared that he too had seen the thing raise its head; though he hastily added: "But it didn't act like a h-h-human b-b-being any that I could notice." "What in the dickens can it be?" Steve was asking, and then he gave a sort of gasp, for the bridge had actually swayed in a way that caused. his heart to seemingly stand still. "She's agoing to move out right away, I do believe, boys!" cried Bandy-legs, as he looked longingly toward the shore. There was Shack Beggs almost half-way to the end of the bridge, and walking as fast as he could. From his manner it looked as though Shack would only too gladly have sprinted for the land, only that he hated to hear the jeering remarks which his cronies were sure to send at him for showing the white feather; so he compromised by walking ever so fast. "Hadn't we better be going, Max?" asked Steve. "That's the stuff!" muttered Bandy-legs. "M-m-me too!" added Toby. Max took one last look up the river. As he did so he saw that there was now a decided movement aboard the floating mass of stuff that was coming down toward the bridge. Whatever it was that had been lying there now struggled to its feet. "Oh! would you look at that?" exclaimed Steve. "Must be a calf!" echoed Bandy-legs. "I'd s-s-say a yeller dog!" Toby declared. "Anyhow it's an animal and not a human being," said Max; "and things are getting too shaky for us to stay any longer out here, and take chances, just to try and save a dog or a calf or a goat. Let's put for the shore, boys!" "And every fellow run for it too!" added Steve, as again they felt that terrible shudder pass through the wooden structure that had spanned the Evergreen Elver as far back as they could remember; and which somehow forcibly reminded Max of the spasm apt to run through the muscles of a stricken animal before giving up the ghost. That was enough to start them with a rush. Once they gave way to the feeling that it was close on the breaking point for the bridge and what might be likened to a small-sized panic took possession of them all. Shack Beggs somehow seemed to scent their coming. Perhaps he felt the vibrations increase, or else the shouts that both Steve and Bandy-legs gave utterance to reached his strained hearing. At any rate Shack twisted his head, and looked back over his shoulder. If he had been anxious to reach the shore before, he was fairly wild now to accomplish that same object. They could see him take a spurt. He no longer deigned to walk, but ran as though in a race; as indeed all of them were, even though as yet they hardly comprehended the fact. It might be possible that this was the worst thing the boys could have done, and that had they been contented to walk quietly toward land they might have spared the already badly racked bridge a new strain. Max, looking back later on, came to this same conclusion; but, then he always declared that if one only knew how things were about to come out, he could alter his plans accordingly; in other words he quoted the old and familiar saying to the effect that "what wonders we could accomplish if our foresight were only as good as our hindsight." The shaking of the structure by the scampering along of five boys must have been pretty much like the last straw added to the camel's pack. "Faster, everybody!" Max shouted, as he heard a strange grinding noise that struck a cold chill to his very heart. Bandy-legs was in front, and really setting the pace, and as everybody in Carson knew full well, he was the poorest pacemaker possible, on account of his exceedingly short and rather bent legs. This caused them to be held back more or less, though when it came down to actual figuring nothing they could have done would have altered the complexion of conditions. The grinding noise turned into a frightful rending that sounded in their ears as though all sorts of superstructures might be separating. All the while there was a swaying of the timbers of the stricken bridge, a sickening sensation such as might be experienced when out at sea and caught in a cross current. Max realized that it was useless for them to think of reaching the safety of the shore which was too far away; even Shack Beggs had been unable to accomplish the end he had in view, though he was still staggering on. "Grab something, and keep holding on for all you're worth!" That was about all Max could say, for hardly had the last word left his lips when there came a final jerk that threw them all down; and only for having caught hold of the railing one or more of the boys might have been tumbled into the river. At the same time one end of the bridge broke away, the entire structure swung around so that it started to point down stream; then the strain caused the other end to also free itself from its moorings; after which the whole fabric fell over with a mighty splash, while the crowds ashore stared in horror at the spectacle, knowing as they did that the boys had been engulfed with the falling timbers. CHAPTER VI COMRADES IN DISTRESS It was all a confused nightmare to the boys who went down with the bridge that the rising flood had finally carried away. They involuntarily gripped the railing tenaciously, because they had the last words of Max ringing in their ears; and no doubt it was this more than anything else that enabled them to come through the adventure with fair chances. Max with his other hand had seized hold of Toby's arm, because they happened to be close together at the time. So it was that when he could catch his breath, after swallowing a gulp or two of muddy water, he called out: "Are you all right, Toby?" "Y-y-yep, s-s-seems so, Max!" he heard close to his ear in reply. "What about the others? Steve, Bandy-legs, how is it with you?" continued Max, unable to see as yet, for his eyes were full of the spray that had dashed around them at the time the bridge carried them down. Faint replies came to his ears, one from the left, and the other welling up in the opposite direction; but they cheered the heart of the leader greatly. It seemed almost like a miracle that all of them should have come through with so little damage. Looking back afterwards Max was of the opinion that much of this wonderful luck resulted from the fact that when the bridge swung around and allowed itself to be carried away it did not actually turn over. They were being swept down-stream at a tremendous pace. Their strange craft rose and fell on the heaving flood with a sensation that might cause one to believe he had taken passage on the ocean itself, and was about to endure the discomforts of sea sickness. Turning to look toward the shore Max realized for the first time how rapid was their passage; for when his eyes remained fixed on the water itself, which was making exactly the same speed as their craft, he seemed to be standing still. "Max, oh! Max!" came in Steve's voice, a minute later. "Hello! there, that you, Steve? Can't you make your way over here closer to us?" was the answer Max sent back; for now he could manage to glimpse the crouching figure from which the excited hail proceeded. "Sure I can, easy as anything," Steve told him, and immediately proceeded to work along the railing, which fortunately remained above the water. Bandy-legs had heard what was said, and from the other side he too came crawling along, moving like a crab backward, for he wished to keep his face toward the danger, since every dip of the whirling raft threatened to allow the waves to overwhelm him, as his position was not so secure as that of the others. In this fashion, then, they gathered in a clump, gripping the railing with desperate zeal. Somehow or other the mere fact of getting together seemed to give each of the chums renewed courage. "Ain't this a fierce deal, though?" Steve was saying, as drenched from head to foot he clung there, and looked at the swirling flood by which they found themselves surrounded, with the shore far away on either hand. "B-b-beats anything I ever s-s-struck!" chattered Toby, whose teeth were apparently rattling like castanets, either from cold or excitement, possibly a little of both. "We're in a tight hole, that's a fact," Max admitted, "but we ought to be thankful it's no worse than it is. One of us might have been swept loose, and drowned, or had a hard time getting around. We're all together, and it'll be queer if we can't figure out some way to get ashore, sooner or later." "That's the ticket, Max; 'never give up the ship,' as Lawrence said long ago," was the way Steve backed the leader up. "Huh!" grunted Bandy-legs, who had bumped his head, and because it felt sore he was not in the happiest mood possible; "that's just what we're wantin' to do, if you c'n call this turnin' twistin' raft a ship. Makes me dizzy the way she reels and cavorts; just like she might be trying one of them new fangled dance steps." "Listen! what was that?" exclaimed Max, breaking in on Bandy-legs' complaint. "What did you think you heard?" asked Steve, eagerly; "we're too far away from either shore right here to hope for anything, because you remember the banks of the Evergreen are low after passing our town, and the water's had a chance to spread itself. Whew! it must be half a mile across here, and then some." "There it came again," said Max. "And seems to me it sounded like a half-drowned shout for help." "What, away out here?" cried Steve; "who under the sun could be wanting us to give him a helping hand, d'ye think, Max?" "I don't know, but at a time like this you can look for anything to happen. Perhaps there were other people carried away on the flood. Look around, and see if you can glimpse anything." The water was not quite so riotous now, since it spread over a wider territory; and the boys had succeeded in getting their eyes clear; so that almost immediately Bandy-legs was heard to give a shout. "I see him, fellers!" he announced, excitedly; "over yonder, and swimmin' to beat the band! He's tryin' to make the floating bridge we're on, but seems like the current keeps agrippin' him, and holdin' him back. Looks like he's mighty near played out in the bargain." "Why, however could he have got there, and who is he, d'ye reckon, Max?" Steve inquired, turning as usual to the leader when a knotty problem was to be solved. "I think I know," replied Max, without hesitation; "you seem to have forgotten that we weren't alone on the bridge when it fell." "Oh! shucks! yes, you mean that Shack Beggs!" Bandy-legs suggested, and there was a vein of disappointment and indifference in his voice that Max did not like. True, that same Shack Beggs had been one of the most aggressive of their foes in Carson. From away back he in company with a few other choice spirits of like mean disposition had never let an opportunity for annoying the chums pass. On numerous occasions he had planned miserable schemes whereby Max, or some of his best friends, would be seriously annoyed. All the same that could be no excuse for their turning a deaf ear to the wild appeal for help which the wretched Shack was now sending forth. He was human like themselves, though built on different lines; and they could never hold their own respect if they refused to hold out a helping hand to an enemy in dire distress. "We've just _got_ to try to get Shack up here with us, boys, if the chance comes our way," said Max, firmly. "S'pose we have," muttered Bandy-legs, moodily; and his manner was as much as to say that in his opinion the young scoundrel struggling there in the water was only getting something he richly deserved; and that if it rested with him he would feel inclined to let Shack stay there until the extreme limit. "But how can we do anything for him, Max?" asked Steve, who was not so bitter as Bandy-legs, and already began to feel a little compassion toward the wretched boy struggling so desperately in the agitated water, and nearly exhausted by his efforts. "There's a small chance," said Max, who had been looking more closely than any of his chums. "You see this piece of the broken bridge keeps on turning around in the water all the while. Now we've got the west shore on our right hand, and pretty soon we'll have the east side that way. Well, perhaps we'll swing around next time far enough for us to stretch out and give Shack a helping hand." "I believe you're right, Max," admitted Steve; "yes, she's swinging right along, and if he's wise he'll work in this way as much as he can. But, Max, if we do pass him by without being able to reach him, it's going to be hard on Shack, because he looks like he's nearly all in, and won't be on top when we come around again." "Then we've just got to reach him, you see!" returned Max, with that glow in his eyes the others knew so well, for it generally meant success to follow. The fragment of the broken bridge continued to move around as the swirl of the waters kept turning it. Max was watching eagerly, and making his calculations with as much earnestness as though it were one of his chums in peril instead of their most bitter enemy. He believed there was a good chance for him to reach Shack, if he could manage in some way to stretch out from the end of the railing just beyond where Toby clung. And acting on this inspiration he hastily clambered past the other. "What's doing, Max?" demanded Toby, immediately. "If I can reach him at all it's got to be from the end of the raft here, the further point, don't you see?" Max replied, still pushing along, with Toby close at his heels, ready now to assist to the best of his ability. So Max, on reaching the extreme tip of the uneasy raft, climbed out as far as he could go, and called back to Toby to grip him by the legs so that he might have both hands free to work with when the critical moment arrived. It could not be long delayed, for as they swung slowly in the grip of the swirling current he could see the swimming Shack's head close by. Once the almost exhausted boy disappeared, and Max felt his heart give a great throb as he thought it was the very last he would ever see of Shack; but almost immediately afterwards the head came in sight again, for Shack was a stout fellow, and desperation had nerved him to accomplish wonders. Presently Max gritted his teeth together for the effort he meant to put forth, and upon which so much depended. "Swim this way as hard as you can, Shack!" he had shouted again and again, and the boy in the river was evidently bent on doing what he was told, though hardly able to sustain himself on account of complete exhaustion, added to a severe case of fright. Then the crisis came. Max had figured nicely, and knew to a fraction of a second just when he must make his clutch for the swimmer. Shack saw what was coming, and as though ready to give up and sink if this effort to save him failed, he threw out one of his hands despairingly toward Max. As he managed to clutch the swimmer's wrist Max braced himself, and gradually drew Shack toward the woodwork of the floating bridge, an inch as it were at a time, but constantly coming. Presently he had him close enough for Steve, who with Bandy-legs was near by, to get a frenzied grip on the other arm of the exhausted boy; and then together they managed to help him aboard. It was necessary that they change their position quickly, since their combined weight at one end of the wreckage of the bridge was causing it to sink in an ominous way. "Move along there, Bandy-legs and Steve!" called Max; "or we'll be under water!" Fortunately the other boys realized what was meant, and they hurried away, constantly clinging to the friendly railing which had proven so valuable all the while, in keeping them from being washed overboard. Max helped Shack crawl along, for the boy was panting for breath, and almost choked with the vast quantities of water he had swallowed. In this way they presently reached their old positions about the middle of the floating timbers. It was a wild picture that confronted them as they now took the time to look around them. The river was narrowing somewhat again and of course the current became considerably swifter on this account, so that the bridge raft rocked violently back and forth, sometimes even threatening them with a fresh disaster in the shape of a jam, and consequent overturn. "My stars! what's the answer going to be to this thing?" Steve called out, after one of these exciting experiences, during which it was with considerable difficulty that the whole of them maintained their hold. Max had seen to it that the tired Shack was fastened to the rail with a strap he chanced to have in his pocket at the time; only for that possibly the other might have lost his weakened grip, and been carried off. "Oh! don't think of giving up yet, Steve," Max sang out cheerily; "the further we get downstream the more chances there are that we'll either be rescued by men in boats, or else find a way ourselves to get ashore. We've got so much to be thankful for that it seems as if we'd soon hit on a way out. Keep watching, and if some eddy in the current happens to throw us on a bar close to the shore, we'll hustle to reach land the best we know how, no matter where it is, or how far from home." "T-t-that's what I s-s-say," stammered Toby; "all I w-w-want is to feel the g-g-good old g-g-ground under my f-f-feet again. I never thought it could be so n-nice as it seems right now." "You never miss the water till the well runs dry!" chanted Bandy-legs, now getting over his fit of depression, and beginning to pluck up new courage and spirits. "We are whooping it up at a mile a minute clip, ain't we, Max?" Steve asked, a short time later. "Well, I'd hardly like to say that, Steve," answered the other; "but we're certainly making pretty swift time, twenty miles an hour, perhaps nearer thirty, I'd say. And that's going some, considering that we haven't any motor to push us along." "And didn't they tell me it was about twenty miles down the valley that Asa French lived?" Steve went on to say, showing that even in the dreadful grip of the flood he had remembered that Bessie French was somewhere down below, and possibly also exposed to the perils that threatened all who lived along the banks of the furious Evergreen River. Max too had given more than a few thoughts to this fact during the earlier part of that eventful day. "The way we're going," he told Steve, "we ought to be down there before a great while; and let's hope we'll strike luck, and get a chance to go ashore." "And also find the girls all right," added Steve, who had apparently quite forgotten how Bessie had recently cut him cruelly, while suffering from an unfortunate misunderstanding. "But what ails Toby there; he seems to be excited over something?" Max went on to exclaim; for Toby was bending forward, and showed plain evidences of growing interest. "Hey! fellers!" he now burst out with, "just looky there, will you? We're in for a f-f-fresh lot of t-t-trouble seems like. W-w-watch him p-p-pop up again, would you? Whew! but he's a b-b-bouncer, too, biggest I ever saw in my born days, and must be twenty feet long. Max, it's a s-s-sure enough s-s-sea serpent, ain't it, now?" CHAPTER VII THE SUBMERGED FARM-HOUSE "Gee whiz! where is it, Toby?" cried Steve. "And none of us got a gun along, worse luck. Hey, show me the sea serpent, and p'raps my camera ain't so wet but what I might crack off a picture of the same; because nobody's ever going to believe you when you tell that yarn. Show me, Toby!" Toby was only too willing to comply. He had always had a decided weakness for collecting all sorts of wild animals, and that might explain why he displayed such extraordinary excitement now. "There, right over past the end of the r-r-raft, where it s-s-sticks up like a c-c-church spire!" he stuttered, pointing as he spoke. "Now watch everybody, when he pokes his old h-h-head up again. There, don't you s-s-see? And s-s-say, he seems to be s-s-swimmin' this way, don't he?" Steve broke out into a yell. "Why, bless your old timid soul, Toby, that isn't any snake at all, only one of those big wild-grape vines, like enough, that's ketched on to that floating tree trunk close by. She's all twisted and turned, and I reckon a fellow as crazy over wild animals and things, like you are, might be excused for thinkin' it was a regular sea serpent." Bandy-legs too was showing amusement. "Guess that's the way nearly all sea serpents are discovered," he remarked, trying to make it appear as though he had not been almost as excited as Toby, when the other burst out so suddenly with his announcement. "Well, we haven't lost any snakes," commented Max, "and so we won't try to rescue that floating vine. We've had our turn at saving menageries, seems to me, enough for one season anyway." What Max referred to was a series of remarkable adventures that came to the four chums at a time when a storm blew down the tents belonging to a circus about to exhibit in Carson, and liberating many of the animals connected with the menagerie; but full particulars of this thrilling experience have already been given in the volume preceding this, so that further explanation would seem to be unnecessary here. Toby did not make any reply. He rubbed his eyes pretty hard, as though wondering how they could have deceived him so strangely. But then a fellow who was devoting so much of his thoughts to the mania for strange pets in the shape of wild animals might be expected to see things in a different light from his chums, who were not addicted to that weakness. "For one," said Bandy-legs, "I'm real glad it wasn't a snake, because they always give me the creeps, you remember, I hate 'em so. Just think what a fine pickle we'd be in now if a monster anaconda or a big boa constrictor or python, broke loose from a show, should climb up on our bridge boat, and start to chasin' us all overboard. Things look bad enough as they are without our takin' on a bunch of new trouble. So, Toby, please don't glimpse anything else, and give us fits, will you?" Steve seemed to be intently watching the shore, especially whenever the revolving timbers brought them in a line with the western bank, because that was more familiar to the boys than the other, since Carson lay on that side of the river toward the setting sun. "I'm trying to make out where we are, Max," he explained, upon seeing that the other was observing him curiously. Bandy-legs uttered a loud and significant grunt. "Say, Steve," he remarked with a touch of satire in his voice, "I can tell you that much, if you're all mixed up. We're squattin' on the remains of our bloomin' bridge, which used to cross the river in front of Carson; yes-siree, and we seem to be takin' an unexpected voyage downstream, without a port in sight. 'Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink,' as the ship-wrecked sailor used to sing; only we _could_ manage with this muddy stuff if we had to, because it ain't salty, you know." "How far have we come, Max?" Steve continued, anxious to know, and pretending to pay no attention to Bandy-legs' humorous remarks. "I'm trying to figure it out myself, Steve," admitted the other, who had also been studying the shore line, though everything was so changed during the high water that it was difficult to recognize land marks that had previously been quite familiar to him; "and the best I can make out is that we must be somewhere near Dixon's Point, where the river makes that first sharp curve." "And, Max, that's about fifteen miles below Carson, isn't it?" Steve added, as he twisted his head the better to look down-stream again. "Something like fifteen or sixteen, Steve." "And if Asa French's place is twenty, we ought to strike in there right soon, hadn't we, Max?" "Before ten minutes more, like as not," Max told him. Steve drew in a long breath. He was undoubtedly wondering what the immediate future had in store for them, and whether some strange fortune might not bring him in close touch with Bessie. He doubtless had been picturing this girl friend of his in all sorts of thrilling situations, owing to the rapidly rising river, and always with some one that looked suspiciously like Steve Dowdy rushing valiantly to the relief of the helpless ones. Steve had once tried to play the hero part, and stopped what he believed was a runaway horse, with Bessie in the vehicle, only to have her scornfully tell him to mind his own business after that, since he had spoiled her plans for proving that their old family nag still had considerable speed left in him. Steve had never forgotten the scorn and sarcasm that marked the girl's face and voice when she said that to him. It had come back to his mind many times since that occasion; and he had kept aloof from all social events ever since, because he did not mean to be snubbed again. And even now, when he was picturing Bessie in real trouble, he kept telling himself that he meant to make sure she was surely in danger of drowning, or something like that, before he ventured to try and succor her. "Because," Steve told himself, "once bit, twice shy; and not if I know it will I ever give any girl the chance again to say I'm trying to show off." All the same his eyes seldom roved in any other quarter now but down-stream, which was mute evidence that Steve was thinking about other peoples' troubles besides his own. "We couldn't do anything to help move this old raft closer to shore, could we, Max?" Bandy-legs was suggesting. "Hardly, though I'd like to first-rate," he was told; "but it's too cumbersome for us to move it, even if we pulled off some boards to use as paddles. So it looks as if we'd have to trust to luck to take us in the right quarter for making our escape." "Well, we can be ready, and if the chance comes, make the plunge," Bandy-legs continued, "We're all so wringing wet as it is that if we had to jump in and swim a piece it wouldn't hurt any. Just remember that I'm ready if the rest of you are. I'm not caring any too much for this sort of a boat. It keeps on turning around too many times, like a tub in a tub race, and you never know what minute you're going to be dumped out, if it takes a notion to kick up its heels and dive." "Don't look a g-g-gift horse in the m-m-mouth, Bandy-legs!" advised Toby. Steve was manifesting more and more restlessness. "Max, you've been down this far before, I reckon, even if most all our camping trips were to the north and west of Carson?" he asked, turning to the leader. "Yes, several times, to tell you the truth," admitted Max; "but with the flood on, things look so different ashore that it's pretty hard to tell where you are. Why do you ask me that, Steve?" "Do you remember whether there's a bend about a mile or so above the French farm house?" continued Steve. After reflecting for several seconds Max gave his answer. "Yes, you're right, there is; and I should say it must lie about a mile or so this side of the place." "I was trying to figure it all out," Steve told him, "and it's this way it looks like to me. The current will sweep us across the river when we swing around that same bend, won't it?" "Pretty far, for a fact, Steve, because it's apt to run the same way even if the river is far out of its regular channel now." "Well, don't you see that's going to bring us pretty close to where the French house used to lie?" Steve remarked, inquiringly. "Yes, it might, just as you say," Max replied; "but why do you speak of it in that way--used to lie?" "Because," said Steve, moodily, "I'm scared to think what might have happened to that same house by now, and wondering if it's been swept clean away; though it was a strongly built place, and ought to stand a heap of pounding before it went down." "But even if it isn't in sight, Steve, that doesn't mean the girls have been carried away on the flood, or else drowned. Of course Asa French would be warned long enough ahead to hitch up his horses, and pull-out for higher ground with everybody in his family. They're all right, the chances are ten to one that way." Max said this for a purpose. He saw that Steve was feeling dreadfully about it, and knew the discovery would be doubly hard should they come upon the place where the French farm house had stood, to find it missing; and so he wanted to prepare the other chum against a shock. "It's kind of you to say that, Max," Steve faltered, swallowing a lump that seemed to be choking him; "and I'm going to try and believe what you tell me. We ought to know the worst soon, now, because we're just above that bend, and already I can see how the current sets in as swift as anything toward the other shore." All of them fell silent after that. They were watching the way the floating timbers of the lost bridge were being steadily swept toward the west shore, or rather where that bank had once been, because a great sea of water now covered the fertile farmland for a distance of a mile or so, to where the hills began. Shack Beggs had recovered his usual ability to look after himself, and while he did not say anything, there was a look on his face that set Max to thinking, as he thrust the strap into the hand of his rescuer, as though he would have no further need of it, and disliked appearing weaker than the rest in that he had to be fastened to the railing. Shack had just passed through a thrilling experience that was fated to make a decided impression on his mind. He had hated these boys for years, and done all he could to make life miserable for them; it remained to be seen whether there would be any material change in his habits after this, or if he would forget his obligations to Max Hastings, and go right along as before. Max would have pondered this matter, for it must have presented exceedingly interesting features to a fellow like him; but there was really no time for considering such things now. They would have all they could do to find a way to gain the shore, and cheat the flood of its prey. Max could not forget that some twenty miles below where they were now the river plunged over a high dam; and even in time of flood this might prove to be their Waterloo, if they were prevented from getting on land before the broken bridge timbers reached that obstruction. "Now, look, everybody, because we're turning the bend!" Steve called out, in his great excitement hardly knowing what he was saying. Eagerly they strained their eyes. The strange craft swung around the bend, and continued to keep edging toward the west side of the river. A broad expanse of turgid water met their eyes, broken here and there with a few objects such as treetops. Once there had been numerous barns and out-buildings connected with the French farm, but everything had apparently been swept clean away saving the house itself, and that still stood, although the flood was even then three quarters of the way up to the gutters of the roof, and must be exerting a tremendous pressure that could not much longer be baffled. "Oh! it's still standing, Max!" shouted Steve, hoarsely; "who'd ever think it could have held out so long? I tell you that's a bully old house, and built like a regular Gibraltar. But, Max, don't you glimpse something up there clinging to the roof? Somehow I don't seem able to see as clear as I might; I don't know what's the matter with me." But Max knew that Steve was blinking as fast as he could, to dry the tears that had come unbidden into his eyes under the excess of his emotions. "I honestly believe it's the girls!" he exclaimed, startled himself at making such a thrilling discovery. Steve gave a cry of dismay. "Whatever can they be doing up there; and where's Bessie's Uncle Asa, that he's left them all alone in the storm? Oh! Max, we've just got to work over to the house and help them. Do you think we're heading that way fast enough? Ain't there any way we could help the old raft to hurry up, and strike the house so we could climb up there? Well, if the worst comes I'm meaning to swim for it, current or no current." "Wait and see!" cautioned Max; "I'm still thinking we'll swing far enough around to strike against the upper side of the house. I only hope the blow doesn't finish things, and topple the submerged building over." This gave Steve something new to worry over. He started to shouting, and waving his hat vigorously, and received answering signals from those who were perched on the sloping roof of the farmhouse. Doubtless the ones in peril may have been praying for rescuers to heave in sight, but certainly it could never have entered into their heads to conjure up such a strange way for assistance to come to them, in the shape of a raft composed of the timbers of the wrecked Carson bridge. But so great had been their terror, when surrounded by those wild and rising waters, that no doubt they gladly welcomed the possibility of help in any shape. Besides, the coming of those four husky and resourceful lads was a thing not to be despised. Though they may not have owned a motorboat, or even a skiff, they had sturdy arms and active brains, and would surely find some way to serve those who just then seemed to be in great need of assistance. CHAPTER VIII REFUGEES OF THE ROOF "Hi! here's more trouble!" cried Bandy-legs, while they were approaching the inundated farmhouse, borne on the sweeping current of the flood. "What's the matter now?" called Steve, so anxious about the safety of those who clung to the sloping roof of the doomed building that he would not even turn his head all the way around, but shot the words back over his shoulder. "Why, the blooming old wreck's going all to pieces, so that we'll each have to pick out a timber, and straddle mighty soon, if it keeps on this way!" Bandy-legs informed him. This caused Max to take a little survey in order to satisfy himself that what the other said was true. What he discovered did not bring much assurance of comfort. Just as the sharp-eyed chum had declared, the remnant of the broken bridge was being by degrees torn apart by the violence of its fall and the subsequent action of conflicting currents of water. It materially changed his plans, formed on the spur of the moment, when they had discovered the victims of the flood on the roof of the farmhouse. Instead of taking them off, as he had at first intended, it now began to look as though he and his comrades would be compelled to seek refuge alongside the girls. This was not a pleasant thought, for Max could see that the building was very near the collapsing point as it was, and might topple over at any minute. Max was, however, a boy who would accept what fortune offered, and do the best he could with it. Once on the roof, they could turn their attention to some other method of escape; at any rate they had no choice in the matter. "We've got to climb up where they are, that's plain," he observed; "and if this stuff strikes the end of the house we'll be lucky enough." "Then do we have to let it go, and be marooned up there?" asked Bandy-legs, in a forlorn tone. "Looks that way," Steve went on to say, and somehow he did not seem to share the gloom that had gripped Bandy-legs, possibly because it began to look as though the glorious chance had come at last to show the girls he could do his duty without any boasting, and never meant to pose as a great hero. "But why can't we hold on to some of these timbers, and make a jolly old raft?" Bandy-legs continued eagerly. "Hurrah! that's the t-t-ticket!" Toby was heard to remark; "I never yet read about a R-r-robinson C-c-crusoe but what he made him a r-r-raft!" "It might be a good idea, boys," admitted Max, "but I'm afraid you'll find it more than you can manage. Then besides, even if you did get some of the timbers to stick there, how could you fasten them together so as to make that raft? Show me your ropes and I'll join in with you mighty quick. But it isn't going to be the easiest thing going to climb up that wobbly roof; and we'll all be glad to find ourselves perching up on that ridge-pole with the girls, I think." That dampened the enthusiasm and ardor of Bandy-legs considerably. Like the rest of them he realized that what Max said was about true, and that they could not expect to pay much attention to the parting timbers, once they reached the house. It would be all they could do to get up on the roof. "Are we going to hit up against it, Max?" asked Steve, struggling between hope and fear, as they rapidly bore down toward the partly submerged farm building. "Yes, there's no doubt about that," came the quick reply; "and come to think of it, we can get up where they are better by working our way around to that lower end to the right. Every fellow look out for himself when the time comes." "Give us the word, Max?" Steve asked. "All right, when you hear me shout 'now,' make your jump, and be sure you've picked out the right place beforehand, or you may drop back again." Max could say no more, because they were so close to the little island in the midst of the raging flood that he had to conserve his breath in order to make a successful leap himself. On the roof crouched the two girls, Bessie French and Mazie Dunkirk, together with a little lame cousin of the former, a girl of about eight. All of them were greatly interested in the coming of the boys, and stared eagerly at the remarkable craft that was bearing them on the surface of the flood. Perhaps they may have already jumped to the conclusion that the whole town of Carson had been inundated and swept away, and that these five lads might be the sole remaining survivors. That thought would in part account for their white faces; though of course their own perilous situation was enough to give them pale cheeks. Max was on the alert. Just as the timbers came alongside the lower edge of the roof he shot out that one energetic word: "Now!" Immediately every fellow was in motion, and as they had selected their landing places beforehand, they fortunately did not interfere with each other's movements. Such a remarkable scrambling as followed; if you have ever watched a cat that has made too risky a jump, barely get her claws fastened on a limb, and then strain to clamber up, you can imagine something of the efforts of Toby and Bandy-legs in particular, as they did not seem to be quite as fortunate as the others. But none of them dropped back into the river, and that was worth noticing. The girls continued to utter various exclamations of alarm and excitement as they watched their supposed-to-be rescuers trying to join them on the roof. Bessie even clapped her hands when Bandy-legs after a series of contortions that would have done credit to a professional athlete, managed to crawl over the edge, assisted by a hand given him, not from Max, nor yet Steve, but the despised Shack Beggs, who seemed to have had no difficulty whatever in making the landing, for he was a muscular fellow, and as wiry as a cat. So they climbed up the slope of the submerged farm house, and joined those who were already perched along the ridgepole, like so many birds awaiting the time for flight. Bandy-legs watched the timbers bumping against the side of the house until they parted company, and floated swiftly away in smaller sections. He felt like waving a sad farewell after the strange craft that had borne them all the way down the valley; never would he forget how it looked, passing away in pieces, as though its mission had been completed after allowing them to reach the farm-house. There had been three refugees of the flood on the roof before; now their number had increased to eight. But whether the coming of the boys added anything to the hopefulness of the situation remained to be proved. At least it seemed to have cheered up both girls considerably. Mazie welcomed the coming of Max when he climbed to a place beside her, with a look that was intended to be sunny, but bordered on the pitiful. Truth to tell the poor girl had just passed through the most terrible experience of her young life, having had responsibility crowded upon her in the absence of older heads. "Oh! I am _so_ glad you have come to help us, Max!" she told him, after they had shaken hands like good friends, which they always had been. Max tried to laugh at that; he thought there was altogether too much gloom in the gathering, and it would be better for all hands to discover some sort of rift in the clouds. "A queer old way of coming to help you, I should say, Mazie," he told her. "What you saw floating off after it carried us here was all that is left of the Carson bridge, which was carried away by the flood an hour or so ago." "Oh! were there many people on it when it fell?" asked Bessie French, her eyes filled with suspense; she had pretended not to pay any attention to Steve, who had deliberately found a place beside her, and was sitting there as though he had a perfect right, and that nothing disagreeable had ever come up between them; but in spite of her seeming indifference she was watching him out of the tail of her eye all the same, just as a girl will. "I'm glad to say that we were the only ones who went down with the bridge," Max hastened to tell her, knowing that she had loved ones in Carson, about whose safety she must naturally feel anxious. "And all of you managed to cling to the timbers of the bridge?" questioned Mazie, looking with open admiration, first at Max, and then those with him, until a puzzled frown came on her pretty face, for she had finally noticed Shack Beggs, and could not understand how a boy of his bad reputation chanced to be in the company of Max and his chums. "Yes, it wasn't so hard, after we got settled in the water," Max explained. "We had the railing to help us out. And a little later we managed to help Shack in out of the wet, for he was on the bridge at the same time, being thrown into the water when it collapsed." "What a strange thing that you should be carried right down to where we were in such dreadful need of help; and on such a remarkable boat, too," Mazie went on to say, with a tinge of color in her cheeks now, which spoke volumes for the confidence she felt in the ability of this particular boy to discover some means for bringing about their eventual rescue. "Well, it does seem so," Max replied; "and the funny thing about it was that Steve here, just a short time before the bridge fell, was saying he would give anything he had in the wide world for the loan of a motorboat, so he could run down here and see if you girls needed help." That was cleverly meant for Bessie's ears; trust Max to put in a good word for his chum, because he knew how matters stood, and that Bessie was treating poor Steve rather shabbily. The girl flushed, and then slowly turning her face until her eyes, now dim with unshed tears, met the eager ones of the boy at her side, she leaned her head forward and said in a low voice: "I'm going to ask you to forget all that's happened between us, Steve; and let's start over being friends. I'll never laugh at you again when you're honestly trying to do something for me. I was a little fool that time; but it'll never happen again, Steve. You'll forgive me, won't you?" Of course, when Steve felt that little hand in his, he laughed good-naturedly, and was heard to say in return: "Never bother myself thinking about it again, Bessie; give you my word on it. When I got home that time, and saw myself in a glass, I made up my mind that I looked like a scarecrow, and that any girl would be ashamed to have such a tramp stop her horse, whether he was running away or not. And we're all mighty glad we were on the old bridge when she took that drop, because it's been kind enough to carry us to you girls down here." All this may have been very interesting, but Max knew they had no business to be wasting time in talking when confronted by a renewal of perils. The farm-house had stood out against the pressure of the flood in a way that was wonderful; but it must have a limit to its endurance, which he did not doubt had been nearly reached. What would happen to them if it should suddenly collapse was not a pleasant subject for thought; and yet there could be no dodging the responsibility. At the same time he was curious to know how it happened that the two girls and the little crippled cousin of Bessie came to be there alone; when it might have been expected that Asa French, or his farm hand, would be along, capable of rendering more or less assistance. "How do you come to be here alone, you girls?" he hastened to ask of Mazie. "It was just through a succession of accidents," the girl replied. "You see, Mr. French and his wife received a message from Alderson yesterday calling them over in great haste to visit an old aunt who was sinking, and from whom they expected to inherit quite a large sum of money. They disliked leaving us here, but we insisted on it; and besides the faithful old man who had been with them for just ages, Peter Rankin, promised to guard us well. They were to come back this morning, but I suppose the floods kept them from setting out, as the roads must all be under water between here and Alderson." "And you've had a night of terror, with the water creeping up all the while," observed Max; "but what became of Peter Rankin; I hope he wasn't drowned?" "We don't know," replied Mazie, with a tremor in her voice. "Three hours ago he left us, saying that the only hope was for him to try and swim to the shore, so as to get a boat of some kind, and come to our rescue before the house was carried away. We saw the brave old man disappear far down the river, and we've been hoping and praying ever since that at least he managed to get ashore. Then we discovered all that timber coming around the bend above, with people aboard, and none of us could even guess what it meant." "Well," said Max, "we're here, all right, and the next thing to do is to find some way of getting to the bank below." "Then you're afraid the house will go before long?" Mazie asked him; "and that's what I've been thinking would happen every time that queer tremble seemed to pass through it. We shrieked right out the first time, but I suppose we've become partly used to it by now. But, Max, what can we do?" "I suppose there's nothing inside that could be used in place of a boat?" he asked, thoughtfully. "Nothing but the furniture that is floating around the rooms; though some of that has been washed out, and disappeared," Mazie told him. "Then we'll have to look around and see what can be done to make a raft. There are five of us boys, all stout enough to do our share of the work. We might manage to get some doors off their hinges, and fasten them together some way or other, if Bessie could only tell us where a clothes line was to be found." Max tried to speak quietly, as though there was no need of being alarmed; but after experiencing one of those tremors Mazie mentioned, he realized that the foundations of the farm-house were being rapidly undermined by the action of the swift running water, so that it was in danger of being carried away at any minute. No one could say just what would happen when this catastrophe came to pass; the house might simply float down-stream, partly submerged; or it was liable to "turn turtle," and become a mere wreck, falling to pieces under the attacks of the waters. And if they were still clinging to that sloping roof when this occurred they would find themselves cast into the flood, half a mile away from shore, and at the mercy of the elements. Yes, there was sore need of doing something, by means of which they might better their condition; and Max Hastings was not the one to waste precious minutes dallying when action was the only thing that could save them. CHAPTER IX PREPARING FOR THE WORST Upon making further inquiries Max learned that there was a trap in the roof, through which the girls had crept, with many fears and misgivings, when the encroaching water within warned them that it was no longer safe to stay there. Looking through this he could see that the place was fully inundated. Chairs and table were floating, and even the ladder which the girls had used was partly washed out of a window. "Nothing much doing down there for us," Max informed Bandy-legs, who had crept over to the hole in the roof along with him, in order to satisfy his curiosity. He had heard Max ask questions of the girls, and was deeply interested in learning what the next step might chance to be. Bandy-legs was still secretly mourning the fact that they had been compelled to let all that wreckage of the bridge get away from them. It had served them so splendidly up to that time, and still thinking of the Crusoe affair, he could not help believing that it had been a big mistake not to have at least made some effort to hold on to what they could. "And to think," said Bandy-legs, sadly, "I've got the best sort of a life preserver at home you ever saw; but what good is it to me now?" "But you can swim, all right," remarked Max. "Oh! I wasn't thinking about myself that time, but what a fine thing it'd be to strap it around one of the girls right now. I say, Max, whatever are we agoin' to do with the three, if the old coop does take a notion to cut loose?" "Not so loud, Bandy-legs," warned Max, with a little hiss, and a crooked finger. "We don't want them to know how tough things really are. If the worst does come we'll have to do what we can to keep them afloat; but I'm still hoping we may get some doors out that would be better than nothing, to hold on to in the water." "I heard Bessie tell you that there was a clothesline hanging to a hook inside there, before the water came, and that it might be there yet if not washed away," Bandy-legs went on to remark. "Yes, it wasn't very encouraging," Max informed him; "but I'm going inside and see if I can find it." "You'll want help with the doors, too, of course, Max?" "And I know where to look for it when you're around, Bandy-legs, because you're one of the most accommodating fellows on earth," the other told him. "I'm about as wet as can be, so it doesn't matter a whiff what happens to me from now on," remarked the other boy; "but if we have to do more or less swimmin' while we're in there, Max, hadn't we better take our shoes off? I never could do good work with the same on." "That's what I'm meaning to do, Bandy-legs; and there's no need of our waiting around any longer, so here goes." Saying which Max proceeded to remove his wet shoes and socks, rolling his trouser legs up half way to his knees. "What's all this mean?" asked Steve, crawling over to where the other two had gone; "looks like you had a scheme in mind." He was quickly told what Max purposed doing. "It doesn't seem like it'd amount to a great deal," he suggested. "Huh! can you knock your coco and think up anything better, then; we'd sure be delighted to hear it," Bandy-legs told him; but Steve was not very fertile when it came to planning things, and he shook his head sadly. "Wish I could, that's right," he said; "I'd give a heap right now to be able to snap my fingers, and have a nice little, power-boat happen along, so I could invite everybody to take a cruise with me. But there's no such good luck, And, Max, when you duck inside here, count on me to be along with you to do whatever I can." "I knew you'd say that, Steve," observed the other, as though pleased to hear such a hearty response to his mute appeal. Then came the other two, wondering what the plan of campaign might be; for even Shack Beggs, finding himself so strangely thrown in with these boys whom in the past he had hated and scorned; was already as deeply interested in the outcome as any of the chums might be; and Bandy-legs no longer frowned at his proximity, for he could not forget how it was Shack's strong hand that had helped him make a landing on the sloping roof just a short time before. They dropped inside the house, and immediately found themselves up to their necks in water. Max took his bearings, and was pleased to discover that the coil of clothes line still hung from the hook, the water not having disengaged it as yet. Somehow the small success of finding this seemed to give him renewed courage. "Things are beginning to come our way, fellows!" he called out, as he held the coil up above his head triumphantly. "Hurray!" gurgled Toby, for it happened that just then he made a slip, and had a mouthful of muddy water come aboard, almost choking him. "And here's this door swung loose," called out Steve, who had been working for several minutes, with the aid of Shack, to get the article in question off its hinges. "Wait till I tie one end of the line to it," Max told them, "and then we can push it out and let it float behind the house. There isn't so much strength to the current there, on account of the eddies." This was speedily done, and the floating door anchored, thanks to the friendly offices of the clothes line. "That might do to hold up one of the girls," remarked Bandy-legs. "It will," put in Steve, quickly; "and pretty fairly at that, because Bessie isn't so very heavy, you know." Well, no one blamed Steve for pre-empting the first raft for the use of Bessie, because he had been chiefly instrumental in securing it. "We ought to have two more, anyway," suggested Bandy-legs. "And we'll get 'em, never fear," Steve assured him; "because there's just that many in sight. Here, Shack, give me another lift, will you? There isn't a fellow along got the strength in his arms you have, and that's the truth." Shack Beggs looked pleased. It must have been a novel sensation for him to hear his praises sung by one of the chums of Max Hastings. They had called down anything but blessings on his head for many moons, yes, years, on account of the way he had annoyed them. It was no easy task removing those doors, what with having to wade around in water almost up to their necks, so that at times they were even swimming. But it was no time to be squeamish, and every one of the boys meant business; so that in the end they had three doors anchored back of the shaky building. They looked only a poor apology for boats, and no wonder the girls shuddered at the very idea of finding themselves afloat on the raging flood, with only a bobbing door to buoy them up. Max was plainly worried. He admired the spirit which both Bessie and Mazie displayed when they declared that they would feel quite safe, if only the boys kept swimming alongside, to direct the floats toward the shore; at the same time he realized what tremendous difficulty they would have to keep the doors from "turning turtle," for there were many cunning eddies in the flood, that would strive to baffle their best efforts. Besides, the girls would quickly find themselves wet through, and altogether the prospect was a pitiable one. Again and again did Max try to conceive of a better plan. He even went prowling around down below again, hoping to make some little discovery that would turn out to be of benefit to the three girls; but when he once more rejoined the others on the roof his face failed to announce any success. Still Max did not allow himself to show signs of anything bordering on despair. In the first place the boy was not built that way, and had always shown a decided disposition to hold out to the very last gasp, as every fellow should, no matter how fortune frowns down on him. Then again Max understood that his face and his manner were bound to be considered a barometer by the others; who would be sure to gauge the prospects for a safe landing by what they saw reflected in his demeanor. For this reason, if no other, Max forced himself to smile once in a while, and to assume a confident manner that he was far from feeling. The question now seemed to be in connection with their leaving their perch. Of course they were better off on the roof than could possibly be the case once it had to be abandoned; but there was also the possibility of a sudden collapse on the part of the farm-house to be taken into consideration. Max would not like to have this happen while the girls were still crouching on the shingled roof; because there could be no telling what would happen, once the building began to roll onward with the flood. All of them might be pitched headlong into the water, and it would be a difficult thing for them to save Mazie and the other two girls. Besides, the anchored doors might be lost, and though only makeshifts for boats, these were bound to be much better than nothing to help keep the helpless ones afloat. The water must be rising still; at least it seemed to be coming against the exposed side of the partly submerged building with greater energy than before, Max was certain. The waves would strike the wall, and leap upward as though eager to engulf those who were just beyond their reach; so it seemed to the frightened girls at the time; though their terror would undoubtedly have been much greater but for the presence, and the inspiring words uttered by the boys. There seemed nothing else to be done but embark, dangerous though that undertaking must prove. Max hated to announce this dictum to the girls, for he could easily understand what a fresh source of alarm it must cause to sweep over them. They had already gone through so much, calculated to inspire terror in their hearts, that any addition looked like rank cruelty; and yet what other solution could there be to the problem? Just then Max and his chums would have gladly given every cent they had in the bank--and it was quite a goodly sum, for they had received rewards on account of certain services performed, as well as sold the pearls found in the fresh water mussels for a fine price--if they could only have been able to secure any kind of a boat capable of transporting those helpless ones safely to land. At another time they would have probably been more particular, and demanded a high-powered motor launch; or at the least one of those Cailie Outboard Motors to clamp on the stern of a rowboat; but right now it was a case of "my kingdom, not for a horse, but any sort of boat capable of floating." Max heaved a sigh. He felt that he might as well wish to be given wings with which to fly ashore, as a boat. What few there were along the Evergreen River under normal conditions must either have been swamped in the sudden rising of the waters, or else be kept busy succoring imperiled people who had been caught in their homes by the flood, and threatened with drowning. Just then the sun peeped out from a rift in the clouds. Strange what a remarkable difference even a fugitive glimpse of the sun may have on people, after the king of the day has refused to shine for forty-eight hours, while the rains persist in descending. Like magic everybody seemed to become more cheerful. Things lost some of their gloomy aspect; even the rushing water looked far less bleak and threatening when those slanting shafts of sunlight glinted across the moving flood. "Now, I take it that's a good sign!" said Steve, who persisted in remaining as near to Bessie as he could, in all reason, considering that he was dripping wet, and certainly could not look very presentable; but fortunately Bessie had come to her senses now, and to her mind Steve never appeared to greater advantage, because she knew he was doing all this on account of his friendship for her. Really Steve did not know at what minute the calamity might swoop down upon them, and he wanted to be handy so that he could look after Bessie. Max would take care that Mazie Dunkirk did not suffer; and the other two chums had been privately told to attend to the lame child, so that all were provided for. "And I do believe there's going to be a rainbow over in the west!" exclaimed Bessie, showing considerable interest, which seemed a pretty good sign that hope was not lying altogether dead within her girlish heart. "I'm glad of that," said Max; "not because it will help us any, but if the rain that was promised passes over, there'll be a chance of the flood going down sooner. In fact, I don't believe it's going to get much higher than it is now." "You never can tell," Bandy-legs remarked, showing a strange lack of proper caution, though Max tried to catch his eye, and would have given his foot a vigorous kick had he only been closer; "it all depends on whether they got the rain up in the hills where most of the water that flows down our old river comes from." "Well, let's hope they didn't get any, then," said Max, quickly, as he saw a slight look of new fear creeping across the faces of the listening girls; "and on the whole I think we've got a heap to be thankful for. As long as we're here we'll see to it that the girls are taken care of; and if we do have to go ashore, why, we can make a regular picnic out of it; and you fellows will have a chance to show how much you know about camping in the woods without making any preparations beforehand." "I'd just like to do that same!" exclaimed Steve, bravely; "nothing would please me better than to make a camp-fire, build a bark shelter for the girls, forage through the surrounding country for something to cook, and prove to everybody's satisfaction that we knew our business as amateur woodsmen. Don't you say the same, Bandy-legs and Toby?" "I sure do," replied the former, with considerable fervor, as the pleasant times spent in former camps seemed to flash before his mind; "but what ails Toby here, fellers; he's going to have a fit if he don't get out what's sticking in his throat! Look at him gasping for breath, would you? What's the matter, Toby; seen another sea serpent have you; or is it a hippopotamus this time; perhaps a twenty foot alligator. Here, give one of your whistles, and get a grip on yourself, Toby!" And the stuttering boy, brought to his senses by the admonition of his chum, did actually pucker up his lips, emit a sharp little whistle, and then working the muscles of his face as though trying to make a grimace, managed to utter just one word, which however thrilled the balance of the shivering group through and through, for that word was the magical one: "_Boat!_" CHAPTER X "ALL ABOARD!" "Where away?" cried Steve, with his customary impetuousness. "Don't you dare fool us, Toby Jucklin!" exclaimed Bandy-legs, menacingly; for if the truth be told, he felt a twinge of envy because it had not been his sharp eyesight that had first detected the coming of a rescue party. Max noticed just where Toby was pointing, and without wasting his breath in asking useless questions he applied himself to the task of ascertaining just how much truth there might be in the assertion. Sure enough, he did manage to discover something that had the appearance of a boat; but as it rose and fell with the waves, now vanishing altogether from his sight, and then again being plainly seen, Max made it out to be a rowboat. There were no oars working in the sunlight, nor could he discover the first sign of life about the bobbing craft that was coming down on the flood. "It is a boat, all right!" admitted Steve, presently, while all of them continued to stare eagerly at the advancing object; "but a derelict you might say, because there's not a sign of anybody aboard. And from the way she rolls so logy, I bet you she's half full of water right now." The girls began to utter little plaintive exclamations. "But notice that she floats all right, Steve," Max hastened to tell him; "and we'll soon find a way to empty that water out, if only we're lucky enough to lay our hands on that craft." "But d'ye think it'll come this way?" asked Bandy-legs; "because I'm ready to swim out after it if there's any chance of the bloomin' old tub giving our crowd the go-by." "We've _got_ to get it, that's all," said Max, firmly; "I'd go after it myself if I thought it would miss hitting the house here. But let's watch, and see how that comes out. And, Bandy-legs, slip that noose at the end of the balance of the rope under your arms. If you do have to swim out to waylay the boat, we can pull you back again whether you get aboard or not." "Now, that's a good idea, Max," Steve admitted. "It sure takes you to think up the right thing at the right time and place. I don't reckon there'll be such good luck as to be oars aboard a runaway boat; but even then it's going to be better for the girls than a floating door." "Oh! I do hope you can get it then!" declared Bessie; and Steve hearing her say this felt as though he ought to be the one to have that noose fastened under his arms, rather than Bandy-legs, who could not swim quite as good. There was intense excitement on the roof of the imperiled farm-house about that time. Every one of them seemed to be watching the coming of that bobbing object as though the fate of the world depended on its taking a direct course for the building standing alone in the flood. "Seems like she was coming right along over the same course we did; how about that, Max?" called out Steve, presently, as the boat drew steadily closer to the fugitives of the wash-out. "Yes, as nearly as I can decide that's what she's doing, Steve," Max replied. "Oh! let's hope so," Mazie remarked, with a tremor in her voice, that told of quivering lips, and rapidly beating heart. "Looky there!" burst out Bandy-legs just then; "if she ain't takin' a shoot this way even while we're sitting here wishing for the same to happen. I tell you she's going to hit the house ker-flop, too. No need of anybody jumpin' over and swimmin' out to her. But I'll leave the rope where it is, because I'll be in condition to roll off the roof, and grab her before she c'n slide past." Nearer and nearer came the boat. It was easy to see that the craft was partly waterlogged, though still having her gunnels a considerable distance above the water. Either the boat leaked terribly, or else this water had splashed in from time to time as rougher places were encountered. "Ready, Bandy-legs!" cried Max. "Watch your eyes, old fellow!" warned Steve. "And d-d-don't you l-l-let her g-g-get away on your l-l-life!" added Toby, who was greatly aroused, and had been edging down toward the gutter for several minutes now, evidently bound to be ready to lend a helping hand, if the other chum needed it. It really seemed as though some unseen hand might be guiding that half swamped rowboat, in the interest of those who were so greatly in need of assistance; for it came heading in toward the house, urged on by the grip of the changing current, and finally actually bumped confidingly against the wall below the edge of the roof. Bandy-legs was on the alert. He dropped over instantly, and they heard him utter a whoop of delight as he found himself actually in possession of a boat. His first act was to slip the noose from under his arms, and his next to secure that end of the rope to the bow of the boat. Then he started in to make the water fly like everything, using his hat as a bailing bucket. When he had to rest for a minute Bandy-legs stood up so that his head and shoulders came above the gutter of the roof, and grinned at the rest. "How does she seem to be, Bandy-legs?" asked Steve. "Course I can't just say for certain yet," came the reply; "but looks like our boat might be watertight, and that the waves have been splashing aboard all the time she's been adrift. Wait till I get the rest of the stuff out, and then I'll know for sure." "How about oars?" asked Max. "Ain't nary a sign of the same around, and I'm afraid they must a been washed overboard when--but hold on there, what's this I'm knocking against every time I dip deep? Say, here's luck in great big gobs, fellers; it's an oar stuck under the thwarts, as sure as you live! What, two of the same, seems like! Well, well, what do you know about that? Couldn't have asked for anything better, could we? Oh! don't I wish I had all this water out, though." He had hardly spoken when some one else dropped into the boat, and started to hurling the water in great quantities over the side. It was Shack Beggs, and he had a tin basin in his hands. Max remembered having seen it floating around in the interior of the house, along with many other things; but at the time, as none of them wanted to take a wash, he had not bothered securing it. Shack must have remembered the basin, and realizing how well it might be utilized now as a bailing bucket, he had slipped through the scuttle and secured it. The water began to go down rapidly under their united efforts; though a little kept coming in over the exposed side of the boat, as it rubbed against the wall of the farm-house. Seeing this Max managed to help the other boys shift the location of their valued prize, and presently it was dangling alongside the three floating doors, no longer of any moment in their eyes. "When will we go aboard?" asked Steve, as a more violent shiver passed over the doomed building than at any previous time. "Right away," replied the other, who had felt his own heart stop beating for a brief space of time, as he actually feared that the catastrophe was about to overwhelm them. "I'm willing, Max," said Mazie, trying to speak bravely. "Then come, let me help you down; and the boys in the boat will be there to do their part; after which we'll get the other girls aboard," and saying this Max proceeded to give Mazie his hand, so that she might creep down the slope of the roof securely. It was no easy task to manage things so that the three girls were all taken on board without any accident; but then Shack Beggs again proved himself invaluable, for it was his strong arms that held the boat close to the house while the transfer was being made. Max was secretly delighted with the way Shack was turning out. He actually believed there would be another vacancy in the ranks of that gang of young toughs in Carson after this; and was determined that if any friendly word or act of his could induce Shack to turn over a new leaf, they would certainly not be withheld. Presently all of them had embarked. The water by how was well out of the boat, and so far as they could see not much more was coming in; and that could be readily handled, thanks to the possession of that dented basin which Shack had twisted into a handy scoop. Max had fixed the rope so that by releasing one end it would allow the boat to drop down the stream with the swift current. Steve had one oar and Bandy-legs the other, thrust out, and ready for use. "Well, here's where we have to say good-bye to the French farm-house," and saying this Max let go the rope; "now, pull away, boys, and head for the shore!" It had already been decided which bank they must aim to reach; there was really very little choice between them so far as nearness went; but the boys thought it would be wiser to make for the west shore. Carson lay on that side, and then the ground as a whole lay somewhat higher, so that once they landed they would be less liable to come across impassable sloughs and lagoons formed by the back-water of the flooded river. Both rowers bent their backs, and the boat began to make progress. They had not been laboring in this fashion three minutes when Bessie gave utterance to a bubbling cry of anguish. "Oh! see there what is happening to Uncle Asa's place!" she exclaimed. The little lame girl set up a loud cry, and sobbed as though her heart would break, because that farm-house had been her home all her life; and it was now toppling over into the river. They could see it moving, at first slowly, then with a sudden rush. It careened far on one side, and then surged to the other dreadfully. Had they still been clinging to the ridge the chances were that they would have been thrown into the water; and besides, there was always great danger that the house would fall to pieces before long. "Well, we've got a whole lot to be thankful for, anyway!" Steve presently remarked, as he patted Bessie's, hand with one of his, using the oar with the other meanwhile. "I should say we had!" declared Bandy-legs; "I'd rather be here in this bully old boat ten times over, to squattin' up on that old roof, seesawin' along every-which-way. Here, pull harder, Steve; you're lettin' her yaw around terrible. We want to head for the shore and not down-river way." As the two rowers continued to work regularly they kept gradually nearing the western shore of the flood. Of course this was far removed from what the bank must be under ordinary conditions, in places as much as a quarter of a mile further inland. The water was sweeping through the lower branches of trees that all their lives had been far removed from the influence of the river; and there would be many changes in the aspect of things when the flood eventually subsided. The girls sat there silent, and absorbed in watching the dizzy evolutions of the drifting farmhouse that was rapidly passing away from them down-stream. Of course it meant more to the lame child than any one else, and Max could feel sorry for her. He had only to put himself in her place, to realize the sadness that would be sure to overwhelm him should he watch his loved home carried off, never to be seen again. However he had many other things to think of, and could not spend any time in crying over spilt milk. Nothing they could do would mend matters so far as saving the French home was concerned; and they had enough to do in looking out for their own safety. "If you get tired, let some of the rest of us spell you, boys," Max was saying to the pair of rowers, who had all they could do to stem the furious current that every now and then caught them in a pocket, from which they could only drag the boat by desperate labor; "I'm a good hand with the oar, and I know Shack is a regular crackerjack at the business. Just say the word when you get played out, and we'll change places with you." Shack shot him a grateful look. It seemed as though he appreciated what Max had said, and which seemed to place him on the same level as the rest of the fellows. Somehow Shack was feeling differently from any time in the past; why, all this business of getting soaked through, and battling with the flood was in the nature of a picnic to him, accustomed to rubbing up against hard knocks as he was. And it felt pretty nice to be looked on as a "comrade" by these fellows whom he had always fought tooth and nail in the past; much nicer than loafing with that old crowd once led by Ted Shatter but now under the guidance of Ossie Kemp. They had struck another bad place in the flood, where cross currents made it difficult work rowing. Both boys strained themselves to the utmost to resist the grip of the stream. Once across this section, and possibly they would have it easier all the way to the shore. Steve was working with his accustomed fits and starts. He would allow things to go against him, for a short interval, and then throwing on all his reserve power into the breach make his oar fairly bend with the furious strain he put upon it. Suddenly there was a sharp snap. One of the girls gave a cry; it was Bessie, for she had been watching Steve at the time, and saw instantly what had happened. Indeed, it was manifest to every one, because Steve almost took a "crab" by falling backwards. His sudden splurge had been too much for the strength of the oar he was handling; and it had broken in two! The catastrophe staggered them all for the moment; because they could readily understand what it would mean; since with but one oar they could hardly expect to continue rowing the boat to the shore, still some little distance away. CHAPTER XI GOOD CHEER BY THE CAMP FIRE Toby made a quick lurch, and managed to snatch up the broken blade of Steve's now useless oar. As they had no way of mending it, tin, nails, or hammer, it was next-door to useless to them. Already that fierce current was seizing them in its remorseless grip; and the overloaded boat began to spin down-stream, turning around and around in its helplessness. "Gee! whiz! what can we do now, Max?" asked Bandy-legs, ready to jump overboard if the other but said the word, and urge the boat toward the shore by swimming on his back. Before Max could frame a reply something happened. Shack leaned forward from toward the stern and took the oar from the hands of Bandy-legs. "Let me show yuh how tuh do it!" he said, not roughly at all, but eagerly, as though just too well pleased to have it in his power to assist. Max understood what he meant to do; in fact, he had been about to suggest the very same remedy for their ills when Shack made his move. "There's a sculling hole in the back of the stern seat, Shack!" he called out, being more up in the bow himself. The oar upon being fitted in the cavity could be rapidly turned to the right and to the left, with a peculiar motion known to those who have learned the art of successfully sculling a craft in this way. It is wonderful what progress can be made in that fashion. Shack seemed to know all about it, for presently Bandy-legs emitted a whoop that would have shamed an Indian brave. "Say, you're making her just walk along, Shack, that's right!" he exclaimed. "And that oar going bad didn't knock us out at all, did it?" demanded Steve, who felt sorely distressed because it had been his bungling way of rowing that had brought about their trouble, and with Bessie on board too, which cut him worse than anything else. "Seems like it wouldn't," Max told him, feeling quite satisfied himself. Shack kept working away like a good fellow, and the boat drew closer and closer to the shore all the time. There was now no reason to believe that they would have any more trouble in landing; and Max began to take closer notice of the shore than he had up to that time done. "None of us have ever been as far down the river as this," he remarked; "I know I haven't, anyway." "I was down once years ago, and saw the big falls where we might have taken a header if we'd kept drifting," Bandy-legs explained; "but say, I don't seem to remember the first thing about the country. You could lose me down here without any trouble, I guess. Plenty of forest all right, eh, Max; and we won't have any great time makin' a fire, if only we get matches? Mine are all wet." "I carry a few in a waterproof case," Max told him; "so don't let that worry you any, Bandy-legs. The question is with us, after the fire, what? We'll all be hungry and the girls haven't had a bite to eat since early morning." "Well, there's a house, surrounded by water," suggested Steve; "guess we'll have to cabbage anything we can find around loose. In times like this you can't wait to ask permission. Eat first, and pay for it afterwards, that's the motto we'll have to go by. If we're on the right side of the luck fence we might even run across a smoked ham hangin' from the rafters. They keep all kinds of good things sometimes in these cabins along the shore." "Seems to be something like a hencoop back of the house," added Bandy-legs. "Oh! s-s-say, don't go to g-g-getting a feller's m-m-mouth all made up for nice r-r-roast chicken, and then never find any," objected Toby. "Course we'll find all sorts of good things," declared Bandy-legs, stoutly; "why, look what's happened to us already; and tell me that this ain't our lucky day. We went down with the old bridge, but not one of us got thrown into the water. Then we sailed twenty miles, and dropped in on the roof of the French house just like we'd been drawn by a magnet, which p'raps some of us must a been, hey, Steve? And then, by George! just when we wanted a boat the worst ever, along came this tub, and heading straight in for our shaky roost like it was being piloted by hands none of us could see. Luck? Why, we've got it plastered all over us, from head to foot. Chickens, ham, anything you want, just ask for it, and then wait and have faith!" "We're glad that you feel so certain," Mazie told him, "because I'm ready to own up that I'm awfully hungry, and could eat almost anything just now." "And I'm beginning to feel a little weak myself," admitted Bessie; "which, I suppose, is caused from going without any regular meal. None of us dared go back down through that trap once we got on the roof, because we were afraid the house might float off while we were below. Yes, we hope there will be something you can get in that house." "Seems to be abandoned, all right," Steve remarked, shading his eyes with his hands in order to see better. "There's somebody over on the bank beyond, and as near as I can make out it's an old woman," Max told them just at that point; "perhaps she's guarding some of the stuff that was saved from the cabin when the water came up around it; while her man has gone to get a horse and wagon, or a boat." "Well, we're going to land here," Bandy-legs ventured; "and it won't be hard to go up and interview the old lady. P'raps we can make a bargain with her for some of her grub. I've got a dollar along with me, and I reckon some of the rest ought to make as good a showing." "There'll be no trouble about that part of it, if only the food is around," Max assured them. "If the worst comes we'll have to commandeer the food market, and settle afterwards. Can you make it all right, Shack?" "Easy as fallin' off a log," replied the stout boy, who was still wielding the sculling oar back and forth with that peculiar turning motion that presented the broad surface of the blade to the water all the time, and induced the boat to move forward with a steady action. He made his words good a few minutes later, for the stem of the boat ran gently up against the bank, where a log offered a good chance for disembarking. No one would want a better landing stage; and so the three girls managed to go ashore without wetting their feet any more than they had been before. Every one seemed glad to get on solid ground again. Even Max secretly admitted that it did feel very good to know he had no longer to depend on the whims of the current, but could go wherever he willed. "Let's hunt out a decent place to make a camp," he remarked, "and then after we get the shelter started, and the cheery fire warming things up, two of us ought to wander off up the bank and see what's doing around that house." "I'll go with yon, Max," said Bandy-legs hastily, as though more or less afraid that he might come in a poor second, as it was a case of "first come, first served." They drew the boat well up, and fastened it with the length of rope that served as a painter; the clothes-line Max thought to take along with him, as there was a possibility they might need it before through with this adventure. Then they started through the woods, which just at this point happened to be unusually dense, with great trees rearing their crests a hundred feet or so above the heads of the shipwrecked Crusoes. It was not long before Max called attention to a certain spot which he claimed would answer all their present needs. "There's plenty of stuff to make a shelter of brush and branches with," he observed, "though it would be easier all around if we had a hatchet along." "That's right," added Steve; "and if I'd only had any idea that old bridge was going to dump us all into the drink the way it did I'd have had lots of things fixed different, give you my affidavy I would. But we ought to be able to work a fairly decent brush shanty without. It won't be the first we've put up, and I certainly hope it isn't goin' to be the last, either." Filled with this winning spirit the boys quickly busied themselves. Shack gathered brush with the rest, and really did more than his share of the work. This was right in his element, and no one had to tell him how to proceed. Max waited to see things progressing before he started off. A fire had already been started, and the cheery flames did much toward dispelling the feeling of gloom that had begun to gnaw at their hearts. There is nothing in the world better calculated to dissipate worry and liven things up than a genuine camp-fire. It seems to dissipate doubt, give the heart something to grip, and in every way make the prospect brighter. After escaping from the flood without any serious damage they were all full of enthusiasm now. Even the two older girls insisted on helping later on; if only food could be procured the boys must let them do all the cooking. That was only a fair distribution of the labor; it was what happened in Indian camps, with the warriors securing game, and the squaws preparing the meals. Presently Max, catching the eye of Bandy-legs, crooked his finger, and made a significant gesture with his head. The other understood just what was in the wind for he dropped the armful of fuel he happened at the time to be carrying toward the fire, and hastened to reach the side of the leader. Max knew that just then they could not think of walking any distance in order to seek aid. The day was pretty well along, and as more rain might come with the night, it seemed the part of prudence that they prepare in advance to meet further trials. If only they managed to come across something that could be made to do for a supper, all else could for the time being be forgotten. "We're off, Steve," Max called out, after he had waved his hand in the direction of the girl whose eyes followed him wherever he went; "you three keep right along as you're doing now. Make the shack as snug as you can; and if it'll shed water, so much the better; though I don't think we're going to get any more rain just at present." Bandy-legs was at his side, and together they strode away. It was no great task to keep heading up-stream, because they had frequent glimpses of the heaving surface of the flood, which was ever at their right, because they had landed on the western shore, and were heading north at the time. "Thought I heard dogs abarkin' just then," observed Bandy-legs, who had good ears as well as sharp eyes. "Yes, I did too, but somewhere away up on the wooded hills there. Like as not this flood has chased plenty of dogs away from their homes, and they may be running in packs, hunting something to eat." "Huh! hope we don't happen to run foul of a pack then," Bandy-legs insinuated; "and for fear that we do I'm going to be ready." With that he picked up a rather stout cudgel which he swung a few times as if to accustom his arm to the motion. Apparently Max did not think there was any particular reason for alarm. He must have figured that the dogs they had heard were hunting game a mile or two back in the woods, and that there was little chance of their coming closer to the river. "I can see the house ahead there," he announced five minutes later. "Yes, and it's surrounded by water too," added his chum; "no wonder the folks got out and left; they'd be silly to stay till it was too late. Why, that cabin might be carried off any time like the other house was, even if it ain't so far out I reckon we must have drifted half a mile further down when we kept rowing so hard; because that was a stiff current, believe me." "Fully half a mile, Bandy-legs," Max assured him, and then fell to craning his neck in the endeavor to locate the woman they believed they had seen among the trees at a point where the water ended. Two minutes later and Max uttered a satisfied exclamation. "I see the woman," he told his companion, "and just as we thought she's an old person, bent over considerably. Perhaps she couldn't go far away after she had to quit her house; perhaps she's nearly as helpless as the crippled French child. If it wasn't for Mabel being unable to walk we might be trying to find shelter back in the country right now. Come on and we'll interview her. She may be glad to go with us, and spend the night in camp; it would be good for her and the girls would like it too." The old woman had seen their approach. She looked anything but happy, and Max really began to believe that the poor soul stood in danger of losing all she owned in the wide world, if her little cabin went out with the flood. "How do you do, ma'm?" he said, cheerily, as he and his chum came up. "We're all from the town of Carson. The bridge went out, and we were on it at the time. It carried five of us down to where the French farm-house was standing, half under water, and there we found three girls on the roof, two of them friends of ours from town. A boat happened to drift within reach, and we have come ashore. But as Asa French's little daughter, Mabel, is lame and weak the chances are we'll have to camp in the woods for the night, and go for help in the morning. Now, wouldn't you like to join us to-night, because it'll be a lonely time for you here, and it may start in and rain again? We want to get something to eat the worst kind, and have money to buy whatever you happen to have handy, chickens, ham, potatoes or anything at all. The girls are nearly starved they say. Now how about it, ma'm?" The little old woman had listened to him talking with a sparkle of interest in her eyes. Apparently she admired the lad from the very start. Bandy-legs was hardly prepossessing enough to hope to make a favorable impression on a stranger at first sight; you had to know the boy with the crooked legs in order to appreciate his good qualities; but Max won friends by the score even before they understood how clever he could be. "You're perfectly welcome to anything you can find in my cabin, providing that you can get out there, and secure it," the little old woman told them. "Perhaps you might manage with the aid of the boat. And I believe I'll accept your kind invitation to accompany you back to your camp. I'm accustomed to being by myself, but inside a house, not out in the open woods, and on the brink of a dreadful flood. So consider it a bargain, son. Show me the way to get there, and after that it may pay you to bring your boat up so as to reach my little house out there surrounded by water." CHAPTER XII THE WILD DOG PACK This prospect pleased the two boys very much. Max believed that they could manage to drag the boat up along the shore, and then scull out to where the house stood, surrounded by water. Accordingly they first of all led the old woman to where the others were making as comfortable a camp as the meager conditions allowed. It turned out that the little lame girl, Mabel French, knew her very well, and addressed her as Mrs. Jacobus. She took occasion to tell Max aside that the old lady had lived alone for many years, but that instead of being poor as she seemed, in reality people said she was very rich, only eccentric. Perhaps she had a history, Max thought, as he looked at the wrinkles on her face, and noticed the kindly eyes, and wanted to hide her pain away from a cruel world. He and Bandy-legs proceeded to drag the boat up to a point above the cabin, and then pushing out, headed for their goal. The current was fully as swift as before, but as they had taken all proper precautions they did not have a great deal of difficulty in making it. Once they had secured their boat by the kitchen door, and they entered, wading with the water up to their waists. As soon as they had entered Bandy-legs gave a wild cheer. "Great governor! look at the fine ham hanging from the rafters, with strings of garlic, and all sorts of things!" he cried out. "You rummage around in closets, Max, while I'm climbing up, and grabbing that same smoked pork. Say, the country is saved, and those poor girls can have something worth while to eat. I've learned a new way to fry ham without even a pan; though chances are we'll be able to pick up something along that line in the kitchen here." They did, and all sorts of other things besides, which Max fancied the girls could make use of, and which were really in danger of being lost, if the cabin was carried away. He rooted in every cupboard, secured a lot of dishes and tinware, knives, forks and spoons, even a loaf of bread and some cake that he found in a japanned tin box high up on the shelf of a closet, coffee, sugar, and condensed milk, butter, potatoes, onions and a lot of other things too numerous to mention, but which attracted the attention of the hungry boys. Bandy-legs was fairly bubbling over with delight, and kept declaring that it was the greatest picnic ever known. All the perils of the past had apparently vanished from his mind, and he was as happy as any one could be over the prospect of enjoying a regular camp meal by the glow of a jolly woods fire. "Guess we'd better hold up about now, Max," he went on to say, when they had piled the stuff in the boat until it looked as though moving day had come around again, or an eviction was in progress. "You're right there, Bandy-legs, because if we kept on much more there wouldn't be standing room for the two of us, and you'd have to swim alongside. So let's call it a day's work and quit. Besides, we'll have our hands full getting our stuff ashore. You stand ready to spell me if I play out, will you?" "I'd like to have a chance at that sculling racket, anyhow, Max; never took a turn at the same, and so you'd better let me try it when we get in closer to shore." "Only too glad to fix you up," replied the other, as he started to work. It turned out all right, and they managed to reach land about as close to the spot where the camp had been pitched as it was possible to get. When the two came staggering along, laden down with all sorts of stuff, there was a whoop from Steve and Toby, who stopped work on the shack to run and help them. "Well, this is great shakes, for a fact!" exclaimed the former, as he relieved Max of a part of his load; "I declare if you haven't fetched enough junk to fit us up in housekeeping for a year. And I guess the little old lady won't be sorry, either, because p'raps you've been and saved some of her property that would have gone floating down the river to-night." Mrs. Jacobus smiled and nodded her head when she saw what the boys had found. "I had that fowl killed and dressed yesterday, meaning to make a dinner off it to-day, but the coming of the flood took all thought of eating out of my head," she remarked, as Bandy-legs exposed the featherless bird, which had been found hanging from a beam, just like the ham and other things. There was great rejoicing in the camp. Bessie and Mazie immediately took charge of all the stuff that had been brought ashore. If they wanted any assistance they called on one of the boys, as happened when the ham was to be sliced. Fortunately Max had secured a large knife in the kitchen, and with this he managed splendidly, cutting around the bone, as they lacked a saw. Mrs. Jacobus had told the boys where there were some stray boards lying in the woods not far away, and already the shack builders had paid several visits to the pile, returning each time dragging spoils after them. These they could use to splendid advantage in their work, and when the shelter was finally completed it promised to be amply large enough for the three girls and Mrs. Jacobus, to keep them from the night air. Should it storm possibly all of them could crawl under, though the boys declared they meant to keep the camp-fire burning throughout the night, and would not need anything over them. "Things are looking some different from what they did while we were drifting along on that wobbly old piece of the broken bridge, eh, fellows?" Steve wanted to know, as later on, when it began to grow dim with the approach of night, the boys sat down to rest, and watch their force of cooks getting supper ready. "Couldn't be a bigger change anyway you fix it," assented Bandy-legs; "and let me tell you these girls certainly know how to go at things the right way. Now, as I've been taking lessons from our cook, Nora, I ought to be considered something of a judge, and I want to say right here that I never whiffed more appetizing smells around a camp-fire in all my born days than are filling the air this very minute. I don't see how I can stand it much longer; seems that I'm possessed with a wild desire to jump up and begin eating like a cannibal." "Well, don't you pick out Bessie when you do," Steve warned him solemnly; "she may be sweet enough to eat, but not for you, Bandy-legs. But just think how the girls must suffer getting all these rations ready, and not having had a mouthful of food since breakfast-time while all the rest of us had lunch at noon." "Max, you said you had a bell somewhere, so please ring it, because everything's ready," Mazie called out just at that minute. Whereupon Max picked up an extra skillet that had come with the other kitchen stuff, and pounded on it loud and long with a great big stick; while the rest of the party hastened to find places around the makeshift camp table, formed out of some of the best boards, laid on the ground, because they had neither hammer nor nails with which to construct a real table. It was a merry sight to see them all, and much laughing was indulged in. Young hearts may not long stay depressed; and the loss of Mr. French's home, while it may have seemed too bad in the eyes of all of them, was not irreparable, since he was considered well-to-do, and later on could build a newer and better house in place of the one swept away. No lives had been lost, and hence there was really no occasion for them to pull long faces and make themselves miserable. Mrs. Jacobus was smiling all the while. This was evidently a new as well as novel experience with the little old lady who had lived alone so many years. She could hardly take her eyes off the face of Max, she seemed so greatly interested in the boy; and the three girls also had a share of her attention. Perhaps after this she might make somewhat of a change in her mode of living; she had discovered that there were people worth knowing in this dreary world, after all; and that it was foolish to hide away from everybody, just because of some bitter stroke of fortune away back in the past. Steve was the life of the party. He felt so overjoyed because of the kind fate that had allowed him to be of considerable use to Bessie French, so that their old friendship was renewed, this time to remain, that he seemed to be fairly bubbling over with spirits. He made witty remarks about most of the food they had, and kept the others laughing from the beginning of the meal until it reached its conclusion, with the dishes well cleaned out. Everybody had an abundance, and the boys seemed never to weary of declaring how glad they were to have the proper kind of cooks along. Their own style of camp cookery might do in an emergency, when they were cast upon their own resources; but it lacked something or other that a girl somehow seemed to know instinctively how to put in it, and make all the difference imaginable in the taste. Steve even volunteered to favor them with a song, and it would have required very little encouragement to have extended this to a dance, so light-hearted was he feeling. No one would ever have believed that this was the same Steve whose face had been long-drawn with anxiety only a comparatively few hours back, while they were drifting on the swift current of the flood, with their strange craft in danger of going to pieces at any moment, and leaving them struggling in the wilderness of rushing water. There were some other things that wise Max had secured from the abandoned cottage of Mrs. Jacobus. These had been left down by the boat, and when he presently walked over that way, and came back laden down with blankets there was a loud cheer from the other boys, accompanied by much hand-clapping from the girls. "Why, this is just delightful," Mazie told him, after he had first of all made her choose the best blanket, which she immediately turned over to the crippled child, taking another for her own individual use; "and if we'd only known how nice it was all going to come out, you can be sure none of us would have allowed ourselves to cry as we sat there on the roof waiting to be drowned. We'll never forget this experience, will we, Bessie?" "I should say not," came the prompt answer; "and the boys have done themselves proud through it all. Just to think of their being on that bridge when it fell into the flood, and none of them even thrown into the river. I never heard of such great good fortune. And then to be taken straight to where we were hoping and praying for some one to come along and save us. Well, after this I'm not going to be so silly as to doubt it any longer." "What?" asked Steve, quickly, but in a low voice. "Oh! just that there must be a sweet little cherub aloft watching over me," she replied, giving him a saucy look. "I thought you might mean that it was wicked for people to quarrel, and that it never could happen again between two persons that I know," Steve went on to say. "Well, perhaps I did mean that too; but no matter, I've seen a great light, and sitting there on that terrible roof so many hours was a good thing for me, Steve. I'm never going to be such a spitfire again; and I'll never condemn anybody unheard, I give you my word. But what's the matter with you, Bessie; you are shaking like a leaf. I hope you haven't taken cold." "No, it isn't that, Mazie," replied the other Carson girl; "but listen to the horrid wolves up there on the hill; and it seems to give me a bad feeling when I get to thinking of what would happen if they should come down here and attack us, when we haven't a single gun to defend ourselves with." Bandy-legs started chuckling. "Wolves don't yelp like that, Bessie," he remarked; "what you hear is a pack of wild dogs hunting something to eat. Since the water got so high, like as not they haven't had their meals as regular as they'd like, since lots of places are flooded out; so they've got together, and are rampaging around in search of grub. They do seem to be making a regular circus up there; and Max, I believe they're workin' down this way." "Oh! dear! then this camping out isn't such great sport as it seemed!" cried pretty Bessie French, looking appealingly toward Steve, as though she expected him as her knight to stand between should any danger threaten. "I was thinking that myself, Bandy-legs," Max admitted; "it may be that their keen scent has gotten wind of the smell from our cooking supper at last, and started them this way, bent on making a raid on our stores." "Whatever can we do?" entreated Mazie, looking to Max to get them out of this new difficulty, for as everybody knew he always had a plan ready. "If they should come this way you girls would have to climb up among the lower branches of this tree here," said Max. "You could make it without the least trouble, and keep out of reach of the dogs' teeth. Do you understand that, Mazie, Bessie, Mabel? Yes, and you too, Mrs. Jacobus." The old lady took something out of her pocket and carefully handed it over to Max. To his astonishment he discovered that he was holding a brand new automatic quick-firing revolver of the latest pattern. Undoubtedly then Mrs. Jacobus, while living alone, had not taken any chances. Tramps or dogs might molest her, and she probably meant to be in a condition to defend herself. Perhaps, too, she may have carried quite a good-sized amount of money about her person, and wished to be in a condition to keep yeggmen from robbing her by day or by night. Somehow the feel of the weapon gave Max a sensation of renewed confidence. With such a reliable tool he fancied that there would be little cause for anxiety, even should that pack of snapping hungry dogs dash into the camp, seeking to raid their larder, and ready to attack them if prevented from carrying out their design. "Get hold of clubs, boys, if you can find them!" he told the others; "because the yelping and barking is certainly coming straight this way, and we'd better be ready to beat them off if they try to rob us. Anything that will make an impression will do; and when you strike, do it with vim!" "Will we?" cried Steve, who still had a splendid club he had picked up some time back; "just let me get a single whack at a dog, I don't care what his breed or size or color, and his name will be Dennis, or Mud, I don't know which. But just as you said, Max, they are coming this way full tilt. Whew! sounds like there might be a round dozen in the bunch, and from a yapping ki-yi to a big Dane, with his heavy bark like the muttering of thunder." "Leave that big one to me, remember," said Max; "and you fellows look after the smaller fry. We'll have to show them that because they're running loose and in a pack, they don't own the woods by a long shot. Now, climb up into that tree, girls, because they'll be here in a minute or so, I'm afraid!" CHAPTER XIII THE DEFENCE OF THE CAMP "Mabel first, please, Max!" said Mazie, as all of them hastened over to the tree that had been selected as the harbor of refuge on account of the fact that its lower branches seemed to invite an ascent. Max gave Steve a knowing nod, and the two of them quickly whisked the little lame French girl up in the first crotch like magic. Before Mazie really knew what they were going to do she was following after the first climber; and as they made room for the others, first Mrs. Jacobus, and then last of all Bessie found lodgment there. "If you can manage to get up a little higher it would be safer all around," Max told them, though he tried his best not to alarm the girls by intimating that the lower limb of the tree might still be within jumping distance of an agile hound. Immediately after performing his duty Steve picked up his club again. Meanwhile the other three boys had brushed around and armed themselves with the most available weapons the dead wood afforded. Bandy-legs was fortunate in having one already to his suiting, and the others did the best they could; so that there was quite a formidable assortment of cudgels swinging back and forth as the owners tested their capacity for mischief; much as the intending batter at a critical stage of a baseball game may be seen to practice with two clubs before stepping up to the plate. There could no longer be any doubt as to the speedy coming of the dog pack, as their eager yelps and barks sounded very close. It must have been that in their hungry condition they had picked up the odor of food far away, because a dog's sense of smell is remarkably acute, especially when half starved. Max only waited in order to throw plenty of dry fuel on the fire before joining the battle line. If they were compelled to put up a stiff fight in order to keep their food supply intact, he knew that they would need all the light they could get, because with the coming of night, darkness had settled upon the forest lining the western bank of the flooded river. "Whee! listen to the way they're tearing along, would you?" exclaimed Bandy-legs, as the noise drew rapidly nearer. Every fellow seemed to take in a big breath. It was as though he meant to nerve himself for the exciting times to follow. "Remember, leave the biggest dog to me!" Max told them, desirous of impressing this fact upon their minds; for with that powerful little automatic pistol in his possession, handed over to him by the owner of the abandoned cabin, he felt much better able to cope with a monster Dane or a huge mastiff than any of those who simply carried sticks might have been. Max did not fancy the job before him. He had always confessed to a great liking for dogs of almost all kinds, and the thought of being compelled to shoot one, even in self-defense, did not appeal to him; though it was a grim necessity that forced him to contemplate such a massacre. These animals having been shut off from their regular food supply because of the flood that had driven their masters from home, were only following out the dictates of their natures, in seeking to satisfy the demands of hunger. Under ordinary conditions they may have been the most desirable of companions, and valued highly by those who owned them. There was no other way to meet the emergency save by dispersing the savage pack. And Max knew that the animal of the heavy bark must be a powerful brute, capable of inflicting serious damage to any one upon whom he descended; hence he must in some way manage to dispose of the beast before he could leap on his intended prey. "I see 'em!" suddenly almost shrieked Bandy-legs; and all of the boys might have echoed his announcement, for they caught sight of a confused scrambling mass approaching at a furious pace. This almost immediately developed into separate units, as the dogs rushed directly into the camp. Max could see that there were no two alike, and in the lead was a mastiff as large as any wolf that ever followed in the wake of a wounded stag, a tawny colored animal, with wide-open jaws that must have filled the watching girls with a sense of abject horror, even though they were apparently safe from attack up among the branches of the tree. Max had eyes for no other after that. Let his chums and Shack Beggs take care of the New Foundland, the Irish setter, the beagle, the rabbit hound, and several more, even to a sturdy looking squatty bulldog that must have used his short bowlegs to some advantage to keep pace with the rest of the pack; his duty was to meet the oncoming of that natural leader, and wind up his career. The five boys had stationed themselves partly in front of the shelter where all of their food supplies had been placed, though at the same time they stood between the tree and the rushing dogs. Straight at them the pack went, helter-skelter. It may not have been so much a desire to attack human beings that animated the animals as the keen sense of smell telling them that provisions were to be found back in that rustic shack. Max waited until the big leader was almost upon them before he started to use his automatic. Indeed, one of the girls in the tree, gasped his name in terror, under the impression that Max may have been so petrified with astonishment at sight of the size of the mastiff that he could not pull the trigger of his weapon. But it was not so, and Steve, who was alongside, knew it full well, because he could hear Max saying steadily all the while: "Hold firm, boys; don't get rattled! I've got that big thief potted! Steady now, everybody; and hit the line _hard_!" That was the encouraging way Max used to call out to his players on the high school eleven when they were fighting for victory on the gridiron with a rival school. It did much to nerve those who heard; and Steve especially needed some such caution to keep him from springing to meet the coming attack halfway. Then there sounded a peculiar snapping report. It was the automatic doing its duty. Firm was the hand that gripped the little weapon, and unflinching the eye back of the same. A shriek from the tree told that the girls were watching every move in the exciting game that was being played. The mastiff was seen to stop in his headlong rush, and roll over in a heap; then he struggled to his feet again, only to have another flash directed into his eyes; and this time Max must have made sure work of it, because the huge animal did not attempt to rise again. Meanwhile the rest of the pack had continued its forward progress, and as those waiting clubs began to swing and play there was a confused exchange of shouts, yaps and yelps that must have filled a listener's heart with wonder, providing he did not know the meaning of the fracas. Deprived of the dominating spirit of their leader, and met with such a furious bombardment at the hands of the four boys, the balance of the pack could not hold out long. Their hunger did not seem to be equal to their fear of those clubs striking with such tremendous vim that in many cases the victim was hurled completely over. The attack became weaker and weaker; first one animal went howling away completely cowed, and then another took flight, until presently the bulldog was the only one left. He had managed to seize Toby's club and was holding on with a death grip, straining his best to pull the same out of the hands of the owner. Steve was for turning on him, and belaboring the beast with his own cudgel; but Max, who knew the nature of the beast better than any of the others, felt sure that this sort of treatment would only result in a general fight, and that in the end the animal would either have to be shot, or else he must bite one of them seriously. "Wait!" he called out; "keep back, the rest of you, and leave him to me!" Thinking of course that he meant to advance, and use his firearm in order to finish the stubborn bulldog, the three other boys backed away, leaving only Toby standing there, holding one end of his club, while the canine enemy maintained that savage grip on the other, and sought to wrest it away. But Max had had enough of dog killing for one night, and meant to try other tactics in this case. He dodged into the shelter, and almost immediately reappeared bearing with him some food that had been left over, scraps of bread and fragments from their supper. These he tossed close to the nose of the stubborn bulldog, while the rest of the party watched to see the result. Would hunger prevail, or the disposition to continue fighting cause the animal to keep on chewing the end of Toby's club? Presently they saw the unwelcome visitor begin to sniff eagerly. Then he suddenly released those terrible teeth of his, the iron jaw relaxed, and the next thing they knew the ferocious bulldog was devouring the food Max had thrown down, with every symptom of satisfaction. Max went back and secured more of the same kind. "We can get plenty, once we leave here in the morning," he told Bandy-legs when the latter showed a disposition to murmur against the seeming extravagance; "and I'd hate to kill that dog. I'm sure from his looks he must be of fine stock, and worth a heap to his owner. Besides, I've knocked one over, and that's one too many to please me. Now watch what I'll do." With that he approached, and offered the dog the rest of the food. In another minute he could have patted the heretofore savage beast on the back, only that Max was too wise to trouble a feeding dog. "Nothing more to be feared from him, I guess," remarked Steve, who had watched all this with distended eyes; "you know dogs from the ground up, Max. But do you think it's safe to have that terror around? The girls won't want to come down out of the tree while he's in camp." "You're mistaken there," said Bessie, as she dropped beside him; "I'm not at all afraid of dogs when they're natural; and besides, I know this fine fellow quite well. He belongs to a neighbor of my uncle, and he used to come to me as though he rather liked me; didn't you, Bose?" At mention of his name the ferocious looking bulldog with the bowed legs actually wagged his crooked stub of a tail, and gave the girl a look. As he was now through feeding, and seemed to be in a contented frame of mind, Bessie continued to talk to him in a wheedling way; and presently was able to slip a hand upon his head, though it gave Steve a cold chill to see her do it. Max had meanwhile dragged the other dog out of sight in the bushes, though Toby had to help him, such was the size of the wretched mastiff that had been brought to a bad end through his hunger, and a determination to raid the camp of the flood fugitives. The balance of the pack had apparently been taught a severe lesson, and would not return again. Their barking continued to be heard at intervals throughout the night, but always at a considerable distance. As it was so very uncomfortable up in the tree, and the bulldog seemed to have made up his mind to be friendly with those who had kindly attended to his wants, Mazie, the lame girl, and Mrs. Jacobus finally consented to be helped down. They kept suspicious eyes on the four-legged visitor however, and insisted that Bose be rigorously excluded from the rustic shelter under which they soon purposed seeking their rest. Max finally managed to rig up a collar, which was attached to the rope, and Bessie secured this around the dog's neck, after which Bose was anchored to another tree. He must have been accustomed to this sort of treatment, for he speedily lay down and went to sleep, as though satisfied to stay with these new friends. Floods as well as politics, often make strange bed-fellows. Having brought his party safely through this crisis Max was again busying himself making plane looking toward their future. He knew that the country was so disturbed by the inundation of the river, with its consequent damage to many homes, that they must depend to a great extent on their own efforts in order to reach Carson again. Still it seemed necessary in the start that one of their number should start out to seek help in the way of some conveyance by means of which the girls and Mrs. Jacobus might be taken to Carson, because he and his chums were well able to walk that distance. On talking this over with the rest, and Shack was invited to join them, much to the secret satisfaction of the "black sheep" of Carson, Max found that they were all opposed to his being the one to go forth. They claimed that he would be needed right along in order to continue the management of affairs. Of course Shack could not go, because his former bad reputation would serve to set people against him, for the whole country knew of the doings of the gang to which he had belonged; Toby was debarred from serving on account of his infirmity in the line of speech, and so it must lie between Bandy-legs and Steve. "I'm the one to go, Max," declared the latter, so resolutely that while Bandy-legs had just been about to volunteer, the words died on his lips; for he knew that when Steve really wanted a thing he must have it, or there would be trouble in the camp; so that Bandy-legs, being a wise youth, shrugged his shoulders and yielded the palm. Once more Max talked it all over with them. They knew next to nothing about the lay of the land around that section, but in a general way that could be figured out; and Steve was cautioned what to avoid in looking for a habitation where he might manage to hire a rig of some sort. Max even made him a rough map, showing some features of the river bank as it was now constituted, so that the messenger would know where to return if he was fortunate enough to secure help. "If we're gone from here," said Max, in conclusion, "we'll manage to leave such a plain trail after us that you can follow as easy as anything." So Steve went around solemnly shaking hands with every one, though he lingered longest when it came to Bessie; and she must have said something pleasant, for he was smiling broadly as though satisfied when he waved them good-bye, and stick in hand, vanished amidst the trees of the forest. CHAPTER XIV UNWELCOME GUESTS After Steve had been gone for some little time those who had been left in the camp under the forest trees prepared to spend the night as best the conditions allowed. Fortunately there were enough of the blankets and covers to go around, so that each one would have some protection against the chill of the night. Max had been wise enough to look out for this when skirmishing around in that abandoned cabin belonging to Mrs. Jacobus. "Will we have to keep any sort of watch, d'ye think, Max?" Bandy-legs asked, after the girls had crawled beneath the rustic shelter, and amid more or less laughter made themselves fairly comfortable. Max smiled. "Yes, but that doesn't necessarily mean any of us will have to stay awake," he went on to say, which remark caused the other to look puzzled until he saw Max nod his head over toward the spot where the ferocious bulldog calmly reposed, with his square head lying between his two forepaws. "Oh! I see now what you mean," Bandy-legs announced; "and that's where your head was level, Max, though for that matter it always is. Sure he'll be the best sentinel agoing. But then there isn't one chance in a thousand we'll be bothered with visitors, unless of the hungry dog kind." "That's so," agreed Max, "but you never can tell; and while the roads are all more or less flooded, and even the railroad blocked, tramps are apt to bob up in places where they've never been known before. We'll be keeping our fire going all night, you know, and that would be a signal to any one passing." The four boys fixed themselves so that they really surrounded the shelter; constructed of boards and branches, in which the girls were snugly settled down. Max had told Mazie they meant to do this, for he felt that the fact would add more or less to the peace of mind of those whom they were protecting. "Better get settled, you fellows," Max told the others, "and after that I'll attend to the fire so it'll keep burning a long time. Shack, what's that rag around your finger for? I hope now you didn't get bitten by one of the dogs when we had our row, because that might turn out to be a bad job." "Oh! shucks, that ain't nawthin' much," Shack replied, with scorn; "I on'y knocked me fin against a tree when I was smackin' that setter a whack. He ducked too quick for me, yuh see, an' I lost him, worse luck; but second time I gives him a poke that made him howl like fits." It apparently pleased Shack considerably to have Max notice that he had his finger bound up in part of a much soiled handkerchief. And by now even Bandy-legs seemed to have accepted the other as a companion in arms, whom the fortunes of war had thrown into their society. Max took a look around before finally lying down. He saw that clouds still obscured the sky, but at least it was not raining, and there seemed a fair chance that the anticipated renewal of the storm would not materialize. There must have been thousands of anxious eyes besides those of Max Hastings surveying that overcast sky on this particular night, because so much depended on whether the sun shone on the morrow, or another dripping day were ushered in, to add to the floods, and increase the discomfort and money loss. He knew that the girls must all be dreadfully worried because messages could not be sent to their respective homes, so as to notify their loved ones of their safety; but it could not be helped. When morning came they would do everything in their power to get in touch with civilization, and if the wires were in working order perhaps they might be able to let their people know how wonderfully they had come out of the turmoil and peril. When Max told the others there was always a possibility that the light of their fire would draw attention to the camp, he hardly dreamed how true his words would prove; yet such was the case. He had managed to get to sleep himself, having found a fairly comfortable position where he could lie wrapped in his blanket, when the growling of the tied bulldog aroused him. As he sat up he saw that Bose was on his bowed feet, and continuing to growl savagely. "Keep quiet there, you ugly sinner!" grumbled a voice close to Max, and which he recognized as belonging to Bandy-legs; "ain't you meanin' to let a feller have any sleep at all to-night? Whatever do you want to growl that way? Wait till breakfast time and you'll get another feed." "There's somebody coming!" said Max, quietly, "and the dog has sensed them." "Gee whiz! then he's an all right sentry after all, ain't he?" exclaimed Bandy-legs, immediately sitting up. Toby had also been aroused, as was also Shack; and the four boys gained their feet at almost the same time. "Wonder who it is?" Bandy-legs was speculating, even as he leaned over so as to pick up his war club. "B-b-bet you it's Steve c-c-coming back!" ventured Toby, and he voiced what was in the mind of Max just then. "There's two on 'em!" declared Shack Beggs joining in with the talk; "yuh c'n see 'em over there aheadin' this way!" Max was glad that he had not thought to return the little weapon entrusted to his care by Mrs. Jacobus. He allowed his hand to pass back to the rear pocket in which it reposed, and the very feel of the steel seemed to give him a sense of security. All of them could easily see the advancing figures now. The closer they came to the circle of firelight the stronger did the convictions of Max become that the campers were in for another unpleasant experience. First it had been half-starved dogs hunting in a pack, having gone back to the primeval habits of their wolfish ancestors; and now it looked as though they were about to suffer from an invasion of tramps. The two men who came boldly forward certainly had a hobo look. Their clothes were tattered and torn, as though they might only be fit for scarecrows in the newly planted corn field; while their faces were unkempt with beards of a week's growth; which helped to make them look uglier than might otherwise have been the case. "Whew! they look hungry enough to eat us out of house and home," Bandy-legs was muttering, as he saw the pair pushing forward; and seemingly sniffing the air after the manner of those who have not broken their fast for many hours. If Max could feel sorry for a dog that needed food he certainly would not think of allowing human beings to go without refreshments as long as they had enough and to spare. So that already his mind was made up not to refuse should the tramps put in a pitiful plea for assistance. Of course their coming would make it necessary for the boys to give up thoughts of finding any further rest; because it would hardly be wise to allow the camp to remain unguarded with such tough looking customers around. The men were scrutinizing the campers closely as they came up. Max saw one of them turn to the other and say something; just what it was he did not know; but he rather fancied it might have been along the order of calling his attention to the fact that they had only "kids" to deal with. "Hello! boys!" the foremost of the men called out as he strode into the circle of light; "seen your fire when we was makin' our way through these here old woods, and allowed that p'raps we might get a bite to eat if we came over. Hain't had nawthin' since mornin', and we're nigh famished, that's straight goods; ain't it, Bill?" "I'm that near gone I could chaw on a dog biscuit and like it!" grumbled the shorter man. "This flood's knocked honest laborers out of their jobs right along, boys," the taller hobo continued, unable to repress a slight grin as he spoke, for he must have been pretty positive that he had not deceived the young fellows by such an absurd suggestion; "and we're trying to git acrost country so's to find work in another quarry. If now youse could only let us have a snack it'd be doin' a real kindness, and we'd thank you straight; wouldn't we, Bill?" "Sure thing, Pepper, we would; got to have somethin', or we'll cave in; and like enough you wouldn't want our spooks to come back and ha'nt ye allers, kids. So here's hopin' ye'll give us a hand-out without more parleyin'." Max did not fancy the manner of the two men. It smacked of a demand rather than a request for assistance; as though they would not take no for an answer, but might be expected to make trouble if refused. While something within him rebelled against being compelled to accede, at the same time Max was ready to make allowances. He fancied that when men were really very hungry they might be excused for showing an irritable disposition. On that account then he repressed his desire to speak sharply. "You've struck a party of flood sufferers, and we're not overly well supplied with grub," Max went on to say; "but I guess we can spare you something to keep the wolf from the door. Just sit down there, and we'll cook you a little supper, though you might call it breakfast, because it must be long after midnight." The men exchanged low words, and then sat down. Max noticed that they seemed to choose their places as with some motive in view, and he did not like it at all. He even saw them glance toward the shelter shack, as if wondering what might be inside, for the girls were awake, and low whispering could be heard within. The food had been taken from the shack and hung from the limb of a tree, where it would be safe from any prowling animal; so that Max did not have to disturb the inmates of the rude shelter when he wished to cut some more of the ham, and get the coffee in the pot. It was a strange experience, this cooking a supper at such an hour of the night for a pair of ugly-looking trampish customers; but Max was so thankful over the wonderful run of good luck that had followed himself and chums that he felt willing to put himself to considerable trouble in order to assist any other sufferer. In times like that it was really a duty they owed to the community to stretch out a helping hand to every one who professed to be in need. Bandy-legs, Toby and Shack Beggs wanted to assist as best they could, but probably their main object was to keep moving, and in this way find chances for the exchange of a few sentences half under their breath, when it happened that their heads came close together. "Look like tough nuts to me!" Bandy-legs told Max the first opportunity he had, as he poked the fire and induced it to burn more brightly. "That's right," replied Max, in the same cautious manner; "so keep your eyes about you all the while; and be ready to swing your club if it turns out to be necessary." "Bet you I will, Max!" muttered the other; "I wonder now if they've got any gun between 'em? Gosh! if we ain't meetin' up with a trail of happenings these days and nights! I say, Max?" "What is it, Bandy-legs?" "Hope now you ain't never give that jolly little automatic back to the lady?" continued Bandy-legs, eagerly. "I've still got it handy, make your mind easy on that score," was what the other told him, and Bandy-legs evidently breathed considerably easier on that account. "Keep shy of 'em when you go to hand over the grub, Max; 'cause I wouldn't put it past that crowd to try and grab you. They just understand that you're the boss of this camp, and if they could only get their hands on you it'd be easy to make the rest of us kowtow to 'em." "You've got a knife in your pocket, haven't you?" asked Max, as he leaned over to give the fryingpan another little shove, as though wishing to hurry matters along, because the two intruders were hungrily watching the preparation of the midnight meal, and looking as though they could hardly wait for the call. "Yes, I always carry one, you know, Max." "Pretty good edge, has it?" pursued the other. "Sharp as a razor, right now," was Bandy-legs' assurance. "All right, then," Max told him; "keep staying close to where the dog's tied, and if you hear me shout out to you, draw your knife blade across the rope when he's drawn it taut. I've got an idea he'll look on all of us as friends, and make for one of the men like a flash!" "Fine! I'll do it, see if I don't!" "Well, get away now, and take up your station," cautioned Max. "Keep watching how they act, but don't give it away that you're looking too close. That's all!" Upon that Bandy-legs moved off. Presently he had passed over to where Bose was tied to the tree. The bulldog had ceased to strain at his leash. He lay again with his massive square head resting on his forepaws, a favorite attitude with him; and his bulging eyes seemed to be fixed on the two newcomers. Evidently he did not trust the ragged tramps, but as his protectors seemed to be granting them the privileges of the camp, far be it from him to interfere; all the same he was going to watch them closely. Max was becoming more and more disturbed. From the manner of the men he felt positive that they would refuse to quietly quit the camp after they had been duly fed. That would mean they must be told to go away, and such an order coming from mere boys would be apt to arouse their evil natures so that trouble must ensue. While he was finishing the cooking of the ham, with the coffee boiling merrily near by on a stone that lay close to the fire, Shack came up with some more fuel. As there was really no need for additional wood Max understood that the other wished to get close enough to him to say something; so he managed things in a way calculated to bring this about. Sure enough Shack quickly lowered his head as he pushed a stick into the fire, and Max heard his whisper, which naturally gave him something of a thrill. "Jailbirds, I sure reckons they be!" was what Shack said. "What makes you think so?" asked Max. "Both got on ole cloes took from scarecrows in the medders; and then if yuh looks right sharp at the left wrist o' ther short coon yuh kin see he's awearin' a steel bracelet. Been handcuffed tuh a sheriff, likely, an' broke away. They'll like as not try tuh run the camp arter they gits filled up. Yuh wanter keep shy o' lettin' 'em git hold o' yuh, Max. They'll be a reg'lar mixup hereabouts if they tries that same on." And this information from Shack, who must know what he was talking about, was enough to make Max draw his breath uneasily. CHAPTER XV BOSE PAYS FOR HIS BOARD When he had set the supper on the ground, and then backed away, Max was simply taking precautions. Doubtless the men noticed what he did, and knew from this that he did not trust their professions of friendliness; for they exchanged further talk in low words that were not intelligible to any of the boys. The girls, unable to longer restrain their natural curiosity, had thrust their heads from the shelter to see what it all meant; and the men must have seen them, though they were savagely attacking the food that had been placed before them. It was astonishing how quickly they cleared their pannikins of the cooked ham and potatoes, as well as gobbled what crackers Max had been able to spare. Each swallowed two cups of scalding coffee without a wink. When the entire amount of food had been made to vanish as though struck by a cyclone, Max expected there would be something doing. He knew the crisis was close at hand, and his cough warned the others to be on the alert. Bandy-legs shuffled a little nearer the recumbent bulldog, and the hand he held behind him really clutched his open knife, with the keen blade ready to do its duty by that rope. Shack and Toby sat close together. They had their hands clasped around their knee but were prepared to bound to their feet like a flash; and close beside them lay their war clubs "ready for business at the old stand," as Toby would have said had he been given the chance to express his opinion. The men were now very close to the end of their meal. It had been a fairly bountiful spread, considering the conditions, but from the rapidity with which those two unwelcome guests caused it to vanish it looked as though they might still be far from satisfied. The taller one began to crane his neck after the manner of a diner in a restaurant looking to see whether the next course was on the way or not. "Hopes as how that ain't all you means to hand out, younker?" he went on to say, with a little menace in his manner that did not seem to be just the right thing for one to display who had been treated so well. "As our stock of food isn't so very large, and we don't know just how long we may have to camp out, it's all we can spare just now," replied Max, in as amiable a tone as he could command. After all it was a mistake to suppose that men like these desperate rascals would allow themselves to feel anything like gratitude. Their instincts were brutal to the core, and they only knew the law of force. These boys and girls had plenty to eat, and they were far from satisfied. If further food was not forthcoming through voluntary means, they would just have to take things as they pleased. They could have nothing to fear from interruptions, in this lonely neighborhood; and as for these four half-grown boys putting up a successful fight against two such hardened characters as they were, was an absurdity that they did not allow to make any impression on them. Still the taller man did not want to rush things too fast. There was something about the cool manner of Max Hastings that warned him the conquest might not be the easy task they thought, he may have sensed the fact that the young leader of the camping party was not an ordinary boy; and then too Shack Beggs had a husky sort of look, as though he knew pretty well how to take care of himself. The bulldog had kept so quiet all this time that the men did not pay much attention to him, lying there peacefully. They probably calculated that if things came down to an actual show of hands it would mean two boys apiece; and surely they should be equal to overcoming such opposition. "Hain't that same kinder rough on us, young feller?" demanded the hobo or escaped jailbird, whichever the taller man might be. "Wot yer gives us only makes us hungrier'n 'ever. Wisht you'd look 'round an' see if yer cain't skeer up somethin' more in the line o' grub. Then we'll stretch out here nigh yer fire, an' git some sleep, 'cause we needs the same right bad." "You've had all we can let go," said Max; "and as your room is better than your company, perhaps you'll feel like moving on somewhere else for the night. If it happens that you've no matches to make a fire to keep warm by, there's part of a box for you," and he coolly tossed a safety-match box toward the taller man, one of a number he had found on a shelf in Mrs. Jacobus' cabin. Somehow his defiant words caused the men to turn and look dubiously at each other. They hardly knew what to expect. Could that shack shelter several men besides the girls whose frightened faces they could see peeping out? There did not seem to be any chance of that being the case, both decided immediately. After exchanging a few muttered sentences the two men began to slowly gain their feet. Shack Beggs and Toby also scrambled erect, holding their cudgels behind them prepared for work. Those men looked dangerous; they would not be willing to leave that comfortable camp at the word of a boy, a mere stripling, at least not until the conditions began to appear more threatening than at present. Max was watching their every action. He had nerved himself for the crisis, and did not mean to be caught napping. Should either of the men show a sudden disposition to leap toward them Max was ready to produce his weapon, and threaten dire consequences. The hand that had not quivered when that huge mastiff was in the act of attacking them would not be apt to betray Max now, as these rascals would discover to their cost. "That's kind in yer, kid, amakin' us a present o' matches when we ain't got nary a one," remarked the spokesman of the pair, as he turned toward Max, and took a step that way. "Hold on, don't come any closer!" warned the boy, threateningly. "What's the matter with yer?" snarled the man, suddenly dropping the mask that he had been figuratively wearing while using soft words. The bulldog must have seen that the danger line had been reached, for he was erect again, and pulling ferociously at his tether, gnashing his ugly white teeth together with an ominous sound, and showing his red open mouth. "Just what I said before," returned Max, steadily; "you came here without any invitation from us. We've warmed you, and fed you the best we could afford, and now we tell you that we want your room a heap more than your company. That's plain enough English, isn't it, Mister, or do you want me to tell you to clear out?" The taller man laughed, but it was a very unpleasant sort of a laugh, which must have made the listening girls shiver with dread of what might be coming when those two burly men flung themselves at the boys in the attempt to capture the camp with its spoils. "Oh! so that's the way the thing runs, is it, kid?" sneered the man; and then changing his manner again he went on to demand harshly: "What if we don't mean to clear out? Supposin' we takes a notion this here is comfy enough fur two ducks that'd like to stay to breakfast, and share yer stock o' grub? What'd ye do 'bout that, younker?" He took another forward step, and from his aggressive manner it was plain to be seen that he meant to attack them speedily. Max waited no longer. He did not want matters to work along until they reached the breaking point, for that would mean a nasty fight; and while he and his chums would undoubtedly come out of this first-best there must be some bruises received, and perhaps blood might have to be shed. So he concluded to stop things where they were. Accordingly he brought his hand to the front and made so as to let them see he was armed. As the hobo did not advance any further it looked as though he may have taken warning; the sight of that up-to-date weapon was enough to make any one pause when about to precipitate trouble, for it could be fired as fast as Max was able to press the trigger. "Bandy-legs!" snapped Max. "Here!" answered the one addressed. "Have you got your knife laid on the rope?" continued the leader of the camp. "You just bet I have, and when you say the word he's goin' to jump for that biggest feller's throat like a cyclone; ain't you, Bose?" turning toward the dog. The ugly looking bulldog gave a yawp that may have been intended for an affirmative answer; and his appearance was so very fierce that it helped the hobo make up his mind he did not care for any closer acquaintance with such an affectionate beast. "Hold on there, don't you be in too big a hurry 'bout slittin' that same rope, kid!" he called out, shrinking back a step now, and half raising his hands as if to be in readiness to protect his neck against those shining teeth. "Then you've changed your mind about wanting to sleep here in this camp, have you?" asked Max, quietly. "We'll allow you to do it on one condition, which is that you let us tie you both up, and hold you here until the sheriff comes to-morrow." From these words it became apparent to the men that the fact of one of them was wearing a broken handcuff must have been discovered by the boys. They looked as black as a thunder cloud, but realized that they were up against a blank wall. "Excuse us 'bout that same, kid," the taller man said, bitterly; "we'd rather take the matches an' go to make a camp somewhere else, where we won't bother youse any. But p'raps ye'll be sorry fur actin' like that by us, won't he, Bill?" "He will, if ever I has anythin' tuh say 'bout it," growled the shorter rascal, shaking his bullet-shaped head, which the boys now saw had been closely shaven, which would indicate that he must in truth be some escaped convict. "We're waiting for you to move along," remarked Max. "Don't bother thanking us for the little food we had to spare you. It may keep you from starvation, anyway. And see here, if so much as a single stone comes into this camp after you've gone I give you my word we'll cut that rope, and start the dog after you. Now just suit yourselves about that!" The men gave one last uneasy look at the bulldog, and as though he knew he was in the spotlight just then Bose growled more fearfully than ever, and showed still more of his spotted throat, and red distended jaws, with their attendant white, cruel looking fangs. It was enough. The taller man shook his head dismally as though, knowing that neither of them possessed the first weapon, he judged it would be something bordering on suicide to provoke that fierce beast to extreme measures. "There'll be no stone throwin', make yer mind easy on that score, younker," he told Max, between his teeth; "but if ever we should happen to meet up with you er any o' yer crowd agin, look out, that's all! Kim erlong, Bill, we quits cold right here, see?" With that they stalked moodily away, and the boys seemed able to draw freer breaths after their departure. Max stood ready to carry out his threat should the men attempt to bombard the camp with stones, and for some little time he kept Bandy-legs standing there, knife in hand, ready to sever the rope that kept Bose from his liberty. There was no need, it turned out. The two men had realized that they were in no condition to carry matters to a point of open hostilities with those who had fed them and given them a helping hand; and perhaps that vague threat of detaining them there until the coming of the officers may have added to their desire to "shake the dust of that region from their shoes," as Bandy-legs expressed it, although Toby told him he would have a pretty hard time finding anything like dust in those days of rain-storms and floods. It took a long time to reassure the girls, and coax them to try and sleep again. As for Max he was determined to keep awake, and on guard until dawn arrived; which in fact was exactly what he did. CHAPTER XVI AFTER THE FLOOD--CONCLUSION "Well, it's come morning at last, and for one I'm right glad to see it," and Bandy-legs stretched himself, with numerous yawns, while making this remark. Max admitted that he felt pretty happy himself to see the day break in the far east, with a prospect for the sun appearing speedily, since the clouds had taken wings and vanished while darkness lay upon the land. Everybody was soon moving around, and the girls insisted that breakfast should be given over entirely to their charge. "From what you've told us," Bessie French declared, when there were some plaintive murmurs on the part of Bandy-legs and Max to the effect that they wished to save their guests from all hard work, "we expect that you find plenty of times to do all the cooking that's good for you. Now it isn't often that you have girls in camp to show you what they know about these things; so I think you'd better tell us to do just as we feel like; and that's going to be take charge of the meals as long as we're together." Of course secretly Max and Bandy-legs were just as well pleased as anything could be over this dictum from the fair ones; they simply wanted to do their duty, and show that they meant right. Well, that breakfast was certainly the finest the boys had ever eaten while in the woods at any time; and they voted the cooks a great success. "We'd be happy to have you with us always, when the camping fever came along," Bandy-legs informed them, as he came in for his third helping; "though of course that would be impossible, because we sometimes get away off out of touch with everything, and girls couldn't stand what we put up with. Besides, I don't believe your folks would let you try it. So we'll always have, to remember this time when we get our grits burned, or, something else goes wrong, as it nearly always does when I'm trying to play _chef_." After the meal was over they held a council of war to decide upon their next move. It seemed folly to stay there doing nothing to better their condition; and that sort of thing did not correspond with the habits of Max, who believed in getting out and hustling for business, rather than wait for it to come to him. "We'll get our stuff together, such as we might need in case we do have to stay another night in the forest," he told them in conclusion, when every one had been heard, and it was decided to make a start; "and then head in a certain direction that I told Steve I thought would take him to a road marked on my rough map. If we're real lucky we may even meet Steve headed for this place, with some sort of vehicle that will carry the whole crowd." No one appeared very enthusiastic, for truth to tell it was not at all unpleasant camping in this way; and only for the fact that they knew their folks would surely be dreadfully worried concerning them the girls secretly confessed to one another that they might have wished the experience to be indefinitely prolonged. "I'll never forget that cute little shelter," Mazie told Max, as they found themselves about ready to say good-bye to their night's encampment; "and although we did have a bad scare when those two tramps came around, I think I slept almost as well as I should have done at my own home. That's because we all felt such confidence in our guardians. Now, don't get conceited, and believe we think you're perfect, because boys have lots of faults, the same as girls." "I wonder what became of those two poor fellows?" mused Bessie, who still believed that the men were just ordinary, lazy, good-for-nothing hoboes, with a dislike for hard work, and resting under the conviction that the world owed them a living; for the boys had decided that there was no use telling them about the broken handcuff they had noticed on the wrist of the smaller scamp. "I wouldn't be surprised if they were miles away from here by now," said Max, with a knowing wink toward Toby, who chanced to be standing near. "Then they're more active than most tramps I've seen appeared to be," remarked Bessie; "but I do hope we meet Steve coming with some sort of conveyance, because twenty miles over poor roads fills me with horror, though I'll try the best I know how to keep up with the rest of you. Think of poor little Mabel, though; she would be tired before we had gone three miles." "Never fear but what we'll get hold of some sort of vehicle, sooner or later," Max assured her; "when we strike the road we are bound to run across farms occasionally; and surely they will not all have been deserted. Some of them must be on high land, and safe from the floods." It was in this spirit that they said good-bye to the pleasant camp, and turned their backs upon the modest but serviceable shack. "I honestly believe it would shed rain like the back of a duck," Bandy-legs declared, proudly, as though satisfied to know that he had had a hand in building the shelter. "But we're all glad it wasn't put to the test," Mazie observed, as she looked up at the clear sky with the greatest of pleasure. It may not have mattered so much to the boys whether or not the rains had stopped for good, but they could understand that there were hosts of people who would be mighty thankful the morning had broken so promising, for if clear weather prevailed the floods would of course have a chance to go down. Max had laid out his plans as well as he could, on the preceding night, so that he was prepared to move right along the line of least resistance; that is, from the conformation of the country, as marked upon the little map he had drawn of the neighboring region, he meant to select a route that would keep them away from the lowlands, now flooded. They did not find any great difficulty in making fair progress, although the little lame girl had to be assisted often. She was very brave, however, and anxious to prove that she must not be looked on as helpless. Inside of an hour they had come upon a road, just as Max had figured would be the case. So far nothing had been seen of Steve, though according to promise they were careful to leave a broad trail behind them, so that if he should visit the camp after their departure he would find no difficulty about following in their wake. If Steve had faithfully carried out the directions given him, Max knew that he certainly must have reached this same road, and possibly not far from the point at which they too struck it. As he walked along Max was keeping a bright lookout for certain signs which he had arranged Steve should leave on the right-hand side of the hill road to tell them he had been there. These he discovered inside of ten minutes after they started to travel along the highway, which was in fair condition considering the bad weather. A branch had been partly broken, and as it lay seemed to point ahead. When a short distance beyond they came upon the same thing repeated, there no longer remained the slightest doubt but what it was the work of their absent chum. Max explained all these things to the girls, partly to cheer them up; and then again because he knew Bessie would be interested in everything that Steve did. After that they all watched the road at every bend, and hope kept surging up in their hearts as they fancied they heard the distant sound of wheels. What if disappointments came many times, they knew that Steve must be ahead somewhere, and would exhaust every device in the endeavor to accomplish the more important part of his duty. Just about an hour afterwards they all caught the unmistakable sound of wheels, and then came a well known voice calling to the horses to "get busy"; after which a big hay-rick turned the bend a little way ahead, with Steve wielding the whip, and a boy perched on the seat alongside him, possibly to bring back the rig after they were through with it. Loud were the cheers that went up, and no one shouted with more vim than Shack Beggs, who seemed to have gradually come to believe that from this time on there was no longer going to be anything in the shape of a gulf between him and Max, as well as the other chums. He had been through peril in their company, and there is nothing in the wide world that draws people closer together than sharing common dangers. So the hay-rick was turned around, and the girls made as comfortable as could be done. The boys managed to perch almost anywhere, and were as merry as though they had not a care or a worry in the world. "Can we make Carson in a day?" Bessie demanded, when the two horses toiled slowly up a rather steep hill. "I think we will," Max assured her; "if we're lucky, and don't get stalled by some washed-out bridge. But at the worst we ought to get where we can use the wires to send the news home; and find decent shelter to-night, at some farmhouse." "Now watch us make time!" called out Steve, who was still doing duty as driver, though Bandy-legs and Shack Beggs had both offered to spell him when he got tired. The grade being down-hill they covered the ground much more rapidly, and amidst more or less shouting the next mile was put behind them. So they went on until noon came, and Max was of the opinion that more than one-third of their tedious journey had been accomplished. This they learned was a fact when they stopped at a farmhouse, and coaxed the good wife to cook them a glorious dinner, allowing the horses to have a good rest, so that they would be equal to the balance of the day's work. Max, as usual, improved the opportunity to pick up pointers, and in this way no doubt saved himself and friends more or less useless work; for they heard about a bridge that had been carried away, and were thus enabled to take a branch road that kept to the higher ground. Once more they were on the move, and headed for home. It was encouraging to learn that the water seemed to be already lowering, as the worst of the freshet had spent its force, and the promised storm had been shunted off in another direction by a fortunate change of wind. As the afternoon began to draw near its close they found themselves getting in very familiar country, and this told them Carson and home could be only a few miles distant. There was no longer any doubt about making it that evening, though it might be sunset before they arrived at their destination. Of course this gave the girls more or less happiness, though they protested that they were enjoying themselves hugely. It was far from a comfortable ride at the best, however, and often Bessie and Mazie would gladly get out and walk with some of the boys, while they were climbing hills. This eased the strain on the tired horses, and at the same time gave their own cramped limbs a chance to secure the much needed exercise. Finally the last hill had been mounted, and there lay Carson bathed in the glow of the setting sun. The boys greeted the welcome sight with lusty cheers, in which two of the girls joined. Mabel did not feel so happy, because she could not forget how her own beloved home had been carried away in the flood; though there was little doubt but that Asa French was able to build him a far better house, and stock his farm afresh, for he had plenty of money out at interest. The day was over, but the light still remained as the hay-rick, with that little company of boys and girls aboard, reached the streets of Carson. Shouts attested to the interest their coming aroused; for every one knew about the fall of the bridge, and how Max and his comrades were carried away with it. No word having come from them since, of course their families were almost distracted; and it can easily be understood that the warmest kind of welcome awaited all of the castaways on their arrival home. Carson was already beginning to recover from the shock occasioned by the rising waters. All sorts of "hard luck" stories kept coming to town from neighboring farmers, who were so unfortunate as to live in the lowlands, where the soil's richness had tempted them to make their homes. It seems to always be the case that where danger lurks in the way of floods or volcanic eruptions, there the wonderful productiveness of the soil serves as a lure to tempt people to accept risks. As a rule these folks are able to laugh at their neighbors on the higher lands; but sooner or later there comes a time when things do not look so rosy, and perhaps they lose all their accumulation of years. Already plans were being discussed to take advantage of the misfortunes that had come upon the community so as to build better. The new bridge would be a beauty, and so staunch that no flood could ever dislodge it. Houses that had been swept away, or ruined in other ways were to be replaced by more commodious and up-to-date buildings, and the new barns would also far outclass those that had gone. It was perhaps a much needed lesson, and Carson inside of a few years was bound to profit by what at the time had seemed to be the greatest calamity that had ever visited the community. Max Hastings and his chums would never forget their strange experiences. They had to relate the story many times to the good people of Carson, as well as their schoolmates. That cruise on a floating bridge would go down in the annals of the town as one of the most remarkable events that had ever happened. Of course Mabel found a chance to communicate with her almost distracted parents and assure them of her safety. None of the three girls suffered in the least as the result of their exposure and privations. They always declared that it had in many ways been the most delightful experience in their lives; and whenever this was said in the presence of Steve or Max of course those boys smiled contentedly, because they took it as a compliment that Mazie and Bessie considered camping in their company, under such discouraging conditions, as a genuine picnic. It was perhaps a rather remarkable fact that some of Steve's pictures did actually turn out fairly well. He had tried the best he knew how to keep the little camera from being submerged in the water; and while outwardly the leather case had suffered, the films were very little injured. They were more than glad of this, because it gave them something tangible as a reminder of the eventful trip, and the strange adventures that followed their being kidnapped by the runaway bridge. Later on that summer, when they had a chance to make a day's tour in an automobile, Max, Steve, Bandy-legs, and Toby invited both Mazie Dunkirk and Bessie French to accompany them; and in fine style they visited along the route of their homeward journey after leaving the camp under the forest trees. Nothing would satisfy the two girls but that they must leave the car somewhere and foot it through the well remembered aisles of the dense woods until finally they came upon the dear shack where they had spent that never-to-be-forgotten night. There they cooked dinner, and enjoyed a real picnic. Every little event of that delightful past was gone over again with exactness; and all of them pronounced the day one of the happiest of the calendar. The shack was still in serviceable condition, and the girls were pleased to pretend that they might still have need of a shelter whenever a cloud as big as a boy's pocket appeared in the sky. Max never learned what became of the two men who had invaded their camp. Doubtless the annals of some penitentiary might disclose the fact that they had escaped from its walls; but whether they were recaptured or not none of the boys ever knew. Of course Max and his chums were looking forward to other outings when the vacation period came around again; and we trust that it may be our good fortune to be given the privilege of placing before the reader some account of these stirring happenings. Until such time we can only add that Shack Beggs was surely making good, having completely severed his relations with those cronies who had so many times led him along crooked, ways; and whenever Max has the chance he does not hesitate to hold out a friendly hand to the struggling lad, knowing that it is this encouragement on the part of his boy friends that will do more than anything else to plant Shack's feet firmly on solid ground. 
20455	----	[Illustration: STRICKEN] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE TRUE STORY OF OUR NATIONAL CALAMITY OF FLOOD, FIRE AND TORNADO The appalling loss of life, the terrible suffering of the homeless, the struggles for safety, and the noble heroism of those who risked life to save loved ones; the unprecedented loss of property, resulting in the laying waste of flourishing cities and towns HOW THE WHOLE NATION JOINED IN THE WORK OF RELIEF By LOGAN MARSHALL Author of "THE SINKING OF THE TITANIC," "THE UNIVERSAL HANDBOOK," "LIFE OF THEODORE ROOSEVELT," "THE STORY OF POLAR CONQUEST," "MARSHALL'S HANDY MANUAL," Etc. PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED WITH AUTHENTIC PHOTOGRAPHS ----------------------------------------------------------------------- COPYRIGHT 1913, BY L. T. MYERS The material in this work is fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States. All persons are warned against making any use of it without permission. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Prayer by Bishop David H. Greer: O Merciful God and Heavenly Father, who hast taught us in Thy holy word that Thou dost not willingly afflict or grieve the children of men, give ear to the prayers which we humbly offer to Thee in behalf of our brethren who are suffering from the great water floods. Cause them in their sorrow to experience the comfort of Thy presence, and in their bewilderment the guidance of Thy wisdom. Stir up, we beseech Thee, the wills of Thy people to minister with generous aid to their present needs, and so overrule in Thy providence this great and sore calamity that we may be brought nearer to Thee and be knit more closely one to another in sympathy and love. All which we humbly ask, through Jesus Christ Our Lord. Amen. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- [Illustration: WHERE THE NATION'S SYMPATHIES ARE CENTERED] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CONTENTS CHAPTER I The Greatest Cataclysm in American History . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 CHAPTER II The Death-Bearing Flood at Dayton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 CHAPTER III Dayton's Menace of Fire and Famine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 CHAPTER IV Dayton in the Throes of Distress . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 CHAPTER V The Recuperation of Dayton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 CHAPTER VI Dayton: "The City of a Thousand Factories" . . . . . . . . . . . . 104 CHAPTER VII The Devastation of Columbus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110 CHAPTER VIII Columbus: The Beautiful Capital of Ohio . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138 CHAPTER IX Cincinnati: A New Center of Peril . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142 CHAPTER X The Flood in Western Ohio . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152 CHAPTER XI The Flood in Northern Ohio . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163 CHAPTER XII The Flood in Eastern Ohio . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169 CHAPTER XIII The Flood in Eastern Indiana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179 CHAPTER XIV The Desolation of Indianapolis and the Valley of the White River. . 184 CHAPTER XV The Roaring Torrent of the Wabash . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191 CHAPTER XVI The Plight of Peru: A Stricken City . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 197 CHAPTER XVII The Death-Dealing Tornado at Omaha . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 204 CHAPTER XVIII Struggles of Stricken Omaha . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 212 CHAPTER XIX Omaha: "The Gate City of the West" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 217 CHAPTER XX Other Damage from the Nebraska Tornado . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 220 CHAPTER XXI The Tornado in Iowa and Illinois . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225 CHAPTER XXII The Tornado in Kansas and Arkansas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 228 CHAPTER XXIII The Tornado in Indiana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231 CHAPTER XXIV The Tornado in Pennsylvania . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 239 CHAPTER XXV The Freak Tornado in Alabama . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 243 CHAPTER XXVI The Flood in New York . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 246 CHAPTER XXVII The Flood in Pennsylvania . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 254 CHAPTER XXVIII The Flood in the Ohio Valley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263 CHAPTER XXIX The Flood in the Mississippi Valley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 270 CHAPTER XXX Damage to Transportation, Mail and Telegraph Facilities . . . . . . 277 CHAPTER XXXI The Work of Relief . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 285 CHAPTER XXXII Previous Great Floods and Tornadoes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 294 CHAPTER XXXIII Lessons of the Cataclysm and Precautionary Measures . . . . . . . . 308 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- The Unleashed Gods By Percy Shaw Iron and rock are our slaves; We are liege to marble and steel; We go our ways through our purse-proud days, Lifting our voices in loud self-praise-- Forgetting the God at the wheel. We build our bulwarks of stone, Skyscraper and culvert and tower, Till the God of Flood, keen-nosed for blood, Drags our monuments into the mud In the space of a red-eyed hour. Kings of the oceans are we, With our liners of rocket speed, Till the God of Ice, in mist-filled trice, Calls to us harshly to pay his price As we sink to the deep-sea weed. Muscle and brain are our slaves; We are liege to iron and steel; But who shall say, tomorrow, today, That we shall not halt on our onward way To bow to the God at the wheel? ----------------------------------------------------------------------- [Illustration: HELPING HANDS] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CHAPTER I THE GREATEST CATACLYSM IN AMERICAN HISTORY THE UNCONTROLLABLE FORCES OF NATURE--THE DEVASTATION OF OMAHA--THE TERROR OF THE FLOOD--A VIVID PICTURE OF THE FLOOD--THE TRAGEDY OF DEATH AND SUFFERING--THE SYMPATHY OF NATIONS--THE COURAGE OF THE STRICKEN--MEN THAT SHOWED THEMSELVES HEROES. Man is still the plaything of Nature. He boasts loudly of conquering it; the earth gives a little shiver and his cities collapse like the house of cards a child sets up. A French panegyrist said of our own Franklin: "He snatched the scepter from tyrants and the lightning from the skies," but the lightning strikes man dead and consumes his home. He thinks he has mastered the ocean, but the records of Lloyds refute him. He declares his independence of the winds upon the ocean, and the winds upon the land touch his proud constructions and they are wrecks. He imprisons the waters behind a dam and fetters the current of the rivers with bridges; they bestir themselves and the fetters snap, his towns are washed away and thousands of dead bodies float down the angry torrents. He burrows into the skin of the earth for treasure, and a thousand men find a living grave. Man has extorted many secrets from Nature; he can make a little use of a few of its forces; but he is impotent before its power. Thus we pause to reflect upon the most staggering and tragic cataclysm of Nature that has been visited upon our country since first our forefathers won it from the Indian--the unprecedented succession of tornadoes, floods, storms and blizzards, which in March, 1913, devastated vast areas of territory in Ohio, Indiana, Nebraska and a dozen other states, and which were followed fast by the ravages of fire, famine and disease. THE DEVASTATION OF OMAHA The terrible suddenness and irresistible power of such catastrophes make them an object of overwhelming fear. The evening of Easter Sunday in Omaha was doubtless as placid and uneventful as a thousand predecessors, until an appalling roar and increasing darkness announced to the initiated the approach of a tornado, and in a few minutes forty-seven city blocks were leveled to the ground. The fairest and best built part of the city could no more withstand this awful force than the weakest hovels. Twelve hundred buildings were destroyed, most of them homes, but among them many churches and school houses. The just and the unjust fared alike in this riot of destruction and then the tornado rushed on to find other objects on which to wreck its force in Council Bluffs and elsewhere. It left in its wake many fires, but fortunately also a heavy rain, while later a deep fall of snow covered up the scene of its awful destruction. THE TERROR OF THE FLOOD With the rest of the country, fair Dayton sorrowed for Omaha. Two days later Omaha, bowed and almost broken by her own misfortune, looked with sympathy across to Dayton, whose woe was even greater. A thousand communities in the United States read the story and in their own sense of security sent eager proffers of assistance to the striken districts. And not one of them has assurance that it may not be next. There is no sure definition of the course of the earthquake, the path of the wind, the time and place of the storm-cloud. Science has its limitations. Only the Infinite is master of these forces. In the legal parlance of the practice of torts such occurrences as these are known as "acts of God." Theologians who attempt to solve the mysteries of Providence have found in such occasions the evidence of Divine wrath and warning to the smitten people. But to seek the reason and to know the purpose, if there be purpose in it, is not necessary. The fact is enough. It challenges, staggers, calls a halt, compels men and women to think--and even to pray. But the flood did not confine itself to Dayton. It laid its watery hand of death and destruction over a whole tier of states from the Great Lakes to New England, and over the vast area to the southward which is veined by the Ohio River and its tributaries, and extending from the Mississippi Valley almost to the Atlantic seaboard. And as this awful deluge drained from the land into Nature's watercourses the demons of death and devastation danced attendance on its mad rush that laid waste the borderlands of the Mississippi River from Illinois to the Gulf of Mexico. A VIVID PICTURE OF THE FLOOD Those who have never seen a great flood do not know the meaning of the Scriptural phrase, "the abomination of desolation." An explosion, a railroad wreck, even a fire--these are bad enough in their pictorial effect of shattered ruins and confusion. But for giving one an oppressive sense of death-like misery, there is nothing equal to a flood. I do not speak now of the loss of life, which is unspeakably dreadful, but of the scenic effect of the disaster. It just grips and benumbs you with its awfulness. In the flat country of the Middle West there is less likelihood of swift, complete destruction than in narrow valleys, like those of Johnstown and Austin in Pennsylvania. But the effect is, if anything, more gruesome. After the crest has passed there are miles and miles of inundated land, with only trees and half-submerged buildings and floating wreckage to break the monotony; just a vast lake of yellow, muddy water, swirling and boiling as it seeks to find its level. [Illustration: THE CITIES AND TOWNS INCLOSED BY THE HEAVY BLACK DOTTED LINES WERE THE CHIEF SUFFERERS BY THE SWEEP OF WATERS] The scene in a town is particularly ghastly. How ghastly it is, you would have realized if you could have gone with the writer into the flooded districts of Ohio and Indiana, traveling from point to point in automobiles and motor boats, penetrating to the heart of the flood in boats even before the waters receded, and afterwards on foot. The upper floors of houses not torn from their foundations look all right, but it fairly makes you sick to see the waves of turbid water lapping at second floor sills, with tangled tree branches and broken furniture floating about. It seems horrible--it is horrible--to think of that yellow flood pouring into pleasant rooms where a few hours before the family sat in peace and fancied security--roaring over the threshold, swirling higher and higher against the walls, setting the cherished household treasures astray, driving the furniture hither and thither, drowning out cheerful rooms in darkness and death. If anything can be worse than this, it is the scenes when the waters recede. The shade trees that stood in the streets so trim and beautiful are all bedraggled and bent, their branches festooned with floating wreckage and all manner of offensive things, their leaves sodden, their trunks caked with mud. The streets are seas of yellow ooze. Garden fences and hedges are twisted or torn away. Reeking heaps of indescribable refuse lie moldering where there were smooth lawns and bright flower beds. The houses that stand are all smeared with the dirt that shows the height of the flood. But inside those houses--that is the dreadful thing. The rooms that the water filled are like damp caves. Mud lies thick on the floors, the walls are streaked with slime, and the paper hangs down in dismal festoons. Some pictures may remain hanging, but they are all twisted and tarnished. The furniture is a tumbled mass of confusion and filth. But the worst is the reek of decay and death about the place. THE TRAGEDY OF DEATH AND SUFFERING But there is something greater in its tragedy than all this--something greater than a great region where splendid cities, towns and humble villages alike are without resource--something greater than a region of broken dams and embankments and of placid rivers gone mad in flood, bridgeless, uncontrollable, widened into lakes, into seas. It is the hundreds of dead who died a hideous death, and the hundreds of thousands of living who are left helpless and homeless, and all but hopeless. Just for one moment think--we in our warm, comfortable houses, comfortably clad, safe, smiling and happy--of the half million of our fellow creatures out yonder shivering and trembling and dying, in the grasp of the "destruction that wasteth at noonday," swiftly pursued by "the pestilence which walketh in darkness." The leaping terror of the flames climaxes the terror of the harrowing day and the helpless, hopeless night of agony and sorrow and despair. Think of the men, women, children and the little babies crushed and mangled amid the wreck of shattered homes--but yesterday as beautiful and bright as ours--the pallid faces of hundreds floating as corpses in the stately streets turned into rushing rivers by the relentless floods--brothers and sisters of ours, freezing and starving in homes turned suddenly into broken rafts and battered houseboats amid the muddy deluge, while the pitying stars look down at night upon thousands, wet, weeping, shivering, hungry, helpless and homeless, with the host of their unrecognized and unburied dead, in this frightful holocaust of fire and flood and pestilence. Think of the region where people are huddled shivering on hills or housetops, watching the swelling waters; where practically every convenience, means of communication, comfort, appliance of civilization has been wiped out or stopped; where there is little to eat and no way of getting food save from the country beyond the waters; where millionaire and pauper, Orville Wright and humble scrub-woman, stand shoulder to shoulder in the bread-line that winds towards the relief stations, all alike dependent for once on charity for the barest sustenance. THE SYMPATHY OF NATIONS These are the tragedies that touch our hearts. These are the tragedies that have brought messages of condolence from King George of England, from the King of Italy, from the Shah of Persia and from other monarchs of Europe. These are the tragedies that impelled a widow in a small town in Massachusetts, in sending her mite for the relief of the unfortunate, to write: "Just one year ago, when the ill-fated Titanic deprived me of my all, the Red Cross Society lost not a moment in coming to my aid." These are tragedies, too, that have prompted wage-earners all over the country to contribute to the relief of the flood sufferers a part of their own means of support that could ill be spared--soiled and worn bills and silver pieces laid down with unspoken sympathy by men and women and children, too, who wanted nothing said about it and turned and went out to face the struggle for existence again. These people did not think twice about whether they should help those in greater necessity than their own. They had been helping one another all their lives, and it seemed not so much a duty as a natural thing to do to respond to the call from the West, where people had lost their lives and others were homeless and suffering. THE COURAGE OF THE STRICKEN This spirit of helpfulness is a fine thing. But even finer was the spirit of self-help. Secretary Garrison's telegram to President Wilson from the flooded districts that the people in the towns and cities affected had the situation well in hand and that very little emergency assistance was needed, was a splendid testimonial to the courage and the resourcefulness of the people of the Middle West and the admirable cheerfulness which they exhibited during the trying days that followed the beginning of the calamity. There was not a whimper, but on the contrary there was a spirit of optimism that must prove to be most stimulating to the rest of the country. MEN THAT SHOWED THEMSELVES HEROES But perhaps the finest thing of all is the memory of the heroes that showed themselves. When death and disaster, in the form of flood and fire, swept Dayton, John H. Patterson arose with the tide to the level of events. Patterson is the man, more than any other, who brought cosmos out of chaos. When the flood was rising and nobody knew what the result would be, John H. Patterson began to wire for motor boats. He did not ask, he demanded. And the motor boats came. Patterson took all of the carpenters from the National Cash Register--one hundred and fifty skilled woodworkers--and set them to work making flat boats. The entire force of the great institution was at the disposal of the people who needed help. And not a man or a woman was docked or dropped from the payroll. Everybody had time and a third. As for John H. Patterson himself, he worked in three shifts of eight hours each; and for forty-eight hours he practically neither slept nor ate. And then, by way of rest, he took a Turkish bath and a horseback ride, and forty winks, and was again on the job--this man of seventy, who has known how to breathe and how to think and who carries with him the body of a wrestler and the lavish heart of youth! There were many other heroes--too many to mention here--but we cannot forget John A. Bell, the telephone operator who was driven to the roof of the building, where with emergency instruments he cut in on one of the wires, and for two days and nights, in the driving rain, without food or drink or dry clothing, kept the outside world informed as to what was going on and the needs of the sufferers. What Bell endured during those long hours was enough to kill the heart in a very strong man. Yet his greeting to Governor Cox, over the crippled wire Thursday morning, was: "Good morning, Governor. The sun is shining in Dayton." Could anything be finer! Men with such spirit are great men, and the spirit that was in John H. Patterson and John A. Bell is the same spirit that was in John Jacob Astor, and Archie Butt, and George B. Harris, and Charles M. Hayes, and the band of musicians on the Titanic that played in water waist deep. As I stood amid the slimy ruins of Dayton the day after the waters receded, Brigadier-General Wood said to me, "There go Patterson and Bell. Would you like to shake hands with them?" And I said, "Just now I would rather shake hands with those two men than own the National Cash Register Company." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The Storms By Chester Firkins And you are still the Master. We have reared Cities and citadels of seeming might, But in the passing of a single night You rend them unto ruin. We who feared Nor flood nor wind nor wreckage fire-seared, We shudder helpless in the thunder-light; The garners cherished and the souls endeared Emptied and sudden-slaughtered in our sight. You, whom the Cave Man battled, whom we call Nature, because we know no better name, Goddess of gentleness and torture-flame, Still are you despot; still are we the thrall; Still we can only wait what Fate may fall From your wild pinions that no man can tame. Nor gold or gain, nor battlement or wall Shall guard us from the primal flood and flame. Our castled cities tower to your skies. 'Gainst wind and wave we pile our stone and mold. Powered of genius, panoplied of gold, We build the bastions of our high emprise. But yet, but let the plunging torrent rise, The winds awake on glutted rivers rolled-- We die as the reft robin fledgeling dies-- We perish as the beast in jungles old. We dream that we are conquerors of Earth; We think that we are mighty, that we dare Scorn your grim power--till we glimpse the flare Of burning Death 'mid holiness of Birth. What is our godliness and wisdom worth Against your strength embattled unaware? You are the Master, ever, everywhere, Deadly and gentle o'er the wide World's girth. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - CHAPTER II THE DEATH-BEARING FLOOD AT DAYTON EXTENT OF THE FLOOD--THE RESERVOIR BREAKS--BUSINESS SECTION FLOODED--THOUSANDS MAROONED--MANY CREEP TO SAFETY BY CABLE--JOHN H. PATTERSON, CASH REGISTER HEAD, LEADS RELIEF--EMPLOYEES ASSIST IN RELIEF--SCENES OF HORROR--APPEALS FOR AID. It remained for two telephone operators to be the real factors in giving to the world the news of the first day of the flood which inundated Dayton, Ohio, and the whole of the Miami Valley on Tuesday, March 25th. One, in the main exchange at Dayton, flashed the last tidings that came out of the stricken city by telephone, and delivered to Governor Cox news which enabled him to grasp the situation and start the rescue work. The other was the operator at Phoneton, who served as a relay operator for the man in Dayton. They stood to their posts as long as the wires held, and worked all day and night. EXTENT OF THE FLOOD A seething flood of water from eight to twenty feet deep covered all but the outlying sections of the city by the evening of the 25th. Beneath the waters and within the ruined buildings lay the unnumbered dead. The flooded districts comprised practically a circle with a radius of a mile and a half, and in no place was the water less than six feet deep. In Main Street, in the downtown section, the water was twenty feet deep. The horror of the flooded district was heightened by more than a dozen fires which could be seen in the flooded district, but out of reach of fire fighters. Most of the business houses and nearly all residences had occupants. Downtown the offices were filled with men, fathers unable to get home, and the upper floors and on some of the roofs of the residences were helpless women and children. Hundreds of houses, substantial buildings in the residence districts, many of them with helpless occupants, were washed away. The water in the Miami River began rising Monday afternoon at the rate of six inches an hour and continued to rise throughout the night. The first break in the levee at Dayton came at four o'clock Tuesday morning at Stratford Avenue. This was followed by other breaks at East Second Street and Fifth. THE RESERVOIR BREAKS But the severity of the flood that hit Dayton was due to the collapse of the Loramie reservoir in Shelby County about seven o'clock on Tuesday morning, hurling millions of gallons of water into the swollen Miami. Rushing down the Miami Valley, the water carried everything before it at Piqua, Troy, Sidney, Dayton, Carrollton, Miamisburg and Hamilton. Three rivers, the Miami, Stillwater and Mad, and Wolf Creek conjoin in the heart of Dayton. As the city, particularly North Dayton, and a north section called Riverside, lies almost on a level with the four streams, it is protected from high water by levees twenty-five feet high, which guide the streams through the city from its northern to its southern end. [Illustration: NORTHERN PART OF DAYTON, AND WATER COURSES WHICH OVERWHELMED THE CITY] North Dayton is a manufacturing and residence district. Riverdale is a residence district. In the southern part of the city, on fairly high ground, is the great plant of the National Cash Register Company Wolf Creek, flowing into the Miami from the northwest, early got out of its banks and added to the flood flowing over the floors of the Williams Street and Edgewater Avenue bridges. Mad River, in the northern section, also got over its banks early. All of North Dayton, save the extreme uplands, was inundated. The Miami was more than a mile wide below the city, and thousands of acres were inundated. BUSINESS SECTION FLOODED At Third and Ludlow Streets, where were located the great Algonquin Hotel, a magnificent church, the great Y. M. C. A. building and the Hotel Atlas, were many feet of water. The central portion of the city was flooded, and the beautiful residence district, lying east of the exclusive boulevard district, was a Venice. Hundreds of homes were filled with floating furniture. The citizens, used to the slow-creeping floods of other years, were entirely mystified and distracted by this sudden, hurtling, seething flood that seemed to spring by night from the clouds that hovered low over the city and plunged their seas of water into the rivers that converge in the very heart of Dayton. Railroad and wagon bridges over the Miami River were swept away. The telephone operator at Phoneton said that from his window in the station he had seen a bridge one mile north of Dayton collapse and another bridge crossing the river at Tadmor, eleven miles north of Dayton, was expected to give way at any moment. Communication between Phoneton and Dayton, the operator said, was only intermittent, as the only available wire was being used by the linemen in their efforts to restore service. Troy and Tippecanoe City, north of Dayton, were both flooded and many people took refuge on the roofs of their homes. Below Dayton vast acreages were seas of yellow. Farms were lakes, roads were raceways through which raced the swollen streams. Telegraph service was maimed, and all sorts of communication was well-nigh impossible. THOUSANDS MAROONED Crowded in the upper stories of tall office buildings and residences, two miles each way from the center of the town, were thousands of persons whom it was impossible to approach. At Wyoming Street, three miles beyond what has heretofore been considered the danger line, water was running eight feet deep. The Western Union operator at Dodson, Ohio, said the office was filled with foreigners who had fled from Dayton. Looters were shooting people down in the streets, according to these refugees. They also reported that the Fifth Street bridge at Dayton had washed down against the railroad bridge and arrangements were being made to dynamite both structures. This bridge was dynamited in the afternoon, but the effect was not felt to any marked degree. The foreigners who sought refuge in the Dodson telegraph office were panic-stricken and told wild stories of the flood, saying nearly every part of the town was under water and the conditions becoming more serious. The breaking of the Tarleton reservoir, which supplies the drinking water, left the city without water and added great danger of typhoid in the use of flood water. Frank Purviance, an employee of the Terre Haute, Indianapolis and Eastern Traction Company, at Dayton, over the long-distance telephone said scores had been drowned there. "They're dying like rats in their homes; bodies are washing around the streets and there's no relief in sight," Purviance said. MANY CREEP TO SAFETY BY CABLE At Wyoming Station, on the South Side, where the National Cash Register Company centered its efforts at rescue, many saved their lives by creeping on a telephone cable, a hundred feet above the flood. At first linemen crept along the cables, carrying tow ropes to which flat-bottomed boats were attached. When the flood became so fierce that the boats no longer were able to make way against it, men and women crept along the cables to safety. Others, less daring, saw darkness fall and gave up hope of rescue. Those willing to risk their lives in the attempt to rescue found themselves helpless in the face of the water. The first to seek safety by sliding along the telegraph conduits was a man. Then came four women. The first of the women was Mrs. Luella Meyer. She was a widow with one son, a boy in knee-breeches. He got out on the wire and with the agility of a cat was soon across. But Mrs. Meyers, when over the boiling torrent, swayed as though faint, slipped and the crowd stood with bated breath. By a lucky chance her senses came back to her so that she could grasp one of the wires. Hand over hand she was able to pull herself slowly to the nearest pole, where she rested before again making the trial. This time she did not falter, but when she was picked up by the rescuers at the farthest pole toward safety she was limp from nervous and physical exhaustion. Four companies of the Third Regiment, Ohio National Guard, spent the night aiding the city officials in rescuing families in the flood-stricken districts. Telephone and railroad service was interrupted in every direction. John Hadkins and James Hosay, privates of the Ohio National Guard, were drowned while in acts of rescue. The body of an elderly woman floated down near Wyoming Street in the afternoon, but the current was so swift that it could not be recovered. The National Cash Register Company's plant, on a high hill, offered the only haven in the South End. Three women became mothers in the halls of its office buildings during the night. In the woodworking department of the National Cash Register Company boats were being turned out at the rate of ten an hour, and these were rushed to where the waters had crossed Main Street in a sort of gully. But the waters crept up and the strength of the current was far too strong for the crude punts, though they were the best that could be made in a hurry. Trip after trip was made and hundreds of the refugees were taken from this stretch of houses. JOHN H. PATTERSON, CASH REGISTER HEAD, LEADS RELIEF Although John H. Patterson, president of the National Cash Register Company of Dayton, which employs more than 7,100 persons, is nearly sixty-nine years old, and has led a life of unusual activity, he was out in a rowboat tugging at the oars and personally helping in the work of rescue. His two children, Frederick and Miss Dorothy, both in their early twenties, likewise were so engaged. When despatches came from Dayton late at night saying "the only organized relief movement is that which is being conducted by the National Cash Register Company," those who knew the fighting characteristics of the head of the big corporation were not surprised to receive the additional information that Mr. Patterson as usual was conducting the business of rescue and relief in person. The Dayton despatches in relating that young Frederick Patterson "is leading rescue parties" and that Miss Dorothy, "dressed in old clothes and her hair streaming with water, stood in the rain for hours receiving refugees," gave a notion that the children are one with the sire. EMPLOYEES ASSIST IN RELIEF The Cash Register plant is outside the flood zone. As soon as the waters rushed upon the city John Henry Patterson turned his entire force into a relief organization. Every wheel was stopped in the Cash Register plant early on Tuesday morning and the employees were set to work by Mr. Patterson to help the sufferers. Mr. Patterson bought up all the available food and had it carted to his plant to feed the homeless. Straw was quickly strewn on the factory floors, thus affording dry sleeping places for more than one thousand at night. Every employee of the corporation capable of working on boats was put to work at boat building. Mr. Patterson is said to have made a promise long ago to his wife, who was Katherine Beck, a school teacher of Brookline, Mass., when she was dying, that he would give special care to the comfort and welfare of his women and girl employees. The dining rooms in the big plant, the rest and recreation rooms and other architectural comforts provided for the women employees as a result of this promise came in very well in the rescue work. The dining rooms and the rest and recreation rooms all were used as eating halls in helping the sufferers. While Mr. Patterson was out pulling at the oars of one of his boats thirty-one of his company's automobiles were meeting the craft to hurry the refugees to the Cash Register plant and to dry clothing, food and beds. Mr. Patterson sent out an appeal for immediate food supplies and for doctors and medicine. By night three thousand homeless were housed in improvised quarters in the Cash Register offices. GIRL IN MAN'S CLOTHING "What is your name?" asked the registrars who received the refugees at the National Cash Register plant of a slender young person in men's clothes. "Nora Thuma," was the reply. "Nora?" they asked. "Yes, I'm a girl," was the answer. She had put on a man's suit in order to cross the perilous span of wires unhampered by skirts. She came in with Ralph Myers, his wife and their little baby. Myers had climbed a telephone wire pole first. He let down a rope to his wife, who tied to it a meal sack which contained their baby, three months old. Myers pulled the rope with its precious burden up and then let it down again to aid his wife to ascend from her perilous position. With the meal sack over his shoulder and his wife holding on to the two wires he walked along the cable a full block before he reached safety. [Illustration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood. A typical scene on the outskirts of Dayton. Here scores of houses were completely washed from their foundations and many of the inhabitants were drowned] [Illustration: Copyright by the International News Service. A view taken at Ludlow and Second Streets, Dayton, after the water had receded, showing one phase of the devastation resulting from the flood] SCENES OF HORROR Scenes of indescribable horror were reported by the rescuers under Brigadier-General George H. Wood. Among those who perished were said to have been ten members of the Ohio National Guard who were guarding a bridge. One man marooned with his family on the roof of his home shot and killed his wife and three children and then himself rather than suffer death in the flames, according to a report received by J. J. Munsell, employment superintendent of the National Cash Register Company, from a man who actually saw the occurrence. The bodies floated away on the flood. Rescuers tried to get to a raft that bore a man and four women that whirled like a spool in the rapid waters. Then suddenly the raft was sucked down in the water and another chapter was added to the tragedy. WOMAN LEAPS WITH BABY George H. Schaefer, a rescuer who went out into the flood with a skiff and saved a woman and baby, told of his perilous trip. "A house that had been torn from its foundation came floating up behind us," said Schaefer. "The woman was frightened. I told her there was no danger. "Suddenly she stood up and jumped over with her baby in her arms. She went straight down and never came up again." Then there was the horror that William Riley, a salesman for the National Cash Register Company, saw. "We saw a very old woman standing at the window of a house waiting for rescue," said Riley. "We rowed up to her. Suddenly the house parted and the woman was engulfed. It was the last we saw of her." There was the man who was nearly rescued. He had stepped into the skiff and then walked back into his home, which a short time later floated away with him. Incidents of this sort were multiplied. John Scott ascended a telegraph pole and guided across the cable to places of safety men, women and children rescued from flooded houses. Scott had guided a dozen persons across the swaying bridges of wire when an explosion that started a fire occurred. The shock knocked Scott from the pole and he fell into a tree. "The last I saw of him he was trying to get into the window of an abandoned house by way of one of the branches of the tree," said Frank Stevens, a fellow employee of Scott. "The house was in the path of the fire." APPEALS FOR AID Thousands of those who were fortunate enough to escape the first rush of the waters were fed on short rations, and appeals for help were sent out by many of the leading men of the city. Three carloads of foodstuffs arrived from Xenia, but there was no chance to deliver them to the victims of the flood until the following day. CRUEL NEED FOR AN ARK Frank Brandon, vice-president of the Dayton, Lebanon and Cincinnati Railroad, succeeded during the night in getting communication for a short time from Dayton to Lebanon. He said that the situation was appalling and beyond all control. "According to my advices, the situation beggars description," said Mr. Brandon. "What the people need most of all is boats. The water is high in every street and assistance late this afternoon was simply out of the question. My superintendent at Dayton told me that at least sixty had perished and probably a great many more, at the same time assuring me that unless something that closely approached a miracle happened the death list would run considerably higher. We are now rigging up several special trains and will make every effort possible to get into Dayton tonight." It was on these scenes of indescribable horror that the shades of night closed down. CHAPTER III DAYTON'S MENACE OF FIRE AND FAMINE FIRE BREAKS OUT--HUNDREDS IMPERILED BY FLAMES--THE CITY THREATENED--70,000 IMPRISONED BY THE WATER--"SEND US FOOD!"--PATTERSON CONTINUES RESCUE WORK--PHONE OPERATOR BELL A HERO--EXPERIENCES OF THE SUFFERERS--INSTANCES OF SELF-SACRIFICE--LOOTERS AT WORK. Scarcely had the appalling horror of the flood impressed itself on the stricken people of Dayton before a new danger arose to strike terror to their hearts--fire that could not be fought because there was no way to reach it and because the usual means for fire-fighting were paralyzed. FIRE BREAKS OUT One fire started from the explosion of an oil tank containing hundreds of gallons which bumped into a submerged building. The fire started in a row of buildings on Third Street near Jefferson, right in the heart of the business section, and not far from the Algonquin Hotel, the Y. M. C. A., and other large buildings. The report of the fire was sent out by Wire Chief Green, of the Bell Telephone Company, who said the fire was then within a block of the telephone exchange in which was located John A. Bell, who for more than twenty-four hours had kept the outside world informed as best he could of the catastrophe in Dayton. A. J. Seattle, owner of the house in which the fire started after a gas explosion, was blown into the air and killed instantly. Mrs. Shunk, a neighbor, was blown out of her home into the flood. After clinging to a telegraph pole for half an hour, she finally succumbed and was sucked under the waters. The explosion blew a stable filled with hay into the middle of the flooded street and this carried the flames to the opposite side. The next house to burn was Harry Lindsay's. Then Mary Kreidler's and then the home of Theodore C. Lindsay and other houses that had been carried away from their foundations floated into the flames and soon were on fire. The floating fires burned without restraint and communicated flames to many other buildings where families awaited help. The Beckel House was threatened and Jefferson Street was on fire on its east side from Third Street as far down as the Western Union office. Refugees driven from their places where they had sought safety from the floods were leaping from roof to roof to escape the new terror. The fire was rapidly approaching the Home Telephone plant. HUNDREDS IMPERILED BY FLAMES Another fire which started from an explosion in the Meyers Ice Cream Company place, near Wyoming Street, spread and burned the block on South Park, a block from Wyoming. Flames, starting at Vine and Main Streets, jumped Main Street and the houses on the other side were soon aflame. In the middle of the street were a few frame houses that had been washed from their foundations. These were swirled about for a time, and, as though to aid in the passing of the section by fire, they were cast into the path of the flames. Persons hurried from their roof tops, where they had been driven by the flood, to the roof tops of adjoining houses. A fire that appeared to threaten the entire business section was confined to the block bounded by Second and Third Streets and Jefferson and St. Clair Streets. In the block were the Fourth National Bank, Lattiman Drug Company, Evans' Wholesale Drug Company and several commission houses. This fire subsided somewhat by evening. Fire broke out in the buildings on Broad Street and many who had taken refuge in the upper floors were threatened with death in the smoke and flames. Sixteen persons were housed in the Home Telephone Building with a block and tackle rigged as a means of egress if the fire pressed them. GOVERNOR COX AIDS It was reported to Governor Cox that some had leaped from the buildings into the flood. The Governor received word via Springfield that 10,000 to 12,000 persons were in the burning buildings, fighting the fire by water lifted in buckets from the flood. Governor Cox asked the Associated Press to notify its West Virginia correspondents to get in touch with natural gas companies supplying Dayton with gas and ask them to shut off the supply of gas in Dayton, as the gas was feeding the conflagration there. Pleading that troops be sent to Dayton to relieve the flood sufferers, saying that their need was imperative, and that the town was at the mercy of looters and fires, George B. Smith, president of the chamber of commerce of Dayton, who escaped from the flooded city, wired Governor Cox from Arcanum. Governor Cox, following the information that Dayton was on fire and that those who had sought refuge in the upper stories of buildings were in danger, determined at six o'clock to reach Dayton with troops and assistance. THE CITY THREATENED It was impossible to get within two miles of the fire, and from that distance it appeared that explosions, probably of drugs, made the fire seem of larger proportions than it was. It appeared to have about burned itself out, and it was not believed it would spread to other blocks. It was impossible to ascertain, even approximately, the number of persons who might have been marooned in this section and who died after being trapped by flood and fire. The flames at night cast a red weird glow over the flood-stricken city that added to the fears of thousands of refugees and marooned persons, and led to apprehension that there might have been many of the water's prisoners in the burned buildings. Fire started anew at nine o'clock at night and burned fiercely. The men, women and children marooned in the Beckel Hotel were terror stricken when fire threatened the building for the second time at night. Since Tuesday morning two hundred and fifty persons had been in the place. Crowded in the upper stories of tall office buildings and residences in Dayton, two miles each way from the center of the town, were hundreds of persons whom it was impossible to approach. Hundreds of fires which it was impossible to fight were burning. The rescue boats were unable to get farther from the shore than the throw line would permit. They could not live in the current. At midnight residents of Dayton watching the course of the flames from across the wide stretch of flood waters believed the fire got its new start in the afternoon in the store of the Patterson Tool and Supply Company, on Third Street, just east of Jefferson, whence it ate its way west, apparently aided by escaping gas and exploding chemicals in two wholesale drug establishments. Throughout the night fires lighted the sky and illuminated the rushing waters. Fifty thousand people were jammed in the upper floors of their homes, with no gas, no drinking water, no light, no heat, no food. [Illustration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y. The flood at Watervliet, New York, showing buildings torn from their foundations and floating down the stream. Great damage and untold suffering resulted] [Illustration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y. Rescuer leaving one of the houses in the flooded district and removing a family to safety] THE CREST OF THE FLOOD The crest of the Dayton flood passed about midnight, but the next few hours allowed no appreciable lowering in the water. Wednesday morning brought little hope of immediate relief to those who spent the night in horror, however, and it was feared that the number of drowned had been greatly increased during the twelve hours of darkness. Cloudy skies and a cold drizzling rain added to the dismal aspect of the city in the morning. The temperature fell steadily all night, and when daylight came the thermometers showed that it was only three degrees above freezing. The condition was welcomed, because it was expected that a hard freeze would aid materially in holding back the innumerable tributaries of the flooded streams and assist the earth in retaining the moisture that had been soaked into it steadily for the last five days. By ten-thirty the water depth had lessened about two feet. All stores and factories in the main part of the town were flooded to a depth of from eight to ten feet. Numerous residences and smaller buildings collapsed, but any estimate of the property loss was impossible. A morgue was established on the west side of the city, and efforts to recover the bodies and aid the suffering were pushed as rapidly as conditions permitted. Relief trains began to arrive in the stricken towns. Adjutant-General Speaks, with a small detachment of troops and a squad of linemen and operators, left Columbus early Wednesday in an effort to reach Dayton. The attempt was made by means of motor boats and automobiles in the hope to establish adequate telegraph or telephone communication with Dayton. MARTIAL LAW ESTABLISHED A message from Governor Cox ordered the entire Ohio National Guard to hold itself in readiness to proceed to Dayton as soon as it was possible to enter the city. "I understand the importance of having the militia there," he telegraphed. Soon afterward notice was posted in headquarters of the emergency committee announcing that the city was under martial law, and several companies of soldiers arrived from neighboring Ohio cities. The soldiers were employed to patrol edges of the burned district, and prevent looting of homes freed from the floods. The hundreds of refugees in the Y. M. C. A. building and in the Algonquin Hotel were facing possible short rations. Their food supplies were becoming limited and drinking water was at a premium. Forty boats were requisitioned by the city authorities and were patroling the city in an effort to save life and property. These craft were manned by volunteers. In front of the Central Union Telegraph office the water was still running so swiftly that horses could not go through it without swimming. One boat went by with two men in it, rowing desperately, trying to keep the bow to the waves. The boat overturned, but both men escaped drowning by swimming to a lamp post. They clung to the post for half an hour before a rope could be thrown to them. After repeated casts the line fell near enough to them to be caught, and the men were drawn into the second story window of the building. The telephone employees in the building fished chairs, dry goods boxes and a quantity of other floating property from the flood. The debris swept down the main business street with such force that every plate glass window was smashed. Only one sizable building had collapsed up to noon so far as the watchers in the telephone office could learn. This structure, an old one, was a three-story affair, near Ludlow Street, occupied by a harness manufacturing concern. 70,000 IMPRISONED BY THE WATER More than 70,000 persons either were unable to reach their homes or, held in their waterlocked houses, were unable to reach land. While those marooned in the offices and hotels were in no immediate danger of drowning there was no way food or drinking water could reach them until the flood receded. Those in the residences, however, were in constant danger both by flood and fire. First the frailer buildings were swept into the stream, many showing the faces of women and children peering from the windows. These were followed by more substantial brick buildings, until it became evident that no house in the flood zone was safe. The houses as a rule lasted but a few blocks before disintegrating. Incidents without number were narrated of persons in the flooded districts waving handkerchiefs and otherwise signaling for aid, being swept away before the eyes of the watchers on the margin of the waters. Many of the rescue boats were swept by the current against what had been fire plugs, trees and houses. They were crushed. Canoes and rowboats shared the same fate. What life existed in the district which the water covered was in constant danger and helpless until the flood subsided. Bodies were found as far out as Wayne Avenue, which is more than a mile from the river. At Fifth and Brown Streets the water reached a height of ten feet. At least one of those drowned met death in the Algonquin Hotel. The rumor that the St. Elizabeth Hospital with 600 patients had been swept away, which gained circulation Tuesday night, proved to have been false. Although it was impossible to reach the hospital, field glasses showed that the building was still standing. The water was not thought to be much above the first floor of the building, and it was hoped that the patients had not suffered. Dayton was practically cut off from wire communication until late in the afternoon. Then two wires into Cincinnati were obtained and operators plunged into great piles of telegrams from Dayton citizens, almost frantic in their desire to assure friends outside of their safety. Operators at opposite ends of the wires reported that thousands of telegrams were piled up at relay offices. These were from people anxious over the fate of Dayton kinsmen. Two oarsmen who braved the current that swirled through the business section of the city reported that the water at the Algonquin Hotel, at the southwest corner of Third and Ludlow Streets, was fifteen feet deep. From windows in the hotels and business buildings hundreds of the marooned begged piteously for rescue and food. The oarsmen said they saw no bodies floating on the flood tide, but declared that many persons must have perished in the waters' sudden rush through the streets. Oarsmen who worked into the outskirts of the business section at night reported that two hundred and fifty persons marooned in the Arcade building and two hundred imprisoned in the Y. M. C. A. building were begging for water. "SEND US FOOD!" Before the terror of fire had dwindled, gaunt hunger thrust its wolfish head on the scene. Famine became an immediate possibility. All of the supply and grocery houses were in the submerged district and there was not enough bread to last the survivors another day. Every grocer in the city was "sold out" before noon. The flood came with such suddenness that food supplies in homes were whisked away by the torrent that reached to second floors in almost the flash of an eye. Skiffs skirted the edge of the flooded districts attempting to take food to those whom it was impossible to carry off, but the fierce current discouragingly retarded this work. "Food, food, food," was the appeal that reached the outside world from the portions of Dayton north of the rivers. The plea came from a relief committee which started out in boats and met an employee of the American Telegraph and Telephone Company, who attempted to drive to Dayton. The telephone man immediately "cut in" on a line and transmitted the appeal. The relief committee had progressed less than two miles from Dayton when they met the telephone employee. They told him that any and all kinds of provisions were needed and could be distributed, but the relief must come soon if indescribable suffering was to be avoided. Police officers of Dayton who were able to get about at all were swearing in all available men as deputies, commandeering provisions and charging the expense to the State of Ohio. The available supplies were so slender, however, that thousands of persons on the north side of the river were already destitute. Efforts to learn the condition of the 2,500 inmates of the old soldiers' home on the west side brought a report that the institution was in no danger because of its location on a high hill. Leon A. Smith, one of the relief committee in North Dayton, was sworn in as a deputy justice of the peace with power to enlist other deputies to preserve order, guard against crimes and relieve distress. "What we need most," said Mr. Smith over the telephone, "is food for the living and assistance in recovering and burying the dead before an epidemic sets in." Farmers in the vicinity offered their teams to haul towards Dayton any supplies that could be gotten together, and the housewives of the countryside denuded their pantries. Relief committees issued the following statement: "An awful catastrophe has overtaken Dayton. The centers of Dayton and the residence district from the fair grounds hill to the high ground north of the city are under water. "Bring potatoes, rice, beans, vegetables, meat and bread and any other edibles that will sustain life. "We have cooking arrangements for several thousand. We are sending trucks to nearby towns, but ask that you haul to us, as far as possible." The first trainload of provisions from Cincinnati, with a detail of policemen to help in the rescue work, reached Dayton after being twelve hours on the road. This, with two cars from Springfield, relieved the immediate suffering. Word also was received that a carload of supplies was on the way from Detroit. Encouragement was received in a message from the Mayor of Springfield, who said he was sending six big trucks loaded with provisions that should reach Dayton early Thursday. With the arrival of motor boats Wednesday night it was hoped to begin to distribute provisions among the marooned early next morning. Messages from the flood's prisoners in the business section said children were crying for milk, while their elders suffered from thirst that grew hourly. Volunteers were called for to man boats and brave the dangerous currents in an attempt to get food to the suffering. PATTERSON CONTINUES RESCUE WORK Rescue work efficiently managed, in which John H. Patterson was a leading spirit, proceeded smoothly throughout the day. A boat, which was engaged in rescue work, capsized, and all of the crew but Frederick Patterson, son of John H. Patterson, were drowned. Young Patterson acted as captain of the crew. Missing members of families were restored to their loved ones through human clearing houses established at several points in the fringe of the flood district. Great ledgers filled with names presided over by volunteer bank clerks were at the disposal of persons seeking missing kinsmen. If these had registered in the clearing house their addresses were quickly given to the inquirer. Up to seven o'clock in the evening three thousand of the homeless were housed in different places of refuge, most of them being cared for at the plant of the National Cash Register Company. Scores of the waters' victims were being carried from their places of imprisonment late in the evening, and leaders of the rescuing parties were arranging for relays of torch bearers to light the work during the night. The powerful current on each cross street made it impossible for those manning the rowboats to pass a street crossing without the aid of tow ropes. Lines were stretched in many places and trolley boat paths brought many victims out. Every automobile in the city was pressed into service and used to meet paths and take the refugees at once to the hospitals. "Our greatest need is a dozen motor boats and men to run them," was the message contained in an appeal sent out by Mr. Patterson. Skiffs and rowboats could not live in torrents rushing through the city's principal streets. The big plant of the National Cash Register Company was made relief headquarters. As persons were rescued they were taken to a relief sub-station, where their names were recorded and they received first aid. At frequent intervals these lists were sent to relief headquarters and announced to crowds who waited in the rain for hours. Two expert oarsmen, Fred Patterson and Nelson Talbott, conquered the current for a short distance on Main Street late in the afternoon. "We penetrated to almost the center of the city," said Mr. Patterson. "Everywhere people yelled to us to rescue them, but it was impossible, for we were barely able to keep afloat. Large sums of money were offered us to take persons from perilous positions. The windows of the Algonquin Hotel seemed filled with faces, and the same conditions prevailed at most of the buildings we passed. We did not see any bodies, but the loss of life must have been great." At Xenia a relief committee was organized to send supplies to Dayton. All the churches were made ready for Dayton refugees. PHONE OPERATOR BELL A HERO Two employees of the American Telephone and Telegraph Company, John A. Bell, wire chief at Dayton, and C. D. Williamson, wire chief at Phoneton, Ohio, by unprecedented devotion to duty kept Dayton in touch with the world. At midnight they had been on duty continuously for forty-eight hours, and, although there was no prospect of their being relieved, they gave not the slightest indication of any inclination to leave their posts. Bell reached the Dayton office before the flood broke on Tuesday morning. The water came with such suddenness that all batteries and power were out of commission before any measure could be taken to protect them. This left the wires without current and effectually cut off Dayton. Bell rummaged around and found a lineman's "test set." With this he made his way to the roof of the building, "cut in" on the line to Phoneton and reported to Williamson, whose batteries were still in condition. Over this meagre equipment messages were exchanged by means of the underground wires of the company, which held up until after the noon hour Tuesday before the cable in which they were incased gave way. The break, however, was south of Dayton, and Phoneton was still in touch with the flood-stricken city. Except for brief intervals, Bell remained on the roof of the building suffering the discomforts of pouring rain and low temperature, in order that the waiting world might have some word from Dayton. EXPERIENCES OF THE SUFFERERS Late in the afternoon several refugees told stories that gave an insight into conditions in East Dayton, hitherto unexplored. The flood victims declared they knew of no loss of life in this section, because a great number of people had availed themselves of warnings and fled. A Mrs. Van Denberg, who remained until the flood enveloped her home, when rescued declared she had seen no bodies in the flood. Sixty-five persons were marooned in the central police station. Nothing had been heard from Mayor Phillips, of Dayton, or from Brigadier-General Wood, marooned, it was believed, in North Dayton. The whole story of the Dayton disaster probably never will be told--the heroism of men; the martyrdom of women; the mad hysteria that seized some and caused them to jump into the flood and death; the torture of despair that gripped those who, imprisoned in their homes by the water, waited in vain for help until the advancing flames came and destroyed them. The most heartrending feature of the situation was the pitiable terror of the women and children. Many of them sat up and sobbed through the night refusing to believe that their fathers had been drowned in the satanic waters. Mrs. James Cassidy and her three children were brought from the flood last night. Mrs. Cassidy was grief-stricken over the report of the death of her husband by drowning. Even as she was being registered there was brought into rescue headquarters a drenched man who had to be carried. "Jim! Jim!" suddenly shrieked the woman. "That's you, Jim, isn't it? You aren't dead, Jim. Say you aren't dead." Jim had been rescued from drowning. The return of James Cassidy was the one bit of joy in the awful gloom at the rescue headquarters, where gathered the victims of flood, fire and famine. CRAZED BY HER EXPERIENCE A woman, maddened by the horrors of the day, fought with Bill Riley and his companion, Charles Wagner, who had rescued her in a boat. She bit Riley in the hand and choked Wagner, who sought to restrain her. The little boat swayed and was on the point of capsizing when the woman suddenly became calm and began to pray. A big sturdy man cried like a child in the offices of the National Cash Register Company. He had been to the hospitals, the schools where refugees are housed and to the churches--but in none of these was his family. In many similar cases relatives of the supposed dead were uncertain as to the fate of the missing. The money loss was heavy, but nobody cared about money loss, though it ran into the millions. In this hour of Dayton's woe money apparently was the most useless thing in the world. A graphic story was told by Edsy Vincent, a member of the Dayton fire department. His engine house was within a few doors of Taylor Street, where the break of the levee occurred. The department watchers, fearing being flood-bound, sounded the fire call simultaneously with the break in the levee. "When the horses, which were hitched in record time, reached the street," said Vincent, "we were met by a wall of water which must have been ten feet high. The driver was forced to turn and flee in the opposite direction to save the team and the apparatus." INSTANCES OF SELF-SACRIFICE The dark colors in these incidents were lightened here and there by stories of bravery exhibited by many of the flood prisoners. A woman with three children marooned in the upper floor of her home on the edge of the business district called to the oarsmen: "I know you can't take me off!" she cried, "but for the love of humanity take this loaf of bread and jug of molasses to Sarah Pruyn down the street; I know she's starving." Twice the boatmen attempted to take the food, but waves that eddied about the submerged house hurled them back. LOOTERS AT WORK Numerous stories of looting were told, and many prisoners were locked up. In most cases these had entered houses and had been searching for valuables. A gang of roughs went through the southern part of the city late at night instructing the people to extinguish all lights for fear of a gas explosion and then began raiding. The police dispersed them. All day and all night strings of automobiles were going back and forth. Those coming to Dayton were seeking friends or relatives. Those going back had people to take back with them. At night the temperature dropped suddenly. A blinding snowstorm and high winds followed close upon the fall of the thermometer. The blizzard weather caused added suffering. Survivors who escaped the horrors of a flood and fire stricken city at night were huddled roofless in an arctic storm. Countless men, women and children were marooned in the storm who had had no warm food or clothing since Tuesday morning. CHAPTER IV DAYTON IN THE THROES OF DISTRESS PITIABLE CONDITION OF MAROONED--FALSE REPORT CAUSES PANIC--THE FLOOD RECEDES--A SURVEY OF THE FLOOD'S DAMAGE--MARTIAL LAW ENFORCED--RESTORING SANITATION--FEEDING THE HOMELESS--PATTERSON CONTINUES NOBLE WORK--STORIES OF SURVIVORS. When Thursday morning dawned on stricken Dayton the food situation which had threatened to become serious was relieved temporarily by the arrival of a special train from Richmond, Indiana, bringing seven cars of provisions. Quartermaster Logan also received word from the United States Army quartermaster general that 300,000 rations had been ordered shipped from Chicago, 100 ranges and one complete quartermaster depot from Columbus, 3,300 tents, 100 hospitals tents and 400 stoves from Philadelphia, and 300,000 blankets and 500 bedsacks from St. Louis or Cincinnati. Quartermaster Logan was authorized to purchase in open market all rations needed. [Illustration: MAP SHOWING THE RIVERS AND CREEKS WHICH RUN THROUGH DAYTON, AND THE PRINCIPAL SECTIONS OF THE CITY] [Illustration: Showing the difficulties experienced by the rescuers in getting to the hundreds of people whose lives were imperiled by being caught in the flooded buildings] [Illustration: Copyright by George Grantham Bain. Mayor of Cleveland getting motor boats ready for relief work in Northern Ohio. For days after the flood reached its height, even strong boats could reach many of the marooned people only with great difficulty and risk] The thing that made the situation most difficult for concerted rescue work was the peculiar geographical situation of the town. It is divided into six sections: central Dayton, comprising the down-town business district; West Dayton, the territory extending several miles west of the big Miami; Riverdale, the northeast, across the river from the central district; Dayton View, the extreme northeast; Southern Dayton, the manufacturing district in which the National Cash Register Company's plant is located and separated from the central district by lowlands which were deep in flood water, and North Dayton, northwest of the business district, across the river from the business section. PITIABLE CONDITION OF MAROONED The river forms a horseshoe around the business district, making it impossible to reach that part until the torrents that poured down the valley should recede. Dayton View, West Dayton and Riverdale were the only sections between which communication was possible. The suburb of Riverdale up to Helena Street was penetrated by the down-town relief commission and conditions found much similar to those in the southern suburbs. Everyone was crowded to the second floors or roofs of their homes, but few of the more stable dwellings were washed away. North of Burns Avenue as far as Fourth Street the water was found to be from three to six feet deep. Beyond Fourth Street the water had receded to make it possible in many places to proceed on foot. Nothing was known of the foreign settlement in North Dayton close to the Miami River. It was this part of the city where the flood first made its way and where the occupants of the houses had ignored warnings to leave. It was here also that it was feared most of the deaths would occur. The only body found on Thursday was that of Charles Parker, a livery man, discovered in the court house yard. Captain of Police H. E. Lackhart declared that water in North Dayton, Miami City and East Dayton reached the housetops. His estimate of the number of dead in that district was three hundred. The bodies of a woman and a baby were seen floating down Jefferson Street, one of Dayton's main thoroughfares. It was thought that they came from the district north of the river. A report which had been current in the water district south of Main Street that Brigadier-General Wood had been fatally injured by falling plate glass, proved to be untrue. He continued in full charge of the relief work, although his arm had been badly cut. Parts of Main Street were impassable because of debris. At several points it comprised outbuildings that had struck more stable buildings and been dashed to pieces. Hourly apprehension for the appalling sights to be uncovered when the waters return to normal was growing. PLANS FOR FIGHTING PESTILENCE Pestilence was feared and sanitary and health officials mapped out their work. Sewers were burst by the flood, manholes were simply blown from the earth, and it was realized that many days must elapse before the water service could be restored and before street car companies could operate. Because of the lack of electric lights, and as a precaution against looting, military notices were posted, forbidding citizens to be on the streets between the hours of 6 P. M. and 5 A. M. Word was received that a number of motor boats with men to operate them were on the way from Cleveland and Cincinnati. The water receded rapidly during the day. An occasional snow flurry and biting gusts of wind added to the discomfort of the rescue crews, but they remained steadily at work. The Emergency Committee began publication of an official newspaper from the plant of the National Cash Register Company. It was a one-sheet poster designed for free circulation in all accessible parts of the city. Its leading article warned the people to beware of thieves and burglars. A thief was caught robbing homes of flood victims who had been taken to refuge stations. He was shot to death by state guardsmen. The progress of the first canoe into the water-bound district was greeted by appeals for bread and water. In nearly every house left standing wistful faces were to be seen pressed against window panes. All of these were asked whether there had been any deaths and with only a few exceptions all replied that there had not. Temporary morgues were established in the United Brethren Church and also at Fifth and Eagle Streets. At these points many bodies were cared for, chiefly those of women and children. FALSE REPORT CAUSES PANIC Needless suffering was caused during the day by an announcement of the breaking of the Lewistown reservoir. Men rushed through the uptown streets shouting: "Run for your lives! The reservoir has broken!" There was really no danger. The reservoir contained 17,000 acres of water space, but it was pointed out that the flood extended over several million acres and the worst possible effect of the breaking of the reservoir would be to retard the rescues and could not cause a rise of more than a foot. The waters at the time were seven feet lower than the high water of Tuesday night. The alarm was spread by a policeman who was posted on the edge of the flood district. Others were quick to take up the cry. Soon thousands of men and women crowded the streets. Many of them fled for the hills, but hundreds hurled themselves past guards and into the main office building of the National Cash Register Building, which was already crowded. Not until John H. Patterson, president of the company, had addressed the throng was any semblance of order restored. Mr. Patterson was appointed military aide in the southeast district of the city, with full control under martial law. He at once ordered every available motor car and truck to scour the farmhouses south of the city and confiscate all available food supplies. Colonel H. G. Catrow arrived with his military aides from Columbus in the afternoon and took charge of the militiamen. SIGHTSEERS BARRED FROM CITY Sightseers of Springfield who sought to visit Dayton received a rude shock. On the first train to the stricken city from Springfield were fifty linemen and three coaches full of people on a sightseeing tour. The Governor learned of this and on his orders when the train reached Dayton two soldiers were stationed at each car door and none but linemen were permitted to alight. The train was then run back to Springfield with its disappointed passengers. The Governor then ordered guardsmen at Springfield to let none board trains for Dayton who did not have a military pass. The purpose in this was to prevent idle visitors draining the limited food resources of Dayton. DYNAMITE AND LIME SENT Dynamite, gasoline and lime were sent from Springfield as supplies for the sanitary corps ordered there to prevent the spread of disease and a feared epidemic. The dynamite was needed to blow up dangerous obstructions, the gasoline to burn rubbish and the lime for disinfecting purposes. Mutiny broke out in the city workhouse, where one hundred prisoners were confined. Terror-stricken by the flood and fire, the prisoners were demanding freedom. They beat at their cell doors and shouted imprecations at their keepers. Superintendent Johnson applied to the militia for help. One workhouse prisoner was released because he knew how to run the water-works pumps. The two hundred and fifty guests of the Algonquin Hotel were kept comfortable except for the continuous dread that the fire would spread to them. The water reached the second floor, but all the supplies had been moved to places of safety, and those in the hotel experienced little discomfort. From Fourth Street to the Miami River, relief work was taken up by a committee headed by Chief of Police Allaback. All of the grocery stores were commandeered and, although in most cases the goods were covered with water, yet sufficient supplies were found to prevent great suffering among those in the interior dry strip. SUFFERERS CHEERFUL One of the remarkable features was the cheerful spirit with which flood victims viewed their plight. This was Dayton's first big flood in many years. Much of the submerged area had been considered safe, but as the majority of residents of these sections looked out on all sides upon a great sweep of muddy, swiftly moving water, they seemed undisturbed. In some of the poorer sections the attitude of the marooned was not so cheerful. As a motor boat passed beneath the second floor at one partly submerged house, a man leaned out and threatened to shoot the boat's occupants unless they rescued his wife and a baby that had been born the day before. The woman, almost dying, was let from the window by a rope and taken to a place of refuge. Further on, members of a motor boat party were startled by shots in the second floor of a house, about which five feet of water swirled. The boat was stopped and a man peered from a window. "Why are you shooting?" he was asked. "Oh, just amusing myself, shooting at rats that come upstairs. When are you going to take me out of here?" he replied. Three babies were born in one church during the afternoon. One was born in a boat while its mother was being conveyed to safety. Such scenes were common. WOMEN BECAME HYSTERICAL At the rescue stations the scenes enacted were heartrending and the most pitiful were witnessed at the temporary morgues. At the West Dayton morgue frantic crowds all day and night watched every body brought in, hoping against hope it was not that of some loved one. Women became hysterical at times when searching for missing members of their families whom they had failed to find at the relief stations. With the coming of nightfall Thursday the efforts to rescue more persons were slackened, and all of Dayton not in the central flood districts waited in dread for the nightly fires which had added horrors to the already terrible situation. The flood situation at night appeared brighter than in the morning. The water had fallen from three to five feet, the currents of the river and creek had slackened, and there was food enough left for the town's breakfast and dinner. As Galveston and San Francisco pulled themselves together after calamity so Dayton began pulling itself together on Friday of the week of the flood. Emerging from the waters and privation, citizens began co-operating with those who rushed to the rescue from outside. Considerable progress was made toward the restoration of order and in giving relief to those in the worst distress. Much cheer was taken from the fact that so far as loss of life was concerned it was not so great as had been feared, though no exact estimates were yet calculable. Financially the citizens had a great burden to bear. Investigators on Friday put the figures of the losses at double that of the previous day, making it $50,000,000. THE FLOOD RECEDES The down-town district was practically free of water. Fire engines pumped out the basement of the Algonquin Hotel, that the Algonquin's artesian well supply might be pumped into the empty city water mains for fire protection. Water was still from ten to fifteen feet deep in certain districts of the west side. A mile of residences on Linwood Avenue had been swept clear and nothing remained to indicate that the street had existed. A SURVEY OF THE FLOOD'S DAMAGE In a tour of the business sections it was found that the high stage of the flood had been nine feet at Third and Main Streets, the heart of the city. The tower of Steele High School was levelled and the Leonard Building on Main Street was undermined so that it collapsed. Other buildings stood up. The following buildings were found to have withstood the flood, furnishing shelter to about 7,000 people who were marooned in them since Tuesday: Conover Building, Kuhns Building, The Arcade, two Cappel Buildings, Callahan Bank Building, Schwind Building, Commercial Building, Mendenhall Building, Rike Kumler Building, Reibold Building, Elder & Johnson's building and United Brethren Publishing Company's building. NO PUBLIC BUILDINGS GONE None of the public buildings was destroyed. Among these buildings were the Dayton Club, Victoria, National and Colonial theatres, city hall, court house, Beckel, Phillips, Algonquin and Atlas hotels, Masonic temple, post office, Y. M. C. A. and various churches. The Log Cabin, 115 years old, the first house built in Dayton, still stood, although it is on the south bank of the Miami, right in the path of the flood. The electric light and gas plants were safe from the high water. The city's water comes from a reservoir high above the river. In Dayton less than one hundred bodies had been recovered by Friday night, though thousands were missing. The fire was out, however, and the flood had so receded that relief boats were able to get to practically all parts of the city. MOST HOUSES WRECKED Every house in the flooded district was practically ruined. Streets were so clogged with wreckage that it was almost impossible to get through them. "Strange to say, there was not much suffering in our particular neighborhood," declared George Armstrong, who had been marooned in the Capell furniture store building. "There was one woman with a three-weeks-old baby. We took excellent care of her. And did we pray? There never were such prayers in church. We had a case of whiskey and offered to send it off to persons who seemed exhausted. They refused to take it, although ordinarily they are not teetotallers." BOATMEN TOUR DISTRICTS Members of the United States life-saving crew of Louisville navigated sections of flooded Dayton heretofore unexplored, reporting conditions in North Dayton and Riverdale quite as deplorable as the first estimates concerning suffering were concerned. Cruising the southern end of Riverdale, where it was feared there would be found a big death list, Captain Gillooly, in charge of the crew from the United States life saving station at Louisville, Ky., reported conditions paralleling those in other sections of the stricken city, but only two bodies were reported as having been recovered. The flooded territory in Riverdale, which is a section of substantial home owners, was approximately seventeen blocks long and seven blocks wide. After having descended the Miami River, Captain Gillooly reported that in the south central section of Dayton, where the flood flowed wildest on Tuesday night and Wednesday, thousands of persons still were imprisoned in upper floors of their homes. He stated that from numerous inquiries among people whose residences had been inundated it appeared the life loss would not be nearly so large as it was placed by first reports. This section still was flooded, although the water rapidly was receding, and while a few corpses eddied out from the flood's edge, yet in the center of the area it was stated that only two bodies had been seen. DRINKING WATER DISTRIBUTED Captain Gillooly and his men distributed food and quantities of drinking water to a large number of the flood's prisoners. Arrangements also were made to provide the needy ones with the necessary supplies from time to time until the flood waters receded. At many different points along the route stops were made and the crew detoured away from the rivers. It was found that many of these detours could be made afoot, the water having rapidly fallen since the night. At no place was the water behind the levees deeper than four feet. The Louisville men took relief to several hundred families in the low district in the vicinity of Ludlow and Franklin Streets. Here the water had reached the roofs of all two-story buildings. Only a few of the most desperate cases were brought out, the first move being to leave bread and water in as many places as possible. Sixty Catholic sisters at the Academy of the Sisters of Notre Dame and eighteen persons for whom they had provided refuge were found to have been without food or water since Tuesday. There were several cases of illness, and the suffering had been intense. The life savers left bread and water and planned to take further help. Meanwhile Capt. H. A. Hansen and the crew from Cleveland were operating several boats in North Dayton. There many of the poorer class live, and few of the buildings were substantial. Dozens of them were swept away, upturned and shattered. Mayor Phillips was still marooned in his house, and G. B. Smith, president of the Chamber of Commerce, continued in active aid of relief operations. The Fourth National Bank Building, which was reported several times to have been destroyed by fire, was found untouched by the flames, although a building immediately adjoining was burned. The newspaper offices, the _News_ and _Herald_ and _Journal_ buildings, were safe, but none was issuing papers. The Cleveland battalion of engineers were the first of a horde of troops which began to pour into Dayton in the morning. They were immediately put at work distilling the water. The fifteen men of the Dayton Ohio National Guard companies, who had been on duty since midnight Tuesday, frankly had been unable to cope with the situation. The police force was also depleted by the fact that many of its members had been marooned by high water. The looter had been in high glee. MARTIAL LAW ENFORCED Strict martial law was put into force. With headquarters at Bamberger Park, Col. Zimmerman of the Fifth Ohio Regiment organized the forces of protection, and by noon every accessible section was under strict guard. Frequent fights and skirmishes were held with the pillagers, who sought to steal under the cover of darkness. Orders to shoot to kill looters on the third shot were issued to the militiamen. The pillaging of abandoned homes and stores and the slugging and robbing of men and women in the streets after nightfall had reached a desperate stage when the troops arrived, and drastic orders were necessary. "Shoot at the legs first, and then shoot to kill," was the way the soldiers were instructed to act. Colonel Zimmerman listened to thousands who sought passes to go through the flood area to reach marooned friends and kinsmen. Only a few were allowed to go, and these were compelled to prove special causes. To those who asserted they had starving friends, Colonel Zimmerman rejoined that provisions and medicines constantly were going into the inundated district. "Be satisfied you're not dead yet," was the Colonel's disposition of many of the applicants. All during the night and until dawn revolver and rifle shots had sounded. Most of the shooting was in the bottoms near the river, but about midnight there was a lively volley of shots, evidently an exchange of bullets, believed to have been between soldiers and pillagers. A robbery was thwarted when the police arrested a man who was escaping from the city with a satchel containing $50,000 in diamonds and jewelry which he had stolen from downtown jewelry shops. "Beware of thieves and burglars," said an official bulletin given wide circulation. "Don't leave your houses without protection. It was thieves who scared you about the reservoir and natural gas explosion. The natural gas has been turned off and there is no danger of explosions." REFUGEES IN FIGHTS At three o'clock Friday morning it was unofficially announced that three pillagers had been shot to death in various parts of the city during the night. Over in North Dayton, when the lowlands were inundated by the rush of the waters of the Mad River, the foreign population, which practically occupies that section, was driven to the upper floors and the housetops. With the extinguishing of the city's lights bedlam broke loose in various portions of North Dayton. Men in the frenzy of their trouble fell to desperate quarreling among themselves, and shots were heard at all hours of the day and night Wednesday and Thursday. There were unconfirmed reports that more than a dozen murders had been committed. Troops were ordered into this district to stop the conflicts. RESTORING SANITATION Problems of sanitation, the water supply and the reconstruction of the wrecked sewer system were resumed by engineers. Citizens were ordered to dig cesspools in their yards and to get rid of all garbage. Members of the State Board of Health, bringing carloads of lime and other disinfectants, reached here to ward off disease. A report was circulated that an epidemic of typhoid fever and pneumonia had developed in Riverdale and West Dayton. It was ascertained, however, that not a single well-developed case of either disease was known in the sections mentioned, although there was considerable sickness among the refugees, particularly women and children, due to privation. Three deaths from diphtheria in other sections were reported by Secretary of Health Board Miller. FEEDING THE HOMELESS The food situation was much brighter. The trucks sent from the Cash Register Company, manned by men with military orders to confiscate potatoes and food from the farmers, brought back a good supply of vegetables and several relief trains reached the city. The problem of providing for refugees was bravely faced by an army of workers, many of whom came from neighboring cities equipped with car loads and train loads of food. "We can't tell how much we need," said John M. Patterson "and we don't know yet in just what shape we want some of the supplies. For instance, there came a carload of flour. We can use it later, but if that flour had been made into bread it would have been immediately available for the persons imprisoned in their homes whom it has been impossible to remove. We could take bread to them, but flour is not serviceable." Many motor boats went into the flooded district taking food and water and bringing out persons who needed medical attention. Many of them were so weak from deprivation and suffering as to be scarcely able to move. Hundreds were taken to the Cash Register Hospital and other places where they could be aided. Among those taken out of the Algonquin Hotel were Stephen Patterson and his wife. Mr. Patterson is a brother of John H. Patterson, the cash register manufacturer. Great anxiety had been felt for their safety and also for Mrs. Frank Patterson, a sister-in-law. The latter was found in her home on West Fifth Street. HUNDREDS STAND BY HOMES In that section on the east side of the Miami River and north of the Mad River rescue work went forward with the two United States life-saving crews in charge. Hundreds of people living in upper stories and practically without food or water since Tuesday morning refused to leave their homes, believing they would have a better chance for safety there than elsewhere. Water and food were supplied them. Hundreds of others had left their homes, in some instances effecting exits by chopping holes through the roofs. Very few of these were accounted for. [Illustration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y. While the flood was raging, hundreds of fires which started throughout the flooded States were left to consume millions of dollars worth of property, and to destroy many lives, because of the inability of the fire-fighters to get near the burning buildings] [Illustration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y. President John H. Patterson, of the National Cash Register Company, third man from the right, directing the work of rescue at Dayton, Ohio. Through his magnificent skill as an organizer, and his coolness of mind, scores of lives were saved that would otherwise have been lost, and a great deal of suffering was alleviated by his prompt measures of relief] A central morgue was established at the Probate Court building, and as fast as possible identifications were made. Many of the bodies thus far recovered, however, presented difficulties in the way of identification. Colonel Zimmerman reported that boatloads of provisions continuously were going into the still inundated districts. Milk for babies and medicine for invalids were not forgotten by the rescue squads. Governor Cox solved the problem of getting milk for Dayton's babies by confiscating in the name of the State the entire output of the Marysville dairies, and having it sent to the stricken city. The state also seized two cars of eggs at Springfield found in a railroad yard and sent them to Dayton. PATTERSON CONTINUES NOBLE WORK The dead bodies were placed in coffins as soon as they were identified. These coffins and decent burial for the victims were paid for by the President of the National Cash Register Company, who footed most of the bills in the tremendous and efficient work of relief. The weather was bitter cold, but the rain ceased to fall. Thousands of survivors who spent two nights marooned in buildings without light, heat or food on Friday night slept in warm beds. CHAPTER V THE RECUPERATION OF DAYTON SPIRITS GO UP--SECRETARY OF WAR GARRISON ON THE SCENE--CLEARING AWAY THE DEBRIS--BOAT CREWS SAVE 979--RELIEF ON BUSINESS BASIS--STRICT SANITARY MEASURES--TALES OF THE RESCUED--A SUMMARY OF WORK ACCOMPLISHED--RAILROADS AGAIN WORKING--COMMISSION GOVERNMENT ESTABLISHED--A HOME OF TENTS--MILLIONAIRES IN THE BREAD-LINE--ORVILLE WRIGHT'S ESCAPE--DEATH AND PROPERTY LOSS--THE TASK OF REBUILDING. Dayton passed Friday night in terror because of constant shooting by the militiamen. Just how many looters were killed was unknown, as information was refused. The facts figure only in military reports. Fifty shots were fired between midnight and three o'clock Saturday morning within hearing of the main hospital quarters in the National Cash Register Building. Civil workers in the center of the town, where efforts were being made to clear away debris, reported that five looters were shot after midnight. One of these was a negro who had succeeded in entering a Madison Street house where he was seen by a militiaman and shot in the act of looting. It is declared that only one of the five men shot was killed. Orders were issued to the soldiers to inflict summary execution on corpse robbers--ghouls who sneaked through the business and residence streets like hyenas after a battle. Dayton came out in force on Saturday to look around and judge for itself the extent of the tragedy that confronted its people. Business men with forces of assistants penetrated the business section and set about the task of learning whether they had been stripped of their possessions completely. Haggard faces, worn out with sleepless nights and days of weary struggle and apprehension for the future, brightened with the flush of new-born hope as some of the searchers found that the flood had not proved completely disastrous for them. Scores of business interests, not alone in the central section, but as well in the outlying manufacturing districts, faced ruin. The work of reconstruction, already in the forming, meant for them going back to the beginning for a fresh start, but on every hand one heard in spite of this words of hope and cheerfulness that the disaster was no greater. SPIRITS GO UP The bitter cold gave way to a day of sunshine and comparative warmth. The military authorities lifted the ban on uninterrupted travel about the city. This privilege and the brightness of the day brought most of the people out of their discouragement and great throngs appeared on the streets. They found the death toll smaller than they had expected and the property damage, while almost crushing in the size of the figures it represented, not so utterly annihilating as was generally feared. Military engineering experts began the work of extricating Dayton from its covering of debris, and its menace to general public health. H. E. Talbot, of Dayton, who built the Soo Locks, was placed in charge and the Pennsylvania Railroad sent in seventy-five engineers to assist him. While fifty additional experts appeared from other points, the Ohio National Guard Battalion of Engineers from Cleveland became a part of the organization to "sweep up" the city. Relief from the suffering because of the closing down of the public utilities bade fair to be accomplished by Sunday. The city lived up to its motto "Dayton does" with the amendment that if it cannot find a way it will make one. With real philosophy and high courage its people set about the arduous task of retrieving the ground and the fortunes they lost. The lives that were taken by the disaster were not sacrificed in vain. The Citizens' Committee, headed by John H. Patterson, the relief agency, and H. E. Talbot, determined to find a way to protect the city against a repetition of the horrors of the week. Things looked brighter. It was announced that on Sunday the water would be turned on in all the mains that were not broken, in order to give pure drinking water to practically the entire city, something the sanitary and engineering experts were working for as imperative if epidemics were to be avoided. Until such time as the city mains could be used, water was distributed from artesian wells by water carts and in kegs, which were carried to the various districts by the "flying squadron" of the auto relief corps. SECRETARY OF WAR GARRISON ON THE SCENE Secretary of War Garrison and his staff arrived at Dayton at noon, and immediately went into conference with John H. Patterson, chairman of the committee of fifteen, in charge of the relief work. Soon after Mr. Garrison arrived the relief committee began to call local physicians to consult with him to determine whether to place the city under federal control. It was said Dayton's sanitary condition appeared to warrant the presence of federal troops and government health experts. It was later decided to leave the city in control of the state militia and the local committee, except that sanitary experts from the federal health service should be brought to Dayton. Mr. Garrison stated that Major Thomas Rhoades, in co-operation with Major James C. Normoyle, would have charge in Dayton. Major Normoyle had experience in furthering relief in the Mississippi flood district last year. GARRISON'S REPORT Secretary Garrison gave out the substance of his telegram to President Wilson as follows: "I find the situation at Dayton to be as follows: "The flood has subsided so that they have communication with all parts of the city, no one being now in any position of peril or without food or shelter. The National Cash Register plant has been turned into a supply depot and lodging place for those who have no other present place. "Surgeon General Blue and some of his officers are here, as are also some naval surgeons. We are all working in concert. The Governor, the Mayor, the local committees and the citizens have all expressed much gratitude for the action of the National Government, and have welcomed us warmly, all of them stating that the fact that a direct representative has been sent to their community has been of the greatest benefit to the morale of the situation. "I find a competent force is already organized to clean up the streets, remove the debris and do general work of that description and has agreed to work under the direction of the army surgeon I leave in charge of sanitation. The National Guards have their Brigadier-General, George H. Wood, here in command of the military situation and he has cordially offered to co-operate in every way with our work of sanitation. "I think that the situation here is very satisfactory and that this community will find itself in a reassured position within a very short time and facing only then the problem of repair, restoration and rehabilitation. "I will go back to Cincinnati tonight to get into touch with matters left unfinished there and will go to Columbus at the earliest moment. Governor Cox tells me that he thinks matters are in a satisfactory condition at Columbus; that he has ample immediate supply of medicines and other necessities; and that much of each is on the way. The weather is very fine and there does not seem to be any cause for apprehension of further floods in the vicinity of Dayton." CLEARING AWAY THE DEBRIS Efforts were made to clear away debris in sections where the flood water had run off, and it was feared bodies might be found in these masses of wreckage. With well organized crews doing this work, others took food to persons still marooned in Riverdale and North Dayton. The two hundred and fifty persons marooned in the Algonquin Hotel, in the heart of the flood district, moved from their prison after the waters had receded. Most of them said there was a general scare at the fire which burned along Jefferson and Third Streets, on Wednesday night. There was one death in the hotel, Johnny Flynn, a bell boy. Several of the guests organized the majority after the flood waters had cut off escape on Tuesday, and for three evenings programs of entertainments were given in the hotel dining-room. It was decreed by a safety committee that any person who declined to contribute to the entertainment would be compelled figuratively to walk the plank. There were no dissenters. Among those marooned in hotels were one hundred from New York, Chicago, Columbus, Cincinnati, Cleveland, Toledo, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Detroit, Boston and St. Louis. All were safe. A brilliant sunshine threw an uncanny light over the distorted scenes in the areas where the homes of 75,000 people were swept away or toppled over. A view down almost any street revealed among the wreckage, tumbled-over houses, pianos, household utensils and dead horses brushed together in indescribable confusion. At two points the bodies of horses were seen still caught in the tops of trees. Digging bodies out of the mud was the chief work of rescuing parties. The water had drained off from almost all the flooded area. In some instances the mud was several feet deep. The rush of the currents claimed the greatest toll of lives, judging from how most of the bodies recovered were found. They were washed up onto the ground from new-made rivers and many were found buried in the wreckage. In moving this workmen moved carefully, fearing they might tread upon bodies, but they were not found in groups. It was anticipated that the majority of the bodies of flood victims would be found buried under the debris in the Miami Canal under great piles of wreckage and far down the Miami River, at Miamisburg, Middletown and Hamilton. Those who were drowned for the most part were caught in the streets either while on their way to their places of business and employment or while trying to get to places of safety when forced to flee from their houses. Lieutenant Leatherman, surgeon of the Third Regiment, O. N. G., who went through the flood in West Dayton, said that he saw scores of dead bodies floating down the Miami River and many people were swimming, but there was not one chance in ten thousand that these were saved, he said. The policing of the city by the military was reorganized with Brigadier-General George H. Wood commanding and Captain Tyrus G. Reed as Adjutant General. The city was turned over into a military district of five military zones, and rigid orders were laid down for the conduct of its affairs. Chairmen of the various committees were unanimous in asking that word be spread broadcast that mere sightseeing visitors were not wanted. The railroads were informed of this attitude and conductors refused to accept passengers who could not show that their presence here was necessary. There were thousands of visitors in the city. Most of them were from surrounding towns. BOAT CREWS SAVE 979 The work of extending succor to the marooned inhabitants of the districts which were still flooded continued during the day. In many sections were to be seen rowboats, skiffs and canoes making their way with extreme difficulty among the heaps of wreckage and overturned houses among tangled meshes of telegraph, telephone and electric light wires, seeking out possible victims who had been uncared for. Among the organizations engaged in rescue work was the company of naval reserves from the United States ship Essex at Toledo, under command of Captain A. F. Nicklett. The company reached Dayton on a special relief train from Toledo Thursday and immediately launched a number of boats on the raging torrents which were sweeping the city from end to end. Up to six o'clock Saturday night the sailors had been constantly on duty and had to their credit a total of 979 lives saved, and they were not thinking of sleep when darkness fell. One crew in command of Ensign E. E. Diebald, with two boats, rescued 375 persons from the business section and that district immediately east of Main Street and west of Eagle Street. Many of the people were taken from their homes only after the sailors had mounted to the tops of partially overturned houses and chopped their way through to the attics where the inmates were huddled together waiting for death to enter. Another crew under Junior Lieutenant Ross Willoh succeeded in saving 360, while three boats in command of Senior Lieutenant Theodore Schmidt rescued 244 persons. The majority of these latter were taken from box cars, warehouses, freight sheds and grain elevators in the railroad yards. It was here that the water attained its greatest violence, rushing in whirlpools between the irregular buildings on either side of the tracks. Navigation was extremely perilous on account of many submerged box cars, flat cars and overturned sheds. Several times the sailors were capsized, but managed to keep with their boats and right them again. Not a single life was lost either among the reserves or among the hundreds whom they attempted to rescue. While sailors worked incessantly to save lives, Lieutenant Walter Gayhart, also of the ship's company, succeeded in establishing a supply station on East Fifth Street, where many refugees congregated, and issued rations to the suffering. He slept Saturday night after seventy-one hours of continuous labor. With the additional military forces which arrived the city was thoroughly policed. At night the city was in darkness again. It was impossible to do much relief work at night and the curfew order was due in part to the advisability of keeping the men where they could protect their own households if necessary. RELIEF ON BUSINESS BASIS The distribution of food supplies and clothing and relieving of distress was put on a business basis. Supplies reached Dayton in large quantities, and the relief stations were sufficiently organized to take care of the incoming refugees from the flood districts. The problem of caring for the homeless was still serious, but with all promise of warm weather it was hoped there would be less suffering. Health officers reported that there was only one car of lime in the city, and there was great need of more. Fifteen thousand persons were subsisting on rations given out under direction of the relief committee. Ten thousand of these, it was estimated, were in their homes, and food was carried to them in boats and automobiles. About five thousand were being cared for at the relief stations. This showed a marked reduction in the number of persons being publicly fed. There was plenty of food, and it was placed into baskets in lots to serve five persons for two days. Over candles given out with the food the people boiled coffee, but the other food was eaten cold. There was no gas and little coal. Announcement was made by the relief committee that until conditions became normal, no private messages to persons here would be delivered or answered, as the wire capacity was taxed to the utmost to carry official and public business. Major Dupuy stated that he feared an epidemic of some kind unless the most rigid sanitary rules were enforced. STRICT SANITARY MEASURES Major Dupuy stated that the city had been divided into six sanitary districts, each district in charge of an officer of the sanitary corps of the National Guard. Strict orders regarding the disposition of garbage were issued and the people were advised, by means of bulletins posted in conspicuous places in the streets, how best to preserve the public health. Several cars of lime reached the city and many more were en route from different points. A carload of ambulance supplies was on the way from Cincinnati. Members of the Citizens' Relief Committee were apprehensive of a water famine. It was believed there was little chance that the present supply could be made to last until the water mains were in use again. R. H. Grant, head of the Relief Supplies Committee, issued an appeal to all cities in the country asking that as much bottled water as possible be shipped to Dayton immediately. It was especially desired that this water be strictly pure, as it was practically impossible to boil the water for drinking purposes. Considering the number of persons affected by this flood, there was comparatively little sickness, the cold weather being responsible for this to a great extent. The cold caused great suffering among those marooned without food, water, or heat, but in the end it proved a blessing. Dr. William Colby Rucker, Assistant Surgeon General of the United States Public Health Service, who arrived from Washington at the direction of the Secretary of the Treasury, with Surgeon General Rupert Blue, gave the following outline of the sanitary conditions existing in the city: "A survey of conditions in Dayton today shows that the sanitary situation is not so bad as was at first thought. Citizens have been warned to boil all drinking water and to bury refuse. City water is now flowing under twenty-pound pressure. Sewers in some sections are again in operation. The city expects to have others working tomorrow. "The city has been divided into six sanitary districts and tonight physicians who have been sworn in as district sanitary officers are being instructed as to their precise duties as heads of these districts." TALES OF THE RESCUED Pathetic scenes, so intense as to bring tears to the eyes of undertakers, were witnessed when scores of fear-stricken parents and children walked down the rows of dead lying upon slabs in the temporary morgues. In Riverdale and North Dayton, where the flood waters attained the greatest depth and degree of destructiveness, several thousand persons waded knee-deep in slimy mud, rummaging their desolated homes for clothing. All of this, of course, was soaked and plastered with mud, but it was dried on the hillsides, where the populace had taken refuge. In some places in these districts the water had so far receded as to render possible the beginning of the work of cleaning the lower floors of the mud and debris. The dead line around Riverdale, where the water remained about three feet in depth around most of the houses, continued to be maintained in order to guard against looting during the absence of residents. It was estimated that not more than a week would be required to immunize all homes requiring it outside of the Riverdale section, to free them from water and prepare them for cleansing. A SUMMARY OF WORK ACCOMPLISHED Following are some of the things accomplished since the flood broke over the city Tuesday morning: The water-works pumping station was in operation, but the distribution of water was greatly retarded by open pipes in wrecked houses. The pressure was feeble, but growing stronger as leaks were checked. The main sanitary sewer was in operation, although many of the laterals leading from houses were clogged with mud and backed-up water. The flood sewers, separate from the sanitary, were almost ready for service. These sewers carry off the rainfall from the gutters, and were needed to remove the water being pumped from basements. Sightseers in motor cars felt the heavy hand of public necessity when General Wood began impressing machines. The sightseers were ordered from their cars and the latter were pressed into public service. Protests were unavailing. The more stubborn surrendered at the points of rifles, and gave up their cars "until released by order of the chairman," as the placards placed in them read. The militia also began impressing citizens into service as workers. Men who had the appearance of being able-bodied, but idle, were questioned by officers of the National Guard; if they had not good reason for being in the streets, and no duties of a mandatory nature, they were pressed into service. The Sixth regiment, O. N. G., from Toledo and northern Ohio towns, which had been on duty in Dayton, commandeered a train when ordered to Cincinnati and departed before nightfall. The naval reserves from Toledo went on train. Coroner J. W. McKemy estimated that one hundred bodies had been recovered, though there was record of only seventy-two. He said some had been buried without usual official action and that in some cases he did not expect to get records. The postoffice was put out of business on Tuesday and it was not until Sunday that any sort of service was attempted. Telegraph and telephone service was almost entirely crippled until Saturday night, when even short messages were accepted only on condition that the sender assent to indefinite delays. Telegrams were relayed through Cincinnati. The only long-distance telephone wires in service were two private wires connecting with Cincinnati. On those who succeeded in securing permission to use these wires a time limit of three minutes conversation was imposed. No braver services were performed during the flood than those by the telegraph and telephone linemen who made possible the dissemination of news to hundreds of thousands of friends and relatives of Daytonians. They waded and swam icy floods and entered tottering buildings unhesitatingly in pursuit of their duty. Operators who had not removed shoes or clothing since last Tuesday were found Saturday. RAILROADS AGAIN WORKING Direct railroad communication was established Sunday night with Springfield, Ohio, Cincinnati and Richmond, Indiana. The Cincinnati, Hamilton and Dayton lines, on which Dayton passenger traffic depended mostly, were not working. The tracks leading into the Union Station were completely blocked and the few trains arriving discharged their passengers on the outskirts of the city. H. E. Talbott, who was commissioned by Governor Cox, chief engineer of the military zone, completed his plans for beginning the rehabilitation of the city. He announced that four departments had been created, with an assistant engineer in charge of each. One had charge of rebuilding the streets and alleys; another the levees along the rivers; another the sewerage system, and still another the bridges. [Illustration: Photograph by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y. Life lines strung across one of the streets. The rescuers caught persons carried down on wreckage in the raging flood and brought them to a place of safety] [Illustration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y. Man walking along the telephone cables after escaping from his house, which was washed away by the flood. The houses in the center have been washed from their foundations and are floating away] Hundreds of persons still looking for relatives passed along the lines at the morgues, fearing they should find their loved ones there. Only a few bodies had not been identified. Because of the city's financial condition, the problem of paying the costs of rejuvenation caused great concern. The treasury was practically empty, and the borrowing capacity would be exhausted when $900,000 was raised. It was planned to seek immediate relief from the Legislature. By order of Governor Cox, the reign of martial law over Dayton was extended to take in the whole county. The flood did more than sweep away property, for it swept away the city administration, temporarily at least, and brought in what amounted to a commission form of government. The extension of the area under martial law developed from action taken by local dealers whose places were closed. They complained that saloons on the outskirts were sending whiskey into the city, and that considerable drunkenness had been observed. Brigadier-General Wood reported the situation to the Governor, and his action was prompt and decisive. COMMISSION GOVERNMENT ESTABLISHED As soon as martial law was proclaimed, the municipal administration was eclipsed. Brigadier-General Wood for the moment became supreme under the Governor. On the heels of this Mr. Patterson was appointed chairman of a committee of five to administer the affairs of the city. The militia was instructed to obey his orders and thus became a police force. Under martial law the city enjoyed the free services of the biggest business men and the most expert professional men in Montgomery County. Citizens who ventured into the streets were impressed from the time they left their doors that Dayton is steadied and perhaps somewhat depressed by the absolute grip of martial law. Soldier government was maintained inexorably. Owners of business places could not set foot on their property without the permission of the khaki-clad militiamen, standing at the curbs with loaded carbines. If a citizen found himself some distance from his home when the curfew rang at 6 P. M. his return was beset with much difficulty, because of the necessity of halting by the many sentries he encountered. A citizen fearsome enough to venture from his threshold after 8 P. M. literally took his life in his hands, because the fingers of the militia rested on hair triggers. Nine colored men and one white man were added to the seven suspected looters shot and killed since martial law was proclaimed. Absolute secrecy concerning the deaths was maintained by the military authorities. Citizens who heard repeated firing between midnight and dawn in the business center of Dayton and near Ludlow Street, in which were located many of the handsomest homes in Dayton, spread these reports. The reports were confirmed in a non-committal way by militiamen who were on duty in these sections, who admitted they had fired ball cartridges as a "warning" to suspected looters. The most detailed account of the death of the white man had it that he was halted near Main and Third Streets shortly after 2 A. M. He had one hand behind his back, and when ordered to open it two watches fell to the pavement. He was then searched and eighteen watches were found in his pockets. The sentry called a corporal's squad of six militiamen and reported the loot found on the prisoner. The prisoner was led to the wall of a near-by building, faced toward the wall, and the squad, which had received instruction from its commander, fired. A white band with a red insignia, made apparently to simulate a Red Cross badge, was taken from the man's arm, and the body was thrown into the canal. EXECUTIONS DENIED The nine colored men reported as killed were discovered by sentries in various parts of the city. A dozen militiamen on duty near Main and Third Streets, about 2 A. M., said that they had heard firing at the locality named, but attributed it to warning shots. One of the men said that a sergeant in his company told of shooting and killing a colored man Friday night, when the man tried to escape in a boat on the Miami Erie Canal. Brigadier General George H. Wood, when asked about the reports of squad-firing and the deaths of ten suspected looters, said: "There was some squad-firing after midnight by sentries posted in the Ludlow section, where are located the homes of some of Dayton's wealthiest citizens. But neither there nor in other sections of the city where shots were fired was any one killed. The report that executions followed the detection of militiamen caught looting are without foundation. There have been no drumhead or other courtmartials and none will take place while I am in command here in Dayton. "We have the situation well in hand. I have 1,400 doing sentry duty throughout the city and I intend to guard homes and suppress all lawlessness." In spite of the rigor of this military government of Dayton, praise of General Wood's administration was heard on every side. Citizens discredited the stories of executions of looters and were not over-inquisitive of details, because they realized that drastic measures were imperative under the existing conditions. In accordance with suggestions made Saturday by Secretary of War Garrison and General Leonard Wood, chief of staff, Major Thomas L. Rhoades, President Wilson's military aide, took charge of the sanitary campaign and permanent relief organization. He had for his chief lieutenant Eugene T. Lies, of Chicago, who was in command of the Red Cross forces. Investigation of the financial standing of every householder whose home has been damaged by the flood was begun. In worthy cases money or materials with which to make repairs were furnished from the Red Cross funds. A HOME OF TENTS Major Rhoades took up plans for establishing a tented camp in North Dayton in which to shelter residents of the flood districts. These flooded homes were inspected and when found to be unsanitary the occupants were invited to take up quarters in the tented camp. Where the invitation was refused recalcitrants were escorted by a corporal's guard to the camp and compelled to remain there until their homes were cleaned and fumigated. Major Rhoades was supported by the militia in carrying out a policy to immunize every home in Dayton if necessary, and thus minimize the danger of epidemics. The medical authorities forbade the use of old clothing until after it had been fumigated. It was urged upon the general public that old clothing was not desirable for fear it might bring a pestilence in some form to a city unable to cope with more disaster. Nothing to indicate the approach of an epidemic due to flood conditions was reported, although the number of diphtheria cases was slightly above normal. Eight persons suffering from diphtheria were at the Miami Valley Hospital. Seven of them were caught in a house with a person who had recently become ill with the disease. Four persons hemmed in with one who had measles were suffering with that disease. Typhoid fever and pneumonia were a little more prevalent than usual. Clear skies and warm sunshine contributed to the comfort of the city and made possible good progress in the work of redemption. Two hospitals in Dayton were flooded on the first floor, so all sick and injured were taken either to the Great Miami Hospital or to the state insane asylum. Eight persons whose minds temporarily became affected because of hardships suffered in the flood were cared for at the latter place. With warmer weather, the greatest problem was the removal of the carcasses of dead horses. Every available automobile truck and all the horse-drawn drays were impressed by the sanitary officials and hundreds of men were engaged all day removing the carcasses to the different incinerating plants and to vacant lots on the outskirts of the city, where they were burned. George F. Burba, Governor Cox's private secretary, reported to the state's executive that there were 40,000 persons in Dayton who must be fed and sheltered for at least a week, and 10,000 who were destitute. The latter were without either sufficient clothing or food, and until business activities were restored, they had to be financed and maintained in lodgings until they could become self-supporting. Theodore A. Burnett and T. H. Smith, government food inspectors, took charge of the food supply, in so far as inspection was concerned, and appointed twelve deputies. All shipments of supplies from other places were carefully examined before being given to the refugees. Particular attention was paid to meats and canned goods. Announcement was made that the particular need of the people was drinking water, shoes, clothing, picks and shovels. Money also was wanted, although a considerable amount had already been subscribed by cities throughout the country. Food was on hand in ample quantities, free to all, but the variety was limited to staples such as beans, potatoes, bread and canned vegetables. Of fresh meat there was practically none and butter and eggs were scarce. All food supplies were those contributed by the outside world and distributed from the various relief depots on the requisition of householders. Neither provision nor other stores received any consignment of goods. Citizens and visitors alike were impressed with the facts that Dayton's condition was distressing. A review of the streets from sunrise until the curfew bell's toll furnished a practical illustration of this. Except for the comparatively few householders who had supplies on hand in considerable quantities, daily sustenance was secured by the market basket method. This was as true of the fairly well-to-do families as of the laboring classes. HOW RATIONS WERE ISSUED The head of a family made out a requisition each morning stating his needs for the day. This requisition was presented at any of the supply depots, and on it were issued rations consisting of potatoes, canned meats, prunes or preserves, beans, biscuits or bread. Men, women and children with their baskets were seen in the streets throughout the day. Most of the absolutely destitute were cared for in one or another of the buildings comprising the huge plant of the National Cash Register Company, which is on high ground at the southern end of the city, untouched by the flood. On the ninth floor of the administration building, known as the office's club, and where there is a dining room with a capacity for 1,000, more than 5,000 destitute persons were fed daily. The menu for Sunday was a typical one, as follows: Breakfast--Oatmeal and milk, coffee and bread. Dinner--Vegetable soup, stewed canned meat, stewed corn, coffee and bread. Supper--Bean soup, potatoes, coffee or tea and bread with butter. John F. Patterson, head of the plant, had his dinner in this general dining room on Sunday. The only luxuries enjoyed by him and not provided for the others were hard-boiled eggs and preserved peaches. Among the most active of the uniformed waitresses was Mr. Patterson's nineteen-year-old daughter. Volunteer waitresses helped out their paid sisters during these days of hardship. Monday in Dayton was much like the days that immediately preceded it, except that rapid progress was made toward the restoration of the city to a habitable condition. Electric current was supplied Monday night in a limited residential district and in a few downtown buildings, and the narrow zone of street lighting was extended. Automobile fire engines were brought overland from Cincinnati to assist in pumping out basements. Ample telegraph equipment was installed in the Beckel House. Thousands of telegrams remained undelivered, and it was still impossible for the telegraph companies even to attempt delivery. The line of citizens waiting in front of the Western Union's temporary office, to ask for messages from friends, extended during the morning a full block. The Bell Telephone system promised partial restoration of service by Tuesday. Its plant manager, John A. Bell, complained of his linemen having been impeded by refusal of guardsmen to honor the military passes. This was called to the attention of Brigadier General Wood, commanding the Ohio Guard, and relief was given. Practically no newspapers had been received here since Tuesday and the people of Dayton grew very anxious to learn of conditions in other cities. News of the death of J. P. Morgan first reached the public through a bulletin posted by a representative of the Associated Press. Later the Dayton _News_, whose plant was inundated, put a two-page paper on the street in which a few details of the death of the financier were printed. Impressed and volunteer laborers were put to work Monday refilling the broken levees. Removal of dead animals was the most pressing work of sanitation. Major Thomas L. Rhoads, President Wilson's aide and personal representative in charge of sanitary work, said that the situation was quite encouraging; that hospital facilities so far were ample; no epidemics of disease were in evidence and in two weeks there would be substantial relief, although it would require two months to remove the dirt and debris. WOMEN SHOVEL IN STREETS Monday for the first time, offensive odors came from the mud and slime that was shovelled into the streets by householders and storekeepers. In this work men, women and children were engaged. Wives of prominent citizens were seen with shovel and hoe, some of them wearing their husbands' trousers and rubber boots, doing as best they could the work of men. On Monday, John H. Patterson, chairman of the Citizens' Relief Committee, issued the following statement: "Our committee has now at its disposal all the food and clothing necessary. Money, however, is required to put our city in condition to prevent the outbreak of diseases and to rehabilitate the thousands, many of whom have lost their homes entirely and all of whom have lost their household and personal effects. "The committee sends an urgent appeal to the citizens of the United States for the necessary funds. All contributions should be sent direct to W. F. Bippus, treasurer of the relief committee." MILLIONAIRES IN THE BREAD-LINE In the bread-line on Monday was Eugene J. Parney, a multi-millionaire, whose gifts to charity have been very large and who recently included $25,000 to the Y. M. C. A. of this city. The day after the flood he was offering $1,000 for enough wood alcohol to heat malted milk for his infant grandchild. Monday he was no more successful in buying provisions. He appeared with a basket on his arm, rubbed elbows with those nearest in the motley line and apparently none was more grateful than he when his basket was filled with beans, potatoes, canned vegetables, rice and other staples. He was eager to pay for his supplies, but money is refused at the supply depots. It was arranged to change this system on Tuesday to enable those well able to pay to do so. Fred B. Patterson, only son of John H. Patterson, stopped work in the morgue at his father's factory long enough to tell for the first time of the part he took in the rescue work. Like his sister Dorothy, who worked as a waitress feeding refugees, young Patterson was doing the things that many poor men had avoided. ORVILLE WRIGHT'S ESCAPE Orville Wright, the aeroplane builder, and his family, who had been marooned in the west side, reported to relief headquarters on Monday. The flood stopped just short of wiping out of existence the priceless models, records, plans and drawings--all in the original--of the Wright brothers, who gave the airship to the world. Out in West Dayton live the Wrights--Orville, his father, Bishop Wright, and Miss Katherine Wright, the sister, in a small, unpretentious frame house. Orville Wright and his father and sister were in the old homestead when the flood swept in. The aged father was placed in a boat, but instead of conveying him to a place of safety, the boatman carried him to a house nearby where he was marooned until the waters subsided three days later. Orville Wright and his sister escaped to safety on an auto truck, being carried through four feet of water. In fleeing, however, the inventor of the aeroplane was compelled to abandon the small factory adjoining the homestead in which were stored all of the originals from which the plans for the air craft were perfected. Had these gone, there would have remained nothing of the priceless data save what exists in the brain of Orville Wright. At the height of the flood a house adjoining the factory took fire. There were no means to fight the flames. For several hours the factory was in peril, but a special providence protected it and it came out of both flood and fire unscathed. "We were lucky," said Orville Wright, whimsically, on Monday. "It is the irony of fate that at the critical moment I was not able to get away with my folks on one of my own machines. However, we came through all right and there doesn't seem to be anything more to be said." Just one week after the coming of the deluge Governor Cox entered his home city for the first time, accompanied by several of the members of the Ohio Flood Relief Committee. Governor Cox praised Mr. Patterson for his invaluable part in the relief work. "Mr. Patterson is the one man who is in the eye of America more than any one other man," said the Governor. Mr. Patterson, after he returned Tuesday night in company with H. E. Talbott, chief engineer, from a tour of sections of Dayton that were swept by the flood, issued a statement in which he said: "Dayton is facing one of the gravest problems that any city of the world ever faced and we want the world to know we need money and food for our stricken people." In speaking of a tentative plan to ask the Federal Government for a loan of from $20,000,000 to $40,000,000 to be used in reconstruction work, Mr. Patterson said: "At a meeting of bankers and officials of the building associations this evening it was decided to make an appeal for Federal aid. The banks and building associations have $60,000,000 worth of assets which they will put up as collateral. It may be deemed advisable to ask the Government to give us some financial assistance. We feel that the disaster is an emergency which would justify extraordinary action on the part of Congress." Since Sunday more than $750,000 in cash was received from banks in Cincinnati to replace damaged money in local banks which remained closed until April 8th. DEATH AND PROPERTY LOSS Mr. Talbott estimated that the property loss in Montgomery County totaled at least $150,000,000. He declared that one manufacturing company alone had lost half a million dollars. Although several carloads of provisions were received on Tuesday, officials in charge of relief work stated that the food situation was a matter of grave concern. "We must have rations for more than 100,000 people for an indefinite period," Mr. Patterson declared. A carload of automobile tires, contributed by an Akron rubber company for use in relief work, arrived on Tuesday. One of the great losses sustained from the flood was that which befell the public library. An inspection of the institution disclosed the fact that the children's library, the medical library and the reference library had been wiped out of existence. Included in the loss were all the public and official accounts and copies of the newspapers dating from the first issues, back in 1822, none of which could be replaced. County Coroner John McKemy, who in the week following the flood handled nearly one hundred bodies, said that at least twenty-five bodies were disposed of before he was released from his imprisonment by the flood. He estimated that the number of lives lost from the flood in Dayton exceeded two hundred. THE TASK OF REBUILDING So day followed day in the recuperation of Dayton; but, looking ahead, it was evident to the magnificent corps of expert men in charge of the work that months must elapse before all Daytonians could again live in their own homes. There were 15,000 residences to plaster and paper before they could be occupied. There were 4,500 houses to build foundations under, to straighten, re-roof, put in doors and windows, rebuild chimneys and make other repairs before their owners could move in again. There were 2,000 houses to raze and new structures to be built. The Citizens' Relief Committee, on advices from engineers, decided that this reconstruction work would require four months, even if building material could be obtained promptly. So far as the business and industrial buildings were concerned, it was estimated by architects who looked over the different premises that it would require eight months before repair work and rebuilding could be accomplished. In the interim business was done in whatever premises were available. Thousands of men were employed, together with many teams of horses, and work was pushed to the utmost in all departments. Surveys of the damage done were made and large quantities of material were ordered by telegraph, to be shipped immediately. Generations must come and go before the Dayton flood will be forgotten, and standing out in bright contrast with all else there will perhaps remain longest the inspiring picture of the energy and fortitude with which the stricken residents set about the retrievement of their city from the devastation of the angry waters. CHAPTER VI DAYTON: "THE CITY OF A THOUSAND FACTORIES" SURVIVOR OF SIX FLOODS--ESTABLISHED BY REVOLUTIONARY SOLDIERS--PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS--OTHER OF DAYTON'S FEATURES OF INTEREST--A CITY OF CIVIC PRIDE--"A THOUSAND FACTORIES"--ITS SUCCESS. Dayton has stood in the shadow of disaster from flood ever since its foundation. No less than six times previous to the present inundation have the rivers which flow through it left their accustomed courses and brought death and destruction of property upon the town. The first of these floods occurred in 1805, the very year that Dayton was incorporated as a town. The sixth was in 1898 and the others in the years 1847, 1863, 1866 and 1886. The site of the present city was purchased in 1795 by a group of Revolutionary soldiers and laid out as a town in the following year by one of them, who named it after Jonathan Dayton, a Jerseyman who had fought in the Revolution and who later served in Congress and the United States Senate. It became the county seat of Montgomery County in 1803 and received its city charter in 1841, something more than a score of years after the opening of the Miami Canal gave a boom to its growth and prosperity. [Illustration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y. Crowds at the end of one of the streets which was turned into a racing river. Many persons floating down on the debris were rescued by willing hands as they neared this point] [Illustration: Copyright by George Grantham Bain. Even before the flood reached its height, the wood-working department of the National Cash Register Factory was busily putting together improvised boats that were afterwards of great value in rescuing marooned residents from their flooded homes] PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS Within the city limits the waters of Wolf Creek, Stillwater and Mad Rivers unite with those of the great Miami. The latter stream flows through the city from north to south. As it reaches the corporation limits at the north it sweeps to the westward and is joined by Stillwater River a mile and a half from the court house. Then it takes an easterly course for half a mile and is joined by the Mad River at a point about half a mile from the court house. The river then bends again to the west for more than half a mile and is joined by Wolf Creek. Its course lies thereafter to the southeast. Great bridges, some of them of great architectural beauty, cross all of these streams. The Miami Canal takes water from the Mad River about two miles northeast of the court house, runs parallel with the Mad River to its confluence with the Miami and then runs southward to the city limits. The city is regularly laid out, the street and house number plan being arranged with arithmetical exactness. Main Street is the center of this system and the house numbers begin from it or the point nearest it on the streets that run east or west. For the streets running north and south the house numbers begin on Third Street or the point nearest Third Street. Main and Third Streets are respectively the dividing lines of all streets crossing them. SPLENDID PUBLIC BUILDINGS The court house stands at Main and West Third Streets. Distances are measured from it, and it is at the center of the scheme according to which streets are laid out. Its original portion was modeled after the Greek Parthenon and is built of rough white marble taken from quarries in the vicinity. It is only one of the many buildings of which the city is proud. Among others are the Steele High School, St. Mary's College, Notre Dame Academy, Memorial Building, Arcade Building, Reibold Building, post office, Algonquin Hotel, public library and the Y. M. C. A. building. There is also the Union Biblical Seminary and a publishing house connected therewith. The Central Theological Seminary was established in 1908. Among charitable institutions are the Dayton State Hospital for the Insane, Miami Valley and St. Elizabeth hospitals, the Christian Deaconess', Widows' and Children's homes and the Door of Hope, a home for girls. Just outside the city is the central branch of the National Home for Disabled Soldiers. In addition to these buildings there are a number of very handsome churches. OTHER OF DAYTON'S FEATURES OF INTEREST Dayton is on the Erie, the Dayton and Union and the Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, Chicago and St. Louis Railroads. There are one hundred and twenty-five trains entering the city daily. The Union Station was opened to the public in July, 1900, and cost, including tracks, $900,000. The city has an area of ten and three-quarter square miles. The Mayor, Treasurer, Auditor, Solicitor, and Board of Public Service, of three members, are elected by popular election. The Board of Public Safety, of two members, and the Board of Health, are appointed by the Mayor and confirmed by Council. The City Council, composed of thirteen members from ten wards, is elected by popular vote, for two years, each member receiving an annual salary of $250. It is a legislative body only. The supply of water for the city is almost inexhaustible in quantity and of absolute purity. In 1904 there were one hundred and thirty-three miles of street mains, 1,300 fire hydrants and 15,503 service taps. The Fire Department has a force of ninety men, fourteen engine-houses, fifty horses maintained at a cost of $86,728.48, and with property worth $375,000. A complete system of surface and underground sewerage, both storm and sanitary, is provided. In 1904 there were sixty-seven and nine-tenths miles of storm sewerage. There are seven National Banks and two Savings and Trust Companies. Dayton takes rank as foremost in building associations of any city of its size in the country. A large number of the 20,000 or more homes in the city have been built with the aid of these associations. A potent force in the development of the city has been the electric traction lines, of which Dayton has more than any other city in Ohio. There are nine lines, with a total mileage of three hundred and eighty-five miles, which radiate in all directions through the populous and rich country of which Dayton forms the center. The city railway lines, three in number, have a total mileage of nearly one hundred miles and render excellent service. The Dayton public school system has for many years enjoyed the reputation of being one of the best school systems in the West. Dayton had the first library incorporated in the state, one having been established in 1805. The Public Library was opened in 1855 and is supported by public taxation, having an income of $18,000 per annum. There are five daily newspapers, each with weekly editions, besides seventeen church and other publications. There are also three large church publication houses. The city hospitals include the St. Elizabeth Hospital, the Miami Valley Hospital, and the Protestant Hospital, which has a large central building known as the Frank Patterson Memorial of Operative Surgery, one of the most complete buildings for its purpose in the United States. The Dayton State Hospital for the Insane is maintained by the state. The Hospital of the National Military Home which adjoins the city is the largest military hospital in the world and has an average of 600 patients, all of whom are veteran volunteer soldiers of the Civil and Cuban Wars. A CITY OF CIVIC PRIDE Dayton was early imbued with the spirit of civic pride and the results are seen in a system of drives and parks. The streets are well built and numerous good hard gravel roads radiate into the surrounding country, a fertile farming region which abounds in limestone. The levee along the Miami is made of hard gravel and is wide enough at the top to form a foundation for a drive. "A THOUSAND FACTORIES" Dayton is sometimes known as "the City of a Thousand Factories," and some of its varied industries are known throughout the world. Leading these is, of course, the National Cash Register Company, which employs something more than 7,000 men. In addition to cash registers there are manufactured agricultural machinery, clay-working machinery, cottonseed and linseed oil machinery, railway cars, carriages and wagons, automobiles, flying machines, sewing machines, paper, furniture, soap and tobacco. Almost every industrial product finds a maker in this town. Barnum & Smith are the well known manufacturers of street cars. There is the Davis Sewing Machine Company, the Speedwell Automobile Company and many others. Water-power in abundance is supplied from the Mad River. Dayton is the fifth largest city in Ohio. The final abstract of the Federal census for 1910 placed the population at 116,577, as compared with 85,333 in 1900 and 61,220 in 1890. With its industries so diversified, its banks and building associations so strong and uniformly successful, and with its people so well educated, it is one of the richest and most prosperous communities in the Union. CHAPTER VII THE DEVASTATION OF COLUMBUS THE RISING FLOOD--MOST OF THE CITY DARK--GREAT AREAS UNDER WATER--THE MILITIA IN CONTROL--THE RELIEF OF THE VICTIMS--THE EXTENT OF THE DISASTER--STORIES OF THE HORROR--ORDERS TO SHOOT LOOTERS--RECOVERING THE DEAD--GOVERNOR COX INDEFATIGABLE--HUNGRY REFUGEES SEIZE FOOD--INCIDENTS OF HEROISM--SCENES OF PATHOS--LOSS BY DEATH AND OF PROPERTY--THE WORK OF RECONSTRUCTION. At Columbus, on Tuesday night, March 25th, darkness settled down on a swirling flood that covered large areas of the city. Thousands of persons were separated from members of their families and were frantic because they were unable to get into communication with their homes. THE RISING FLOOD Hundreds of fathers, sons, brothers, sisters and daughters had left their homes on the west side of the city in the morning to go to work, before the Scioto River had reached a flood stage. Rising suddenly, the water cut them off from their homes and when night fell they only knew that their homes were flooded and that the members of their families were dependent for food and shelter on more fortunate neighbors. Because the city was in darkness, only meager details of the condition of the flood-marooned inhabitants were obtainable. Wringing their hands, weeping and appealing vainly for help, scores of girls crowded in as close to the water's edge in the darkness as state troops and policemen on duty would allow them, but there was no chance to cross the stream to their home district. MOST OF THE CITY DARK Owing to the high water, electric lights in the flooded district and a part of the business section of the city were out, and the water supply was cut off. The supply of gas was also cut off, with a view to preventing explosions. In Columbus the west side was practically wiped out, and the reported loss of life ranged from a half dozen to 200. Houses were floating down the river with people on their roofs. Several fires in the submerged district added to the horrors. Refugees slept in public buildings, while militia helped the police patrol the streets, which were in total darkness. It was estimated that over 10,000 persons were homeless on the west side as a result of the flood and that at least 15,000 were living on the second floors of their homes. Only about ten per cent of the street cars were able to operate and steam railroad and suburban lines were tied up. Damage amounting to $30,000 was done by fires in the west side during the afternoon, which for a time threatened greater damage owing to the water supply being cut off. Even had there been water, most of the fire-fighting facilities were on the east side of the city and unable to reach the section affected. GREAT AREA UNDER WATER Bridges connecting the west side with the eastern portion of Columbus were swept away shortly after noon. Dozens of smaller bridges went down. Hundreds of men were marooned in factories on the west side, and police and National Guardsmen were making rescues in boats where it was possible. All street car traffic was abandoned. Fifteen hundred homes were flooded. With a great roar the levee at the foot of Broad Street let go shortly before eleven o'clock, sending down a deluge of water that swelled the Scioto River and covered a great area. Several small buildings collapsed. Just before the break the police ordered all persons in the lowlands to leave their homes quickly and flee for high land. All fire and police apparatus assisted in the work. The residents were told not to stop for clothes or valuables. The Sandusky Street levee also collapsed, permitting the water to wash out a railroad embankment and pour into all the low districts between the river and Sandusky Street. With water to the hubs, a horse-drawn wagon galloped out West Broad Street filled with police, who shouted as they went a warning to all to fly to the hills. While being swept down the channel of the swollen Scioto River just as darkness was gathering late in the day, a man, woman and child were rescued from the roof of a house that had been torn from its foundation by the flood. Two other children of the same family fell into the water and were drowned. THE MILITIA IN CONTROL State troops at the order of Governor Cox patrolled the streets in the flooded sections of the city and scores of automobiles were busy carrying the suffering to higher ground. Meantime, the rain which began Sunday night continued, at times moderately and at other times in torrents. The fact that the water had already destroyed several bridges and broken a levee gave cause for the alarm that other levees might break and further damage result. Because of the proportions of the flood, which washed out nearly every bridge of steam and electric roads leading out of Columbus, nearly all train service was annulled. Floodgates were closed against all trains coming in or going out of Columbus on all roads except the Norfolk and Western. A train on that road practically swam into the Union Station at 9 P. M. after having crept along through high waters for most of the run from Portsmouth to Columbus. During the day several trains on roads from the East were detoured through Columbus over the Norfolk and Western, but this was discontinued because of washed-out bridges between Columbus and Pittsburgh and other points. Norfolk and Western officials said they had no assurance that they would be able to operate any trains from here. Ten solid miles of Pullman and other trains, including the Twentieth Century Flyer, on the Pennsylvania Railroad, extended from Lima to Lafayette, held up by a wash-out. Repairs allowed the trains to move on about eleven o'clock. In taking charge of the relief work Governor Cox issued an order directing Adjutant-General John C. Speaks to call out the entire National Guard of the state for duty in the flooded districts. BRIDGES SWEPT AWAY Bridges were swept away, barring those who would have fled to places of safety. The rush of waters caught hundreds in their homes, and as the darkness fell the scramble to escape became wild and foreboding. Those who were able to do anything sent their appeals for aid to outlying cities before the wires had absolutely failed. Added to the terrors of flood and darkness was that of fire. In the wild rush for places of safety that followed the first warning of the danger from the bursting levees, lamps were toppled over, electric wires were crossed and soon flames were mounting high in many sections of the city. Representative H. S. Bigelow introduced a bill in the legislature to appropriate $100,000 for the flood sufferers in Ohio, the money to be handled under the direction of the Governor. With no change in the number of reported dead in this city, estimates on Wednesday placed the probable dead at from one hundred to one hundred and fifty. Columbus was still being drenched and torn by flood waters of the Scioto and Olentangy Rivers. The scene of devastation on the west side was partly made visible to residents of other sections of the city for the first time in two days. The isolation of the western section again became real when the last remaining bridge gave way before the torrents. Numerous persons who were considered conservative asserted that they saw scores of bodies float down stream and dozens of persons carried away in their houses. Miss Esther Eis, rescued from her home on the west side, said she saw the house with George Griffin, wife and seven children collapse and disappear, and another house containing John Way, wife and five children, break up in the flood. Besides the actual tragedies that were enacted in connection with the flood the most exciting incident occurred at the announcement that the storage dam, several miles north of the city, had broken, sending its great flood to augment that of the Scioto River. The scene that followed was one of wild panic in all parts of the city. Patrolmen, soldiers and citizens in automobiles, tooting horns, ringing gongs and calling through megaphones a warning to every one to seek safety in the higher parts of the east side, sent thousands in flight, while many, stunned by the supposed impending disaster, collapsed from fear or gave way to hysteria. It was more than an hour before the report was officially denied. Police officials assert that the report was made to them by persons connected with the military end of the patrols. City officials said that the storage dam was holding fast against the millions of gallons of water that were being poured against it, and they expressed confidence that it would continue to do so despite the great pressure upon it. The Governor telegraphed the War Department at Washington, asking that 50,000 tents and 100,000 rations be made available for use and distribution by the Ohio National Guard. Governor Cox also sent out appeals for aid to the Governors of all the border States of Ohio, including Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Michigan, Indiana and Kentucky. Tents and provisions were badly needed, according to the Governor's appeal. After working all night in the Adjutant-General's office in the State House, officers of the Ohio National Guard reported that they had succeeded in assembling 3,500 militiamen, ready for service in the flood districts. Mobilized at all points of the state, companies and regiments of the Ohio military force started at daybreak on Wednesday for the stricken cities and towns as soon as arrangements for their transportation, the most serious problem confronting the militia headquarters, could be arranged. The relief which they carried was held back by the lack of railroad facilities everywhere. THE RELIEF OF THE VICTIMS Howard Elting, president of the Chicago Association of Commerce, telegraphed Governor Cox that citizens of Chicago were raising a relief fund for flood sufferers. "I am pleased to state," the telegram said, "that $100,000 will be placed at the disposal of Ohio through the American Red Cross Society." The Senate passed the Lowry Bill making appropriation for the relief of the flood sufferers, but increased the amount to $500,000. The action was taken in response to the following message from the Governor: "The flood disaster that has befallen our state is of such magnitude in loss of life and human suffering that I respectfully urge upon your honorable body the importance and propriety of making an appropriation for the succor of those in distress. "May I further suggest that it be of such size and made with such dispatch as to reflect the great heart and resource of our commonwealth?" THE EXTENT OF THE DISASTER On Thursday it was apparent that the part of the city between Central and Sandusky Avenues was almost wiped out, and estimates of the death toll of the flood in this city ran into the hundreds. It was not until Thursday when the waters began to recede, and after two nights of horror, during which hundreds of people clung to the housetops, while others sought safety in trees, that the fact dawned upon the inhabitants that their city had been visited by as great a calamity perhaps as that which had fallen upon the Miami Valley. The bodies of 200 persons lay huddled in the United Brethren Church on Avondale Avenue, according to O. H. Ossman, an undertaker, who explored the flood district in a rowboat. He said this report was made to him by a man who said he had been able to reach the building and look through the windows. Police who sought to confirm the story were unable to reach the church because of the current. Ossman said nineteen bodies had been taken to his undertaking rooms and that he has been asked to be prepared to care for sixty-nine other bodies. He said he counted fully two hundred bodies in wreckage on West Park Avenue. Members of searching parties who were able to explore the west side of the city, south of Broad Street, for the first time reported that that section was a scene of vast desolation for a great area, much of it being still under water. The names of more than a half hundred persons were placed under the caption "known dead," while the list of probable dead was too great to be collated at that time. The number of missing and unaccounted for, it was said, would reach far into the hundreds. An Associated Press operator, who was marooned for hours in the flood after it broke early Tuesday, reached the Columbus office Thursday after having traveled by a circuitous route covering more than forty-five miles in order to get into the main portion of the city. He saw more than a score of bodies washed through the flood, and said that house after house was carried away in the flood. Many of the small frame cottages were wrenched to pieces by the currents and their occupants thrown into the water to be seen no more. It was believed that many bodies would be found at the Sandusky Street bridge or lodged against such part of it as was left in the river at that point. Further exploration of that part of the west side was begun Thursday afternoon. Because she had no home after she was rescued from the flood district, Miss Florence P. Shaner and William G. Wahlenmaier were married. They had intended being married in May. The girl was rescued by Wahlenmaier. Her mother was drowned and their home swept away. STORIES OF THE HORROR Other men who had ventured into the flood district told corresponding stories of awful loss of life. To add to the horrors of the situation reports reached the State House that the buildings in the flood-swept district were being looted by men in rowboats. To meet this emergency and to better patrol the west side, which is under martial law, Governor Cox ordered Troop B of the National Guard to patrol the ruined section of the city. It was believed the cavalrymen could cover more territory than foot soldiers. As the waters receded the militia guarded the west side under arrangements made between the Adjutant-General's department and Chairman Nass of the Columbus Relief Committee. Hundreds of people were still marooned in flooded homes, their rescue up to that time being impossible because of the swift current of the river. Rescued people in dire straits were brought to the City Hall in a stream all day, where people by the hundreds waited to obtain news of missing relatives and friends. Families were separated, and men, women and children stood night and day at the edge of the water waiting for the flood to subside that they might reach abandoned homes. The body of a man was suspended in a tree near Glenwood Avenue, beyond reach of the rescuing parties. Other bodies were among debris washed up on the edge of the waters in the southwest end of the city. Near this debris were two submerged street cars. Many of the refugees were in state institutions on the high ground at the west end. The water fell several feet and some of the streets inundated could be traversed, but in the lowlands, where it was feared the greater number of dead would be found, it was several days before a thorough search could be instituted. Many of the refugees were in a pitiable condition when rescued. They were benumbed by the cold and suffering from hunger and exposure. FOUR BORN AS OTHERS DIE Colonel D. N. Oyser, an attache of the city sanitary department, reported that two truckloads of bodies were removed from one point on the west side. The cold wave which struck the section Wednesday night caused many to freeze, lose their grip, and drop into the water. [Illustration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y. Part of the residential section of Fremont, Ohio, flooded. The water reached to the second story of the houses] [Illustration: Copyright by George Grantham Bain. Carrying on the work of rescuing Dayton flood sufferers from their houses in the boats made for the purpose at the National Cash Register Factory] With military glasses rescuers standing on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad near Center Avenue could see several dead forms lying on the roof of a building to the east. Four babies were reported to have been born in a school house on the hilltop. According to those who invaded the stricken district, the churches, big state institutions and storerooms in the hilltop section were crowded with refugees. They tell stories of indescribable horrors. Former Mayor George S. Marshall, who was in telephone communication with Cecil Randall, his law partner, said that Mr. Randall estimated the death toll at several hundreds. Throngs of excited groups of people from the flood-stricken section of the city who were crowded into the temporary rescue quarters asserted that the estimate of Mr. Randall was not exaggerated. Neither the extent of the awful tragedies enacted during the sweeping away of homes nor the exact death tolls could be known for days until the mass of wreckage, houses and uprooted trees which were strewn on the level lowlands south of the city were uncovered. This mass of debris was under several feet of water, with swift currents running in many directions. Many of those rescued told of escaping from their homes by fractions of minutes, just before the rushing waters swept their homes away and crushed them like eggshells against bridges. Scores of entire families, these people assert, were swept down with their houses in the swift current. Every available inch of space in the Columbus State Hospital for the Insane and Mt. Carmel Hospital on the hilltop was occupied by refugees. Fire Chief Lauer, who was marooned on the hilltop beyond the flooded section, reaching that point of safety in his automobile just before the waters swept the lowlands, said that he saw scores of people standing on their porches as the waters swept down and that he could not see how scarcely any of them escaped. After two nights of horror, during which hundreds clung to housetops calling for help until their voices gave way, while dozens perched in the branches of trees, many were still beyond the reach of rescuers. ORDERS TO SHOOT LOOTERS J. W. Gaver, Justice of the Peace at Briggsdale, swore in several deputies and armed them, with instructions to shoot down all looters. Relief trains from Marysville and London, bearing food and clothing, relieved the situation in the refugee quarters on the hilltop, where hundreds of homeless were waiting news from relatives. Relief work was directed toward rescuing two hundred and fifty from the marooned plant of the Sun Manufacturing Company, where they had been imprisoned for two days without food or heat. One boat which got within hailing distance before it was stopped by the swirling current was informed that conditions were terrible. With a blinding snowstorm and the temperature falling, gnawed by hunger and suffering from the cold, the thousands of flood sufferers of the state faced the uncertainties which the freezing temperature was adding to their plight. Although some of the early morning reports said flood waters were receding slowly in some of the flooded sections there was scarcely a perceptible change in the flood height. In other places, even though receding, the water was still of such height as to maroon the sufferers, many of whom were suffering from exposure which followed their clinging throughout the night to some points of vantage above the murky waters. All were facing the chilly winds, blinding rain, sleet and snow. Governor Cox issued a proclamation declaring a holiday in all districts flooded in Ohio for the next ten days. This was done to protect negotiable paper that might be subject to presentation. Hundreds of the refugees harbored in the various relief stations and in private homes just outside of the flooded district were separated from relatives, and many of them believed that lost sons or daughters, fathers or mothers had perished. The authorities were fearful of looting in the flood district and the militia, under strict orders, in several cases arrested rescue workers and interfered with their work, suspecting them of looting. A large quantity of supplies was transported to the flood district by automobile and rail, and the refugees were made comfortable as fast as they could be released from the grip of the waters. RECOVERING THE DEAD Thursday's bodies were recovered from jams of driftwood that had piled up along the shallow shores of the flood. All of them were badly mutilated and in several cases identification was difficult. The authorities organized a squad of men to cover the entire inundated area in the search of bodies. Up to date fifty-one known dead had been reported. Hundreds of those whose homes were in the flooded district, but who were marooned in the business section of the city, away from their families, were able to get to the flood section Thursday by a circuitous route about twenty-five miles long. All manner of vehicles and pedestrians crowded the road throughout the day, and at the end of the way pathetic reunions of families separated since Tuesday took place in the muddy, flood-swept streets. Daniel A. Poling, general secretary of the Ohio Christian Endeavor Society, issued an appeal to the 160,000 Christian Endeavorers in the state, urging them to forward contributions to state headquarters. West Columbus remained virtually under martial law. Militia companies on duty were ordered to shoot looters on sight. Thousands of curious people and those with friends and relatives in the flooded districts were kept out of the west side by police and troopers. The city relief station, at the city hall, and the newspapers maintained and compiled lists of the rescued, as well as lists of the dead. By Friday order was being rapidly evolved out of chaos, and missing loved ones were being accounted for by hundreds. Ample shelter and food were being provided for the thousands of homeless. Flood waters drained off from the devastated districts, railroad service was slowly resumed and telegraph and telephone wires were being restrung. [Illustration: MAP SHOWING ONE OF THE CIRCUITOUS ROUTES BY WHICH NEWS OF THE FLOOD WAS CARRIED TO THE OUTSIDE WORLD] GOVERNOR COX INDEFATIGABLE For three days Governor Cox tirelessly accomplished the work of a dozen men, laboring from daylight to long past midnight to aid the unfortunates of Ohio. His hand guided everything done in the work of rescue and on Friday he turned his attention to new problems of preventing epidemics, safeguarding life and property, relieving the sufferings of surviving flood victims and the care of the dead. The hero of the Dayton disaster, John A. Bell, the telephone official who, marooned in a business block had been keeping Governor Cox informed every half hour of conditions in the stricken city and delivering orders through boatmen who rowed to his window, called the State House at daybreak and greeted the Executive with a cheery "Good morning, Governor. The sun is shining in Dayton." But sunshine gave way to a blizzard like a snowstorm later in the day and the reports coming from Bell were less cheering as the day advanced. On Friday the Governor seized the railways to insure passage of relief trains and to keep sightseers and looters away from the afflicted municipalities. The entire military force of Ohio was on duty in the flooded districts, which included practically the entire state. Because of the interrupted communications headquarters had not been able to keep fully in touch with the movements of all the troops. The officers in command in most cases had to determine routes and procure their own transportation. Under the most difficult conditions they uniformly showed both energy and ingenuity in reaching their destination. Estimates of the flood death list in Columbus continued to range from fifty to five hundred, although these figures represented largely opinions of officials on duty in the flood zone. The efforts of the authorities were directed almost entirely to relieving the suffering of those marooned in houses in the territory under water, and until all of these had been rescued the search for the dead did not begin in earnest. The waters receded slowly on Friday and the swirling currents abated a trifle, allowing the rescue boats a wider area of activity. ORGANIZING RELIEF George F. Unmacht, civil service clerk, connected with the quartermaster's department of the United States army, stationed at Chicago, arrived in Columbus Friday to assist in directing the distribution of supplies. Rations for 300,000 arrived together with tents for 20,000 persons; 100 hospital tents, 400 stoves, 29,000 blankets, 8,900 cots, 100 ranges. Officers at Columbus were ordered to report at Fort Wayne, Cincinnati, Youngstown and Hamilton, while a hospital corps was sent to the Columbus barracks. The Governor's attention on Friday was devoted largely to organization of the work of relief. He received telegrams notifying him of collections of more than $250,000. A New York newspaper had sent $150,000 subscribed to a fund it raised. Word was received that the Chicago Chamber of Commerce had raised $200,000, half of which had been forwarded to Ohio. Judge Alton B. Parker subscribed $5,000 and James J. Hill $5,000. A thousand dollars was sent from Walkerville, Ontario. Governor Dunne wired that a bill appropriating $100,000 for Ohio flood sufferers had been introduced in the Illinois Legislature, while Governor Osborne telegraphed that the Michigan Assembly had appropriated $20,000. Colonel Myron T. Herrick, of Cleveland, Ambassador to France, cabled his deep anxiety over the Ohio disaster, and Governor Cox in reply asked him to call a meeting of the Ohio Society in Paris and wire funds, saying the losses exceeded the San Francisco earthquake. The Ohio Society of Georgia wired the Governor it was sorry and it too was invited to show how much it was sorry. HUNGRY REFUGEES SEIZE FOOD The need for relief was indicated when a company of telephone linemen working outside of Columbus had their supplies taken from them by hungry flood refugees. Governor Cox recalled some of his former comments on the need of expenditures for the National Guard. "The National Guard," he said, "has saved itself. Its efficiency has been a revelation to me." In the organization so promptly effected by the Governor the moment the floods came, his most efficient aid came from Adjutant-General Speaks and the National Guard officers, and with the Guard the work of rescue and of maintaining order was made possible. The officers and men performed every duty faithfully. Martial law prevailed in most of the stricken cities and the soldiers prevented the looting of the abandoned houses and cared for the refugees. Colonel Wilson, of the Paymaster's Department, was made financial officer as well as treasurer of the relief funds. Under his direction and the Governor's supervision the Ohio relief commission prepared for a War Department audit, as is required by the Red Cross Society. The Governor demanded that there should be but one relief committee in the state, and to that end the local committees formed were subordinate to the state commission. INCIDENTS OF HEROISM The work of rescue brought out many striking incidents of personal heroism. From two o'clock Tuesday afternoon until nearly nightfall Wednesday Charles W. Underwood, a carpenter of this city, held two babes in his arms while he clung to the branch of a tree near the Greenlawn Cemetery, where he had been carried fully a mile by the current. One babe was his own, the other belonged to a neighbor, and as he clung to them he saw his own twelve-year-old daughter on another limb of the same tree weaken from exposure and die, her frail body swaying limply as it hung over the branch. He also saw a woman refugee in the same tree weaken and fall into the swirling waters. Underwood and the babes were finally rescued. Two hundred and thirty-three souls marooned in the building of the Sun Manufacturing Company succeeded in sending out a note by messenger, praising the work of John Brady, who, with a skiff, after his home was swept away, rescued two hundred men, women and children and brought them to the Sun plant. "Track out at Columbus because of floods," was the message that Albert E. Dutoit, a Hocking Valley Railway engineer, read when his train was stopped Wednesday at Walbridge, near Toledo. His heart gave a bound, for he knew his family must be threatened. He detached his engine from the train and started on his race with death. Like mad he shot his engine across the country between there and Columbus. All night Wednesday he tried to get through the military lines and succeeded on Thursday. He induced men in motor boats to rescue his family. In a few more moments, he had his eight-months-old baby in one arm with the other around the waist of his wife. The reunion brought tears of sympathy to the eyes of the rescuers. Mrs. Emil Wallace, living southwest of the city, in the lowlands, ran toward a hill when she saw the onrushing waters. She reached safety just as the water was up to her neck. Her home was submerged. A street car was washed a quarter of a mile away from the track. The conductor and half a dozen passengers were drowned like rats in a trap before they could get out of the car. Two unknown men lost their lives while trying to save a twelve-year-old girl from a raft floating near Greenlawn Avenue. On horseback the men fought desperately against the swift current of the flood until at last they were carried away. Nearly one hundred babies were born in the flood district and in the refuge camps between Tuesday morning and Saturday. In the majority of cases neither the mothers nor the babies received any medical attention. Many of the babies died from exposure. As the sun broke through a fringe of clouds Saturday morning it looked down upon scenes of utter devastation in the stricken west side of this city, where a mighty torrent of water had rendered what was a prosperous and happy community of 40,000 souls into a place of death, want and disaster. SCENES OF PATHOS The scenes were full of human pathos. Torn bodies, disfigured almost beyond recognition, were being dug from debris. Whole families, marooned for four long days and nights in the upper stories of houses that had escaped as if by miracle, many of them without food or water and in fear of constant death by flood or flame, were being reached by rescuers. Many of those rescued were in a critical condition from the long hours they had spent in the bitter cold--their clothing soaked by the incessant rainfall of three days and nights and no fuel or bedding with which to combat their fearful condition. The water was subsiding materially and the work of rescue was thus made easier. The work of the searching parties in the flooded district increased the list of bodies recovered from the water to sixty-one. All of these were lodged in the temporary morgue, and most of them were identified. Accurate estimates of the dead were still impossible. Safety Director Bargar said not more than one hundred had been drowned. Coroner Benkert asserted that the loss of life would reach 200, while former Mayor Marshall, commanding the rescue workers in the southern end of the flooded district held that both estimates were too high. Of the sixty-one bodies recovered twenty-seven had been identified. Estimates placed property loss at from $15,000,000 to $30,000,000. But no one seemed to care about the monetary loss. The city was staggered by the weight of human suffering. Governor Cox received a telegram from D. T. McCabe, vice-president of the Pennsylvania Lines, offering to transport free of charge all relief supplies to points in the flooded area of the state if properly consigned to the relief authorities. The Governor also received a telegram from Governor Ralston, of Indiana, saying that ten carloads of supplies had been started for Ohio points by Indiana relief organizations. Approximately one thousand persons, refugees from the Dayton flood, arrived in Columbus on Saturday, most of them having made their way by automobile and trains. As if pursued by tragedy, it fell to them that their landing place in this city should be within the radius of the recently-flooded hilltop district of the west side. The arrival of the refugees was unexpected and no arrangements had been made to care for them. Adjutant-General John C. Speaks was notified and said that the state would do the best that could be done to provide them with food and shelter. General Speaks said that the local relief committees were being sorely taxed, but that he had been advised by the Columbus relief committees that they would give all possible assistance in housing and feeding the Dayton arrivals. Scores of transfer wagons traversed the inundated streets carrying relief to the hundreds marooned in the upper stories of houses. An element adding to the difficulty of the situation was the refusal of hundreds to leave their homes in the submerged district. This despite the fact that they were compelled to live in damp upper stories, with little heat or cooking facilities and in the face of threatened illness. "We've saved our bedding and furniture, and that's all we have," said one of these. "We are not going to take any chances of losing that." City Health Officer Dr. Louis Kahn ordered an immediate cleaning up. The health authorities also called attention to the necessity of boiling all water for drinking purposes. Miss Mabel Boardman, head of the Red Cross Society, reached Cincinnati Saturday night. She came to confer with Governor Cox. The Governor again asserted that the property damage caused by the floods in Ohio would aggregate $300,000,000, and that this amount would be increased by the high water in the Ohio River. With the water fast receding in Columbus and the danger stage passed, the food problem promised on Sunday to become the most serious for the relief workers to solve. Mayor Hunt, of Cincinnati, had been sending food to Dayton and other places, but on Saturday as the flood descended upon his own city from the upper reaches of the Ohio River, he put an embargo on further exports of provisions. Though fifty-five carloads of provisions consigned to the state were in Columbus last night, and supply trains were headed for Ohio from Chicago, Washington, New York and other places, Governor Cox was by no means reassured that the relief in sight would be sufficient. All of the people in the marooned district were reached and those willing to leave their homes were brought over to the east side of the city and cared for in hospitals, private homes or temporary places of refuge. Boats and other contrivances were in constant use carrying provisions and fuel to those who could not leave their homes. Eight more bodies were recovered. A majority of the rescued presented a pitiable sight, some hardly able to stand on their feet and others, thinly clad and benumbed by the cold, trembled as they were lifted into the boats. The hospitals were crowded with people dangerously ill from days of exposure. The morgues, hospitals and places of refuge were constantly besieged by people looking for lost relatives. Those received related tales of horror and heroism unparalleled except in great disasters like the Titanic or Johnstown. A year-old baby, wrapped in a blanket, was washed ashore in front of the gates of the state institution for feeble-minded. Although chilled by the water the child was soon revived. Pinned to its underclothing was a piece of paper, upon which the name, "Walter Taylor," was written. The boy was restored to his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Taylor, twenty-four hours later. The family had been penned in its home for two days. As the water rose gradually the parents moved to the second floor and then to the attic. Finally the father was forced to hold the child for hours above his head. Climbing out to the roof as a last resort, the baby was swept away and the parents had given it up for dead. Governor H. D. Hatfield, of West Virginia, arrived in Columbus at seven o'clock Sunday night on a special train from Charleston. The train brought supplies, motor boats and skiffs. The motor boats and skiffs were later taken through the different sections of the city to rescue hundreds who were marooned. The local military company took charge of the rescue work and pushed it forward as rapidly as conditions would permit. The sum of $50,000 was raised by voluntary contributions in Columbus for a relief fund. In addition, the city council voted $75,000, and great stores of provisions and clothing were contributed by local people and outsiders. Thousands of the homeless people were cared for in homes of those willing to share them, or in public halls. One thousand were fed daily in the Masonic Temple. In a statement full of feeling, issued Sunday evening, shortly before he left the Executive office for home and the first full night's rest he has had in more than a week, Governor Cox said: "Refreshed by the tears of the American people, Ohio stands ready from today to meet the crisis alone. "Ohio has risen from the floods. Such a pitiless blow from Nature as we sustained would have wiped out society and destroyed governments in other days. We cannot speak our gratitude to President Wilson for federal aid, to the Red Cross, to states, municipalities, trade organizations and individuals that sent funds and supplies. They will never know their contribution to humanity. "The relief situation, so far as food and clothing are concerned, is in hand. Thankful to her friends who succored her, Ohio faces tomorrow serene and confident." Governor Cox and members of the Legislature began on Monday an outline of reconstructive legislation, to be followed in all of the flood districts by the state. It was decided that the San Francisco relief plan should be placed into effect for the Ohio flood sufferers. Under this plan the relief was based upon property loss of the individual and the income loss incurred. The amount of relief each person received was prorated on such a basis. Upon the recommendation of Governor Cox, the Legislature recessed until next Monday, thereby giving state officials a week to formulate plans. Resolutions warmly thanking the citizens of New York State and Pennsylvania for their flood relief contributions were passed. All that human effort could accomplish on Tuesday failed to penetrate the part of the debris piled in the west side, where, it was believed, many of the bodies of persons missing finally would be recovered. As matters stood Tuesday night, however, eight more bodies had passed through the morgues. In addition to this number, was the body of James M. Kearney, a merchant, who was drowned several months ago, and which, cast up by the flood, was found lodged in a tree when the waters had receded. That many other bodies would be recovered after the army of men employed in the work had attacked the great pile of debris made at several points by wrecked homes was generally conceded. [Illustration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y. View of River Street In Troy, New York, showing the Collar, Cuff and Shirt Factory of Cluett, Peabody & Company, the largest of its kind in the world, closed on account of the floods. Thousands of people were thrown out of work on account of the overflowing of the Hudson] [Illustration: Photograph by Underwood & Underwood. Under the martial law established at Dayton, citizens were kept off the streets at night as a precaution against looting] LOSS BY DEATH AND OF PROPERTY Four more bodies were recovered Wednesday from flood wreckage, making the total of bodies found in this city stand at eighty-four. Of these all except seven were identified. Coroner Benkert, who made a wide-spread investigation among families, some members of which were among the missing, said that he estimated that at least one hundred and twenty-five bodies would be recovered. It was expected that other bodies that had been washed down the river would never be identified as Columbus victims. The property damage in Columbus, like the death toll, was confined principally to the west side, the business and manufacturing districts having gone almost unscathed. THE WORK OF RECONSTRUCTION Governor Cox and the State Relief Commission on Tuesday left on a tour of the state to visit cities and districts that were hit hardest by the flood to determine what relief was necessary in each case. Before their departure, however, conditions in Columbus were fast approaching normal, and the residents with a cheerful, courageous spirit had commenced the repair of their devastated city. CHAPTER VIII COLUMBUS: THE BEAUTIFUL CAPITAL OF OHIO CAPITAL OF OHIO SINCE 1810--EARLY HISTORY--CITY OF BEAUTIFUL STREETS AND RESIDENCES--SPLENDID PUBLIC COMMODITIES--TRADE AND INDUSTRIES--CHARACTERISTICS OF ITS RESIDENTS. Columbus, Ohio, the capital of the state and the county seat of Franklin County, is located at the center of the state at the junction of the Scioto and Olentangy Rivers, on a slightly elevated alluvial plain, and is nearly equidistant from Cincinnati, southwest; Cleveland, northeast; Toledo, northwest; and Marietta, southeast, the average distance from these points being one hundred and fifteen miles. It has a population of some 180,000. Columbus was made the capital by the legislature in 1810, and became the permanent capital in 1816, the original territorial and state capital having been Chillicothe. The first state buildings were of brick, and cost $85,000. The present massive buildings and additions are of dressed native gray limestone, in the Doric style of architecture. They cover nearly three acres of ground, and their total cost has been $2,500,000. CITY OF BEAUTIFUL STREETS AND RESIDENCES As early as 1812 Columbus was surveyed in rectangular squares; it was incorporated as a village in 1816, and chartered as a city in 1834. In general outline the city resembles a Maltese cross. It extends eight miles north and south, and seven miles east and west on its arms of expansion. Its longest streets, High and Broad, bisect the city north and south, and east and west respectively. The uniform width of the former is one hundred feet, and the breadth of the latter is one hundred and twenty feet. Broad Street is planted with four rows of shade-trees for its entire length east of Capitol Square, where it penetrates the fashionable residence district. High Street is the leading business thoroughfare. Capitol Square, a miniature park of ten acres, is situated at the intersection of these streets, two squares east of the Scioto River. The residence portions of the city contain many beautiful homes and fine mansions. There are numerous apartment buildings; the houses of the average people are substantial and comfortable. On the business streets are many handsome, commodious blocks; many steel, brick and stone office buildings, as well as commodious railway buildings and stations. The streets are wide, well paved and lighted, and are kept in good condition. SPLENDID PUBLIC COMMODITIES The police and fire departments are excellent; the water supply is pure and ample, and the sewerage system good. The waterworks are owned by the city. A large municipal electric-lighting plant was completed in 1908. Natural gas is the principal fuel for domestic use. Bituminous coal, in unlimited quantities, is found a few miles to the south. The church buildings of Columbus include those of the following religious denominations: Methodist Episcopal, United Presbyterian, Roman Catholic, Lutheran, Baptist, Disciples, Friends, Christian Scientist, Evangelical, Jewish, Independent German Protestant, German Evangelical Protestant, African Methodist Episcopal, Seventh Day Adventists and United Brethren. The newspapers and periodicals include English and German dailies, secular weeklies, and trade, professional, religious, fraternal and other publications. There are numerous public school buildings, four being devoted to high-school purposes. Among institutions for higher education are the Ohio State University, Capital City University and the Evangelical Theological Seminary. Professional schools include one dental and three medical colleges, and a law school; and there are also private and religious educational institutions. Columbus is the location of a state hospital for the insane; state institutes for the education of deaf mutes, blind and imbecile youth; the Ohio penitentiary; county, city and memorial buildings; five opera houses; and a board of trade building. There are five public parks and a United States military post, Fort Columbus. This post, known also as Columbus Barracks, was originally an arsenal, and now has quarters for eight companies of infantry. From Columbus steam railroads radiate to all parts of the state, intersecting all through lines running east, west, northwest, northeast and south; and interurban lines connect with a model street-railway system. TRADE AND INDUSTRIES Columbus is near the Ohio coal and iron fields, and has an extensive trade in coal, but its largest industrial interests are in manufactures, among which the more important are foundry and machine products, boots and shoes, patent medicines, carriages and wagons, malt liquors, oleomargarine, iron and steel, and steam railway cars. There are several large quarries adjacent to the city. CHARACTERISTICS OF ITS RESIDENTS The citizens of Columbus possess the characteristic push and enterprise of western people, and much of the culture and artistic taste of those in the east. The population is drawn chiefly from the counties in the state, and especially from those which are centrally located. The largest foreign elements are German, Irish, Welsh, English and Italian, and include scattered groups and individuals from almost every civilized and semi-civilized country in the world. CHAPTER IX CINCINNATI: A NEW CENTER OF PERIL A GREAT MANUFACTURING CITY--THE TUESDAY CLOUDBURST--ANXIOUS WAITING--HOMES SUBMERGED--FACTORIES FORCED TO CLOSE--THE SITUATION EVER GRAVER--EXPLOSIONS IN THE CITY--THE CRISIS--FLOOD DAMAGE. Scarcely had Dayton, Columbus and Zanesville begun their real battle for restoration when Cincinnati became a new peril center. Situated on the Ohio River at the point where the Muskingum, Scioto, the two Miamis, and the Licking were pouring their millions of gallons of flood water into the river, the city was bound to suffer. It seemed as if the Buckeye State would never be able to escape from the clutches of the great demon of flood. A GREAT MANUFACTURING CITY Cincinnati is the county seat of Hamilton County, in the extreme southwest of the state, one of the great commercial and manufacturing centers of the Union, tenth in nominal rank, and seventh or eighth in fact. It is situated on the north bank of the Ohio River, almost exactly half way from its origin at Pittsburgh to its mouth at Cairo, Illinois. On the western side of the city from west to south runs Mill Creek, the remains of a once glacial stream, whose gently sloping valley, half a mile or more wide, forms an easy path into the heart of the city, and was an indispensable factor in determining its position. Highways, canals and railroads come through it, and the city's growth has pushed much farther up this valley than in other directions. The railroad stockyards are on its eastern slope. Cincinnati extends for about fourteen miles along the river front, to a width of about five in an irregular block north from it, but attains a width of six or seven miles at the extreme point along the creek valley. The bottom level below the bluffs along the riverside is the seat of the river shipping business, and has as well the usual fringe of low quarters; it is paved, and there is a broad public landing fronted by floating docks, wharf-boats, etc. Above are the wholesale and then the retail business streets, with great extent and variety of fine business architecture, and gridironed with electric roads. The principal lines converge at or near Fountain Square, and connect with a ring of beautiful suburbs, within and without the city limits, unsurpassed in America. Among the sights of interest is the busy public landing or levee. The Grand Central Depot, a terminal of several of the largest roads, is centrally situated near the river. Among the most prominent buildings are that of the United States Government Custom House, the City Hall, the City Hospital, the Springer Music Hall, the Odd Fellows and Masonic Temples, the Public Library, with 431,875 volumes, and the Museum of Natural History. St. Peter's Cathedral, St. Paul's Protestant Episcopal Cathedral, St. Paul's Methodist Episcopal Church, the First and Second Presbyterian Churches, and the Jewish Synagogue are handsome edifices. Fine hotels and theaters are numerous. The biennial musical festivals are famous. THE TUESDAY CLOUDBURST The troubles of Cincinnati began on Tuesday, March 25th, when the city experienced a cloudburst that started the gauge rising in the Ohio River, temporarily flooded the streets of the city and carried away two bridges over the White Water River, at Valley Junction a short distance to the south. PREPARING FOR THE WORST By Thursday Cincinnati was facing one of the worst floods in her history. It had rained steadily for twenty-four hours. The flood had entered several business houses in the lower section during the night and early morning found the entire "bottoms" a sea of moving vans, working up to their capacity. At eight o'clock in the evening the gauge showed 60, a rise of more than three feet since the same hour that morning. East and west of the city on the Ohio side of the river the lowlands were inundated and much damage done. In the low sections of the city many houses were flooded and the inhabitants of these sections fled to higher ground. Across the river at Newport and Covington, Kentucky suburbs of Cincinnati, similar conditions prevailed and the police early warned dwellers of the danger that threatened. Dayton and Ludlow, other Kentucky suburbs, were also sufferers from the rising flood and many houses were already completely under water. [Illustration: TOPOGRAPHY OF STRICKEN SECTION OF TWO STATES Practically every town and city shown in this illustration suffered from the floods, most of them from loss of life and all of them from property damage.] A seventy-foot stage for Cincinnati was predicted. The Central Union Station was abandoned and all trains leaving or entering the city were detoured. ANXIOUS WAITING Slowly the treacherous waters rose while tired watchers waited anxiously. Conditions were not acute but distressing. The people knew that they must face conditions worse than the present. All the lowland to the west and east of the city had been submerged and also along the water front of the business section the commercial houses were gradually disappearing under the yellow river. Hundreds of families along the river front in Cincinnati had been forced to move by the encroaching river and many merchants had removed their goods from cellars and basements to higher ground. Chief of Police Copeland, however, had the flood work well in hand. The police were put on twelve-hour duty and worked in the flooded territory in rowboats. The city armory sheltered many persons and preparations were made to distribute food at the city jail. Nearly every landing place along the river front was piled high with furniture, bedding and other household effects. HOMES SUBMERGED Along the Kentucky shore conditions rapidly became worse. At Covington more than five hundred houses were submerged and their occupants given shelter and protection in public buildings. Plans were formulated to care for flood sufferers, and a meeting was held at Covington at which arrangements were made to raise a sufficient fund for the poor. At the same time arrangements also were made for policing the flood zone and preventing looting. The river-front section of Ludlow was deep under water and the residents had moved. Bromley was entirely cut off from other neighboring towns. Dayton, Kentucky, and other nearby small towns were in the same isolated condition, and there was much suffering in consequence. FACTORIES FORCED TO CLOSE Many of the large manufacturing plants closed because operatives were unable to reach their places of employment. Newport, which, with Covington, is directly opposite Cincinnati, forming the larger of the suburban sections, was in almost as bad a case as its neighboring city. The flood of water had risen in all parts of the town. One of the bridges across the Ohio had been closed, and the authorities were preparing to close others to the public, thus cutting off the south shore from communication with Cincinnati, and also closing practically the only railway outlet the latter city had to the South and East. No food shortage was anticipated, but warnings were issued by the mayor of this and other nearby cities that merchants must not take advantage of the situation to charge extortionate prices. All attempts of this nature in Cincinnati were promptly curbed by the authorities. THE SITUATION EVER GRAVER With nearly 15,000 persons in the towns on the Kentucky side of the Ohio River driven from their homes by the rising flood that was sweeping down the Ohio Valley and with more than 3,500 homes altogether or partly submerged, the flood situation in the vicinity of Cincinnati on Saturday was assuming graver proportions hourly. The water reached the second floor of a number of business houses along Front Street and was half way up on the first floor of several blocks of houses on Second Street. Several lines of the Cincinnati Traction Company, operating in the lower district were abandoned. Reassuring word from the packers, commission men and general produce merchants came early in the day, when it was estimated by experts that Cincinnati had enough food supplies to last at least ten days without inconveniencing any one. Railway service into and out of Cincinnati was virtually at a standstill. The Louisville and Nashville trains were leaving the city for the West on time, but arriving trains were much delayed. So far only one life had been lost as a direct result of the high waters here. Miss Anna Smith, the first victim, drowned in an attempt to reach Newport in a skiff that capsized in midstream. Her three men companions were rescued while swimming to shore. KENTUCKY SUBURBS IN TROUBLE Newport and Covington were virtually surrounded by water. Conditions there were worse than elsewhere and nearly ten thousand people were driven from their homes. Relief measures, however, were adequate. Manufacturing plants in the lowlands ceased. In these two cities the only fear was that health conditions would be seriously affected because of the clogging of the sewage system and the stagnation of back water. The water works and gas plants continued in operation, but the electric light plants had been forced to cease. In the Kentucky towns of Dayton, Ludlow, Bellevue and Bromley identical conditions existed, but in their cases all communication with Cincinnati, Newport and Covington was suspended. These towns remained in isolation until the water had fallen sufficiently to permit the operation of street cars on the south side of the river. In these towns there were 2,000 persons cared for by relief committees. More than 500 homes disappeared under the flood waters. Property damage assumed alarming proportions, especially as this was the second time within three months that the Ohio Valley had suffered from high water. By Sunday the outlook for Cincinnati was brighter. No trains had gone out of the city except south to Kentucky by way of Covington, and rail and telegraph communications were still badly demoralized, but fair, warm weather which had continued since Thursday had greatly helped the complex situation. It was predicted that the river would reach its greatest height at Cincinnati on Monday. EXPLOSIONS IN THE CITY Spreading over a vast expanse of territory in Cincinnati, as well as an almost equal amount in the various towns that lie along the river on the Kentucky shore, the Ohio continued to rise. During Saturday night the central part of the city was thrown into a semi-panic by an explosion that could be heard for miles. The Union Carbide Company, at Pearl and Elm Streets, had been destroyed in an explosion caused supposedly by the carbide coming in contact with water. The river reached the stage of 69.3 feet at noon, Saturday, and continued to rise at the rate of two-tenths of a foot every two hours. Two companies of the Ninth United States Infantry, stationed at Fort Thomas, Kentucky, were held in readiness to march at an instant's notice to Covington, where Mayor George S. Phillips feared the city might be in need of military protection due to high water that virtually surrounded the town. When the river stage reached more than 68 feet on Friday the gas plants were put out of commission and the city was in darkness. Of the few important towns in Kentucky, opposite Cincinnati, only one, Newport, maintained direct communication with Cincinnati. Through Newport communication was obtained with Covington by a circuitous route. In Newport there were already under water nearly one hundred and twenty square blocks, located in the section along the south bank of the Ohio River. The other towns, Bromley, Dayton and Ludlow, were still without outside communication, but reports from there were that there was no immediate need of assistance. THE CRISIS The river continued to mount. It rose two-tenths of a foot during Monday night and early Tuesday the stage was 69.8 feet. The weather forecaster, Devereaux, said he expected the river to rise another tenth, after which it probably would recede. Up-river points reported the river either stationary or falling slowly. At midnight Tuesday the river began to fall. The whole city breathed a sigh of relief. The Government stated that the river would be inside its banks within a week. FLOOD DAMAGE The direct and indirect damage caused in Cincinnati by the flooding of the river-front and low-lying residential sections was very great. An estimate of the indirect loss can never be made, while the direct loss is placed at more than $2,000,000. Across the river in the Kentucky suburbs conditions were deplorable. Estimates were that one thousand homes there had been inundated and that more than four thousand persons were homeless. CHAPTER X THE FLOOD IN WESTERN OHIO DISTRESS IN BELLEFONTAINE--PIQUA DELUGED--TROY A HEAVY SUFFERER--MIAMI ON THE RAMPAGE AT MIDDLETOWN--HAMILTON HARD HIT--BIG RESERVOIRS THREATENING--OLENTANGY RIVER A LAKE AT DELAWARE--FLOOD AT SPRINGFIELD--NEW RICHMOND UNDER WATER. The rushing torrent of water that swept down the Miami River, surging over Dayton, devastated a score or more of towns in its mad course from the creeks around Bellefontaine to the point southwest of Cincinnati where the waters of the Miami merge with those of the Ohio. DISTRESS IN BELLEFONTAINE Cries of distress arose from Bellefontaine on Wednesday, March 26th. At that time millions of gallons of water were pounding against the banks of the Lewiston reservoir, fifteen miles from Bellefontaine, and it was feared that if the increasing flood should burst the banks the lives of every inhabitant of the Lower Miami Valley would be imperiled. The immense reservoir at Lewiston did burst its banks between Lake View and Russell's Point and swept through the great Miami Valley like a tidal wave. It was this vast quantity of water, added to the already overflowing river, that inundated the cities of Sidney and Piqua. [Illustration: Photograph by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y. The engraving shows a view of Broadway, Watervliet, New York, the principal business street of that city, covered with eight feet of water] [Illustration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y. The bridge shown in the illustration leads to the Carnegie Steel Company at Youngstown, Ohio. Ordinarily this bridge is far enough above the water to allow the large river steamers to pass under] At Sidney there was no loss of life, but the town was badly flooded and early reports of loss of life ran high. PIQUA DELUGED The flooded Miami swept over Piqua in a great deluge. The water reached the first floor of the Plaza Hotel, which is situated in the high part of the city. Panic-stricken the people fled from their homes or sought refuge in the upper stories of high buildings. Fire broke out in many places. At one point in the city the water was twelve feet deep. Many persons were drowned. Many lost all their possessions. Relief measures were taken by city authorities. The property loss was great, as most of the manufacturing plants were destroyed by the flood. A company of militia from Covington maintained order and cared for those made destitute by the flood. TROY A HEAVY SUFFERER The town of Troy was also a heavy sufferer. The state troops who arrived in the town on March 27th with provisions for Dayton were stranded. One-third of the town was cut off from gas, electricity and water supply. A train load of provisions arrived. The provisions were carefully distributed. One-half of the state troops left on foot for Dayton, following the tracks of the railroad. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - FLOOD EDITION THE PIQUA DAILY CALL Vol. 29 PIQUA, OHIO, WEDNESDAY, MARCH 26, 1913. No. 134 Calamity Strikes Piqua; Our City Bowed in Grief Appalling Loss of Human Life, and Great Destruction of Property. Thousands Are Homeless City Under Martial Law--Communications Cut Off with Outside World--Relief Station Established at the Y. M. C. A. Piqua is today a stricken city; a city bowed down, broken with grief. We have been visited by the greatest calamity in our history. The loss of life that has been suffered from the flood cannot be estimated now. It is sufficient now to tell that relief measures are being taken. The Business Men's Association, the Y. M. C. A. and citizens generally are co-operating with the city and military authorities to bring order out of chaos to rescue those confined in houses still standing in the flooded sections to house and feed the homeless. The city is practically under martial law. Company C. and Company A. of Covington are here and patrolling the city under the the direction of the city authorities. Last night, we regret to say, there was a beginning of looting and plundering in the south part of the city. Rigorous measures will be taken by the military and the police to repress and prevent such in the future. Piqua still is cut off from communication from the outside world. All the telegraph and telephone wires are down. Bridges and tracks are down on both railroads and no trains are running. The only outside communication possible has been by using a Pennsylvania freight engine to Bradford from which point it has been possible to use the telegraph. All the traction lines still are crippled and unable to run their cars in or out of the city. How soon it may be possible to re-open these lines of communication it is impossible to say. While greatly crippled the local telephone service has been maintained by both exchanges. The operators have done heroic work day and night ever since the first danger began to threaten. No mail has been received or sent out of Piqua since Monday. Local deliveries, of course, are impossible. North and south the C. H. & D. R. R. is crippled. From Sidney to Dayton the washout is practically complete. The Pennsylvania R. R. bridge was washed out at the east end, and there is no communication across the river. It is understood that much track has been washed out. A line is open to Bradford and westward. The Y. M. C. A., the Spring street, Favorite Hill Schools, the Presbyterian, Christian, Church of Christ, Grace M. E., St. Marys school hall, and countless homes have been opened freely to the flood sufferers. The Y. M. C. A. has been the center of the relief administration and from which all directions have been issued and to which the sufferers have come. Provisions can and are being brought from Fletcher and other places east to the sufferers who have reached the hills on the east of the river. This morning Mayor Kiser placed the fire department at work freeing the most necessary places from water. The electric light plant was first pumped out. Last night the city was in darkness except for gas, oil lamps, and candles. The hospital was found needing little attention. The damage to property is beyond calculation. Over 200 houses at least have been washed away and destroyed. Shawnee is practically wiped out. The above is a facsimile reproduction of the first page of _The Piqua Daily Call_, issued the day after the city was inundated by the flood. Ordinarily the Call is an eight-page newspaper, 17 � 20 inches in size. This issue consisted of four pages 7½ � 10 inches. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - MIAMISBURG CUT OFF Miamisburg, a town of eight thousand, was cut off for days. When news finally reached neighboring towns the death list was estimated at twenty-five. Later estimates placed it at less. Only one body has been recovered, but the property damage ran high. MIAMI ON THE RAMPAGE AT MIDDLETOWN As the result of the worst cloudburst known in twenty years the great bridge over the Miami River, at Middletown, was carried out on March 25th. Fifteen persons were afterward missing and scores of houses could be seen floating down the stream. The water and electric light plants were out of commission. Two hundred houses were under water, their former occupants finding shelter in the school houses, churches and city buildings. The great Miami River was a mile wide at this point. The city was practically cut off from the outside world. Tracks of both the Big Four and Cincinnati, Hamilton and Dayton Railroads were under water and no trains were running. The tracks of the Ohio Electric Railway were washed out in many places. A portion of the state dam in the Miami River, north of Middletown, was washed away. Water from the river started the Maimi and Erie Canal on a rampage and submerged half of Lakeside, a suburb. The families of Harold Gillespie and Mrs. Mary Fisher were forced to flee from their homes in their night clothes. The casualty list could not be estimated with accuracy. It was believed that from fifty to one hundred had been claimed by the waters. About three o'clock the following morning the river began to fall slowly, but the situation was still dangerous. Supplies were rapidly running out, and a food famine was looked for. Misery was averted by the arrival of food late Thursday night, but building of fires was not permitted. The authorities feared an outbreak of flames similar to the Dayton conflagration. Ten thousand of the eighteen thousand population were homeless. HAMILTON HARD HIT Of all the cities in the Miami Valley with the exception of Dayton, Hamilton was hardest hit. Many persons killed, a thousand houses wrecked by the rushing torrent and 15,000 homeless was the toll of the flood in this city and environs, and the harrowing scenes attending flood disasters in the past decade faded into insignificance when compared with the havoc wrought by the latest deluge. Before darkness blotted out the scene on March 25th, house after house, with the occupants clinging to the roofs and screaming for help, floated on the breast of the flood, but the cries for help had to go unanswered because of the lack of boats. What little rescue work there was accomplished was done before night came on, as the rescuers were powerless after darkness. The city was then without light of any kind, the electric light and gas plants being ten feet under water. Soldiers rushed to this city from Columbus were in charge of the situation, the town being under martial law. The victims of the raging waters were caught like rats in a trap, so fast did the flood pour in on them, and few had even a fighting chance for their lives. Ghastly in the extreme was the situation. The cries of the women and children as they faced inevitable death, and the frantic but unsuccessful efforts of husbands and fathers to rescue loved ones, presented a scene that will go down in the history of world's catastrophes as one of the worst on record. Fire added to the horror of the situation when shortly after midnight the plant of the Champion Coated Paper Company, which is six blocks long by one block wide, broke into flames. In less than a quarter of an hour the entire factory was a mass of fire and there was no chance of checking its progress in the least as the water service needed by the fire department was put out of commission early in the day. The Beckett Company's paper mill, valued at $500,000 for buildings and equipment, collapsed into the flood the following morning. SUFFERING AMONG THE REFUGEES On Wednesday, March 26th, the river began to fall at the rate of nine inches an hour. After the season of awful horror the change brought hope. The work of rescue and relief, however, was exceedingly difficult. There were only a few boats that could be used in the work of rescue and relief. Ohio National Guardsmen who arrived from Cincinnati Tuesday night did heroic work. They came in four motor trucks and brought food and clothing with them. One of the trucks returned to Cincinnati for more boats. A relief train arrived from Indianapolis Wednesday morning and other cars and automobile trucks, loaded with supplies, managed to reach the outskirts of the city. The Lakeview Hotel, which had previously housed fifty refugees, collapsed early Wednesday, but all the occupants left in time to escape death. Williamsdale, Cooke, Otto and Overpeck, the north suburbs of Hamilton, were in ruins. On the west side of the river many residences were saved, but there was despair among the survivors, who were unable to get word from husbands and fathers who were caught on the east side and unable to cross after bridges were destroyed. Efforts to get lines across the river were futile. Provisions for the homeless continued arriving in abundance, but the gas, electric light and water plants were in ruins and this added to the terrors of the living. More than two hundred and fifty persons spent two days and nights in the little court house without light, food, water or heat, and often they were drenched with rain that leaked through holes in the roof. REMOVING THE DEAD As the flood waters receded on March 27th, the authorities immediately began the work of removing the dead. The first hour of the search saw ten bodies uncovered from the ruins, and the most conservative estimates placed the death roll at fifty. [Illustration: THE FLOOD IN MIAMI VALLEY The above map shows a part of Ohio which was devastated by the most disastrous flood in American history. A large number of small streams converge into larger streams and then into still larger water courses, several of which form a junction at Dayton, where the greatest loss of life and the heaviest damage to property occurred.] Piled high upon the east side of the court house on Friday were coffins awaiting the flood victims, whose bodies were being gathered as rapidly as possible. On April 3d, the city offered a reward of ten dollars for each body recovered from the debris left by the flood. Up to that time seventy-one bodies had been recovered. It was believed, however, that many bodies had been swept out of the Miami into the Ohio River and perhaps would never be found. DAMAGE OF $4,000,000 Secretary Garrison, of the War Department, who toured the flood district of Hamilton on March 30th, as the personal representative of President Wilson, was told that the property loss was estimated at $4,000,000. With Secretary Garrison were Major-General Wood, chief of staff of the army, and Major McCoy. They permeated the very heart of the city through zones of devastation which in many respects rivaled in horror those through which they passed in Dayton. They saw block after block in both the residential and business sections of the city, where street lines virtually were eliminated by upheaved and overturned houses jammed against each other and against the buildings which withstood the shock, in great and almost unbroken heaps of debris. South Lebanon was cut off from Lebanon by a raging current that swept all the surrounding farm lands, entailing a property loss of thousands of dollars. All rivers and creeks south of Dayton to Lebanon were swollen by a heavy rainfall. The flooding of the Miami at Cleves, seven miles below Cincinnati, caused the railroad embankment to break and that part of the town was under fifteen feet of water. The operator at Cleves said he distinctly heard cries for help, but he could not learn if there was any loss of life or the extent of the property damage. The following day the waters had receded, but part of the city was still under water; no loss of life was reported. Hartwell and the vicinity felt the force of the rising Mill Creek caused by the breaking of the canal at Lockland. The large factories at Ivorydale were forced to close down, and many thousands of employees were thrown out of work. BIG RESERVOIRS THREATENING The Grand Reservoir at Celina, Ohio, in the extreme western part of the state, seriously threatened Celina and the adjacent towns. For two days the very worst was feared, but on March 28th, the river was slightly lower and no water was flowing over the banks. OLENTANGY RIVER A LAKE AT DELAWARE The Olentangy River, ordinarily only a creek, became a lake that covered most of Delaware. In many places people were left clinging to trees, roof-tops and telegraph poles crying for assistance. The work of rescue was practically impossible because of the swift current of the flood, and most of those who were seen trying to save themselves were swept away to death. The village of Stratford, five miles to the south, was entirely under water and the loss great. Property damage in Delaware itself was estimated at $2,000,000. FLOOD AT SPRINGFIELD Springfield suffered the worst flood in its history. Both Buck Creek and Mad River broke from their banks and flooded the lowlands. Several hundred houses in the eastern section of the city were surrounded by water. They contained families who refused to abandon their homes. Many factories were compelled to close. There was no loss of life, but intense suffering due to insufficient food supply and the destruction of many homes. NEW RICHMOND UNDER WATER The flooding of the Ohio in the southwestern part of the state caused disaster in many other towns besides Cincinnati. On April 1st the entire town of New Richmond was under water. The people took up quarters on the hills surrounding the town. Provisions were received from Batavia and there was no suffering. No one was reported dead or missing. At Moscow, near New Richmond, fifty houses were washed from their foundations. CHAPTER XI THE FLOOD IN NORTHERN OHIO YOUNGSTOWN AND GIRARD--CLEVELAND AND ITS SUBURBS--AKRON--MASSILON, FREMONT AND TIFFIN. No section of the country suffered more extensively from the flood than Ohio, of which state no part seemed to escape. In the northern counties the loss of life and damage to property were quite as extensive as in many other parts. Fed by incessant rains, the Mahoning River rose at the rate of seven-eighths of an inch per hour until it reached a stage of twenty-five feet, which was ten feet higher than ever before recorded. Every large industrial plant in the city was flooded and fully 25,000 workmen were out of employment. The financial loss to the Youngstown Sheet and Tube Company, Republic Iron and Steel Company, Carnegie Steel Company and other plants easily reached $2,500,000, while the loss in wages to men was extremely heavy because of the fact that weeks elapsed before the industries were again able to operate at full capacity. Fully 14,000 workmen employed in various industries of the city are thrown out of employment as a result of the high water. At East Youngstown the Mahoning River was nearly half a mile wide and the Pennsylvania lines through the city and for a number of miles east were entirely submerged. The Austintown branch bridge of the Erie, which crosses the Mahoning River, was weighted down with a train to prevent its being washed away, the water having already reached the girders. Every bridge was guarded by policemen. But one pump was working at the water-works pumping station. The flood was the worst experienced by Youngstown since October, 1911, when millions of dollars of damage was done. Two hundred families were temporarily homeless, but the Chamber of Commerce with a relief fund of $10,000, attended promptly to their welfare. Youngstown's only water supply during the flood was from the Republic Rubber Company, pumping 3,000,000 gallons a day, and the Mahoning Valley Water Company, which turned 4,000,000 gallons a day into the city mains from its reservoir at Struthers. At Girard, northeast of Youngstown, Mrs. Frank Captis, who was rescued just before her home was swept away in the flood, gave birth to a baby boy at the home of a friend, where she was taken. The baby was named Noah. CLEVELAND AND ITS SUBURBS At Cleveland scores of families were driven out of their homes by the greatest flood in the city's history. Many narrow escapes from drowning were reported from all over the city, where people were being transferred in rowboats by police and other rescuers. One big bridge, in the heart of the city, used by the New York Central lines, went down. The steel steamer, "Mack," moored to it was unharmed. All traffic was kept off the bridge and no one was hurt. The loss exceeds $75,000. Other bridges were in danger. Boats broke from their moorings and battered the shore. Dynamite was used to open a way for the water into the lake. Great damage was done all along the Cuyahoga River through Cleveland, where hundreds of big manufacturing plants are located. Fifty thousand men were idle. The telegraph companies were crippled and many lights were out throughout the city, as the electric-light plants were partly under water. All the suburbs suffered severely. All railroad traffic in Cleveland was suspended because of washouts and no trains entered or left. The Lake Shore Railroad tracks along the shore of Lake Erie were thought immune, but that road suffered along with the Big Four, Pennsylvania and Wheeling and Lake Erie. Boston, Ohio, and Peninsula, Ohio, between twenty-five and twenty-eight miles south of Cleveland, on the Cuyahoga River, were submerged. The dam of the Cleveland and Akron Bag Company went out at four o'clock Thursday morning, March 27th, dropping thousands of tons of water into the valley in which the two villages, with a total population of about four thousand five hundred, are located. [Illustration: MAP SHOWING DANGEROUS RESERVOIRS IN OHIO] AKRON The big state reservoir three miles south of Akron, which supplies water for the Ohio Canal, broke Tuesday afternoon at two o'clock, sending a flood of millions of gallons of water which swept away farmhouses and other buildings from the banks of the canal and damaged several million dollars' worth of property. The huge volume of water which had been gathering in the three hundred-acre reservoir caused a report that there was danger of the concrete walls bursting. Most of those living near the canal sought refuge in Akron. When the heavy rain continued over night the dam began to show signs of wear. Cracks in the concrete appeared. All during the night horses were kept saddled to carry the news ahead if the danger became imminent. When the masonry showed flaws Thursday morning the riders were sent out. They started several hours before the dam collapsed, and warned everybody near the canal in time for them to escape. The rush of water from the broken dam struck the city within a few minutes after the break. Most of the bridges in the county were swept away. The city was in total darkness at night, and telephone and telegraph connections were destroyed. A few bodies were seen floating down the canal. Many houses were swept away. MASSILON, FREMONT AND TIFFIN At Massilon five known dead, three thousand homeless, half the town inundated and heavy property damage was the toll of flood water from the Tuscarawas River. The town was without light and gas. Citizens raised $11,000 to aid the sufferers. The effect of the flood at Fremont was very severe. The water in Main Street was fifteen feet deep. Wires were down and buildings collapsed. Several lives were lost. Death and intense suffering marked the great flood which swept clean the Sandusky valley. Tiffin became a city of desolation. Every bridge went down, and half the city was under water. Many were carried to death in the treacherous currents. CHAPTER XII THE FLOOD IN EASTERN OHIO MOUNT VERNON HARD HIT--MILLERSBURG CUT OFF--THE TUSCARAWAS RIVER--COSHOCTON IN DISTRESS--ENTIRE CITY OF ZANESVILLE UNDER WATER--MARIETTA FLOODED--SCIOTO RIVER AT CIRCLEVILLE--STRUGGLES OF CHILLICOTHE--FLOOD AND FIRE IN PORTSMOUTH--HOMELESS IN EAST LIVERPOOL AND WELLSVILLE--FLOOD WASHES STEUBENVILLE--HIGHEST FLOOD IN HISTORY OF GALLIPOLIS--IRONTON REQUESTS AID--A CRITICAL SITUATION. In the eastern part of the state there were two great floods, the flood of the Muskingum River and the flood of the Ohio River. Besides these there were many local floods of grave importance. Mount Vernon, in Knox County, was hard hit by the flood. Many lives were lost, communication was entirely cut off, and thousands of dollars worth of damage was done. Miles of track on the Pennsylvania, Baltimore and Ohio Railroads were washed away. MILLERSBURG COMPLETELY CUT OFF For two days Millersburg was completely cut off. The river rose four feet higher than ever before. It swept through the Cleveland, Akron and Columbus Railroad depot two feet deep, driving everybody out. Water, gas and electric light were shut off with the exception of one gas line. Telephone service was limited, hence nothing could be sent or received for two days--until intermittent communication was re-established. THE TUSCARAWAS RIVER The flood in the Tuscarawas River was the worst in its history. All the lowlands were under water, and a highway bridge west of Dennison was carried out by the tide. Two bridges on the Baltimore and Ohio, near Uhrichsville, were washed away, and the village of Lockport was cut off from all communication. Supplies in Lockport were exhausted and two men were reported drowned. Eighteen families were marooned in the school house at Port Washington, ten miles west of Dennison, on the Tuscarawas River. Operator A. W. Davis, of the Pan Handle Railroad, was isolated in a signal tower for several days without food or fire. Newcomerstown was isolated for four days. All houses in the village, with the exception of those on Rodney Hill, were flooded by the Tuscarawas River. There was no death, but great damage. Conditions throughout the Tuscarawas Valley were very bad. From a point near Uhrichsville, about one hundred miles west of Pittsburgh, to Coshocton, a distance of thirty miles, the valley was one great lake. Thousands of acres of the richest farm lands in Ohio were under water and the loss of live stock was heavy. COSHOCTON IN DISTRESS The Tuscarawas and Walhonding Rivers unite at Coshocton to form the Muskingum River, and it is the water from these swollen streams that poured down to Zanesville, thirty-two miles below, and thence to Marietta. Reports from points along the Muskingum River, all told the same story of destruction, flooded towns and great property damage. Many days were required to restore railway communication. Above Coshocton on the Walhonding River many villages were flooded and the loss to farmers was great. Coshocton itself naturally suffered. A railroad bridge on the Columbus division of the Pan Handle Railroad went out, and scores of highway bridges throughout the section were washed away. All the streams were torrents. ENTIRE CITY OF ZANESVILLE UNDER WATER "Entire city under water. It is coming into our office. Have placed the records as high as I possibly can and have done everything possible. The building next door has just collapsed and I am compelled to leave now for safety----" This message flashed across the wire as the operator at Zanesville fled for life. With fifteen reported dead, and the Muskingum River at a stage of forty feet and still rising, the city faced the worst flood in its history. The big Sixth Street bridge had already been swept away by the flood, and much of the business section was inundated. At least two thousand had been driven from their homes by the high water. Food was growing scarce and the water was threatening the light and water plants. The suffering during the night was intense. The temperature took a sudden drop and the thousands who were forced to spend the night marooned in buildings or on the hills without heat and proper clothing presented a spectacle to excite pity. With the break of day on March 27th, disorder and terror prevailed throughout the whole city. The Muskingum, in its rampage, was sixteen feet higher than the previous record mark set in 1898. The city was one vast lake and the waters covered the valley from hill to hill. Only the buildings high on the sides of the slopes escaped the ravages of the deluge. The water varied in depth from one to fifteen feet. Many lives were sacrificed. Six hundred buildings were torn from their foundations and swept away by the mill race currents, while many others collapsed and were hurled against those still holding. The water reached a depth of eight inches in the Clarendon and Rogge hotels at noon on Thursday. The court house was surrounded. In sections which were bearing the brunt of the deluge little could be done to relieve the people who were marooned in their houses and in the large buildings. Every effort was being directed by the city officials and volunteer relief parties to lend aid to the sufferers, but the swift, onward rush of the waters made the undertaking extra hazardous. The authorities turned their efforts toward relieving the suffering of women and children driven from their homes by the high water, and some progress had been made. Putnam lay in ruins. Muskingum and Linden Avenues had been washed out, and where three days before stood many residences, watchers from the highest buildings saw nothing but a waste of swirling waters. MARIETTA FLOODED The valley between Zanesville and Marietta became a surging lake, which picked up buildings and everything movable and carried them along with incredible speed. The loss of property was tremendous. Marietta suffered from the swollen waters of both the Muskingum and Ohio Rivers. The situation was serious on Wednesday; by Sunday it was alarming. At eight o'clock Saturday morning the river had reached the stage of 60.6 and was still rising. All the business section of the town was flooded and many residences were under water. There were no public utilities in operation and food and medical supplies were sorely needed. There were many rumors concerning loss of life, but the swift current prevented communication to those parts of the city where persons were reported drowned. Immediately upon reciept of the message from Whipple, a station on the Marietta Branch of the Pennsylvania Railroad, that Marietta was under water, preparations were made by the railroad company to send out a relief train from Cambridge. It reached Whipple Saturday night and from there help was brought to the distressed city. SCIOTO RIVER AT CIRCLEVILLE The flooded Scioto River, which surged through the streets of Columbus, carried destruction down through farm lands and towns to the Ohio River. Circleville, Chillicothe and Portsmouth, being the principal towns on the river course, suffered most. At Circleville on March 26th all the bridges had been washed away, and the Scioto River stood three feet higher than ever before. Another rise was promised. The city was cut off from railroad communication, and all trains on roads entering Circleville were annulled. STRUGGLES OF CHILLICOTHE Many dead, one hundred houses washed away, and property loss of $1,000,000--such was the tale of destruction in Chillicothe. On Friday, March 28th, the waters had begun to recede, leaving seven bodies hanging on the Kilgore bridge, three miles south of the city, but it was impossible to recover them immediately. Conditions were much improved, the light plant having been able to resume service, and the water supply also was now adequate. The water had receded from the streets, and all public utilities resumed operations. The homeless refugees were being cared for in the homes which withstood the flood and in school houses. Provisions were plentiful and there was no disorder. Many citizens were sworn in as deputy marshals. The looting problem was one difficulty for the authorities. Notwithstanding their efforts much looting took place. Near Omega, to the south, Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield and their family of seven children were drowned when their home, barn and all their other buildings were swept down the river. FLOOD AND FIRE IN PORTSMOUTH Portsmouth presented a picture of distress as the flood from the swollen Scioto and Ohio Rivers advanced. On the night of March 27th the Scioto bridge was swept away by the flood. By morning hundreds of persons had been driven from their homes, school houses had been thrown open to the homeless, the streets were filled with household goods and merchants in the heart of the city were moving their wares to places of safety in anticipation of flood conditions more serious than ever before. On March 29th the Ohio River stood at sixty-eight feet, the highest ever known, and was rising. Fire broke out in several places and was difficult to control because the flood had interfered with the water facilities. Efficient management, however, soon brought the situation under control. The arrival of the steamers, "Klondike" and "J. I. Ware," on March 31st, brought sufficient provisions to supply those in need for a week. HOMELESS IN EAST LIVERPOOL AND WELLSVILLE We have already seen the swollen waters of the Ohio at Cincinnati, Portsmouth and Marietta. It remains to treat of the devastation wrought in other Ohio River towns in the eastern and southern parts. At East Liverpool on March 27th, more than a thousand families were driven from their homes, five thousand potters were deprived of employment temporarily and the city water works were out of commission as the result of the flood. The electric light plant was seriously threatened and trolley lines were tied up. The following day the river had eclipsed the 48.8 foot stage of 1884. A stage of at least fifty-one feet was expected. Conditions remained the same, but the situation at Wellsville, a city of ten thousand, three miles south, was perilous. Over three thousand were homeless. The city is located on a flat promontory, with the eastern portion a slight apex against the fast rising stream. Back water had already made an island of the city, precluding any possibility of escape to the high hills. Both East Liverpool and Wellsville were in darkness because of the shutting down of the power plants. All the river front potteries and mills were idle. Street railway and railroad traffic was at a standstill. Police and fire departments of Wellsville and East Liverpool made many thrilling rescues during the day. Seven Italians, dumped from a skiff, were taken from the water half drowned. Food supplies were diminishing at Wellsville, there was no electricity or gas, the supply of coal was constantly lessening and the river still rising. FLOOD WASHES STEUBENVILLE At Steubenville the Ohio River at 9 o'clock on March 26th was at the 34.4-foot stage and rising at the rate of seven tenths of an inch an hour. The west part of the town was under water and twenty-five houses flooded. Many families were rescued by wagons. Five large manufacturing plants were forced to close down, throwing 1,300 men out of work. HIGHEST FLOOD IN HISTORY OF GALLIPOLIS The river at Gallipolis reached the sixty-seven-foot stage, six feet higher than ever before, but was gradually falling. The State Hospital remained unharmed, and was for a time taking care of two hundred people, while the town was taking care of three hundred. There was no loss of life. Traffic was at a standstill, and train service into Gallipolis suspended. IRONTON REQUESTS AID Ironton suffered by both flood and fire. A block and a half in the business center of the city were consumed by fire and several buildings were dynamited to check the flames. No loss of life occurred. A citizen of Ironton wired to a friend in Philadelphia: "Floods here awful. Any charity funds that can be directed here through clubs or otherwise would be appreciated." A CRITICAL SITUATION Even taking into account the tremendous seriousness of the flood in Dayton and Columbus, the situation all along the Ohio River was one that called for sympathy and sustained relief. Governor Cox, of Ohio, in one of his early proclamations covering relief work said: "There is every indication that the Ohio River will reach the highest stage in its history. Calls for food and clothing are coming from unexpected parts of the State. A critical situation has developed in all Ohio River towns. We are still greatly in need of help." CHAPTER XIII THE FLOOD IN EASTERN INDIANA HORROR OF THE RISING WATER--THE FOUR FLOODS--DISASTER IN BROOKVILLE--PEOPLE GATHERED IN CHURCHES--NEWS FROM LAUREL--SURGING FLOOD AT FORT WAYNE. "Every stream we crossed seemed to be a raging torrent, its waters racing at top speed," said one traveler who arrived in Chicago on March 26th. "We could hear the swish of the waters and hear the cries of people in distress," reported another. Yet these eye-witnesses could not see the worst of the four vast floods that swept over the state of Indiana, tying up the railroads, rendering thousands of persons homeless, killing scores of others, wiping out whole towns. Just how many persons lost their lives in the great floods will probably never be known. THE FOUR FLOODS Indiana had known many devastating floods, but none like to this in either destructive force or extent. On March 26th three distinct flood districts prevailed--the eastern part of the state including the valley of the White Water River and the Fort Wayne territory, the valley of the White River and its tributaries, and the valley of the Wabash. Later the flooding of the Ohio River and its tributaries added to the awful tale of disaster. The entire state was practically one huge sea, and every brook, creek and river exacted its toll of damage. The overflow, coming with astonishing suddenness, caught farmers throughout the state unprepared and the breaking of levees in many places forced persons living along the rivers to desert their homes. In the crowded cities it added woe upon woe. The appalling swiftness with which the waters rose found city as well as state unprepared. Streams that were brooks Easter morning had become raging torrents on Tuesday. Persons who retired in apparently safe homes Monday were rescued the following day from second-story windows with boats. Lowlands became vast lakes. The dawn of Wednesday, March 26th, found anxiety in Indiana centered in Brookville and Connersville, on the White Water River, from which frantic appeals for aid were received by Governor Ralston. Other despatches from the same region declared that the smaller towns of Metamora, Cedar Grove and Prenton were swept away completely. DISASTER IN BROOKVILLE Sixteen persons were drowned at Brookville, when they were caught by the east and west forks of White Water River which meet in that town. Survivors told of attempts of men, women and children to escape by the light of lanterns. Cross currents rushing along streets and alleys carried them down to a united stream a mile wide just south of the town. Five children, all of one family, were seen clinging to posts of an old-fashioned wooden bed when they were swept into the main stream and lost. The person from Connersville who first talked with the Governor said that a break in the White Water River levee had flooded the valley, sweeping many persons before it. After that it was impossible to re-establish communication even for a few minutes. Militia were ready all during the night to hurry to the town, but no train was operated in that direction. PEOPLE GATHERED IN CHURCHES Five wagon bridges, the Big Four Railroad bridge, the depot and a paper mill were utterly destroyed. Fifty summer houses on White Water River south of Brookville were washed away, foundations and all. People, bowed down by the calamity, gathered in churches, where religious services were held. None of the bodies were recovered for several days. Hall Schuster was drowned Thursday night in an attempt to cross the West Fork of the White River at Brookville to rescue Harlan Kennedy, a hermit, formerly a Methodist minister. Two hundred and fifty children rescued from the flood had only night clothes. Wagon trains carried food and clothing from Connersville to the stricken people. On Friday, March 28th, the list of known dead in Brookville was sixteen. Heavy loss of property and a food and fuel famine imminent were the precise situation. There were six persons missing, and it was feared that they had been drowned and their bodies washed away or buried in debris that had not yet been searched. Brookville was practically under martial law, and twenty men were driven out of the city after they were discovered looting damaged homes and buildings. NEWS FROM LAUREL News from Laurel reached Connersville on Saturday when Deputy Postmaster George Lockwood came through on horseback. He said the White Water River valley, eleven miles around Laurel, was flooded, and the damage estimated at $300,000. Four buildings and many small houses were wrecked in Laurel, but no lives were lost. Several farmers in the valley between Brookville and Laurel were missing and their houses had disappeared. Several other towns in the valley were inundated and many houses had been swept away. SURGING FLOOD AT FORT WAYNE At Fort Wayne, in the northeastern part of the state at the confluence of the St. Mary's and the Maumee Rivers, the flood surged for three days. A keeper in the Orphan Asylum and five men in a surfboat did splendid work in saving seventy-five inmates of the asylum from drowning. All life-saving stations in the flooded district devoted their utmost efforts to the work of rescue and used their funds and supplies without stint. The relief work was in every way well organized. SITUATION UNDER CONTROL On March 28th, with the flood receding at the rate of three inches an hour, Fort Wayne had the situation in control and stood ready to assist its less fortunate neighbors. Many of the refugees were able to get back into their homes. The property loss was estimated at $4,000,000, and it was almost certain that the loss of life would not exceed six. The pumping station had been started up the previous night, two locomotives sent by the Lake Shore Railroad furnishing the power. The water was being pumped from the river. The only drinking water available for several days was brought in bottles. CHAPTER XIV THE DESOLATION OF INDIANAPOLIS AND THE VALLEY OF THE WHITE RIVER THE TWO FORKS OF THE WHITE RIVER--WORST DAMAGE IN INDIANAPOLIS--SYSTEMATIC RESCUE WORK--THIEVES BENT ON PLUNDER--PREDICAMENT OF WEST INDIANAPOLIS--THE RECEDING WATERS--FLOOD VICTIMS HELPLESS--AN APRIL WEDDING--OTHER TOWNS AFFECTED. The two great forks of the White River and their tributaries drain about half of the area of Indiana. Indianapolis, the capital of the state, is situated on the West Fork. In this city and more particularly in West Indianapolis the torrent roaring through the White River valley did its worst damage. Hundreds of spectators were watching the river on Tuesday evening, March 25th, when, with a roar that could be heard for blocks, hundreds of tons of dirt in the Morris Street levee crumbled under the pressure, and great walls of water rushed through the opening. Men, women and children fought through the water toward a near-by bridge, which seemed to offer the only safety. Many houses were torn to pieces by the rush of the water, and others were carried away. Families in one-story homes were at the mercy of the sudden rush of water that followed. The people were literally trapped in their own houses. OTHER TOWNS AFFECTED Other towns affected by the flooding of the White River and its tributaries were Muncie, Elwood, Anderson, Noblesville, Bloomington, Washington, Newcastle, Rushville, Shelbyville, etc. At Noblesville the river was the highest it had been in thirty-three years, at Muncie a dike in the water plant broke and the city was without fire protection. At Rushville Flat Rock Creek waters rose with a roar, and clanging fire bells warned the people to flee. The entire business section was submerged. One person met death in Muncie; one in Newcastle; one in Rushville, and five in West Indianapolis. Indianapolis awoke the following morning to find the waters higher than ever appeared before, with a property loss that two days before would have been unbelievable. It was hard to bring the full realization of the damage to the people, who had no thought of a flood from streams that ordinarily are unimportant, aiding only in beautifying the city's parks and boulevard driveways. A NIGHT OF DISASTER AND FEAR During the night the water advanced upon the exclusive residence section along Fall Creek. It tore away one bridge, destroyed the city's most pretentious driveway and forced the families living along its banks to desert their palatial homes. A few hours before they had no idea they were in any danger, and were awakened by the militiamen to be ordered from the threatened buildings, only to find every hotel in the city full. They were cared for at the homes of friends. The Washington Street bridge over the White River that connects Indianapolis and West Indianapolis, which was closed for traffic late Tuesday night, in the early morning was torn apart by the waters, the floor of the structure being carried away. A DESOLATE CITY With the breaking of day came the proposition of feeding the refugees. The city appropriated money to supply immediate needs and a relief fund was started. Drinking water was at a premium, and water for bathing was practically unattainable. Schools were closed, and there was a general suspension of business. The water in some of the streets north of Fall Creek, only fifteen miles from the business district, swept everything before it. The street cars remained standing in the streets where they were stopped when the power house was flooded. All interurban lines were at a standstill and the steam roads had poor success in getting trains out of the city. Passenger trains were shut out of the city on the lines entering from the West, and the passengers were forced to share the lot of the homeless refugees. By Thursday conditions in Indianapolis were such that Governor Ralston was impelled to issue a proclamation asking for general relief. Five hundred refugees from West Indianapolis were brought in small boats to the Blaine Street wharf. Some of these had been clinging to trees for hours. Others were taken from floating houses. Women with babies were taken from the upper stories of houses. The refugees said that many had been killed in Wolf Hall when the floors of that building gave way under the strain of hundreds who had taken refuge there. Reports of death were everywhere exaggerated, owing to the difficulty of accurate knowledge and the shattered nerves of the sufferers. SYSTEMATIC RESCUE WORK Systematic rescue work was rendered more difficult by a storm of snow and sleet. Tomlinson Hall, the great civic gathering place of the city, was converted into a temporary hospital. The homeless men, women and children from West Indianapolis, Broad Ripple and other suburbs devastated by the White River were taken to the hall and were fed and given medical attention. From Fort Benjamin Harrison 500 blankets and 500 mattresses and cots were obtained. Citizens' committees were in charge of the work of distributing food and of raising money. It was estimated that 10,000 persons in Indianapolis alone were in need of immediate assistance. The situation was rendered graver by the outbreak of contagious diseases. Five women rescued and taken to Tomlinson Hall were suffering from pneumonia, and cases of whooping cough and measles were discovered among the refugees. There were numerous cases of pneumonia. Measles and whooping cough attacked the children. Nearly all of the doctors of the city volunteered their services and asked for volunteer nurses. Those suffering from contagious diseases were removed at once and inspectors from the city board of health aided by a corps of nurses detailed from various hospitals of the city set to work to prevent exposure of the refugees to contagion and to take care of the other sick. THIEVES BENT ON PLUNDER Thieves took advantage of the wrecking of lighting plants to plunder deserted houses and even to rob survivors of the flood. In West Indianapolis the vandals and robbers became so bold that Governor Ralston placed that section of the city under martial law and sent a company of militia to guard the streets. Orders were given to shoot on sight any one caught at robbery. PREDICAMENT OF WEST INDIANAPOLIS The greed of provision dealers angered Governor Ralston to such an extent that he started an investigation. Before the supply of bread available on the West Side had been exhausted, loaves were selling at twenty cents each. The supply of meat was entirely exhausted. That section of Indianapolis lying west of the river, where martial law was proclaimed, is the poorest in the city. The supply of meats, eggs, milk, coffee, bread and butter was practically exhausted before noon. Little except canned goods remained on the shelves of the grocers. Relief trains loaded with provisions were unable to enter this district. Members of the board of public safety and other city officials inspected the entire flooded district from motor boats and directed efficient organization of the relief workers, aiding the state troops and state officials in every possible way. THE RECEDING WATERS By Friday the White River had begun to fall slowly, and the work of caring for the suffering could be prosecuted vigorously. It was estimated that the property loss in the city and environs would reach $10,000,000. Part of this loss was in destroyed bridges. The Vandalia Railroad bridge over the White River went down Friday, carrying with it ten loaded cars. By Monday, March 31st, White River waters had returned to almost normal channel, and the areas that were covered were being searched to locate the bodies of any who might have been drowned. The city board of health prepared typhoid serum for 50,000 treatments to aid in warding off an epidemic. State troops were withdrawn. On Tuesday hundreds of homes were cleaned and, with furniture which could be salvaged and that supplied by the Relief Committee, the owners were able to resume housekeeping. Relief funds were still increasing and all persons who lost homes or furniture in the flood were being cared for. Many persons in the West Indianapolis flood district were treated with an anti-diphtheria vaccine, and Dr. T. V. Keene, in charge of the medical relief work in the flooded districts, said he feared no epidemic. FLOOD VICTIMS HELPLESS Hundreds of thousands of dollars were reported necessary to relieve suffering among the flood refugees in Indianapolis, according to the report of the General Relief Committee, made on Wednesday, April 2d, at a meeting in Mayor Shank's office. Plans for raising a vast sum of money, to be made available immediately to the sufferers, were discussed and it was decided to start popular subscriptions and designate places for contributions. Joseph C. Schaf, one of the investigators for the committee, said: "The flood victims are helpless. They need money and need it immediately. The men are trying to hold their jobs and let the women clean up the homes, and it is a disheartening task for which many are not physically able. Give them money immediately so they can pile their water-soaked mattresses and other furniture in the street and touch a match to it. That will give them new heart." Mr. Schaf increased his donation by $1,000, and several other members of the committee did likewise. CHAPTER XV THE ROARING TORRENT OF THE WABASH A BITTER TALE OF DESTRUCTION--MANY PEOPLE DRIVEN FROM HOMES--ALARMING CONDITIONS--THE PLIGHT OF KOKOMO--THE HOMELESS IN WABASH--DISTRESS OF LOGANSPORT--MILITARY CADETS AID IN RELIEF--NEW DISASTER AT LAFAYETTE--A SECOND HORROR IN TERRE HAUTE--THE RECEDING WATERS. Bitter was the tale of destruction in the valley of the Wabash River and its tributaries. A traveler journeying over the Wabash Railroad on Easter Sunday would have seen only the usual quiet little towns of the Middle West; three days later, if he could have looked down over the same territory he would have seen nothing but a raging torrent sweeping through the region like some fiendish monster devouring and destroying as it pursued its mad course. He would have found the entire Wabash Valley, including Logansport, Wabash, Lafayette and Peru, a desolate scene, its scores of prosperous cities absolutely paralyzed and cut off from the outer world. Telephone and telegraph wires were down everywhere; trains were not running and roads were obliterated. MANY PEOPLE DRIVEN FROM HOMES As early as Monday, March 24th, northern Indiana had suffered severe loss, due to the heavy rains of the previous twenty-four hours, which had carried away bridges, stopped railroad and interurban traffic, flooded store basements, driven people from their homes along the river banks, and washed away houses. At Hartford City there were seven feet of water in the paper mills and the merchants had lost heavily from flooded basements. At Portland water was standing three feet deep in the center of the city and the loss to merchants from damage to goods reached $100,000. The wind, which followed heavy rain, cut a path several hundred feet wide. At Kokomo the light, heat, power, gas and water plants were out of commission and the river was still rising. The city was without fire protection; South Kokomo, with 6,000 inhabitants, was cut off from the main city. It was declared to be the worst flood known in Wabash since 1883; and rain was still falling. Hundreds of residents of the lowlands abandoned their homes. Interurban traffic was paralyzed. ALARMING CONDITIONS Reports on the following day were still more alarming. The worst conditions prevailed in Kokomo, Wabash, Peru, Logansport, Lafayette and Terra Haute. Thousands of people all along the Wabash were crying for food and shelter. Wabash, Kokomo, Peru, Logansport and Lafayette were entirely cut off from communication with the outside world. A big snowstorm on the heels of a drop in temperature added to the suffering. Rescue work was carried on by volunteers, police, firemen and the state militia, and every place where there was a dry home was thrown open to the flood refugees. From many places frantic appeals for aid were received by the state officials, but lack of all means of transportation and crippled telephone and telegraph service forced the submerged towns to rely entirely upon their own resources. THE PLIGHT OF KOKOMO At Kokomo the water in some of the streets was eight feet deep and rushing like a mountain torrent. Schools and business were suspended and state troops patrolled the town as far as they were able. The homes of a thousand persons were submerged. No lives were lost, but there were many narrow escapes. Several persons were rescued from second story windows by the few boats available. Rafts could not be used because of the swiftness of the current. THE HOMELESS IN WABASH Seven hundred and fifty persons in Wabash were rendered homeless as the result of the high flood in the river. The city was without gas, water or lighting facilities. The mayor on Thursday, March 27th, issued a proclamation ordering that all saloons and business houses close at six o'clock. He instructed the police to keep people off the streets. There was no loss of life, but the property loss was estimated at $350,000. There was no communication with the outside world from Monday until Thursday afternoon. DISTRESS OF LOGANSPORT The business district and the south and west sides of Logansport were under water on Tuesday. The bridge at the country club had been washed away. Other bridges over the Wabash had been flooded. The moving vans were unable to handle all the persons trying to move out of the danger zone and the firemen of the city gave aid. The electric light and water plants were endangered. There was great suffering among the poorer people. Logansport was also cut off from telephone and telegraph communication. Two deaths by drowning were reported (later corrected to one) and ten houses were washed down stream. MILITARY CADETS AID IN RELIEF On Wednesday the flood waters of the Wabash were sixteen feet deep on the floors of the Pennsylvania Railroad Station, and cadets from the Culver Military Academy were rushed to the city to aid in the rescue and relief of scores of people marooned in the business districts. The Third Street bridge had been swept away. The bridge at Sixth Street was being washed out. The people were fleeing to the hills, where they were housed in school houses and churches. By indirect telephone routes on Thursday, Governor Ralston received an urgent call from Logansport for troops to aid in rescue work and to patrol the city. The city had been cut off from reliable communication with the outside world since Tuesday evening. The continuance of the high waters added hourly to the heavy property losses, and the snowstorm and bitter cold caused intense suffering. NEW DISASTER AT LAFAYETTE At 2 P. M. on Tuesday, March 25th, two spans of the bridge over the Wabash River at Lafayette went out, carrying a number of people with it. Boats below the bridge succeeded in rescuing all but one man. At 3.15 P. M. West Lafayette, where Purdue University is located, was cut off from Lafayette by the breaking of one of the levees and the submerging of the other. The river was two miles wide and business houses were preparing to move their wares, anticipating a three-foot rise during the night. No interurban lines were being operated and steam lines were making little effort to maintain train service. The business district and the south and west sides of Logansport were under water. The bridge at the Country Club had been washed away. A SECOND HORROR IN TERRA HAUTE All down the length of the Wabash the torrent raged. Hardly recovering from the daze of the Easter tornado, treated in another chapter, Terra Haute inside of forty-eight hours faced its second disaster, when the waters of the Wabash left the banks, flooding part of the residence section. The river was then rising at the rate of five inches an hour. Railroad traffic was suspended and interurban traction service had been abandoned. Residents of Taylorville, Robertsville and West Terre Haute deserted their homes, fleeing before the approaching waters. Five hundred homes were under water and the coal mines near the city were flooded. For two days the situation seemed to grow hourly more desperate. On Thursday the river had reached a stage of thirty-one feet six inches and was steadily rising. Four thousand persons were homeless, and those whose homes were on higher ground were without gas or electricity. Traffic was at a standstill. THE RECEDING WATERS But slowly the waters receded and the work of reconstruction was begun. On down the river the disaster-bringing torrent traveled. Throughout all southern Indiana the river reached unprecedented stages and hundreds were driven from their homes. Railroad lines were covered with water through many counties, and on March 31st the river was reported forty miles wide between Upton, Indiana, and Carmi, Illinois. CHAPTER XVI THE PLIGHT OF PERU: A STRICKEN CITY LAST MESSAGE FROM PERU--AT ONCE TO THE RESCUE--THOUSANDS MAROONED--TALES OF STRUGGLE--FAMINE AND DISEASE--GREED ABROAD IN THE CITY--REFUGEES URGED TO LEAVE--SEARCH FOR THE DEAD--SHAKING OFF DESPAIR. Of all the cities devastated by flood in Indiana, Peru was the most desolated. Situated on the Wabash River just below the entrance of the Mississinewa, it suffered more than any of the stricken cities through which the angry, swollen waters of the Wabash flowed. "This probably will be the last message you will get from Peru," said the man who telegraphed to Governor Ralston on March 25th, asking for coffins, food and clothing. "Two hundred or more are drowned and the remainder of the residents are waiting for daylight." AT ONCE TO THE RESCUE Governor Ralston immediately communicated with State Senator Fleming at Fort Wayne and asked him to forward the coffins and other supplies as requested. When the messages of distress from Peru were sent forth South Bend and other cities sprang nobly to the rescue. They found the people half crazed from exposure, want and fear. One of the rescue party who made the trip in the first boat that entered the city said: "The cry to be saved from those who saw the first boat was heartrending. Some of them threatened to jump into the water if we did not take them aboard. But it was impossible with the scant boat supply to take all away at once." THOUSANDS MAROONED Relief parties from South Bend were the first to arrive on the scene. They found hundreds of people huddled together in the court house square, which was three miles from the nearest dry land; hundreds more were marooned in the upper stories of buildings already rendered unsafe by the high water. There was no heat, no light, no water, and sanitary conditions were horrible. The only motor boat had broken and it was too dangerous to venture into the raging torrent in rowboats. This made it impossible for the South Bend relief volunteers to get blankets and food to the sufferers. TALES OF STRUGGLE Death faced hundreds of persons who were clinging to the roofs of buildings, where they sought refuge. Currents of muddy water from ten to twenty-five feet deep were running through the main streets at twenty miles an hour. Harry Lumley, a despatcher, lay on a table all Wednesday in the Peru station of the Lake Erie and Western Railroad, which the water had invaded, and kept open the line for relief trains. Dr. W. A. Huff, a dentist, started to South Peru with an unknown man Tuesday night. The boat capsized and Huff lodged in a tree, where he remained until Wednesday morning. His condition was critical. No effort was made to count the dead. "Our energies are being devoted entirely to saving those still living," said Lieutenant-Governor O'Neill. "It is impossible for us even to try to learn the whereabouts of the bodies just now." A VIGILANCE COMMITTEE Citizens, finding lawlessness in every block of the city above water, organized a vigilance committee with orders to shoot looters. On Wednesday night several thousand persons were still marooned in the court house, hospital, factory buildings and other structures because the various relief parties sent from South Bend and other cities had not sufficient boats to carry them to the nearest dry land. Snow was falling heavily and the suffering was intense, because of the lack of heating facilities. The city was in darkness, except for a scant supply of lanterns. FAMINE AND DISEASE But the height of the flood had been reached. On Thursday the water was receding three inches an hour. It had fallen four feet since the previous morning, but the current was still so swift on Canton Street and in South Peru, that it was impossible to investigate in rowboats the district in which the heaviest loss of life was supposed to have occurred. There were three inches of snow on the ground and it was still falling. Recovering from the flood, Peru organized to meet greater menaces, famine and disease. At a meeting in the courtroom at the county building, Lieutenant-Governor O'Neill was chosen head of the committee on organization. Hundreds of persons marooned in the second stories of their homes appealed to passing boats for food, fuel and water. Fishermen seized some of the boats and were taking the curious sightseeing. Persons who appropriated boats and tied them up were arrested. There were 500 persons at the Bears Hotel in Peru. Their only fire was a grate in the lobby. Two meals a day were served. The water had receded so that a Lake Erie and Western relief train was pulled up to the canning factory in the northeast part of the town and took out 200 persons marooned three days. They were taken to towns along Lake Erie. It was estimated that 2,000 persons had left the city and were being cared for in towns and school houses to the north. The relief committee discouraged the influx of people who came to Peru to see and eat, as there were more mouths to feed than there were provisions. Lieutenant-Governor O'Neill remained in Peru to insure whatever aid the state could give the sufferers. He ordered the Indiana Board of Health to send experts to make the city sanitary. These specialists had the co-operation of city and county medical societies and a score of physicians who came from other cities. [Illustration: Copyright by George Grantham Bain. Scores of strongly-built bridges like this throughout the flood districts were carried away by the raging torrents] [Illustration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y. When the waters of the Hudson overflowed, hundreds of men, women and children were trapped in their homes near the river bank and were rescued with difficulty] TWELVE BODIES IN ONE HOUSE Twelve bodies were recovered in a single house in the southern part of Peru on Friday. This was taken to indicate that the loss of life in that section of the city was great, as it was there that dwellings were completely submerged before the occupants could vacate. "It is impossible to tell how many lives were lost at Peru," said one of the rescuers. Six survivors were suffocated in the overcrowded court house. The weather had turned severely cold, adding to the misery of the unsheltered, but the flood was falling rapidly. Terrible conditions prevailed among the refugees, who were increasing in numbers, as the waters receded. Sanitary conditions among the hundreds sheltered in the court house became so bad that boats removed many of them to other places. GREED ABROAD IN THE CITY The water was rushing back as fast as it came, leaving a coat of mud and slime. It was from this that the great danger of disease existed. The state board of health combined with the Peru board to help clean up. Relief workers and city officials joined to investigate statements concerning exorbitant prices for foodstuffs, and proposed to expose every merchant attempting to make money through the misfortunes of others. Several looters were arrested and others shot. One robber was shot by a citizen, who threw the body into the river. The work of rescue was greatly impeded by the selfishness of residents. An Indian of the Wallace circus secured a boat and charged people $200 before he would help them off. Instances were told of men who drew revolvers on the men and boys working in the boats, threatening to shoot if they did not take them in. REFUGEES URGED TO LEAVE Railroad officials and the relief committee urged refugees to accept the hospitality of the municipalities north. They hoped to be relieved of temporary care of 3,000 persons by sending them out of the city. Two railroads were bringing plenty of provisions within a half mile of the city, but the boats could not transport rapidly enough to the center where the supplies were being distributed. SEARCH FOR THE DEAD Systematic search for the dead was made, and the appalling early reports of hundreds of dead continued to shrink, although it was believed that the search would probably reveal more. The diminution was due to the discovery in the hills on the other side of the Wabash River of hundreds of persons who had been given up as dead. The streets were strewn with dead animals that had begun to decay in some sections. An epidemic was feared. One of the greatest obstacles which the people faced was that of ridding the city of the dead animals and filth in the low sections around the edge of the city proper into which disease-breeding filth had been washed. Water still covered these low sections, and seemed likely to remain there for a long time. There were few sections around the valley that could be used for burning dead animals. Citizens and officials who were becoming alarmed at the new danger estimated that at least 500 dead animals were strewn about the city of Peru alone. Most of them had to be fished out of the water wherever found, and it seemed an impossible task. SHAKING OFF DESPAIR Slowly the city began to shake off despair and repair the damage done. The property damage totaled $3,000,000. The Broadway bridge went down when a large house lodged against it and in turn carried away the Union Traction structure. As Peru emerged from the flood it became apparent that the death list probably would not run over twenty-five. The indirect death list as a result of the flood, however, went much higher, as scores of aged men and women, who for hours were forced to undergo terrible exposure and later to endure unsanitary conditions, perished soon after they were rescued. CHAPTER XVII THE DEATH-DEALING TORNADO AT OMAHA THE BOLT OUT OF THE BLACKNESS--RESCUERS WORKING IN DARK--A CITY TO THE RESCUE--PATH OF THE STORM--INTERRUPTED MERRYMAKERS--FAMILY MEET DEATH TOGETHER--FREAK TRAGEDIES--BRAVE TELEPHONE GIRLS--VIVID TALE OF THE STORM. Easter Sunday did not dawn very brightly in Omaha, but in the afternoon the sun came out warm and bright. The usual Easter promenaders thronged the streets in holiday attire. Then, as the afternoon wore on, clouds appeared in the sky. They gathered very quickly, came lower, and as they approached the earth there was suddenly a fall in the temperature. In a few minutes the sky turned black and then came the bolt of wind down out of the blackness. Through more than three miles of the city it cut a clean path of from three to seven blocks in width in which not a building was left whole. Then the storm mounted the bluffs and sped away to the northeast, carrying destruction with it. Omaha's destruction was kept secret from the world for several hours by the storm, for all wire communication was broken down in the wrecking of the homes. Messengers with the news stories had to go to Lincoln, the state capital, to give out first definite news of the disaster. During the early hours of the night uninjured citizens worked desperately to remove such persons as had been caught beneath razed buildings. No great number was killed in any one place. The wind swept along, taking its toll here and there. No sooner had the great wind passed than a second violent gale swept over much the same territory, but with lessened fury. The total number of dead in Omaha and suburbs amounted to 154; the number of homeless to 3,179. Fire started in the debris of many wrecked buildings in the Nebraska metropolis, and these were menaces for some time, as the fire companies were hindered by fallen walls and blockaded streets. A heavy rain followed the wind, however, and whilst it drenched the hundreds of homeless persons, it also put out the flames. RESCUERS WORKING IN DARK Rescue work started as soon as the people were able to hurry to the stricken district, but the night's work was by the light of lanterns and little was accomplished. The storm took down all the wires in its path and the electric power was shut off immediately to prevent further loss of life. All night the stricken section was patrolled by government troops from Fort Omaha. With the arrival of daylight, a train-load of militia from Lincoln and the presence in the city of Governor Morehead, the work was systematized. [Illustration: MAP SHOWING THE PATH OF THE TORNADO] The hospitals in Omaha Sunday night were full of injured, many of whom had not been identified, apparently because their friends were either dead or among the injured. A CITY TO THE RESCUE Immediately City Commissioners appropriated $25,000 for relief work; citizens present at the meeting organized and donated $25,000 more. The Citizens' Relief Committee was organized, composed of fifty citizens and an executive committee of seven to work with the seven city councilmen. Governor Morehead notified Mayor Dahlman that he would send a special message to the Legislature asking for the appropriation of sufficient funds to care for the homeless throughout the state. Cots were placed in the Auditorium, and those without shelter were housed here. The city purchasing agent arranged for enough beds to care for all those who could sleep in the Auditorium. The Elks' rooms were thrown open to the homeless and the Union Gospel Mission provided seventy-five men with beds. PATH OF THE STORM The storm appeared to have started at Fifty-fourth and Center Streets. From there it traveled north, veering slightly to the east, to Leavenworth Street. Then it took a northeasterly course to Fortieth and Farnam Streets, sweeping its way through everything. Still traveling a little east of north, it covered a course from Fortieth Street east to Thirty-fourth Street, six blocks. Striking Bemis Park, where the homes of the wealthy Omaha residents were located, the storm turned sharply to the east and passed along Parker and Blonde Streets, to Twenty-fourth Street, where its path was six blocks wide. In the latter section the damage was complete. Finally, at Fourteenth and Spencer Streets, the storm swept over the bluffs, high above the Missouri River, demolished the Missouri Pacific roundhouse, leveled the big trestle of the Illinois Central Railroad over Carter Lake, wrecked several buildings near the Rod and Gun Club, a fashionable outing place, and disappeared to the northeast. The Child Saving Institute was a veritable death house after the storm had spent its fury. Every available room was pressed into service, and one after another the dead and injured were brought into the house. INTERRUPTED MERRYMAKERS At the home of Patrick Hynes, a party in celebration of his eighty-first birthday was in progress. The guests had just begun dinner and were drinking a toast to the health of their host when the storm swept the house away. All the party succeeded in getting out with minor injuries, except a grandchild, who was internally injured. "The party had just begun dinner," said Mr. Hynes. "The young people were making merry and, old as I am, I had entered into the spirit. Suddenly there was a roaring sound. The next minute the house was in ruins. I wiggled around and out and aided the others in escaping." FAMILY MEET DEATH TOGETHER Cliff Daniels, his wife and their two children met death together. When soldiers, digging about the ruins of their home, found the four bodies, the two little girls were clasped in the arms of their mother, while the body of the father was over them, as if he had tried to shield them with his own body. When C. Saber discovered the crushed and almost unrecognizable body of his wife he fled down the street shrieking at the top of his voice. E. H. Smith, a private of the Signal Corps from Fort Omaha, became insane after helping carry several bodies, and collapsed. When he had regained consciousness it was necessary to take him to the post hospital, where he was placed under restraint. A. L. Green was on his back porch watching the storm when it broke. He said: "It came like a rushing and roaring torrent of water and passed right by us to the east. I went to my attic window immediately afterward and saw fires bursting forth from houses along the path of the storm. I could see five fires burning at once. The flames made a ghastly sight as they illuminated acres of razed buildings nearby." FREAK TRAGEDIES Among the freak tragedies of the tornado none is more remarkable than that at the Idlewild pool hall, Twenty-fourth and Lake Streets. Twenty-five negroes were killed. The story is told by the single survivor, John Brown, who was dug from the wreckage twelve hours after the demolition of the building. "Eight men were playing pool at one table," Brown says. "The rest of us were standing about watching. Without a moment's warning a terrific roar swept down through the room. The roof suddenly was lifted from above. The pool table shot straight upward, many feet into the air. "All of us still were unhurt." Insane with fear, but wondering, the negroes rushed beneath the open roof and gazed upward. Then the heavy pool table and pieces of the roof shot down. All were caught. Brown was dug from the wreckage twelve hours later, uninjured. HOUSE SPLIT ASUNDER Huddled with his family in the basement of his home at 3229 Cuming Street, Prof. E. W. Hunt saw the house split asunder. When he recovered consciousness beneath the wreckage he discovered that a last summer straw hat was cocked on the back of his head. It had been hanging in a bedroom closet three stories above before the tornado struck the house. The body of a girl about four was dropped into the arms of a pedestrian, Charles Allen, at Forty-fifth and Center Streets. Efforts to identify the child failed. In a field half a mile from their home were found the bodies of Mrs. Mary Rathkey and her two grown sons, Frank and James. All three were dead but no bruises were found. The wind had cut their clothing completely away. Mrs. F. Bryant, ninety-two, lived with her son, Dr. D. C. Bryant, at 3006 Sherman Avenue. She was in bed on the third floor of the house when the tornado struck. The three floors beneath her were shifted out and her bed fell to the basement. Except for the shock she was uninjured. Dr. Bryant and his wife were dropped to the basement from the ground floor. They, too, miraculously escaped injury. VIVID TALES OF THE STORM Perhaps the most vivid single description of the tornado's havoc was given by John Porter: "I stood on the rear porch of my home when the great cloud of the storm began its race across the city," he said. "Before it rushed the traditional 'ball of fire,' which was in reality a yellow cloud, spherical in shape. "My wife was visiting at the moment in the home of her father. I saw the house caught in the vortex of the cloud. It rose straight up into the air, its walls shattered and broken, but holding partially together. I am sure that I could not have moved an eyelash, if my life had depended upon the exertion. "From the risen house I saw a myriad of black specks falling to the earth. Then I watched that home soar upward. It hurtled five blocks through the murky twilight, sustained at a height of one hundred and fifty feet. "The Sacred Heart Convent was the target at which it was hurled. It struck the fifth story. The convent was demolished. The home of my father-in-law became splinters. "Then I recovered my senses partially, and ran to the site of the structure. God himself must have directed that storm, for my wife, her father and her mother had been dropped behind, only bruised." CHAPTER XVIII STRUGGLES OF STRICKEN OMAHA A BLIZZARD-LIKE STORM--COUNTING THE COST--"THE GREATEST CONCEIVABLE BLOW"--SEARCHING FOR THE DEAD--A DAY OF FUNERALS--MORE CASES OF DESTITUTION--PLANS FOR REBUILDING. As if the storm of Easter Sunday were not enough calamity, a blizzard-like storm descended upon the city of Omaha on Tuesday, adding to the grief and horror. The storm, which began shortly after midnight, and continued with gathering force, seriously hampered the work of rescue. More than three inches of snow covered the debris in the section of the city struck by the cyclone. It rendered uninhabitable the houses of many who had prepared to retain temporary homes in partly demolished structures. Women tugging at heavy beams, hoping against hope to find dear ones beneath the wreckage, men gruffly cheering their sorrowful mates, sniveling children wrapped about with shawls and blankets were the scenes which the sunrise this morning disclosed to the federal soldiers as they patrolled the afflicted district. Later, city officials gathered within the lines drawn around the district by the soldiers and distributed clothing and other necessities among the sufferers who had been rendered homeless by the tornado. COUNTING THE COST For the first time the people began to count the cost in lives and dollars. When a resumé was made it was apparently more appalling than those who had studied the result were willing to admit. One hundred and fifty-four lives were snuffed out within the city proper. Nearly five hundred were injured and eight of these died in local hospitals during the day. All Omaha rallied to the assistance of the desolate victims of the tornado. Hundreds of citizens responded promptly by offering their homes and money to aid in caring for the stricken. The City Commissioners appropriated $75,000 for relief work, and citizens at once subscribed to an equal amount. Governor Morehead sent a special message to the Legislature asking for an appropriation to care for the homeless throughout the state. "THE GREATEST CONCEIVABLE BLOW" After making an inspection of the devastated district, the Governor said: "This is my conception of hell. It is horrible, and it has presented a most complex situation. The loss of life and damage to property is the greatest conceivable blow, not only to Omaha, but to the entire state of Nebraska. I will call upon the state of Nebraska to render every assistance and I am sure the state will respond. "My horror and grief are beyond my powers of expression." SEARCHING FOR THE DEAD Groups of men, aided and encouraged by women and children, labored incessantly all day Tuesday among the ruins of homes and other buildings. Only portions of the ruins of some buildings within which persons were known to have been killed were removed. As quickly as bodies were found they were taken to temporary morgues. Relatives claimed most of the bodies, but some remained unidentified. Funerals and burials were held from all churches and homes. Cemeteries were thronged with grieving friends and relatives. MILITARY LAW Military law was strictly enforced throughout the storm area. Upon the soldiers rested the responsibility for looting and fires. The city Health Department made every effort to place the district in a sanitary condition as rapidly as possible. Garbage wagons and trash carts were the only vehicles admitted within the patrolled section. The water supply fortunately remained unimpaired. A DAY OF FUNERALS Another period of unseasonable cold followed Tuesday's snowstorm and increased the already long list of sufferers from the storm. Paying last rites occupied the time of thousands of persons on Wednesday. Fifty-two funerals silently wending their way to cemeteries brought home with greater force to the people of Omaha the full realization of the extent of Sunday's tornado. All day long, as fast as hearses could deposit the bodies at graves, a continual death procession was kept up. Many of the bodies recovered from Sunday's storm were cared for at undertaking establishments, and a great number of the funerals were held from those places. Whenever possible friends of stricken families took care of bodies and had them prepared for burial. In many instances churches were demolished in the districts covered by the storm and others were so badly wrecked as to prevent their being used for burial services. LITTLE CEREMONY There was little ceremony. As quickly as one funeral was over another began. Undertakers co-operated in arranging burials. In several instances where entire families were killed or where more than one member of a family awaited burial one funeral service was held. The funerals were a constant procession. One of the most pitiful of the funerals was that of Mrs. Mary Rathkey and two small children. Surviving Mrs. Rathkey is the husband and father, who is nearly demented over the disaster. Mrs. Rathkey and her children were killed in their home. MORE CASES OF DESTITUTION Many cases of destitution were reported on Wednesday. It took much time to prepare card indexes of sufferers' wants and to make requisitions on the central relief station at the Auditorium for supplies. While these formalities were being carried out want stalked through disconsolate homes from one corner of the city to the other. The task of caring for those needing food, clothing, supplies and money seemed to be too large for the relief forces. PLANS FOR REBUILDING As early as Tuesday plans for rebuilding the city were under way. The business men formed a corporation to conduct the undertaking in a systematic way, and to assist the unfortunates who lost their homes and personal effects. The Real Estate Exchange immediately took steps to prevent the raising of rents. Cases of alleged attempted extortion, however, were reported, some of them by members of the Exchange itself. Executives of that body decided to deal harshly with any owners found taking advantage of those forced to secure new homes on account of the tornado. A public appeal sent out by the Commercial Club stated that 642 homes were totally wrecked, 1,669 were damaged and 3,179 persons made homeless. There was need of reconstruction, indeed! [Illustration: Photograph by Brown Bros. This scene shows the desolation caused by the tornado wrecking a whole street of houses at Omaha, Nebraska] [Illustration: Copyright by George Grantham Bain. A view showing the destructive force of the tornado at Omaha, where happy homes stood a few hours before. Many residents were caught as in a trap and instantly killed or fatally maimed] CHAPTER XIX OMAHA: "THE GATE CITY OF THE WEST" LARGEST CITY IN NEBRASKA--GATE TO THE WEST--GROWTH OF INDUSTRIES--SPLENDID INSTITUTIONS--A PROSPEROUS CITY--REMARKABLE ACTIVITY. Omaha, "the Gate City," largest in Nebraska, is a typical plains town, proud of its industry and its climb on the census list. It stands eighty feet above the Missouri on the west bank of that river opposite Council Bluffs, Iowa. For twenty-four square miles stretch its many churches, educational institutions and large manufacturing plants, with the pleasant residential section lying above. On the site of the present city Lewis and Clark in 1804 held council with the Indians. There were a trading station and stockade at the place in 1825 presided over by pioneer J. B. Royce. The first permanent settlement was made there in 1854. A tribe of Dakota Indians that lived in the region gave the city its name. When the Union Pacific Railroad was stretching steel hands westward in 1864 Omaha was the most northerly outfitting point for overland wagon trains to the far West. At that time it took its name of "Gate City" and then its sudden growth began. In 1910 the population was 124,000. GROWTH OF INDUSTRIES Because of its location it soon began to draw industries. Packing is one of its leading industries today. So extensive is this business that Omaha ranks third among cities of the United States in packing. Silver smelting, distilling and brewing are some of the other pursuits that keep its citizens busy. SPLENDID INSTITUTIONS Among the more important buildings are the Federal Building, Court House, a city hall, two high schools, one of which is among the finest in the country, a convention hall, the Auditorium and the Public Library. Omaha is the see of Roman Catholic and Protestant Episcopal bishoprics. Among the educational institutions are a state school for the deaf; the medical department and orthopedic branch of the University of Nebraska; a Presbyterian Theological Seminary; and Creighton University under Jesuit control. The principal newspapers are the _Omaha Bee_, _World-Herald_ and the _News_. The _Omaha Bee_ was established in 1871 by Edward Rosewater, who made it one of the most influential Republican journals in the West. The _World-Herald_, founded in 1865 by George L. Miller, was edited by William Jennings Bryan from 1894 to 1896. Omaha is the headquarters of the United States military department of the Missouri, and there are military posts at Fort Omaha, immediately north, and Fort Crook, ten miles south of the city. REMARKABLE ACTIVITY Prairie freighting and Missouri river navigation, were of importance before the construction of the Union Pacific railway, and the activity of the city in securing the freighting interest gave her an initial start over the other cities of the state. Council Bluffs was the legal, but Omaha the practical, eastern terminus of that great undertaking, work on which began at Omaha in December, 1863. The city was already connected as early as 1863 by telegraph with Chicago, St. Louis, and since 1861 with San Francisco. Lines of the present great Rock Island, Burlington and Northwestern railway systems all entered the city in the years 1867-1868. Meat-packing began as early as 1871, but its first great advance followed the removal of the Union stock-yards south of the city in 1884. South Omaha was rapidly built up around them. A Trans-Mississippi Exposition illustrating the progress and resources of the states west of the Mississippi was held at Omaha in 1898. It represented an investment of $2,000,000, and in spite of financial depression and wartime, ninety per cent of their subscriptions were returned in dividends to the stockholders. The original town site occupied an elongated and elevated river terrace, now given over wholly to business; behind this are hills and bluffs over which the residential districts have extended. CHAPTER XX OTHER DAMAGE FROM THE NEBRASKA TORNADO GREAT HAVOC IN NEBRASKA TOWNS--DESCRIPTION OF THE TORNADO--YUTAN A SUFFERER--THE TUMBLING HOUSES OF BENSON--CURIOUS TRAGEDIES--HOUSES TUMBLING ABOUT. The storm which lashed its way through Omaha on Easter Sunday had already carried havoc into other Nebraska towns. William Coon, president of an automobile company of Lincoln, Nebraska, gave a stirring description of the tornado as he saw it from the platform of an observation car on the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy Railroad: DESCRIPTION OF THE TORNADO "For miles," he said, "it seemed as if the train were being pursued by the storm. We were approaching Ralston, Neb., when I first noticed the strange cloud mounting the sky. Before that it had been clear." Mr. Coon, from his observation car seat, saw the storm strike Ralston. "The passengers sat as if glued to their seats when the cloud struck," he said. "The engineer brought the engine to a stop and the passengers ran over to the wreckage of the houses. We could hear the groans of dying men and the wails and shrieks of injured women and children. I entered a house, or rather what had been a house, and beneath me lay a woman. I looked and I knew that she was dead. We got all of the injured out of the ruins and brought them to the train. "We were about to leave when our attention was called to a little house some distance from the others. It had been wrecked and moved from its foundation, but we found a mother and her little baby lying upon a bed uninjured. "The cloud wheeled and made towards South Omaha. We were not far behind, but our way was blocked by the debris the tornado had thrown on the tracks. Then, too, we stopped frequently to pick up the injured. There were some with their limbs torn off and all were cut and bleeding." A Chicagoan, who withheld his name, told of the scenes at Omaha when the train stopped there. He said: "I was just recovering from what I had seen on the train when we pulled into Omaha with the injured. It was night then, but such a night. The sky was lighted with a red glare, and the streets were filled with people who acted as though they were mad. Frequently the cries of the wounded, unloaded at the station, were drowned by terrific peals of thunder." It is difficult for any one who has not lived through a tornado to have any conception of what such a storm can do. Tornadic force means anything more than one hundred miles an hour. There have been instances where tornadoes have shaved off the stone sides of buildings as if they had been sliced away by a stonecutter. Forecaster Scarr, of New York, said that the tornado that wrought destruction in Nebraska may have been of the resistless kind that simply ground stone and brick to dust and carried up its electrified funnel the remnants of every building it struck. The tornado finally became almost like a mass of whirling steel, revolving faster than the blades of the swiftest planer and cutting everything to pieces in its course. YUTAN A SUFFERER The tornado first struck the little village of Yutan, southwest of Omaha. Yutan was practically wiped off the map and its population of four hundred left desolate. After the buildings had been razed the wreckage caught fire. "The town is burning! We'll all be killed!" some kept crying, and this added to the fears of the others. Many persons were killed and many injured. Waterloo, a village of about equal size to the northeast across the Platte River, suffered like damage. Wires were snapped off in all directions, and it took many hours to gather and circulate news of the disaster. Leaving desolation behind it the tornado swept at a rate of possibly one hundred and fifty miles an hour into Berlin. This little village had a population of about two hundred. The storm killed seven and injured thirty. The habitations were virtually wiped out. A church, an elevator and part of the residence of State Senator Buck were all that remained standing of what was a prosperous town. THE TUMBLING HOUSES OF BENSON On its way to Omaha the tornado struck Benson and Yutan. Benson is a thriving town of over three thousand. Here property damage was great and many persons were injured. As the houses began to tumble a little girl dressed in white started from one of the houses and ran down the street with her hands above her head. Just then the side of a house came soaring through the air, and shooting suddenly downward it struck the child and buried her beneath it. When the storm had passed, the injured were lying all about the streets. At Ralston, a suburb of Omaha, many were killed and much injury and destruction left in the path of the tornado. Late in the afternoon a copper-colored cloud was seen mounting toward the sky. The cloud grew rapidly and was traveling at tremendous speed. It assumed the form of a funnel and the air was filled with a curious, piercing noise. It swished across the railroad track and swept on its way toward the little town. Then the storm struck the town. Houses collapsed as though they were of paper. The roofs went sailing away and the sides fell in. Passengers in a passing train watched the destruction, and a cry of horror went up from every one. It was an awful sight. A farmer was standing on the doorstep when he noticed the funnel-shaped cloud. He called his wife and four children, and they all sought refuge in a cyclone cellar. Five minutes later their house went sailing away. CURIOUS TRAGEDIES Edward Mote, his wife and three children were sitting in their home chatting when the tornado suddenly carried them and their home to Paio Creek, one hundred yards away, and dropped them into the water. Mrs. Mote was drowned. Postmaster D. L. Ham, his daughter, Mrs. Kimball, and his grandchildren were standing in the doorway of their home when the wind struck. Mrs. Kimball and her two-year-old daughter Frances stepped outside the door, which slammed shut. Their bodies were found among the debris. H. E. Said and wife, bride and bridegroom of a month, were in the Ham house. Warned of approaching death by Mr. Ham, they sought solace in each other's arms. Thus they were found dead. Mr. Ham was slightly injured. HOUSES TUMBLING ABOUT There was a big threshing machine standing near one of the houses, and when the cloud struck it shot straight up into the air and was carried about forty rods. Houses were rolling and tumbling along the ground. A box car was carried along by the terrific air current for a quarter of a mile. When it split open six or seven men, who turned out to be part of a repair gang, dropped out. Some lay very still, while others feebly crawled about. A dozen other towns in the section of Nebraska surrounding Omaha were hard hit and many farming communities were destroyed. CHAPTER XXI THE TORNADO IN IOWA AND ILLINOIS MONSTER TORNADO SWEEPS ACROSS RIVER--DESTRUCTION IN IOWA--THE STORM-CLOUD OVER ILLINOIS--GALE AND FIRE IN CHICAGO. The monster tornado that wrought such havoc in Omaha leaped across the Missouri River and swished its wicked tail through Council Bluffs. Then it sped northeasterly, wrecking several villages before it finally disappeared. DESTRUCTION IN IOWA Reports from Mills County stated that it caused loss of life in every town in the county reached by telephone. Many deaths occurred at Glenwood and at Council Bluffs. Scattering towns all through the district reported one to two deaths. Eastern Council Bluffs suffered heavily, the storm breaking in the valley just east of the town proper and following the lines of the Milwaukee, Rock Island and Great Western railroads for a distance of a mile. The storm, which was accompanied by hail, rain, sleet, lightning and a gale which blew seventy miles an hour for a time, was felt most severely in the northwestern section of the city, where houses were overturned, windows broken, trees uprooted and electric light and trolley poles blown to the ground. Nearly fifty small fires resulted and hundreds of men, women and children fled from their homes in terror. Considerable damage was done to Des Plaines, Park Ridge and other suburbs. The property damage in the city and suburbs was estimated at more than $500,000. THE STORM-CLOUD OVER ILLINOIS Illinois also suffered severely from a tornado on the night of Easter, March 23d, and the following morning. The storm was less severe than that which struck Omaha, but the wind was blowing at a rate of seventy miles an hour for a time, and in Chicago alone thirty-two structures were damaged and a number of persons killed. Out in the state the heaviest suffering was at Rockford, Elgin, Wheaton, Bloomington, Galesburg, Peoria, Erie and Des Plaines. The aggregate loss in other communities was great. The storm covered all of Illinois north of Peoria. In Galesburg many buildings were moved from their foundations. Half a dozen residences in Peoria were demolished. All streams rose high and costly floods occurred along the Kankakee, Illinois and other rivers. GALE AND FIRE IN CHICAGO In Chicago all the elements seemed to meet Sunday night. The wind blew a violent gale; snow flew before it in some places; hail crashed windows in other parts of the city. Every available fire apparatus in the north and west sides of the city was called out to extinguish fires which broke out in business blocks and dwellings partly wrecked by the storm. A number of lives throughout the state were lost by this storm and the property loss was estimated at $2,500,000. A second storm on Monday caused great destruction in Mahanda. Thirty cars of a southbound Illinois Central freight train were blown from the track a mile north of the town. Two firemen were injured. CHAPTER XXII THE TORNADO IN KANSAS AND ARKANSAS THE "BLOWOUT" IN KANSAS--DAMAGE TO CROPS AND SOIL--DUST STORM COMES SUDDENLY--TORNADO IN ARKANSAS. Following a heavy downpour of rain on Easter Sunday night the atmosphere at Topeka, Kansas, was filled with dust until it had the appearance of a heavy fog. The dust came from the western part of the state where severe dust storms prevailed. In western Kansas the "blowout" has been as great a source of damage to the wheat fields as the drought or chinch bugs or hot winds. In the event of a drought there is always some hope of rain; with the hot winds there is hope of a cool spell; while the ravages of the chinch bugs may be checked in two or three ways. With the "blowout" there absolutely is no hope left, and not only is the wheat crop gone for good, but the ground sometimes is left in bad condition. The "blowout" is little understood by any one except the person who has witnessed a dust storm. Several years ago the "blowout" was much more common than now, although there is some damage in western counties every year from this source. DAMAGE TO CROPS AND SOIL The damage comes not only to the fields that have been blown out, but the adjoining fields, on to which the "drifting soil" has blown in great clouds and settled, have suffered likewise, and whole pastures have been known to be destroyed by the same means. For several years the farmers have been working night and day to devise some method to prevent the damage from "drifting soil," or "blowouts," as they are more commonly known. Senator Malone has introduced in the Kansas Legislature a bill providing that the county commissioners of any county where a "blowout" has commenced may call in agricultural experts and devise ways of stopping the drifting. The farmers of Thomas County held a meeting in Colby recently to discuss the situation and if possible arrive at some means by which the drifting of soil might be stopped from destroying the crops. These farmers reported that a strip of land between Colby and Rexford, about fifteen miles long and five miles wide, was blown out last season and in that territory not a single root of vegetation remained, and the top of the ground was as hard as the pavement on any street in Kansas City. The ground as far down as the plough went was completely blown away. When these fields were blown out the wheat was several inches high and before the wind came up the prospects were bright for a good crop. It took but a few hours for the wind to complete its work of destruction. The little town of Gem sits in about the center of the devastated land. DUST STORM COMES SUDDENLY A dust storm is not only unfortunate, but it is unpleasant in the extreme. It comes up sometimes very suddenly. The sun may be shining and not a cloud in sight. In less than five minutes the sun will be obscured from view and the air filled with dust, sand, gravel, sticks and other debris. Besides suffering from a dust storm, Kansas was stricken by floods due to heavy rain in some parts of the state. Hail and lightning accompanied the rain and did much damage. TORNADO IN ARKANSAS A tornado on Monday night, March 24th, eight miles southwest of Leslie, Arkansas, killed Mrs. John Couders and seriously injured John Couders and his son William, and James Trieste, his wife and three children. A tornado that passed over Clarksville, Arkansas, on Tuesday, killed Miss Ida Brazell and blew down many houses. At Rumeley five were killed and several injured. Couriers immediately sought aid, carrying news of great suffering in the mountains. Their tales were heart-moving. Lack of insurance, lack of funds and lack of knowledge of what to do when overtaken by calamity made the situation in small towns and in out-of-the-way places more pathetic than that of the unhappy homeless in some of the large cities affected by the tornado or the flood. To the latter relief was immediately sent--from neighboring places, from the whole country. The others, suffering no less, did not always even succeed in being heard. CHAPTER XXIII THE TORNADO IN INDIANA THE BRUNT OF THE STORM--MANY BURIED UNDER WRECKAGE--SLEEPERS HURLED FROM BEDS--FREAKS OF THE STORM--INJURED CARRIED TO HOSPITALS--ACUTE SUFFERING--RESCUE WORK--NATIONAL GUARD ON DUTY--TOWN OF PERTH LAID WASTE. The record of disaster by tornado was greater in Terre Haute than in any other place except Omaha. For two weeks before Easter a dense atmosphere hung over the city, which occasional heavy rainfalls did not clear. Then suddenly on Sunday night, about ten o'clock, the lightning flashed and loud peals of thunder followed. The tornado seemed to spring out of the southwestern part of the city as if it came from the swollen waters of the Wabash River. It first smashed into Gardentown, a suburb of the city, where a great many working people live, and every building in its path crumpled down before it. The lightning sped over building after building, setting many of them on fire. Parts of the Root Glass Company's plant were flattened. The end of the foundry room of the Gartland Factory, a solid brick wall eight inches thick, was caved in. Brick and stone structures suffered alike. MANY BURIED UNDER WRECKAGE In the streets were tangled masses of twisted electric wires spluttering out warnings of death for those who, careless of the first alarm, had rushed in to rescue those who had been buried under roofs and walls. Policemen, firemen and a host of volunteers struggled through the debris, sidestepping the live wires that had been torn from their fastenings. The heavy downpour of rain extinguished many fires, and the city of Terre Haute was thereby saved from destruction by fire. The large Greenwood public school was shattered and torn. The tornado, like a huge auger, bored into the roof and tore the shingles and rafters away and every window was hurled from its casing. This building was later converted into a hospital and morgue. SLEEPERS HURLED FROM BEDS In many instances death came to those who were asleep in their beds when their homes collapsed about them. In other cases the bodies were picked up as if by giant hands and hurled either to death or to terrible injury. Some were thrown more than a hundred feet. Above the roar of the wind and the rattle of the rain could be heard the screams of frantic women and children. The scenes were pitiful. Men and women were looking for loved ones, and when a torn and mangled form was taken from the debris, a woman's shriek would tell the story of a lost one found. [Illustration: Copyright by George Grantham Bain. Hundreds of buildings were demolished by the tornado at Terre Haute, Indiana, and many lives were lost] [Illustration: Photograph by Brown Bros. Scenes such as this could be duplicated hundreds of times to illustrate the demoniacal power of the tornado that laid waste the cities and towns through which it passed] [Illustration: THE REAPER] Charles Chadwick, a six-year-old boy, owed his escape to the fact that he left home, in the absence of his parents, to go to a moving-picture show. He was found walking along South Fifth Street after the storm, but his home could not be found as it had been blown away. Seven houses owned by Fred Housman, including the one he lived in, on the Lockport road, were swept away completely. Five wrecked autos were found on that road. Between Hulman and Voorhees Streets, in South Eighth, there was complete devastation. Twenty-five houses were leveled to the ground in this stretch. On the Lockport road, south of Idaho, at least sixteen houses were destroyed, but there were no fatalities and few were injured in this immediate neighborhood. MOTHER AND CHILD SWEPT AWAY Mrs. Flora Wood was hurled seven feet from her home, her small baby clasped in her arms. They were cared for at the Third United Brethren Church. The day-old baby of Mrs. Leonard Sloan was found in one corner of the bedroom of their home, while the mother lay in another corner. The entire top of the house had been blown away. William Rogers, Superintendent of the United Brethren Sunday-school, was buried beneath the walls of his home. He died while being carried to the school house. A large stone boarding house conducted by Mrs. Catherine Louden was wrecked and the aged woman and her son, Ralph Louden, were badly injured. Many houses were wrecked between Third and Fifth Streets in Voorhees Street. FREIGHT CAR USED AS HOSPITAL A freight car was pressed into service as a temporary medical quarter, when the fire wagons with the police and fire departments arrived on the scene. The live wires and burning debris made it impossible for the ambulances to get within two blocks of the scene, and the bodies had to be carried to safety by the rescuers. Six fires broke out in different parts of the devastated district, while the rescue work was being carried on. The strong winds still blowing fanned the flames and drove the rescuers from their work. FAMILY BURIED UNDER HOUSE Fred King, a glass blower at 2146 Dilman Street, was found with his wife and baby covered by the heavy timbers of their home that had collapsed when the storm struck it. King had been hurled from his bed a distance of ten feet. Two heavy timbers had almost crushed the life out of him. His wife was terribly injured. A few feet away the baby was picked up dead. The mother in her death struggles probably tried to save the baby by throwing it away from her. Near the Greenwood school several more were killed and many were injured. Mrs. E. J. Edwards, wife of a druggist, was knocked down by a heavy timber that broke her leg and pinned her to the ground. When she was found the woman was screaming for her child, and later the little fellow, eight years old, was picked up dead and carried to the Greenwood school building. Remarkable escapes were made in the twenty-four hundred block on South Third Street, some of the residents of the square being seriously injured. Mr. and Mrs. George Carmichael escaped from their home as it was blown away by the wind. Many families were separated in the excitement and for two hours after the storm had passed anxious husbands, mothers and children were searching the debris for absent members of their families. Many could not find the wrecked remains of their homes, so hopelessly tangled was the wreckage in the streets and on the sidewalks, and in several cases it was difficult even to find the place where the home had stood. INJURED CARRIED TO HOSPITALS Ambulances and moving vans were used to carry the injured to hospitals and as these were soon filled stables and homes were converted into temporary hospitals. More than two hundred persons were placed under the care of doctors, but many were only slightly hurt and in some cases women were found to be suffering merely from fright. These were soon dismissed to make room for those actually suffering. The scenes at the hospitals were pitiful. The agony of the sufferers was increased by the uncertainty as to the fate and condition of their families and friends. Little children, lying in bandages about the hospital, cried out in pain and fright. One little fellow with a big gash over his eye cried out for his mother as he was being taken to the operating room. His father sat near him and tried to lend what comfort was possible. A little girl in one of the large rooms of the hospital played and laughed on her bed while three anxious physicians worked with her sister, who had sustained a compound fracture of the leg and a dislocated shoulder. VICTIMS' FRIENDS CROWD TO FIND THEM Friends and relatives of people living in the storm devastated region soon crowded the halls of the hospitals, anxiously inquiring if those dear to them were among the victims. Many learned of the whereabouts of relatives or friends in the rooms of the hospital and crowded in to see them when this was possible, expressing joy that they had escaped from death beneath the falling walls and timbers of their homes. One man, when lifted on the operating table, was found to be dead. RESCUE WORK The rescue work was carried on rapidly, and Monday night all the homeless were cared for by charitable institutions and citizens, while the more seriously injured were carried to places where they could receive medical attention. In many cases private homes were turned into temporary hospitals. The scenes in the wrecked sections in Terre Haute brought tears to the eyes of the rescuers, whose attention often was called to the dying, trapped in the debris of their homes, by agonizing screams for aid. Some died before they could be freed from wreckage and others who were removed died afterward. NATIONAL GUARD ON DUTY A company of the Indiana National Guard was placed on duty in the devastated district early Monday morning while the work of searching the ruins for dead was still in progress. Over the entire area were scattered all kinds of household furniture, wearing apparel, beds and bedding. Looting began within a few moments and the police were at first too busy caring for the injured and removing the dead from the debris to protect property, but the members of the National Guard soon established an efficient patrol and the looters were not in evidence afterward. TOWN OF PERTH LAID WASTE The tornado which visited Terre Haute also struck Perth, in the northern part of Clay County, about ten o'clock and then vanished in the air. No lives were lost there and only one person was injured. Nearly every building in the little town of 400 population was wrecked or damaged. A brick store building, five two-story houses and seven cottages, the Congregational church, a school house, a three-story structure, barns and outhouses were completely demolished. CHAPTER XXIV THE TORNADO IN PENNSYLVANIA STORMS THROUGHOUT THE STATE--ALARM IN ALTOONA--FURIOUS WIND IN WILLIAMSPORT--HEAVY STORM IN SHAMOKIN--COLUMBIA IN DARKNESS--A VERITABLE TORNADO IN SCRANTON. The disturbances in the atmosphere which wrought such havoc in Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois and Indiana were also at work in Pennsylvania. Altoona, Williamsport, Marietta, Columbia and Scranton were among the towns suffering the greatest damage. The flood situation throughout the Keystone State will be treated in a later chapter. ALARM IN ALTOONA The storm struck Altoona on Tuesday, March 25th. With a crash that alarmed the entire neighborhood, eighty feet of the 162-foot steel stack at the Pennsylvania Central Light and Power Company's plant was blown down. The wind tore madly through the city and the rain fell in torrents. Many houses were unroofed and a number of smaller buildings were entirely demolished. No one was injured, but damage to the extent of at least $2,000 was reported. FURIOUS WINDS IN WILLIAMSPORT A heavy wind and rainstorm swept through Williamsport on the same afternoon, following a few hours of clear weather that came in the wake of twenty-four hours' rain. It unroofed a number of houses in the west end of the city, blew away the roofs of several cars in the Newberry Junction railroad yards, partially demolished a car inspector's office, sent twenty men in a panic from the second story of the New York Central offices, which they feared would be blown to pieces; blew in the front of a store on Grove Street and scattered canned goods for a block down the street and swept a path through a grove in the same section, prostrating a dozen giant oaks. Train service through Williamsport was seriously deranged all day Tuesday. A landslide that covered both tracks of the Pennsylvania Railroad for sixty feet, with a mass of mud five feet deep, three miles east of Renovo, completely upset the train schedule on the Susquehanna Division. The slide occurred about seven o'clock in the morning, and it was not until eleven o'clock that the eastbound track was opened and passenger trains were let through. The westbound track was not cleared until the morning. While the blockade existed special trains were run from Williamsport. HEAVY STORM IN SHAMOKIN A terrific wind storm from the northwest swept through Shamokin Valley and Shamokin, followed by rain, which fell in torrents. This storm also occurred on Tuesday. Crops in country districts were torn up and badly damaged, while lowlands were flooded. Roofs on a number of barns and out-dwellings were blown away, and telephone and telegraph wires were put out of commission. COLUMBIA IN DARKNESS Columbia was struck by a severe electric storm accompanied by a downpour of rain on Tuesday evening. Lightning struck the local electric plant, doing considerable damage and putting the town in total darkness for the night. Many residents and storekeepers were compelled to resort to candles to help them out during the evening. A VERITABLE TORNADO IN SCRANTON In Scranton the storm of March 25th amounted to a veritable tornado. The Round Woods section of the city suffered most. The Clemons Silk Mill, owned by D. G. Derry, of Catasauqua, was unroofed and a 150-foot section of the roof was deposited on the adjacent engine room, partially demolishing the structure. The two sixty-foot smokestacks in the rear yard fell on top of the engine house. The roof of the warping department also fell on the engine house. The back walls of the warping department fell into the yard, while the upper part of the front walls fell in. The machines were six feet from the walls. The girls crouched under their machines and escaped serious injury. Several fainted and were carried out by foremen. Amelia Davis, a warper, was hit on the head by a brick as she hurried from the second floor. Tessie Carey, of Minooka, sustained a black eye and lacerations of the left side of the face by falling bricks. Gus Minnick, a repairer, working in the engine room, had just set his dinner pail where one of the stacks fell. There were altogether one hundred and fifty girls at work, but outside of bruises and scratches they were uninjured. The property damage was about $20,000. Much silk on the looms was ruined. A large tower was blown off a school. Three houses in the neighborhood were also badly damaged by the wind. The storm caused destruction in all parts of the city and adjoining places. Trees and fences were blown down in all parts of the city and in the adjoining country. The storm came from the west and its approach was preceded by an inky black sky which, coupled with thoughts of the havoc of Sunday's storm in Nebraska, caused a general consternation. A heavy downpour accompanied by thunder and lightning followed the tornado. CHAPTER XXV THE FREAK TORNADO IN ALABAMA FREAKS OF THE WIND--PITIABLE CHAOS--THE HERO OF LOWER PEACHTREE--EXTENT OF DAMAGE. Weird tales of horror and misery attended the tornado which swept over the little town of Lower Peachtree, Alabama, on Friday, March 21st, wrecking the entire village. After the tornado had passed, corpses with hair stripped from heads and divested of every thread of clothing were picked up. Naked men and women ran screaming in the semi-darkness. Chickens and hogs stripped of feathers and hair wandered in bewilderment among the ruins. Nailed unerringly into trees cleaned of their bark were pickets from fences that had been swept away. Where once had stood a big steamboat warehouse near the river was left the floor of the building standing upon which were the entire contents of the warehouse untouched by the terrific whirls of the wind. In the backyard of the Bryant home, buried in debris, was a chicken coop, not a splinter awry. Within it was a goose sitting meekly upon a dozen eggs which she had not left. The blast wrenched an iron bed from a house and wrapped it around a tree trunk as no human hand could have done. Crossing the river from the town it had desolated it bore away half of a soapstone bluff many feet in height and left the other half standing unmarred. Miss Mary Watson, a visitor in the Stabler home, was crossing a hallway when the tornado struck. She was swept through the hallway and to the rear of the house, where she was blown against a tree and her back broken. PITIABLE CHAOS In the business neighborhood everything was swept away except two grocery stores. They were thrown open as dispensaries of free provisions. No semblance of order could be brought from the pitiable chaos of the wrecked town until Sunday afternoon, when cool heads prevailed and the survivors and visitors who offered assistance were regularly organized into committees to attend to the needs of the sufferers. Troops from Fort Oglethorpe, with hospital corps and supplies for the relief of the sufferers arrived Sunday night and administered to the needs of the injured and homeless. THE HERO OF LOWER PEACHTREE Tributes to the bravery of Professor Griffin, a survivor of the tornado, were paid by many who visited the scene. Professor Griffin, after having been blown hundreds of feet from his home, returned bruised and bleeding to the center of the town and worked unceasingly to relieve the injured and to quiet survivors, insane with grief and excitement. Peter Milledge, whose wife and two children perished when their home was destroyed, went mad. EXTENT OF DAMAGE The Red Cross agent who investigated the situation at Lower Peachtree on Wednesday, March 26th, reported that sixty-eight were injured in the tornado which swept that section and that two hundred were destitute. CHAPTER XXVI THE FLOOD IN NEW YORK HUNDREDS OF HOMES IN BUFFALO FLOODED--THE PLIGHT OF ROCHESTER--VALLEY OF THE GENESEE PARALYZED--DRIVEN FROM HOMES AT OLEAN--WORST FLOOD IN HISTORY OF HORNELL--LAKE COUNTRY PARALYZED WITH FEAR--WATER COVERS PART OF BINGHAMTON--GLENS FALLS BRIDGE DOWN--DISTRESS IN FORT EDWARD--BIG PAPER COMPANY IN TROUBLE--HOMES ABANDONED IN SCHENECTADY--HIGH WATERS IN TROY--WATERVLIET FLOODED--ALBANY IN THE GRIP OF THE FLOOD. A tremendous downfall of rain, March 24th and 25th, developed some of the worst floods known in fifty years. Vast areas of New York were under water and hundreds of homes were swept away. On the night of March 25th the entire area of South Buffalo was under water, street car traffic was suspended and rowboats were plying the streets. The Buffalo River and Cazenovia Creek had both overflowed their banks with a rush at ten o'clock in the morning, and the dwellers in the South Park section of the city had no chance to escape. Hundreds of homes were soon flooded. Firemen were sent out in boats to rescue those who desired to leave. Hundreds of workers were marooned in distant parts of the city, unable to reach their homes. Within the city limits of Buffalo big manufacturing plants suffered $150,000 of damage. Many big oil tanks were overturned and crashed against buildings. Train service throughout the city was practically at a standstill, and miles of track east and south of the city were washed away. The main line of the Erie Railroad, between Buffalo and New York City, was washed out in many places. THE PLIGHT OF ROCHESTER Not since 1865, when Rochester, then a city of 50,000, suffered immense damage by floods, has the city faced such a serious situation as it did on the night of Friday, March 28th. Half the business section was under water, which in some sections was five feet deep. Water commenced to pour into Front, Mill and Andrew Streets early Thursday evening, and all through the night merchants worked to get their goods to higher ground. The big warehouse of the Graves Furniture Company in Mill Street was flooded so quickly that thousands of dollars damage was done to the goods. The following morning it was impossible to get through these streets except in boats and rafts, and the work of salvage was continued in this way. The newspaper offices of the _Post Express and Democrat_ and the _Chronicle_ had their basements flooded and the presses put out of commission. The Pennsylvania line into Rochester, which uses the bed of the old Genesee Canal, was put out of commission. The Erie and Lehigh Valley lines to villages to the south were blocked by the floods for several days. The only fatality of the flood occurred at six o'clock Sunday evening, when a boy who was paddling over the flooded meadow of the Genesee Valley Park was carried out into the river. The canoe was swept over the dam at Court Street. VALLEY OF THE GENESEE PARALYZED The whole valley of the Genesee was more or less paralyzed. As early as Wednesday the villages of Mount Morris and Dansville, in the Genesee River Valley, were under several feet of water, and the terrified folk who lived in the lowlands were hurrying to places of safety, abandoning their homes. Commerce was soon at a standstill, and conditions continued to grow more serious. They were in some localities worse than at any time since 1865. The washing out of bridges and the flooding of roads practically cut the villages off from the outside world. DRIVEN FROM HOMES AT OLEAN One thousand persons were driven from their homes at Olean by the high waters of the Canisteo and Hornell. John Cook was drowned while attempting to rescue others. Four oil tanks were floating about the city of Olean, and the coating of oil on the water made the danger from fire serious. The water was from three to ten feet deep. [Illustration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y. Showing what was once the town of Lower Peachtree. The six X's denote the places where houses stood before the tornado, in the heart of the main residential streets] [Illustration: Copyright by International News Service. One of the victims of the tornado at Omaha was picked up by the tornado and his corpse left suspended in the broken and twisted limbs of a tree] WORST FLOOD IN HISTORY OF HORNELL Following thirty hours of continued rain, Hornell, a small city in Steuben County, suffered the worst flood in its history. It swept down the Canisteo Valley, completely inundating the greater portion of the city of Hornell and half a dozen villages within a radius of ten miles. A thousand homes were flooded. The Canisteo Valley for a distance of forty miles was under water, and the situation was appalling. Roads were washed out, bridges gone and much property destroyed. The fire in every furnace in the flood district was out, and suffering was acute. LAKE COUNTRY PARALYZED WITH FEAR The lake region in the central western part of the state suffered heavily from floods. The villages of Marcellus, Camillus and Marietta, west of Syracuse, were threatened with extinction. The earthen bank, which adjoins the huge dam of Otisco Lake, weakened and, it was feared that if the flood conditions did not improve the bank would give way. Auburn was seriously threatened by the rising of Owasco Lake. The dam furnishing power to the Dunn and McCarthy shoe shops broke in the center and it was feared the rest of the structure would go down. Pumps were at work continuously in the Auburn water works at Owasco Lake to keep the engine and boiler pits free of water. The Lehigh Valley Railroad along Cayuga Lake, between Auburn and Ithaca, was under water for a distance of nine miles south of Kings Ferry. No trains were running on that branch. A small bridge at Farley's Point, near the lower end of Cayuga Lake, was washed away. An avalanche of mud and stones buried the railroad tracks near Kings Ferry. The incessant rains of two days raised the little creeks in the vicinity of Interlaken to torrents. Many bridges were washed out. Canandaigua Lake reached its highest level in sixteen years. Streets in Canandaigua were flooded. Floods due to breaks and overflows in the Erie Canal at Waterloo, Seneca Falls, Port Bryon and elsewhere, caused thousands of dollars loss. The Seneca River was over its banks. WATER COVERS PART OF BINGHAMTON At Binghamton, on the Susquehanna River, water covered the entire northwestern residence section of the city. All the manufacturing establishments along the river banks were closed. Boats were forced into use in the residence districts and the Fire Department, with three steamers, endeavored to keep down the water in the basements in the business section. GLENS FALLS BRIDGE DOWN But more serious than the conditions anywhere else in New York were those along the Hudson River Valley. Damage estimated at not less than $300,000 was caused by high water near Glens Falls, resulting from heavy rains, which fell for nearly a week. The steel suspension bridge, two hundred feet in length, across the Hudson between the city and South Glens Falls was destroyed. All records for high water were broken, the bridge being carried out after the steel supports underneath had been constantly pounded for hours by logs dashed against them by the raging waters. At Hadley, one of the plants of the Union Bag and Paper Company was completely flooded, and water was pouring from every window. It was feared that the structure might be destroyed. All paper mills in the section were closed down. DISTRESS IN FORT EDWARD At Fort Edward village $50,000 damage was done. About one hundred families were driven from their homes to seek shelter in higher parts of the village. Many parts of the village were submerged and in the main business section five feet of water filled the cellars on the river side of the street. The water had reached the windows of the first stories of many houses in the lower sections. Trains of loaded coal cars were used to hold down the monster railroad bridge of the Delaware and Hudson Company at this village while big jams of logs threatened to carry it out. BIG PAPER COMPANY IN TROUBLE At least 150 feet of the big dam of the International Paper Company at Corinth was carried out and the mill partly flooded. A small part of the same company's dam at Fort Edward was also carried out. The International was one of the heaviest losers. HOMES ABANDONED IN SCHENECTADY At Schenectady, just west of the Hudson on the Mohawk, houses on twenty-five streets were abandoned by their occupants. The entire lower section of the city was submerged. The whole Mohawk Valley was swept by the worst flood in its history. The Groff dam near Herkimer broke and several houses were carried away. A dam at Canajoharie threatened to go out. Three great canal gates at Fort Plain were swept away. The Amsterdam reservoir, which covers 680 acres, was weakened and a patrol was stationed there. HIGH WATERS IN TROY So great was the flood in Troy, on the Hudson below the entrance of the Mohawk, that martial law was practically declared. Members of two military companies patrolled the streets, relieving the tired firemen and police, many of whom had been on continuous duty for forty-eight hours. Mayor Burns did not sleep for two nights, taking charge in person of the Public Safety Department. Fires added to the seriousness of the flood situation and firemen were kept busy all day answering alarms in the flooded district. Damage estimated at thousands of dollars was done by the fire. For the first time in the history of Troy the newspapers, with one exception, were unable to go to press. One publication printed a four-page pamphlet on a hand press. Another was printed in Albany. Hundreds of families were rendered homeless, and relief stations in various parts of the city were filled with refugees. The city faced an epidemic of typhoid, and every effort was made to guard against it. WATERVLIET FLOODED In Watervliet the water in many places measured ten feet deep and the police station and post-office were flooded. One-third of Green Island was submerged. In Rensselaer, across the river from Albany, much damage and suffering were caused. The losses of logs in the regions to the north amounted to many thousands of dollars and the damage in the lumber district of Albany was heavy. ALBANY IN THE GRIP OF THE FLOOD On March 27th the river at Albany was seventeen feet above normal and was still rising. The power plants were put out of commission, street car traffic practically suspended and schools and factories closed. The city's filtration plant was threatened. The south end of the city was under water. Railroad service was crippled, mails delayed and telegraph and telephone service hampered. There was much damage to property, but no loss of life. The damage in Albany was estimated at $1,000,000. Governor Sulzer was informed that about $3,500,000 will be necessary to repair the embankments along the old and the new barge canal locks and dams. CHAPTER XXVII THE FLOOD IN PENNSYLVANIA TRAINS IN NORTHWESTERN PENNSYLVANIA TIED UP--MEADVILLE SUBMERGED--SHENANGO VALLEY IN DISTRESS--PANIC IN NEW CASTLE--BEAVER RIVER AT FLOOD--THE RISING ALLEGHENY AT WARREN--FEARS OF OIL CITY--GRAVE SITUATION OF PITTSBURGH. Many dead, hundreds ill, thousands homeless, and many millions of dollars' worth of property destroyed--such was the record of the flood in the Keystone State. By Tuesday, March 25th, railroad travel in northwestern Pennsylvania was seriously tied up on account of washouts, due to recent rains. Corry became the western terminal of the Erie Railroad, trains west of Corry being abandoned. Between Corry and Titusville were four washouts, tying up the Pennsylvania Railroad. MEADVILLE SUBMERGED In Meadville the situation was even worse. Once again Mill Run and Neason's Run, combined with the floods of French and Cussewago Creeks, overflowed the city. With the exception of a few of the high sections, the entire city was under water, which in some sections reached to the second story of homes. Business places on lower Chestnut, Water, Market and South Main Streets and Park Avenue were submerged, water running through the main rooms of the hotels and other business places. The waters had a clear sweep of nearly half of the city, and never before had the four streams combined for such a gambol. SHENANGO VALLEY IN DISTRESS Throughout the Shenango Valley hundreds of families were imprisoned in their homes and frantic efforts were made to rescue the marooned persons from their dangerous positions. At Sharon the greatest flood in the history of the city was experienced. Thousands of persons were thrown out of employment and the property loss was enormous. The entire town was inundated and a dozen or more bridges were wrecked. The loss of the United States Steel Corporation at Farrel, a suburb, was estimated at $200,000. The torrent swept swiftly upon Sharon. The crest reached a height of fifty feet. The released wall of water, gathering buildings, stacks of lumber, hundreds of logs and a mass of debris in its van as a giant battering ram, rolled like a giant hoop into the center of the thriving milling town. It followed the course of the Shenango, which bisects the city. After the flood unsuccessfully rammed the double line of steel buildings the torrent passed further to the center of the city. One pier of a concrete bridge, erected two years before, which spans Silver and Porter Streets, cracked off like a matchstick. The impact carried the block of concrete, weighing several tons, for a distance of a quarter of a mile. Fire added to the terror of the flood when Wishart's planing mill, on Railroad Street, was discovered to be in flames Tuesday afternoon. The steamers of the fire companies could not be taken close enough to pump water from the swollen Shenango. There was only one recourse--to take the supply of drinking water in the city's reservoir or permit the fire to burn and possibly jeopardize all the wooden buildings within a radius of a mile. Sharonites actually cheered the firemen as they saw their drinking water vanish. PANIC IN NEW CASTLE The flood waters of the Shenango caused great distress in New Castle and near-by places. The water put the lighting plants and the city water station out of commission. Fifteen hundred homes were submerged. Thousands had to flee. BEAVER RIVER AT FLOOD The Beaver River rose high and the entire valley from the Ohio River north was flooded. The towns of New Brighton, Fallston and Beaver Falls suffered most, and there was some damage at Rochester. Traffic on the railroads was suspended at daybreak, and not a trolley car was running in the valley. THE RISING ALLEGHENY AT WARREN At Warren and points all down the length of the Allegheny River to Pittsburgh, flood conditions were still more serious. For Warren itself the worst was feared. Hourly the flood situation grew worse. On Wednesday the water was rising at the rate of four inches an hour. The river threatened to cut a new channel through the south side of the city and scores of men were piling up sandbags to prevent this. [Illustration: MAP SHOWING SOME OF THE PRINCIPAL CITIES AND TOWNS IN WESTERN PENNSYLVANIA THAT WERE FLOODED] Captain U. G. Lyons assumed charge of the situation, and under his direction a life raft composed of barrels was made and launched in the Allegheny River. Thanks to the raft, not one life was lost from among the many who floated down the stream on debris. FEARS OF OIL CITY Oil City, on Oil Creek near its entrance to the Allegheny River, was in a serious plight. Oil Creek overflowed its banks and covered the portion of town that was devastated by the great fire and flood of 1892. The town was in a condition bordering on panic and business was suspended. More than seventy-five persons were removed from their homes in wagons, the water being from five to six feet deep. Railroads suffered heavily. Newspapers and industrial plants at Oil City were shut down because of flooded power rooms. Fires were prohibited and railroad locomotives were ordered to extinguish their fires to avoid any danger of igniting the oil. GIRL DROWNED AT FRANKLIN One death and extensive property damage were caused in the vicinity of Franklin by the flooded condition of the Allegheny River and French Creek. Every one in the flooded district was ordered to extinguish all fires, as benzine from the Titusville refineries was floating on the rising waters. GRAVE SITUATION OF PITTSBURGH In Pittsburgh the flood situation became serious by the evening of March 26th, and continued to grow rapidly worse. The gauge at Point Bridge shewed twenty-six feet at eight o'clock, four feet above the danger point, and the rivers were rising steadily. Rain was falling throughout the western watershed, and every stream in western Pennsylvania assumed the proportions of a raging torrent. In the Pittsburgh district 100,000 were idle, the workmen having been driven from the manufacturing plants by high waters. Ten miles of streets were converted into canals. In parts of the North Side the streets were under twelve feet of water. The policeboats patrolled the flooded district, carrying coal and food to families marooned in the upper floors of their homes. Pittsburgh's suburbs down the Ohio were all partly inundated. Ambridge, Woodlawn, Sewickley, Coraopolis and McKees Rocks residents were forced to desert their homes or take to the upper floors. Downtown the pumps were working in most of the hotels, theatres and office buildings. Business was nearly at a standstill. Hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of store goods was ruined. The Exposition Music Hall was holding four feet of water. No trains were running to the flooded regions. At least a score of railroad bridges had been destroyed, and miles of tracks carried away. The railroad damage contributed largely to the estimated total damage of $50,000,000. TOLL OF THE FLOOD AT SHAMOKIN In Central Pennsylvania, especially along the Susquehanna, the flood gripped many towns. At Shamokin mountain streams overflowed their banks, and in some instances water flowed down mine breaches and found its way to the lower levels of collieries. Mine pumps were run to their greatest capacity to prevent inundations. The Shamokin Creek, in Shamokin Valley, overflowed its banks in the lowlands and spread over acres of ground on either side of the creek channel. COLUMBIA AND MARIETTA FLOODED More than three inches of water fell at Columbia in a period of twenty-four hours. All the streams overflowed and much damage was done. Trains on the Columbia branch of the Pennsylvania Railroad ran through eighteen inches of water. The storm was accompanied by high winds, which unroofed scores of buildings. At Marietta, after a storm reported as the worst in many years, the flood situation was grave. The river rose high, fields were flooded and residents on Front Street were obliged to move to second stories. Two men upset in a boat along the York County shore while after ducks were drowned. DESTRUCTION AND DAMAGE IN MINING TOWNS Many of the mining towns in Pennsylvania were distressed by unprecedented floods. At Scranton the Lackawanna River overflowed its banks in various places. Richmond No. 1 and No. 2 collieries and the Delaware and Hudson "slope" colliery in North Scranton were compelled to shut down by reason of the water flooding the engine rooms. The Ontario and Western tracks at Providence and the Delaware and Hudson tracks at Dickson City were washed out. Water surrounded the Frisbie and the Bliss silk mills in Dickson City and the girls were marooned for the night. Six hundred people living on "Hungarian Flats," in the northern end of the city, became panic-stricken when water broke through the streets, and, taking their cattle and household goods, they fled to the hills at Throop. At Wilkes-Barre the Susquehanna reached the flood stage. The water went over the lowlands on the west side and Wilkes-Barre was cut off from many of its suburban towns, all traffic being stopped. The towns of Edwardsville, Kingston, Westmoor and West Nanticoke were partly under water. Five hundred families were driven from their homes and forced to seek safety. The water rose so rapidly that it was necessary to rescue women and children in rowboats. Considerable damage was done to property, but there was no loss of life. In Westmoor, Edwardsville and West Nanticoke the water reached the first floors of the buildings. Families were compelled to depart and leave their furnishings to be damaged by the water. As a result of heavy rains the water rose high in many of the mines of the Hazleton region. Railroad men were warned to be on guard for washouts. The Beaver Brook and Hazle Mountain mines closed on account of high water. The mules were removed from the Ebervale, Harleigh and Beaver Brook workings. At Shenandoah the storm that raged for two days did untold damage to the mines. At Kehley Run Colliery the water main that supplies the boilers with water was washed away and the colliery was compelled to shut down. The fires were hurriedly drawn, thereby preventing an explosion. At Bast Colliery, near Girardville, the water rushed into a mine breach and flooded the workers. It was with difficulty the miners escaped. Electric-light, telephone and telegraph wires were down in Shenandoah, and many homes in the lowlands were flooded. The trolley and steam roads were hampered by the heavy rains, and in many places tracks were washed out. Heavy floods caused the entombment of six men at the Buck Run Colliery, at Mount Pleasant, and a rescuing party worked up to their necks in water to get the men out alive. The softness of the earth caused the sagging of a breast, which was followed by a sudden rush of water, cutting off the escape of the entombed men. CHAPTER XXVIII THE FLOOD IN THE OHIO VALLEY PERIL IN THE OHIO VALLEY--DISTRESS AT WHEELING--PARKERSBURG UNDER WATER--KENTUCKY TOWNS SUBMERGED--IMPERILED TOWNS IN INDIANA--SHAWNEETOWN SUBMERGED--CAIRO FACING CRISIS--SITUATION HOURLY WORSE. While Dayton, Columbus and other cities of the Middle West were passing through the worst floods in their history, the Ohio River was preparing new perils. All along its course it carried destruction. DISTRESS AT WHEELING At Wheeling, as early as March 26th, several persons were drowned and many narrowly escaped death when a freshet swept down Wheeling Creek through Barton, Ohio. Two days later, with the crest of the flood past, Wheeling turned to take up in earnest the task of caring for her thousands of destitute and homeless. Although the loss in money ran into millions, few of those able to aid seemed to think of anything but the alleviation of want and suffering. Before noon Mayor Kirk had raised more than $6,000 for the relief fund, and most of the wealthy men and women of Wheeling had contributed. Churches, schools, clubs, auditorium, public halls and hundreds of private residences were thrown open to those driven from the lower quarters. PARKERSBURG UNDER WATER More than half the business district of Parkersburg and part of the residence section were under water on March 28th, with the Ohio River still rising. The gas, electric and water plants went out of commission soon after noon, and street cars stopped operations. All the newspaper plants were flooded out except that of the Parkersburg _Sentinel_, whose editorial force was taken to the building in boats, and worked on the second story while water was flowing through the rooms below them. A single page, printed on a proof press and containing the flood news of the Associated Press report, was delivered to newsboys in boats, who sold each copy at a fancy price, as the printing of the edition was limited to two a minute. KENTUCKY TOWNS SUBMERGED The crest of the Ohio river flood reached Louisville April 1st, with a stage of about forty-five feet. The railroad situation in Louisville became acute. The Louisville, Henderson and St. Louis suspended traffic entirely. The Louisville and Nashville from Cincinnati could reach the city only by detouring through Jeffersonville, Indiana, crossing the swollen Ohio on the Big Four bridge and returning via the Pennsylvania bridge to reach the Louisville and Nashville station, which was used also by the Pennsylvania trains. [Illustration: Copyright by American Press Association. Scene showing a section of Omaha entirely wrecked. On the left is all that remains of Idlewild Hall. At this spot a large number of people were killed] [Illustration: Copyright by the International News Service. A typical scene at one of the relief stations. Here men, who a few hours before had been millionaires, stood in line with their fellow citizens, quite as much dependent on these relief stations for sustenance as paupers. Orville Wright, the famous aviator, was one of the men in the bread line] Western Kentucky points continued to report rising water. Owensboro, Henderson and Wickliffe were centers of refuge for inhabitants of the lowlands, who fled before the flood. There were more than four thousand refugees at Wickliffe. At Paducah on April 3d the flood situation was rendered doubly grave by the fact that smallpox had broken out in the camp of colored refugees on Gregory Heights. Five hundred on the hill had been quarantined. IMPERILED TOWNS IN INDIANA The government relief boat "Scioto," in command of Lieutenant Hight, U. S. A., towed a barge load of provisions into Lawrenceburg, Indiana, on March 31st, to find but forty of the five thousand homes there not under water. When the boat proceeded to Aurora conditions were found almost as bad, with but five hundred homes free from the reach of the all-engulfing waters. The south levee at Lawrenceburg broke at 2.50 P. M. on March 29th. A wall of water poured through the opening and went raging through the center of the town, tearing up all before it. Houses were crushed like eggshells and the wreckage was carried four miles along the Miami to the fill on the main line of the Big Four. The break came when it was least expected, but the residents were warned to leave town, and no lives were lost. Water stood six feet deep in the streets. JEFFERSONVILLE AND EVANSVILLE FLOODED At Jeffersonville two hundred convicts from the Indiana Reformatory worked for nearly two days on the levee during the flood week, and through their work it was possible to save the town from the Ohio River. A committee of citizens of Jeffersonville perfected arrangements for a banquet to be given in honor of the gray-garbed men who saved their homes. The entertainment was planned for April 13th, at a cost of $1,000. Evansville citizens were alarmed at the continued rise of the Ohio, and all movables were carried to places of certain safety. On April 1st, the Government took charge of the flood situation. Captain W. K. Naylor hastened to commandeer steamboats and patrol the river to pick up flood sufferers. Mayor Charles Heilman left for Mount Vernon to take charge of rescue work in that section. Thirty thousand persons within a radius of ninety miles around Mount Vernon were calling for help on April 4th. The Howell levee, protecting two hundred families in Ingleside, between Evansville and Howell, gave way and the Ingleside district was inundated with depths of from six to ten feet. Minutemen had been posted all long the dangerous dike, and when the water began to pour over the top an alarm was sounded and all escaped. SHAWNEETOWN SUBMERGED Shawneetown, Illinois, was entirely cut off from the outside world. On the night of April 1st, the water in the streets was twelve feet deep. After another twenty-four hours, all that was left of Shawneetown were the few substantial brick and stone buildings behind the main levee, and they were considered unsafe. Less than one hundred persons remained in the former town of three thousand, and they were perched in the second and third stories of Main Street buildings, structures on the highest street in the town. A strong wind completed the destruction begun by the opening of the levee. CAIRO FACING CRISIS As usual, Cairo feared the worst from the on-sweeping flood of the Ohio River. The Cairo executive flood committee late on March 30th sent an appeal to President Wilson asking for aid for Cairo and towns nearby: "The worst flood ever known in the Ohio Valley and the Mississippi is now expected. All previous records at Cairo and south may be broken in a few days. We are making every effort in our power to take care of local situation, but the river communities near us should have assistance. Boats, sacks, food and other supplies are needed. May we not have the help of your great office for this district?" The Big Four levee, which protected the "drainage district," went out on April 1st. It was about five miles north of the city. Accordingly, as workmen were able to battle no longer with the levee situation in the drainage district, they were brought into Cairo and set to work along the river front. The state troops were sent in squads of five, each accompanied by a policeman, to visit the rendezvous of men who were unwilling to or had refused to work. All places of business which did not handle goods needed for the comfort and necessities of the people were closed in order to give opportunity to get out the strongest working force possible. Employees of closed concerns responded willingly for duty and reinforced to a great extent the work along the river front. The Rev. M. M. Love, of the Methodist Church, who has had charge of relief work in former years, was again at the head of the relief committee. He was given about twenty assistants and a temporary hospital, which was arranged on a large wharf boat in the river. The Seventh Regiment, which had headquarters in St. Mary's Park, moved its equipment into another large wharf boat. This placed all the quarters of troops on boats. About one half of the population had left the city. They were chiefly women and children. SITUATION HOURLY WORSE On the evening of April 2d, the city was in a state of anxiety never before experienced. The river gauge at 6.30 o'clock stood at 54.4, a stage three-tenths of an inch higher than any previous record. The inundation of the drainage district north of Cairo was complete. The flood waters were on a level with those in the Ohio River, and were prevented from flooding into the Mississippi only by the Mobile and Ohio levee. There were from 7,000 to 9,000 acres from seven to twenty feet under water. The greater number of industrial plants in the section were submerged up to the second-story windows, and many houses were completely under water. For more than a mile beyond the Illinois Central tracks and for several miles to the north from the big levee surrounding the district from Cairo there was nothing which was not touched by the vast field of water. Offers of relief, which were made by the Chicago Association of Commerce and the city of Peoria to Cairo, on April 5th, were accepted. The Chicago organization offered eight boats and sixty men to man them. From Peoria came word that a steamboat equipped for life-saving purposes was waiting for a call to Cairo. CHAPTER XXIX THE FLOOD IN THE MISSISSIPPI VALLEY FLOOD OF THE MISSISSIPPI INEVITABLE--SOUTHEASTERN MISSOURI THREATENED--BAD BREAK IN LEVEE AT HICKMAN--STRENGTHENING THE LEVEES--MEMPHIS IN PERIL--DANGER ALL ALONG THE LINE--RIVER AT RECORD STAGE--RISING HOPE--A NATIONAL PROBLEM. On March 30th the Mississippi Valley was facing one of the worst floods in its history, and the steady advance of the river threatened a large section of country. The breaking of the levees along the Mississippi itself, an inevitable result of the great floods in tributary streams, had already begun. The district below St. Louis was a foot or more above the flood stage, although the big rise had not arrived. Preparations were being made to withstand a flood equal to that of 1912. Although the levees had been made higher in some places, it was not to be expected that they would be strong enough all along the river from St. Louis to the sea. In the lower sections of the Mississippi Valley it was feared there might be a repetition of the recent disasters in Ohio. At Charleston, Missouri, on March 30th, the flood conditions were growing more acute every hour. The city was filled with refugees from all directions. Belmont and Crosno, on the Mississippi River, south of Charleston, were submerged, and the residents fleeing to places of safety. East Prairie, Anniston and Wyatt, on the Cotton Belt Railroad, were shut off from the world and obliged to receive mail through the Charleston post-office. SOUTHEASTERN MISSOURI THREATENED The St. Louis and San Francisco embankment between Kilbourne and Kewanee, in the extreme southeastern part of Missouri, was cut early on April 5th at the direction of the railway officials to prevent the flooding of a large section of the track if the levee should break at a weak spot. The gap permitted the drainage of a large volume of overflow. One of the most thrilling of the stories was brought by Captain S. A. Martin and Captain H. A. Jamieson, of the Sixth Missouri National Guard. They were rescued in a launch from a section of levee which broke away at Bird Point, Missouri. Thirty-six of their men, they said, were on the levee section, which was two hundred yards long and ten feet wide, and was floating down the Mississippi. Commander McMunn, of the Naval Reserves, at once arranged for a steam launch and started out to rescue the Missouri soldiers. There was a swift current in the river, and the safety of the men caused their commanding officer much anxiety. BAD BREAK IN LEVEE AT HICKMAN The levee at Hickman, Kentucky, broke shortly after midday on April 4th, after a night of continuous rain, followed by a driving up-stream wind, flooding the factory district but causing no loss of life. The break, however, did not relieve the river situation at other points, because the water running through the break there was turned back to the main stream by the Government or Reelfoot levee, two miles below the town. The section flooded was occupied by several factories and the homes of hundreds of workmen. STRENGTHENING THE LEVEES All along the Mississippi men were at work strengthening the levees. The Government on March 29th prepared to rush 20,000 empty sacks to Modoc and other weak points in the St. Francis levee district. They were loaded on barges belonging to the Tennessee Construction Company of Memphis. The boats, which were from one hundred and forty to one hundred and sixty feet in length, were used to house Arkansas convicts sent from Little Rock to do levee work. This trouble was felt in many places when the rising tide threatened life and property. Industrial anarchy and chaos reigned, and overwhelming, paralyzing fear seized the people. MEMPHIS IN PERIL On April 5th the protection levee along Bayou Gayoso gave way, flooding a small residence section in the northern portion of Memphis. The break occurred at a point just west of the St. Joseph Hospital, and within an hour several blocks of houses in the poorer section of the city had been flooded. Before night a section of the city three blocks wide and six to nine blocks long was covered with from three to six feet of water. DANGER ALL ALONG THE LINE The banks at Hopefield Point early began to cave in. More than an acre slid into the water just south of the point. The main shore line began to crumble, indicating that the oncoming high water would wash more than half the old point away. Gangs of men were busy working the north levee in Helena, Arkansas. Major T. C. Dabney, of the upper Mississippi levee district, sent out crews to raise the lowest places. Major Dabney did not anticipate great trouble, but said he believes in being prepared. A break in the levee in Holly Bush and Mounds, Arkansas, in April, 1912, put all the west bank lines out of commission for ten days. Miles of track were washed away. Fearing a repetition of this, the railroads and shippers agreed to operate a daily boat between Memphis and Helena. The first break in the main Mississippi River levee occurred on April 8th on the Arkansas side, just south of Memphis. Three counties were flooded by water which poured through a big cut in the wall. No loss of life was reported, the inhabitants having been warned in time that the levee was weakening. RIVER AT RECORD STAGE It was predicted that the Mississippi River from Vicksburg, Mississippi, to the Gulf would go two feet higher than the highest stage reported in 1912, according to a flood warning issued by Captain C. O. Sherrill, United States Army Engineer, on April 2d. In 1912 the maximum of the river gauge at New Orleans showed nearly twenty-two feet. At that height, and even with the tide reduced by several immense crevasses, waters came over the New Orleans levees at a number of places, despite the fact that they were topped with several rows of sandbags. Captain Sherrill ascribed the unprecedented flood entirely to the rains in the river bed caused by last year's crevasses. He issued orders to have the levees from Vicksburg to Fort Jackson on both sides raised above the flood stage of 1912, and men and material were sent to all points along the river to combat the expected high water in the lower Mississippi. Colonel Townsend, head of the Mississippi River Commission, ten days previously predicted a stage as high as that of 1912, and sent out warnings to all engineers in the valley. It was acting upon his advice that Captain Sherrill began to assemble barges, quarter boats, bags, material and tools to be sent to points between Vicksburg and New Orleans for possible emergencies. In explaining why the river from Vicksburg to the mouth of the river would be higher than last year, Captain Sherrill pointed to the fact that crevasses both below and above the stretch in 1912 lowered the river there, whereas upon the present rise, with levees expected to confine the water, the crest naturally would be higher. Because of this fact the brunt of the high water was expected to strike that stretch, and any possible trouble to be looked for could be expected there, although the levees between Old River and Baton Rouge might also be in danger. RISING HOPE The hopes of the people began to rise as they learned that the entire Mississippi levee system was to be made two feet higher than the record of the flood last year. It was expected the work would be completed before the crest of the Ohio River flood reached the lower Mississippi Valley. On receipt of reports that two hundred families had been driven from their homes in the lowlands of the Atchafalaya River, near Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, owing to high water, and were in a destitute condition, local relief committees from New Orleans rushed a large quantity of supplies to that section. The appeal said if immediate aid was not received it was feared many would die of starvation. Inhabitants of the district were principally foreigners, who had reclaimed a part of their truck farms, which were destroyed by last year's flood. Their newly planted crops were abandoned. A NATIONAL PROBLEM It is a curious fact that the Mississippi has done as much to kill the old doctrine of states' rights as any other influence. For instance, Louisiana, after spending thirty millions of dollars on river problems, was quite willing to concede that the Mississippi was a national affair and that Federal aid was altogether desirable. But it is plain that the resources of the individual states as well as of the nation must be utilized for the prevention of floods. This is a task so vast that a united effort is required. CHAPTER XXX DAMAGE TO TRANSPORTATION, MAIL AND TELEGRAPH FACILITIES GREAT DAMAGE AND WASHOUTS--TICKETS SOLD SUBJECT TO DELAY--REPORTS OF TRACKS GONE--PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD A HEAVY SUFFERER--HEAVY LOSS ON BALTIMORE AND OHIO--ESTIMATED DAMAGE--FLOOD PLAYED HAVOC WITH MAILS--GENERAL PROSTRATION OF TELEGRAPH AND TELEPHONE WIRES. Only one railroad was working between New York and Chicago on the night of Wednesday, March 26th. That was the Lake Shore and Michigan Southern. Over the line were speeding the trains of the New York Central and allied lines, the Pennsylvania, the Baltimore and Ohio, and the Erie, passenger and freight service combined. Many trains were derailed in flooded territories. The following bulletin was given out at the office of W. C. Brown, president of the New York Central Railroad: "The main line of the Lake Shore and Michigan Southern Railway to Chicago is not affected to any extent by the heavy rains, and trains are departing practically on schedule between New York and Chicago. "The situation south of the Lake Shore line, however, is serious and no trains are being started out of Cleveland for Indianapolis, St. Louis, Dayton, Cincinnati and intermediate points. Through passengers for Columbus are being transferred at New London, Ohio, and handled through to destination." TICKETS SOLD SUBJECT TO DELAY Trains went out of the Grand Central Station of New York just the same, but no through western ticket was sold unless the purchaser was informed that it must be accepted subject to delay. When the Southwestern Limited left at four o'clock its ordinary Cincinnati sleeper had been renamed the Columbus sleeper and the Cincinnati man had to take a chance. When its other western expresses went forth the other Ohio, St. Louis and southern sleepers were all running on conditions. REPORTS OF TRACKS GONE The Erie Railroad west of Olean, the main line, was out of commission. According to reports received, there were at least one hundred and twenty washouts along that line farther west, with many bridges gone. Some of the washouts were a mile in length and with the tracks had gone the roadbed. Twenty trains bound west were stalled at various points, but all were in big towns, so the passengers did not suffer. PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD A HEAVY SUFFERER The Pennsylvania Railroad suffered more damage than any other. The service west of Pittsburgh was badly crippled. All through trains from the East to points on the Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, Chicago and St. Louis Railway west of Pittsburgh were temporarily discontinued. [Illustration: RAILROAD MAP OF THE FLOODED DISTRICT IN INDIANA, OHIO AND WESTERN PENNSYLVANIA] On the lines East, in the vicinity of Pittsburgh, Oil City, Erie and Buffalo, serious washouts developed, aggregating in length on the Allegheny Division, about two thousand five hundred feet of main track. Benjamin McKeen, general manager of the Pennsylvania Railroad's lines, west of Pittsburgh, informed Broad Street Station, Philadelphia, on Thursday, that all lines were blocked on both passenger and freight service, except between Pittsburgh and Cleveland by way of Alliance. "We are gradually getting our lines of communication established so that our information seems a little more definite, although the lines are working very unsatisfactorily yet at many points. "We have now gotten the Fort Wayne road open from Chicago to Mansfield with single track over the points where the breaks were, and we are actively at work, both east and west, for a distance of about seventy miles between Canton and Mansfield, where there are four bridges gone and quite a number of washouts, and the best figures we have now are that we will probably get the Fort Wayne line open by Monday morning. "We have found out definitely that our bridge at Piqua is still standing, although there are vast washouts at each side of it. We also know definitely that our bridge at Dayton is gone; also the four-span bridge over the Muskingum River at Zanesville is gone and there is some question as to whether our bridge over the Scioto River at Circleville is gone or not, as we have no definite information on this. "We have men and material all assembled and starting actively at work here and there wherever the water has receded sufficiently to permit us." On the Pennsylvania Railroad alone the loss amounted to millions of dollars. There was not only the tremendous loss due to the loss of tracks, roadbed and bridges, but also the loss of passenger and freight revenues. Everywhere it was conceded that the tie-up was the most serious and extensive in the history of the road. [Illustration: Photograph by Brown Bros. Hundreds of substantial buildings were lifted from their foundations and piled up like broken cigar boxes simply by the awful sweep of the wind] [Illustration: Photograph by Underwood & Underwood. Some of the most prominent society women and girls in Dayton shouldered hoes and shovels in the work of cleaning up the city] HEAVY LOSS ON BALTIMORE AND OHIO The financial loss to the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad aggregated millions of dollars in the destruction of property alone. President Willard was asked on Thursday for an estimate of the damage wrought by the floods. His reply was: "I cannot tell. I haven't an idea. I wish I could say that it would be $2,000,000, but I cannot. "I know that half a dozen bridges on the Cincinnati, Hamilton and Dayton have been destroyed and bridges on the Baltimore and Ohio have been washed away. We have lost one of our largest bridges on the main road to Chicago, at Zanesville, Ohio, and it will probably be six months before we will have another completed bridge there, although we will have some bridge there soon. We hope to have our main line to Chicago open in twenty-four hours, and our main line to Cincinnati open in the same time. We cannot tell when we will have our line to St. Louis open." ESTIMATED DAMAGE Conservative estimates of the damage to railroad property in the flooded Middle West, plus the loss entailed by the suspension of traffic, ranged from $10,000,000 to $15,000,000. The entire railway system of Ohio and Indiana was practically put out of business for five days by the floods in the Middle West. To repair and replace the railways affected by this disaster, railway officials stated, would practically wipe out the surplus earnings of many railroads. In other cases dividends were threatened. The reason was, they said, that all such damage must be retrieved out of current earnings and could not be charged to capital. As an illustration of how the railroads spend money in such an emergency, it may be said that the Pennsylvania sent one hundred and fifty expert bridge builders out West from New York in one day soon after the flood. These men received record wages; they traveled in sleepers, with special dining cars. The company was sending steam-shovels and pile-drivers on limited trains and a first-class laborer could get a private compartment quicker than could a financier. "There will be improvements in railroading through all the districts every day from now on, but there will not be anything like a restoration of former conditions for months," said one railroad official. "It takes time to rebuild steel bridges, especially as the big steel plants have been experiencing a little trouble of their own." FLOOD PLAYED HAVOC WITH MAILS Storm, flood and fire in the Middle West played havoc with the United States mails. Postmaster-General Burleson announced on March 26th that the destruction wrought by the floods in Ohio and Indiana was so serious that it would be ten or twelve days before a regular mail service could be resumed with the remote districts. Reports showed that never before in the history of the service had there been such a serious interruption to the mails on account of floods. There was practically no local service on the railroads in the territory bounded by Cleveland, Toledo, Columbus, Cincinnati, Indianapolis, Terre Haute and the Ohio River. Mails to New York from points in Kentucky and Tennessee, from Pittsburgh and Cincinnati, Ohio, and all points south of the Ohio River came by way of Washington and were from five to seven hours late. The Arkansas and Oklahoma mails traveled by way of Chattanooga and Memphis. The representatives in the field were directed to be in constant communication with the department at Washington and to make every effort to supply the people in the flood districts with mail as rapidly as arrangements could be completed. Mails for distant points which regularly passed through the flooded sections were detoured north and south, resulting in unavoidable delay. GENERAL PROSTRATION OF TELEGRAPH AND TELEPHONE WIRES Never before in the history of the United States was there such a general prostration of telegraph and telephone wires as during the great flood. Chicago was "lost" to the East for part of a day, and it was found impossible to reach that city via the South. Throughout eastern Ohio service was paralyzed, and such few wires as could be obtained were flickering and often going down. The Western Union and Postal Telegraph Companies in New York announced on March 26th that they did not have a wire working in the thousands of square miles roughly marked by Indianapolis on the west, Pittsburgh on the east, Cleveland on the north and the Ohio River on the south. The Postal had but two wires working between New York and Chicago and these were routed by way of Buffalo. None of its wires south of Washington was working. An army of 10,000 men was sent into the region to repair the wires, but their work was almost impossible because of the inability of the railroads to transport their equipment. The American Telephone and Telegraph Company had the only facilities in the stricken sections and turned them over without reserve to the press associations, believing that in this manner the public could best be served. At the offices of the American Telephone and Telegraph Company and the Union Telegraph Company in New York, on March 28th, joint announcement was made as follows: "In the use of the necessarily limited wire facilities reaching the flooded districts of Ohio and neighboring states due importance is being given to messages to and from public officials, relief associations, the press and to such urgent messages as have to do with measures of relief, believing that thus the public will be best served until full service can be restored. "There has been no time during the past week when the combined facilities of the two companies have not afforded communication with the larger cities and towns, but local conditions render it impossible in many cases to deliver telegrams or to make local connections by telephone." CHAPTER XXXI THE WORK OF RELIEF PRESIDENT WILSON PROMPTLY IN DIRECTION--WASHINGTON ASTIR AS IN TIME OF WAR--BACKING OF CONGRESS PLEDGED--AMERICAN RED CROSS TO THE RESCUE--RAILROADS BRAVELY HELPING--RELIEF FROM STATES AND INDIVIDUALS--AN ARMY OF PEACE. The sympathetic response of the American people never fails to measure up to the summons of any calamity. Relief is plentiful and prompt. The awful story of the flood and tornado was no sooner told than the machinery of government, the organized forces of the Red Cross and individual efforts in every city within reach were co-operating to provide succor and supplies to the sufferers. Tents for shelter, cots, food by the trainload, hospital and medical supplies, were almost immediately on their way to the stricken district. WASHINGTON ASTIR AS IN TIME OF WAR The Federal Government was alive to the needs of the flooded districts of the Middle West with activity that almost surpassed the hustle and bustle of war times. Every department from the White House down, directed its energies toward the relief of distress and suffering in Ohio and Indiana. As the result of appeals from Governor Cox, the American Red Cross and others, President Wilson issued an appeal to the nation at large to help the sufferers. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - President Wilson's Messages For the Relief of the Stricken States To Mayor Dahlman, of Omaha: "I am deeply distressed at the news received from Nebraska. Can we help you in any way? "WOODROW WILSON." To Governor Ralston, of Indiana, and Governor Cox, of Ohio: "I deeply sympathize with the people of your state in the terrible disaster that has come upon them. Can the Federal Government assist in any way? "WOODROW WILSON." To the Nation: "The terrible floods in Ohio and Indiana have assumed the proportions of a national calamity. The loss of life and the infinite suffering involved prompt me to issue an earnest appeal to all who are able in however small a way to assist the labors of the American Red Cross to send contributions at once to the Red Cross at Washington or to the local treasurers of the society. "We should make this a common cause. The needs of those upon whom this sudden and overwhelming disaster has come should quicken everyone capable of sympathy and compassion to give immediate aid to those who are laboring to rescue and relieve. "WOODROW WILSON." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Indicating the gravity of the situation in Ohio, a telegram from Governor Cox was received by Secretary of War Garrison asking for food and medical supplies and tents for the sufferers. Secretary Garrison promptly took steps to meet the emergency, and the supplies requested were sent by express to Columbus. The two experienced officers who handled the Mississippi flood situation, Majors Normoyle and Logan, were also ordered to proceed to Columbus to aid Governor Cox. All troops in Western New York and all available troops in the Central Department were ordered to hold themselves in readiness to proceed to relief work in Ohio and Indiana, if needed. President Wilson issued his appeal for funds for the Red Cross following a conference with Miss Mabel Boardman, chairman of the relief board of the organization. The Secretary of the Treasury enlisted promptly in the relief movement, and the public health service and the life-saving service and marine hospital surgeons available were placed at the command of the state authorities. The public health hospitals at Detroit, Cleveland, Louisville, Cairo, Evansville and St. Louis were thrown open for the care of the flood victims. Surgeons P. W. Wille, of the Marine Hospital at Cleveland, was instructed to go to Columbus to co-operate with the state board of health. Dr. J. O. Cobb, of the Chicago Marine Hospital, was ordered to Indianapolis. BACKING OF CONGRESS PLEDGED The President was in his office all day Wednesday, March 26th, in close touch with the situation. He apprised the chairmen of the Senate and House appropriations committees that the government was going ahead with emergency expenditures on the assumption that Congress would back up the administration later. Both promised hearty support, and orders went out on every side for a gigantic work of relief. Major P. C. Fauntleroy was sent to Columbus to handle the medical supplies. Nine medical officers and fifty-four hospital corps men went from the Department of the East carrying a big supply of surgical dressings, anti-typhoid prophylactics and the complete "reserve medical supply" comprising hundreds of drugs sufficient to treat 20,000 patients for one month. Precautions against the spread of disease were to be handled by sanitation experts. Life-saving crews were ordered from Louisville to Dayton and from Lorain, Ohio, to Delaware, Ohio, and the public health service distributed its agents over the afflicted districts. SUPPLIES ON THE WAY By Friday more than double the apparently necessary medical supplies for the flood sufferers were on their way to Ohio and Indiana, a full quota of supplies having been started from the army supply warehouses at St. Louis and a second consignment from Washington. From the naval stores a huge consignment of wearing apparel and bedding for the sufferers was sent to Columbus. These supplies were started from the naval stores at New York. Paymaster-General Cowie made the arrangements under orders from Secretary of the Navy Daniels. The shipment included 12,000 blankets, 7,000 watch caps, 50,000 pairs of light weight drawers, 80,000 light weight undershirts, 30,000 heavy weight drawers, 30,000 heavy weight shirts, 4,200 navy jerseys, 15,000 khaki jumpers, 24,000 pairs of dungaree trousers, 8,000 overcoats, 24,000 pairs of shoes and 15,000 pairs of woolen socks. In addition to the clothing supply the Navy sent also 300,000 rations on the way to Columbus and Dayton. Paymaster Nesbit and Paymaster's Clerk Conell were in charge of the distribution. Assistant Secretary Roosevelt supplied them with $25,000 in currency with full authority to expend it for such supplies and services as they might find necessary. For a time President Wilson considered going himself to the flood districts; but reports from Secretary Garrison and others were so encouraging that he decided it was unnecessary. "Refreshed by the tears of the American people, Ohio stands ready from today to meet the crisis alone," wrote Governor Cox of Ohio on March 31st. After seeing the situation well in hand in Dayton, Secretary Garrison returned to Cincinnati and then proceeded to Columbus. By April 2d he was able to return to Washington. AMERICAN RED CROSS TO THE RESCUE From the first day when Miss Mabel T. Boardman conferred with President Wilson, the American Red Cross and the government worked hand in hand. At headquarters of the National Red Cross funds from all quarters of the Union rained in on the officials. Friday night the Red Cross headquarters had received more than $190,000 in cash and drafts, and basing their estimates on telegraphic advices from other points, they were assured that their total already exceeded $350,000. Boston sent in $32,000, Cleveland $33,000 subject to call. Baltimore notified Miss Boardman to draw on the local chapter of the order for $7,000. New York reported $75,000 in hand and the District of Columbia chapter had more than $25,000 ready for instant use. Henry C. Frick sent a check for $10,000 and John D. Rockefeller $5,000, with the suggestion that more was ready when needed. With Miss Boardman at the head of the party the Red Cross relief train left Washington Friday over the Chesapeake and Ohio, bound for Columbus. The train comprised six express coaches, two of which were loaded with steel cots for use of the homeless. Two others were loaded with bedding and clothing supplies and two with foodstuffs of all sorts. Hurrying to Omaha to assist in relief work in that city, Ernest P. Bicknell, of the American National Red Cross, halted in Chicago. Informed of the serious situation in Indiana and Ohio, he telegraphed to Omaha and received word that the relief work was well in hand. He then decided to go to the flood-stricken districts in Indiana and Ohio. Reaching Columbus, Mr. Bicknell had soon established Red Cross headquarters and the corps under his direction was working in closest harmony with the state flood relief committee, the Governor of Ohio and the United States army and navy relief officials. The disaster in the Middle West was the greatest the Red Cross Society was ever called upon to deal with. The amount of suffering entailed by the flood far exceeded that of the San Francisco earthquake and fire. RAILROADS BRAVELY HELPING Bravely the railroads worked their way into the stricken territory. While a blizzard raged in Ohio from Cleveland to Cincinnati, with the temperature down to twenty-eight degrees above zero, the railroads--which means all the railroads in every section, the New York Central, the Pennsylvania, the Erie, the Baltimore and Ohio, and their allied lines--threw into the battle thousands upon thousands of men, trainload after trainload of machinery, and money rewards as a stimulus for the repair of miles of washed-out tracks and shattered bridges. Every division superintendent of every line in the district, his assistants, usually with some high executive officer of the system in control; every man and boy able to handle a pick or shovel or crowbar, to carry his end of a girder or drag a coil of rope, was out on the job. It was not for any selfish purpose that the roads threw this immense power into the work. Their object was to open up rail communication with the desolated cities, towns and villages and send relief trains with bread, with blankets, with medicines, doctors and nurses. It was not a race for money. "We will carry every pound of supplies for the devastated district free over any lines" announced the Pennsylvania, and it added free passage for doctors, nurses and every other good Samaritan. "No charge," was the echo of the New York Central, and that order went to every freight and passenger agent of the big system everywhere. The Baltimore and Ohio, the Erie, and every other line followed in an instant. The railroads helped all they could. RELIEF FROM STATES AND INDIVIDUALS If the nation was generous and prompt in its relief, neighboring states and individuals were not less so. Governors in many states and mayors of many cities, following the noble example of the President, issued appeals for help. Mayor Dahlman of Omaha and Governor Morehead of Nebraska bravely declined the help offered by President Wilson and others for sufferers from the tornado; but the flood-stricken districts, for whom recovery was far less easy, in many cases were obliged to appeal for aid. From towns throughout Ohio and Indiana came desperate cries for help, and to all of them a sympathetic nation listened and responded. AN ARMY OF PEACE If the great calamity stirred the hearts of the nation with pity, so did the prompt and splendid relief inspire enthusiasm. Even though the despatch of United States troops to the scene of devastation in the West lacked legal sanction the whole country unanimously approved the movement which thus itself becomes a signal to all nations, and a corroboration of the truth that the American is not hidebound by fantastic traditions when some serious achievement is to be done. Our soldiers in this case for the nonce became missionaries. Under the leadership of the Secretary of War, the troops carried clothes, food, medicaments, tents, blankets, and in short all the paraphernalia necessary to succor the distressed, assuage the pangs of suffering and restore normal conditions within the wide areas battered by the destructive elements. This peaceful use of our fighting men brings into realization the vision so strongly cherished by John Ruskin--the vision of the time when soldiership should develop into a form of modern knight-errantry, and the "passion to bless and save" should inspire those who were formerly drilled only in the exercises of conquest and slaughter. Americans may well be proud to reflect that this era, which a few decades ago seemed but the chimerical dream of a doctrinaire, has found its pledge and promise in the generous endeavors of our standing army. "Peace hath her victories no less renowned than war." In narrowing the dimension of suffering, and lending a strong hand to those overwhelmed by calamity, our soldiers raised up the defeated from the sore battle of life. CHAPTER XXXII PREVIOUS GREAT FLOODS AND TORNADOES THE JOHNSTOWN HORROR--THE GALVESTON TRAGEDY--THE MISSISSIPPI ON A RAMPAGE--DESTRUCTION IN LOUISVILLE--THE ST. LOUIS TORNADO. Floods are not usually so dramatic and awe-inspiring as tornadoes, but they are even more destructive of life. The Johnstown flood of 1889, however, was dramatic and even spectacular--so swiftly did it come and so certainly could it have been avoided. It destroyed 2,235 lives, swept away ten millions of dollars worth of property, and carried unutterable grief into countless happy homes. Lying in a narrow valley were eight villages, aggregating 50,000 to 80,000 inhabitants, the largest of the eight being situated at the lower end, with about 25,000 inhabitants. Far up in the mountain, 300 feet above the chief village of the valley, hung a huge body of water. As nature had designed it, this had been a small lake with natural outlets, which prevented it from being a menace to the valley below. But the hand of man sought to improve the work of nature. An immense dam, 110 feet in height, held back the water till the lake was more than quadrupled in size. THE SWOLLEN WATERS These were the conditions on May 31, 1889. There had been heavy rains for several days. The artificially enlarged lake was really a receiving reservoir of the water-shed of the Alleghany Mountains. Every little stream running into it was swollen to a torrent. The lake, which in ordinary times was three and a half miles long, with an average width of over a mile, and a depth in some portions of 100 feet, was swollen into a volume of water of enormous proportions. Between it and the valley below there was a dam nearly 1,000 feet wide, 100 feet high, ninety feet thick at the base and twenty at the top. This barrier gave way and the water rushed into the valley in a solid wave with a perpendicular front of forty feet. It swept away the seven smaller villages like straw, hurled them, together with uncounted thousands of their inhabitants, upon the larger village, and then, with the accumulated ruin of the whole eight, dashed upon the stone bridge at the bottom of the valley. The bridge withstood the shock, and a new dam, as fateful with horror as the first had been, was formed. It held back the water so that the whole valley was a lake from twenty to forty feet in depth, with the remains of its villages beneath its surface. The wreckage of the ruined villages, piled from forty to sixty feet high, against the bridge, spread over a vast area, with countless bodies of the living and the dead crushed within it and struggling for life upon it, caught fire, and burned to the water's edge. When the flood came--a terrific punishment for the carelessness of the past--the doubters saw their homes washed away, their dear ones drowned; in some cases they did not even live to see the extent of the havoc wrought. Whole families were drowned like rats; houses were shattered to pieces or floated about on the water like wrecked ships. Intolerable was the suffering that followed--grief for the loss of dear ones, actual physical hurt, hunger and want. The problem for many in the eight towns was to begin life all over--and that without hope. Immediate suffering was in some measure prevented by the speedy help rendered by neighboring towns, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and the entire nation. But nothing could undo the fearful damage of the past. THE GALVESTON TRAGEDY Great as was the Johnstown flood, it shrinks into insignificance before the appalling hurricane-brought flood of Galveston, which devastated the city and swept thousands of its inhabitants to their death. There is little in the new city which arose to remind one of the awful tragedy--unless it be the strong sea-walls constructed to keep out future floods. The storm came over the bay from the gulf before daylight Saturday morning, September 8, 1900. At 10 A. M. the inundation from the bay began, but even then no alarm was felt. The wind took on new strength and the waters were carried four blocks through the business section into Market Street. Ocean freighters dragged anchors in the channel and were soon crashing against the wharves. The wind reached the hurricane stage, blowing at something like one hundred and twenty miles an hour, and buildings began to crumble. By this time the bay water had reached a high point on Tremont Street. The gulf, however, was quiet. Then a remarkable thing happened. The wind suddenly shifted from the north to the southeast, the hurricane increased in fury, and, picking up the waters of the gulf, hurled them with crushing force against the four miles of residences stretched along the beach. There was nothing in the way of protection, and houses were knocked over like so many toy structures. By three o'clock the gulf had spread over the city and mingled in the streets with the waters of the bay. The violence of the wind continued. Higher and higher rose the water. Buildings began to collapse. Shrieks of agony were heard. One family of five took refuge in four different houses, abandoning each in turn just in time to save themselves. Hundreds, struck by the flying wreckage, fell unconscious in the water. SCENES OF HORROR When night settled down over the city the whole bay side was in process of destruction. Wreckage was thrown with the force of a catapult against houses which still offered resistance. Electric light and gas plants were flooded and the city was in darkness. In the cemeteries the dead of years were washed from their graves and carried across to the mainland. A tramp steamer was carried over to Virginia Point, then sent like a shot through three bridges. The steamers "Alamo" and "Red Cross" were dropped upon Pelican Flats, and when the waves retreated were left high and dry upon the sand. Yachts and sailboats were driven over the mainland and could be seen in the grass far beyond Texas City. Railroad cars loaded and empty were carried into the bay, and miles of track torn up and washed away. THE RECEDING WATERS Between ten and eleven the wind fell and the water began to recede, almost as rapidly as it had come. Before daylight the streets were clear of water, but covered with slime and choked with wreckage. It was not necessary to go to the beach to find the dead. They lay thick along the streets. A Committee of Public Safety was organized, and all men, white and black, were asked to assist in the removal of the dead. The superstitious negroes refused, but were finally compelled at the muzzle of guns to gather in the bodies. It was suggested that the burials be made at sea. Society men, clubmen, millionaires, longshoremen and negroes took up the work, loading the bodies on drays and conveying them to barges. The dreadful procession lasted all of Sunday and Monday. Three barge loads of dead were taken out to sea and given back to the waves. The weights, however, were not properly attached, and soon the corpses were back in the surf, washing on the beach. After the storm the weather turned milder. By Monday the city reeked with the smell of a charnel house and pestilence was in the air. The bodies of dead animals lay in the streets; the waters of the bay and gulf were thick with the dead. All the disinfectants in the city were quickly consumed. An earnest appeal for more was sent to Houston and other places. Tuesday a general cremation of the dead began. Trenches were dug and lined with wood. The corpses were tossed in, covered with more wood, saturated with oil, and set on fire. Later, bodies were collected and placed in piles of wreckage, and the whole then given to the flames. Men engaged in this horrible task frequently found relatives and friends among the dead. The men wore camphor bags under their noses, but frequently became so nauseated that they were forced to stop work. The fire purified the air, however, and disinfectants began to come in in answer to the appeal. The streets were covered with a solution of lime, and carbolic acid was showered everywhere. GALVESTON NOT THE ONLY SUFFERER And not only Galveston was a sufferer in this storm. For fifty miles along the coast, on both sides of the city, the storm found victims. The waters of the sea were carried inland ten miles all along the coast. The total loss of life in Galveston and near-by places amounted to 9,000; the property damage to $30,000,000. THE MISSISSIPPI ON A RAMPAGE "The Mississippi River in flood," says a recent writer, "takes everything with it. To watch the endless procession which the swift current carries by is to see all the properties of tragedies. The Mississippi in flood is the despoiler of homes. Houses come floating down the stream, outbuildings, furniture and myriads of smaller things, tossed by waves in the 'runs' or sailing on serenely in the broader stretches. Great trees go by. They are evidence that the Mississippi has asserted its majesty somewhere and has cut a new channel to please itself, eating away bank, growth, and all. Carcasses of cows and horses and dogs float down the stream, carrying a pair of buzzards, those scavengers who have so much work to do after the floods have receded. It is a terrible and a melancholy sight." THE FLOOD OF 1912 In April and May, 1912, the Mississippi reached a height never before equaled, and the great river went tearing through levee after levee on its resolute course to the sea. The river reached a maximum width of sixty miles, killed 1,000 persons, rendered 30,000 homeless, and caused damage to the amount of $50,000,000. By April 2d, Columbus, Missouri, was buried under fifteen feet of water, and in some parts of the town residences were wholly submerged. New Madrid was not much better off, and Hickman, Kentucky, looked like a small city of Venice. President Taft sent a hurry call to Congress for half a million dollars, and within fifteen minutes after his message was read, the lower house had passed an appropriation bill and sent it to the Senate, which laid everything else aside to give it right of way. By April 5th, the Reelfoot Lake district, covering 150 square miles of Kentucky farm land, was an inland lake and the river at Cairo, Illinois, had risen to nearly fifty-four feet, the average depth from St. Louis to New Orleans being ordinarily but nine feet. Cairo was for days surrounded by the torrents from the Ohio and the Mississippi beating at the levees, while to the north of the city factory buildings were immersed to their roofs or even entirely covered. By April 7th, the levee in Arkansas, seven miles south of Memphis, had a gap a mile long and Lake County, Tennessee, had no ground above water but a strip six miles long by four wide. By the middle of the month, the levees at Panther Forest, Arkansas; Alsatia, Louisiana; and Roosevelt, Louisiana, had succumbed, and a thousand square miles of fertile plantations were from five to seven feet under water. FARMS AND PLANTATIONS SUBMERGED Rain-storm after rain-storm caused the stream to swell, undermined dikes, and broke new crevasses all the way from Vicksburg to New Orleans. Hundred of farmers and their families, a majority of them negroes, were cut off and overwhelmed by the flood. For several weeks the people of New Orleans were under the fear that a large part of the city might be submerged and ruined. Near by vast sugar plantations were under water, while the prosperous town of Moreauville was inundated. Refugees' camps were established and relief work began. Many vessels assisted the army. Pitiful stories of famished and suffering victims of the flood were told, and the miles and miles of desolated country struck horror to the heart. They have a pregnant saying down there: "Come hell and high water." Some day, it is to be hoped, we are going to take the force out of that expression. DESTRUCTION IN LOUISVILLE Disaster by tornado is not so easy to avoid as disaster by flood. One of the most destructive storms of recent years was that which swept over Louisville, Kentucky, in the evening of March 27, 1890, killing 113 persons, injuring 200, and destroying property to the amount of $2,500,000. The storm came from the southwest and cut a path through the heart of the city three miles long and nearly a half mile wide. Nearly every building in its course was leveled to the ground or otherwise damaged. Outlying towns were also devastated by the storm, and flood calamities occurred simultaneously along the Mississippi. About eight o'clock the storm was raging with tremendous force. The rain fell in sheets, the lightning was constant and vivid, the wind blew ominously. The streets were soon miniature rivers, and telegraph and telephone poles began to snap. By 8.30 there was alarm all over the city, but before any measure of safety could be adopted the body of the mighty tempest dashed itself on the houses along Fifteenth Street and tore itself diagonally across the city, leaping the river at Front Street to Jeffersonville. The passage across the city was not continuous and in uniform direction, but the storm lifted itself up, fell with furious force on a block, then rolled over into adjacent blocks, when it rested a moment, then dashed furiously up and forward again, launching to the right and left with demoniacal whimsicality. Everything it touched suffered. Church steeples fell, crushing beneath their weight the buildings over which they had stood guard. Wrenching warehouses to fragments the tornado passed to the river front, leaving a broad swath of wreckage and dead bodies. The belt of destruction extended from the west side of Seventh Street as far as Ninth and Main Streets, and an equal width across to the point where the city was first touched. Along this path were demolished homes and wrecked business houses--the annihilated work of years. On the river the storm found full sway. The tawny water of the swollen Ohio became a lake of seething foam. Steamboat after steamboat was driven from its moorings and tossed like a drop of spray in the boiling stream. CITIZENS MADDENED WITH GRIEF Almost immediately after the storm had passed thousands crowded into the distressed district; maddened men and women fought and struggled through the debris trying to find some loved relative or friend. From every side arose the groans of the wounded and dying. About the Falls City Hotel groups thronged waiting for news. Fires burning in several places added to the horror, though no great damage was done by these. Crushed and blackened ruins marked the spot of the Union Depot, which collapsed during the storm, crushing a train which was just ready to depart. Every building, tree and telegraph pole in the district struck was leveled, and almost all the railroads entering the city were obliged to suspend all passenger and freight traffic. RESCUE, RELIEF AND RECONSTRUCTION The work of rescuing the mangled dead was bravely carried on the following day and before many hours the American genius for organization, order and action had met the demands of the overwhelming disaster. While the dead were still lying awaiting burial, plans were made to rebuild and resume again the work of life. The local police and militia kept order. The city authorities and board of trade organized relief corps. The brave spirit of self-reliance triumphed over the appalling calamity. Money for relief was sent to the city from many sources, and it is interesting to note that the citizens of Johnstown, who had suffered from the great catastrophe of the previous year, were among the first to offer help. They knew what desolation meant. THE ST. LOUIS TORNADO A far more terrible story of death and destruction is that of the St. Louis tornado of May 27, 1896, which lasted but half an hour, killed 306 persons and destroyed property to the amount of $12,000,000. The same tornado visited many places in Missouri and Illinois, causing an additional property loss of $1,000,000. The sky grew black at 4 P. M., the sun was eclipsed in the whirl of driving dust and dirt, mingled with the branches and leaves of trees, the boards of buildings and other loose material torn off by the wind. At times the wind blew eighty miles an hour. In that mad half hour, while property was crumbling and hundreds of human lives being snuffed out, thousands of maimed and bleeding persons were added to the awful harvest of devastation. FREAK DESTRUCTION Over in East St. Louis, where the houses were all frail structures, the destruction was greatest. The great Eads Bridge was twisted all out of shape, and freight cars were tossed to and fro, tumbled into ditches and driven sometimes into the fields many yards from where they had stood. The great Vandalia freight house fell in a heap of utter ruin, burying beneath it thirty-five men who had there sought refuge. The swath cut was three blocks wide and four miles long. The top of the bridge was knocked off as well as the big abutment. The Martell House was blown into the Cokokia Creek and many were buried in the ruins. To add to the horrors of the night the electric-light plants were rendered incapable of service, and the gas lamps were also shut off, leaving the city in utter darkness. Fire broke out in several portions of the city, and the fire department was unable to make an effective fight because of the choked condition of the streets and the large number of firemen who were engaged in the imperative work of rescuing the dead and wounded. ANNIHILATION The City Hospital, which fortunately survived the storm, was filled to overflowing with the injured. In addition to those who were killed in their houses and in the streets, scores of dead were carried away by the waters of the Mississippi River. Many steamers on the levee went down in the storm. From the "Great Republic," one of the largest steamers on the lower river, not a man escaped. The word "annihilation" is perhaps the only one that can adequately describe the awful work of the tornado. The rising of the sun in the morning revealed a scene of indescribable horror. The work of carrying out the maimed and dead immediately began, but it was a task of big proportions, as many bodies were totally buried under the debris. Hundreds of families were rendered homeless, and the business portion of the community was almost in absolute ruin. Lack of food added to the misery. Bread sold for fifteen cents a loaf. A large number of military tents were shipped into the city and many families found shelter in freight yards. The Ohio and Mississippi railroad companies issued permits for the use of their empty cars. Contributions to aid in the work of rebuilding and relief were received and the city council voted $100,000. It was several weeks before the city began to resume a normal existence. The presence of armed men and endless piles of debris, the suspension of traffic, the grief for departed dear ones, and the sight of the many injured, all contributed to a condition of solemnity and sorrow. "The memory of the strange and awful scenes that have been presented by East St. Louis for the past three days," said one clergyman of the city, "will live in the minds of its inhabitants for years. But our people are too courageous and energetic to be deterred from repairing the physical havoc wrought." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - PREVIOUS GREAT DISASTERS FLOODS Johnstown, Pa., breaking of the Conemaugh dam, May 31, 1889; 2,235 killed. Galveston, Tex., tidal wave, September 8, 1900; 9,000 killed. Mississippi Valley, May, 1912; 1,000 killed. WIND STORMS Adams County, Miss., May 7, 1840; 317 killed. Same county, June, 1842; 500 killed. Louisville, Ky., March 27, 1890; 113 killed, 200 injured; property loss, $2,500,000. Cherokee, Buena Vista and Pocahontas Counties, Iowa, July 6, 1893, 89 killed; property loss, $250,000. Little Rock, Ark., October 2, 1894; 4 killed; property loss, $500,000. Denton and Grayson Counties, Tex., May 15, 1896; 78 killed and 150 injured; property loss, $165,000. St. Louis and East St. Louis, Mo., May 27, 1896; 306 identified killed; property loss, $12,000,000. Same tornado visited many places in Missouri and Illinois, causing an additional property loss of $1,000,000. West India hurricane, September 29 and 30, 1896, covering Florida, Georgia, South and North Carolina, Virginia, District of Columbia, Maryland, Pennsylvania and New York; 114 killed; property loss, $7,000,000. Eastern Michigan, May 25, 1897; 47 killed, 100 injured; property loss, $400,000. Galveston hurricane, September 8, 1900; 9,000 killed; property loss, $30,000,000; estimated wind velocity, 120 miles an hour. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - CHAPTER XXXIII LESSONS OF THE CATACLYSM AND PRECAUTIONARY MEASURES NOT A VISITATION OF PUNISHMENT--THE HELPLESSNESS OF MAN BEFORE NATURE--THE KINSHIP OF HUMANITY--INCENTIVE TO ENTERPRISE--THE GREATEST LESSON--MEASURES AGAINST REPETITION OF DISASTER--UTILIZING NATURAL RESERVOIRS--PROMOTION OF FORESTRY--CONSTRUCTION OF DAMS--SECRETARY LANE'S PLAN--A PROBLEM FOR THE PANAMA ENGINEERS. With each succeeding dispatch from the districts stricken by flood and tornado it became clearer that the first impressions of the disaster, shocking as they were, fell not far beneath the dreadful reality. Hundreds overwhelmed in the rushing floods, hundreds of thousands spared from sudden death only to suffer hunger and thirst and hardship and the perils of fire, cities submerged, villages swept away, countless homes and vast industries destroyed, miles upon miles of populous land drowned under turbulent waters, and over all the grim shadows of starvation and disease--this catastrophe defies picture and parallel to express its desolating horror. The widespread calamity, which smote with its cruelest force the beautiful city of Dayton, is one of those for which no personal responsibility can be placed. Like the tidal flood which devastated Galveston and the earth upheaval which laid San Francisco in ruins, it is a convulsion which could not have been foreseen or stayed. NOT A VISITATION OF PUNISHMENT In the presence of such a fearful disaster there are few persons who will say, but there are some who will think, that this is in some manner a visitation decreed upon the communities which suffer. The very magnitude and superhuman force of it will suggest to many minds the thought of an ordered punishment and warning for offenses against a higher power. Such a concept, happily more rarely held than in earlier times, is, of course, revolting to sober judgment and to the instincts of religious reverence. For it would imply that multitudes of the innocent should suffer indescribable cruelty; it would attempt the impossible feat of justifying the smiting of Dayton, where the inhabitants lived lives of peaceful, helpful industry, and the sparing of communities where men serve the gods of dishonest wealth and vicious idleness. This was no vengeance decreed for human shortcomings. It was superhuman, but not supernatural. It was but a manifestation of the unchangeable, irresistible forces of nature, governed by physical laws which are inexorable. Nature knows neither revenge nor pity. She does not select her victims, nor does she turn aside to save the good who may be in her path. As her concern is not with individuals, but with the race, so she is moved not by mercy, but by law. To the limited vision of man, with his brief life, nature seems incredibly cruel and wasteful. Her teachings must be learned at fearful cost. Men will ask themselves what lessons are taught by this overwhelming sacrifice. THE HELPLESSNESS OF MAN BEFORE NATURE There is made plain, first, the utter powerlessness of man when he pits his strength against the full demonstration of the laws of nature. It is revealed, again, that there are forces which before all the might of human intellect remain unconquerable. The same grim lesson confronts the scientist whose babe is snatched from him by death; it confronts the millionaire who feels the chill of age creeping upon the frame that has upheld the finances of a nation and has made and unmade panics with the crooking of a finger. THE KINSHIP OF HUMANITY But there flows from such a catastrophe a brighter and better influence than this. With all its horror and shock, there comes inevitably a great joining of minds and hearts. The whole world feels the thrill of kinship and a common humanity. For the time being all conceptions of social caste and class distinction, the most unworthy thoughts of beings fashioned all in the image of their Maker, are leveled and forgotten. Indifference and selfishness disappear. Throughout the nation, throughout the world, there thrills the uplifting current of brotherhood, the consciousness that "we be of one blood." Wherever civilization has exercised its beneficent influence upon the minds of men there is felt, for a little time at least, the sense that all humanity is one; that the strife of man against man and nation against nation is but a pitiful thing, and that we may better concern ourselves with trying to make the common lot brighter and so soften the rigors of the existence we all must face. THE RESPONSIBILITY OF WEALTH Specifically does not such an appalling event serve to awaken responsibility among the wealthy and powerful toward the poor and the weak? When all goes well, when there are no thunderous warnings such as this of the helplessness of man against the forces arrayed against him, the fortunate do not realize that for millions mere existence is a poignant struggle; that hunger and cold and disease prevail even when there are no ghastly floods to make them vivid and picturesque. We do not doubt that there are many who will be stirred by the shock of this dreadful story to a deeper and more sympathetic understanding with the conditions that surround them on every side. INCENTIVE TO ENTERPRISE If any further good can come from a catastrophe so cruel, it may be in the stimulating pride of race which it engenders. Such experiences have a unique effect upon the American nature. The greater the calamity which falls upon a community the greater seems to be the rebound. Destruction and hardship seem to open great reservoirs of latent energy, inventiveness and enterprise. Galveston, suddenly overwhelmed by a convulsion of nature, apparently was doomed to molder away in forgotten ruins; but her people cleared the wreck and built a greater city than before. Before the ashes of the old San Francisco had cooled the vision of a better community rose before her inhabitants, and they made it real. Calamity sets free such a flow of creative power that destruction itself makes for progress. These disasters concentrate upon constructive enterprise stories of emotional energy that in other times are expended in the fierce struggle of competitive existence. THE GREATEST LESSON But the great hidden teaching of disaster is that the laws of nature are eternal and inexorable; that they move with unerring precision and resistless force. And this truth applies not only to the tremendous powers of the hurricane, the flood and the earthquake, but to economic principles, which are simply a translation into human terms of the laws manifested in inanimate nature. The woman whose health is wrecked by overwork, the child whose body and mind are stunted by early labor, the tenement dweller who falls victim to disease because of unwholesome conditions of living--these are sacrifices to natural laws as much as are the thousands swept away in the floods. But, while the flood deaths are due to an outburst of the elements which man cannot control, these others are the result of his defiance of the laws of nature. There is another difference: The victims of economic wrongs due to cupidity and indifference outnumber a thousand to one the victims of natural causes beyond control. All the deaths in these fearful floods are less than those caused every year in a single large city by conditions that might be remedied. Nature decrees that those who do not have certain amounts of fresh air and food and rest shall die; the law is inexorable. But it is civilization which defies it and brings down the penalty. THE AWAKENING TO OTHER LAWS OF NATURE A stranger thought is that many whose hearts are melted by this disaster and whose checkbooks open to the suffering survivors are habitually indifferent to the more deadly conditions existing on all sides of their homes. Men contribute generously to the relief funds who, if asked to surrender a fractional part of their dividends in order to make work safer and more healthful and more humane for employees, would berate the suggestion as anarchistic. This is not due to hardness of heart; it is due to faults of vision. Men display such sympathy in one case and such ruthlessness in another simply because civilization has not yet advanced far enough to create generally the sense of responsibility which is called social consciousness. There are those who believe that the good impulses aroused by such events as now appeal to us tend to awaken this consciousness; on the other hand, a $5,000 contribution to a flood relief fund may, by salving the conscience of the giver, close his mind to the need for changing industrial conditions or expending some of his tenement rents for decent sanitation. Our own belief is that each calamity brings the minds of the nation into closer sympathy and hastens the day when all men will understand that the society they have builded is guilty of causing miseries just as great as those we are now witnessing, the defying the laws of nature because of indifference and greed. THE NEED FOR ACTION This country has suffered from many great floods in past years, but none so awful in its scope and terrible consequences. The present calamity must bring the country to its sober senses and make us see the positive necessity--the inevitable MUST--of taking immediate and adequate measures to guard against the repetition of such a disaster. "Strike while the iron is hot," has been the battle-cry of men of action throughout the world! And today, while the iron of adversity is hot in the bosom of the Republic, is the time to strike upon the ideas that are to make the heroic surgery of healing. What is the remedy for these mighty floods that are sweeping and ruining the interior country? Beyond the supreme consideration of the loss of life they are the financial tragedies of the century. They occur at rare intervals in Ohio and Indiana and in New York. But in the valley of the Mississippi and in the Ohio Valley they are almost an annual or bi-annual scourge of waters, terrific in suffering and appalling in cost. NOT A QUESTION OF COST No expenditure of public money is too great that will strengthen the defenses of the people against the giant forces of destruction in the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers. No cost in national expenditure for permanent defense against such catastrophes would approximate the cost in a single decade to the pockets of the people, not to speak of the uncountable value of human life. Governor Cox, of Ohio, estimated that the damage in Ohio alone by the recent floods was more than $300,000,000--nearly as much as the cost of the Panama Canal. The total cost of the recent flood is vastly greater than that of the Panama Canal! The American Government can no longer stop to consider money in dealing with the problems of internal economy and of elemental humanity. The floods create an emergency as definite and imperative as war. It is time now to start some movement for the preservation of life and property against such occurrences. MEASURES AGAINST REPETITION OF DISASTER It is not the mission of this book to prescribe plans for meeting the situation. That must be the work of a corps of trained engineers who shall study the whole problem comprehensively and in detail. Rather it is our purpose here to bring home the overwhelming need for prompt action. We may be permitted, however, to point in a general way, and on high authority, the general lines that the necessary remedies must take. The river problems in the great central valleys present certain difficulties which engineers have been unable to overcome. If levees are constructed, it is found that the bed of the stream rises also, so that the situation is not materially changed. If channels are deepened, the fury of the floods is increased. If the construction of reservoirs is proposed, there are very important questions of location and danger. UTILIZING NATURAL RESERVOIRS In many places the Mississippi River, closely diked, flows high above the lands adjacent. Even at New Orleans, 107 miles from the Gulf, it is during high water ten to fifteen feet above the level of the city. Obviously the levee system, while useful everywhere and in some localities adequate, is not a universal remedy. Reservoirs properly constructed should be of service in storing the waters of many such rivers as those that have caused the havoc in Ohio and Indiana, but to meet the requirements they would have to be of enormous size, very numerous and costly, as Professor Willis S. Moore, chief of the Weather Bureau, points out. Nature itself has provided in lowlands throughout all of these valleys receptacles which, before men came, took up the surplus waters. We have reclaimed millions of acres of these lands on the theory that we could confine the rivers which once overflowed them, but thus far we have failed to establish the theory. It is probable that any successful national work for the control of rivers will have to start with the idea of utilizing some of these natural reservoirs. The lands would not be habitable of course, but for agriculture they would be enriched instead of, as now, devastated. To depopulate some such tracts would not be as costly or as terrible as to leave them to the sweep of irresistible torrents, repeated year after year. PROMOTION OF FORESTRY Despite Professor Moore's very positive denial of the value of reforestation as a preventive of floods, it is claimed by many authorities that much of the destruction is due to the fact that the states of Ohio, Indiana and Illinois have been almost denuded of such forests as originally stood there. No impediment is offered to the flow of water and disastrous results follow. But in any event there would have been great floods because of the location of the rainstorms as noted. CONSTRUCTION OF DAMS The topography of the country must be taken into account. Both valleys, the Miami particularly, are veined with streams tributary to the rivers, and in times of flood the water rises with amazing rapidity and spreads far and wide over the valley floor. The level character of the region in which Dayton itself lies and the fact that there is not enough pitch to the land below to carry off the water accounts for the depth and extent of the floods. Dayton has had many of them. What Congress can do to prevent or minimize them in future by putting the army engineers at work to construct dams for the collection and restraint of waters in the valleys north of the threatened cities must be done, whatever the cost. SECRETARY LANE'S PLAN Franklin K. Lane, Secretary of the Interior, has outlined a plan for preventing such floods as devastated Ohio and Indiana. The plan hinges on the deepening and widening of the channels of all streams that are liable to flood conditions. Mr. Lane hopes to see the idea carried out through the cooperation of the Federal Government, with the aid of the states immediately endangered. Aside from the perpetual protection against flood, which he believes his plan would give to settlers in low regions, there are widespread districts along the Mississippi and many other rivers that would be thrown open to settlement. The land thus reclaimed from the swamps might go a long way, in Mr. Lane's opinion, to reimburse the states for the appropriations they would be called upon to make. Mr. Lane says: "The rainstorm, I know, was phenomenal, and even with the system I have suggested would have doubtless resulted in material damage and the loss of some lives. But flood conditions reappear every spring in some noticeable way, and my plan would obviate most of the resulting damage. "It will not do for Ohio or Indiana or even the two states together to spend their money generously in clearing the beds of the streams within their boundaries. That would merely carry the flood more swiftly to the state lines to the south, and the water would back more angrily than ever into what would quickly be great lakes. The thing is too large for the states alone. A harmonious, scientific system must be worked out by the federal authorities, and the states must then make their contributions in the way that will do the most good to the whole valley affected." SENATOR NEWLAND'S PLAN Senator Francis G. Newlands, of Nevada, who has made a long study of the whole subject of reclamation and conservation, and who speaks with authority on the subject says: "The appalling disasters in Ohio and Indiana bring home more forcibly than ever the conviction that our present method of dredging, levees and bank revetment in limited districts is fundamentally inadequate. These things will not protect dwellers on the lower reaches of our rivers so long as there is no control of the headwaters. "We must adopt an adequate system for the control of the run-off at the headwaters of the tributaries of the Mississippi. The people of Pittsburgh and Dayton are entitled to this, no less than the people of lower Mississippi are entitled to levees. I trust these floods will rouse the American conscience in these matters." Senator Newlands has urged that $50,000,000 a year be used for the next ten years to develop a comprehensive scheme of storing the excess flood waters at the heads of rivers. The Democratic platform contained a plank which promised the support of the party to a national scheme of river control. This has already been brought to the attention of President Wilson. With the horrible scenes of the inundated towns of Ohio and Indiana before them, this pledge is likely to become a living promise to the party in power. A PROBLEM FOR THE PANAMA ENGINEERS There is one thing to remember. Our stupendous enterprise of the Panama Canal will soon be completed. Its vast equipment of the world's newest and best machinery for digging and filling will be unemployed. The world's greatest engineer, Colonel Goethals, will also be at leisure. Why not then provide for the transfer of all the wonderful machinery at Panama, under personal charge and direction of Colonel Goethals, to the supreme necessities of the Mississippi and Ohio valleys? The whole American people would applaud and approve this disposition of our great engineer and his great equipment. This new national necessity is as vital and even more pressing than the Panama Canal. It is worthy of the great Republic and of the great engineer--an achievement if successful which would twin with Panama and make Colonel Goethals immortal and our country's beneficence and enterprise famous through all time. We have no force and no leader in this tragic emergency more potent for the defense of the Mississippi and Ohio valleys than Colonel Goethals and his Panama machinery. Let us send cheer to the flood-ravaged regions of our country by the assurance that this great man and this incomparable equipment will soon be consecrated to their relief. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- [Transcriber's Note: The following statement was a footnote against the page number, page 352, on this, the last page. The page number on the preceeding page was 319, requiring the following edxplanation.] The 32 pages of illustrations contained in this book are not included in the paging. Adding these 32 pages to the 320 pages of text makes a total of 352 pages. 
26627	----	[Frontispiece: "I do believe there's Miss Edith at the window!" (p. 25)] THE ISLAND HOUSE A Tale for the Young Folks. BY F. M. HOLMES, AUTHOR OF "THE BELL BUOY;" "JACK MARSTON'S ANCHOR;" "THE WHITE SLEDGE," ETC. Publishers S. W. Partridge & Co., Ltd. London 1898 _BOOKS IN THE SAME SERIES_ "ROAST POTATOES!" ONLY A GIRL! DICK AND HIS DONKEY RED DAVE THE LITTLE WOODMAN A LITTLE TOWN MOUSE THE ISLAND HOUSE THE CHILDREN OF THE MARSHES A DOUBLE VICTORY LEFT IN CHARGE A SUNDAY TRIP "IN A MINUTE!" FARTHING DIPS TIMFY SYKES LONDON S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO, LTD. MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. OLD MANSY HEARS SOMETHING II. TO THE LABURNUM TREE III. THE YOUNG NAVIGATOR IV. "WHAT HAVE YOU HEARD?" V. WITH TIED WRISTS VI. AN UNWELCOME VISITOR ILLUSTRATIONS "I do believe there's Miss Edith at the window!" . . . _Frontispiece_ "Alfy and Mansy made quite an enjoyable meal." "On floated the tub, leaving him alone in the tree!" "'I wonder if I could undo these knots with my teeth? I will try.'" THE ISLAND HOUSE. CHAPTER I. OLD MANSY HEARS SOMETHING. "I think I'll get out here, young man." "All right, missus." The old carrier stopped his jolting cart--an easy thing to do, for the wearied horse was glad of the chance of halting--and the passenger leisurely descended. With her descended also a bulging umbrella and numerous packages. "Good night, young man!" she exclaimed. She thought this a very polite way of addressing men whom she regarded as somewhat beneath her in social station. But he did not answer. He was urging on his sleepy horse, and though it was an easy matter to stop that interesting quadruped, yet it was a very different thing to make him go on again. So she started off down a road leading out of the turnpike thoroughfare on which the carrier was travelling. She was a tall, somewhat angular woman, with determination written on her face. In one hand she carried a number of parcels mysteriously tied together, and in the other hand her very bulgy umbrella, which she used as a walking stick, and staffed her way with it solemnly along the dim country road. It was a summer evening, and there had been a heavy storm during the day. "Dear! dear! how dirty it be, sure_ly_," she said, as she proceeded. "Bad enough to be dirty in winter, but in summer it's disgraceful! Ha! how sweet that woodbine do smell! Now, if I could get a piece for the children!" She stopped and began to poke about in the hedge with her bulging umbrella. At last, after much reaching and pulling, she obtained a small piece of the sweet-smelling honeysuckle, stuck it in her large, old-fashioned bonnet, where it nodded like a plume, and pursued her way in triumph. "Soon be home now," she said, to encourage herself. "Won't Master Alfy be pleased with the woodbine!" Suddenly she paused again. What was that noise? She was at the corner of a lane branching off from the road she had been pursuing. Dimly in her ears sounded a low, sullen roar--a roar something like the murmuring noise of a mighty city heard in a quiet and distant suburb. But here was no mighty city. She was deep in the heart of the quiet country. What was that noise? "I never heerd the like afore at this place," she muttered to herself. "Anyhow, I'll get on home. I shan't be long now!" A few turns in the road brought her in sight of the house. But she stood suddenly quite still, and stared in amazement and alarm. Was that indeed the house she had left quite safely in the smiling sunlight of yesterday morning? Now, she saw a turbid sheet of water surrounding it; and here and there the tops of shrubs and trees and hedges, looking strange and melancholy as they rose out of the flood. The dull roar she had heard previously now sounded louder than before, but she did not think of that. The children were her anxiety. "Where are the children?" she cried. The excitement and alarm wrought upon her feelings, and she screamed aloud-- "Children! children! Where are the children?" Perhaps it was the best thing she could have done. Anyhow, it had a good effect. Lights quickly appeared at the windows, and she heard shrill, childish voices sounding over the water. "Mansy! Mansy! is that you? Oh! we are glad you have come! Where does all the water come from?" "Are you all safe?" she screamed. "Yes, yes; but we have scarcely anything to eat." "I have something in these parcels!" she shouted. "Oh, thank God the children are all safe!" "How are you to get here, Mansy?" That was the difficulty; and Mansy, as she looked at the dull, sullen water, felt she could not answer the question. First she thought of boldly plunging in and wading up to the house door. But, strong-nerved as she was, she shrank from this, and after carefully plumbing the depth a little way with the bulging umbrella, she shrank from it still more. It might be too dangerous. In the dim twilight of that cloudy summer evening she stood on the water's brink and watched the flood go swaying past. She felt stupefied and bewildered. Whence came the flood, and how? A more unexpected thing had never happened to her. And now she knew that the children were safe, the unexpectedness of it, the amazement of the whole thing, seemed almost to benumb her senses. But she soon roused herself, when across the water sounded a shrill boyish voice, which shouted--"I'll bring you over, Mansy. I'm coming for you. Look out!" "Bless the boy! that's my Master Alfy. Whatever is he up to now?" And the good woman strained her eyes in the direction of the house to see what her favourite boy was doing. She heard numerous childish exclamations, shouts, and laughter, and noises as of something knocking against the walls of the house. Then a splash! "Whatever is that boy doing?" cried Mansy. "Don't you get drownded!" she screamed. "Do take care, Master Alfy! I'd rather stay here all night than you should come to harm!" "All right, Mansy dear," shouted the shrill voice of the boy. "I'm coming, safe and sound, Mansy." "Now, what is he a-comin' in?" cried the good woman, gazing into the dusk. She saw the dim outline of something which soon she recognised. "Why, bless the boy! he's in the big washing tub! My! and how clever he do manage it!" Mansy was quite right. The plucky little lad had hit on this expedient of ferrying the old nurse and housekeeper over the flood to the house! He had obtained two large kitchen ladles, and with these he was propelling and guiding the unwieldy round tub, which bobbed about provokingly on the turbid water, and made but little progress. It would have been still less, perhaps, but for the fact that the water flowed from the direction of the house past the old nurse. But the difficulty the boy had soon to encounter was to guide the tub to her, for it was in great danger of being carried past. The house stood in a small valley or depression of ground, which rose to the lane up which Mansy had been walking. She was now standing on the verge of the water, which appeared to surround the house entirely, and completely obliterated the lawn and garden, except for the trees and shrubs, and the boundary hedge which stood above the turbid flood. "Now, Mansy, look out!" cried Alfy. And whirling through the air came a thin rope, which, before she was aware, struck her shoulder. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "what's that? What are you doing, Alfy?" "Catch tight hold of it--quick, Mansy!" Mansy's energy and common-sense were returning, and she was on the alert in a moment. She caught the rope, and held it firmly. "The new clothes line!" she exclaimed, "Bless the boy! what next?" "Pull, Mansy dear, pull!" he shouted. She pulled hard, and the tub slowly floated towards her. "That's right; jolly!" exclaimed Alfy, as the tub, with its bright, brave little burden, came close to Mansy and touched the ground before her. "My dear boy," exclaimed the good old woman, "how did this water happen? And I am so glad to find you all well." "Yes, all right, Mansy. Now get in the tub, quick! Is it not fun?" "What! me get in the washing-tub?" she exclaimed. "Oh! I couldn't!" "Why, yes, Mansy dear; that's what I came for. You'll be all right." "Why, it wouldn't bear me! We should go to the bottom." "Oh! nonsense, Mansy! Why, don't you remember at the seaside regatta, last year men had a race in tubs?" "Ah! but I'm--I'm--heavier than them men," said Mansy thoughtfully, looking down on her ample proportions. "The tub is big," exclaimed Alfy. "It is the biggest we have. We had a work to get it out of the window; and it made such a splash! Come on, dear Mansy!" "I wouldn't do it for nobody but you, Master Alfy!" "Well, do it for me then, Mansy. I'll take care of you; see if I don't." "Anyhow, the parcels might go in. There's something there nice, Alfy,--a tongue--a nice Paysandoo; and some jam--blackberry and apple mixed, and some biscuits." "Oh! jolly! treat! Come on, dear Mansy, let's be quick back." "Has not the butcher come?" asked the old nurse. "No; no tradesmen could cross over from the village, nor yet the postman, and we expected a letter from mother and father. We are all surrounded by water in the house, just like an island. 'The Island House' Madge called it!" "And Miss Madge, and Miss Edie, and Jane are quite well?" "Yes, quite, dear Mansy. Only do be quick, please." The old nurse bent over and put the packages into the tub. "There!" she said, as it dipped, "see how that weighs it down." "Only a bob down when the parcels fell in," Alfy cried merrily. "See, it is all right now. You can't get across any other way," he added decidedly. "Well, I'll try it," she said slowly; "but I very much doubt----" She did not finish the sentence, but carefully planting the bulging umbrella in the water, she leaned on it, and then advanced one foot to place in the tub. "Oh, I can't!" she cried, just as the foot was over the side of the tub, and she hastily drew back. "You _could_, Mansy dear," exclaimed Alfy. "You were just doing it beautifully!" "But didn't you see how the tub was going down, Master Alfy?" "Oh, no, it wasn't; try again, there's a dear!" So Mansy, persuaded by Alfy, whom she loved like her own son, and spurred on also by the desire to reach the house, tried again. She leaned on the umbrella, and slowly advanced her right foot as before, but this time she plumped it down into the tub. Down it bobbed, of course, under her weight. "Oh-h-h!" she cried. "I shall drown you, Alfy!" and hastily she drew back again. "Me in a tub!" she cried. "I can't!" "It really is all right," said Alfy again. "It will take us both. Why, these flat-bottomed things float in ever such a little water. Try once more, Mansy dear, and then I can give you a kiss." "I dessay you could, my bonnie baby, and I know you'd do anything to help your old nurse. You're a real good boy; but go in that rockety thing I couldn't!" "Tisn't rickety, Mansy, when once you are inside. Look here," and he jumped in it, and shook it from side to side. Of course his light weight was nothing to speak of, and it sat like a cork on the water. "You take over the parcels to your sisters, Alfy dear, and then they'll have something to eat." "No, I'm not going without you, Mansy!" he exclaimed decidedly, pulling the tub in again by the rope quite close. "Bless the boy! To think of my little Master Alfy taking his old nurse in a tub! What would your parients say, on the Continong?" "Well, it must be, you see, Mansy dear, so please come on!" "Well, if we do turn over, I'll save you, Master Alfy. So now I'll try again." And once more leaning on the umbrella, she put one foot into the tub, and not caring for its plumping down into the water, this time she quickly brought the other foot after the first. "Capital! capital!" cried Alfy. "There, you see, we have not gone over!" No, they had not gone over; but he soon found they were not going at all! The tub was just aground, and would not move without being pushed off. So Alfy endeavoured to edge off the clumsy craft with the ladles, and called on Mansy to help with the indispensable bulgy umbrella. The moon was now shining, and albeit it was with a wan and watery gleam, yet it enabled them to see their course a little more clearly. After strenuous efforts, the large, round tub was gradually got off the ground, and actually floated. "Hurrah!" shouted the brave little Alfy. "Now for Island House!" But try as he would he could not make the heavily laden craft float towards the house. His paddles were too small, or he had not power enough to make the best use of them, and slowly the current bore him away. Then he called on Mansy to help, but, good woman, she no more knew how to paddle a tub properly than to fly to the moon! Their efforts perhaps slightly retarded the progress of the strange craft, but could not alter its course. "I'll try the rope," cried Alfy in desperation. "Madge! Jane!" he shouted, "look out!" He threw the rope, but, of course, it fell far short of the house. A moment's reflection would have shown him that it could not possibly reach the window where stood his sisters and the servant maid. They saw the difficulty now, and screamed aloud, while Mansy endeavoured to shout back reassuring answers. "It's no use," said Alfy, crouching down in the tub, "we are floating away. We cannot get to the house. What shall we do now?" CHAPTER II. TO THE LABURNUM TREE. "What shall we do now?" It was Mansy who echoed Alfy's cry. "Can't we stop it somehow, Master Alfy?" she added. "Tie it with the rope to the top of some tree or something. Look there, could we not catch the line on there?" and she pointed to the shrubby top of a big bush or tree. Alfy could not exactly see what it was, but he saw something jutting up above the water. The boy hastily took up his ladles, and endeavoured to steer the strange bark to the point indicated. It was a weary, troublesome task. Then Mansy threw the line, trying to catch it in the branches, and nearly overbalanced herself into the water. "The rockety thing!" she exclaimed, half in alarm and half in contempt. "I feared it 'ud go over." "It's all right, Mansy, if you sit still," said Alfy; "but try and paddle it with the umbrella to the tree." So they both endeavoured to float it in the desired direction, and at length Alfy thought he might venture to throw the rope. He did so, and with some good effect, for it fell over a branch, and, though it did not wind tightly round and had no firm hold, he could just give the tub a bias in that direction. After plying his paddles with fairly good result for a little time, he drew in the rope, and again launched it forth at the tree top. Again he was, to some extent, successful, and in a few minutes he was able to float the tub in among the branches. "Here we are!" he cried, "quite like the baby in the nursery rhyme--'Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top,' you know, eh, Mansy dear? Now we will tie the tub firmly to the branches, so that there will be no fear of floating away!" "You have managed well, Master Alfy," said Mansy, admiringly. "Oh, but it was your idea; and look, we are not so very far from the house!" "I wish we were there!" sighed Mansy. "So do I," said Alfy, "but, Mansy dear, I really am very hungry, and you said you had something to eat in those packages!" "And so I have," replied his old nurse. "Dear boy, you must be hungry. I suppose the girls have something left?" "Oh yes, quite enough for another meal, I should think! I wish we could let them know we are safe, and not so very far away." "Burn a light; I have some matches and a little spirit lamp. I bought it with some other things yesterday, thinking it might be handy in the summer, when the kitchen fire was out, to boil a little water." "Oh, what fun!" cried Alfy. "We are just like wrecked sailors or something, near a desert island! We'll burn some of the papers round the parcels to make a great flare." So the lamp was lit, and the papers burned, and Alfy waved the flimsy, flaming torch bravely for a minute or so, that the watchers in the island house might just catch a glimpse of them and of their position. An answering light was soon flashed back by the girls, so they knew that their own had been seen. "Now we will take some of this tongue," said Mansy, producing the tin in which it was preserved, "Lucky I got the young man in the shop to open it. But what about a knife to cut it?" "Won't this do?" asked Alfy, producing his pocket-knife. "At all events, it is better than nothing." "Why, bless the boy! so it is; but I am afraid it won't do very well. Howsomdever, we'll make the best of it!" "Perhaps I can manage it better than you, Mansy," suggested Alfy. "I am more used to it, you know; and really it is a splendid knife when you know how to use it." "Yes, I should think so, _when_ you know how to use it, my dear, but I cannot do very much with it in cutting nice slices!" "Oh, never mind the nice slices, if we can get some nice mouthfuls," laughed the boy. And he proceeded to cut some small slips off the top of the tongue with great facility, considering the unsuitability of the small pocket-knife for the purpose. "Capital!" cried his nurse, as Alfy handed her a few of the small slices, and then she produced some biscuits, and Alfy and Mansy made quite an enjoyable meal. [Illustration: "ALFY AND MANSY MADE QUITE AN ENJOYABLE MEAL."] "I wish this water was fit to drink," she said, "for I feel thirsty. Now tell me where it comes from, if you can, and how the flood happened?" "It was yesterday afternoon," replied Alfy. "About three o'clock we suddenly heard a loud noise, and then the water came rushing all round the house and into the lower rooms too! We were frightened and surprised at first, I can tell you!" "I expect you were," replied Mansy sympathetically. "And all in the lower rooms. Oh, mercy on us, what a to-do! Is the mill-dam broke, do you think?" "I don't know, Mansy. I'm not sure if it came that way. Have some more tongue, Mansy dear? It's jolly!" "Thank you," exclaimed Mansy; "I don't mind if I do, Master Alfy. Well," she continued, as she took out some more biscuits, "if anybody'd told me this morning that I should have had my supper to-night in a washin' tub on the water I'd 'a said they was cracked!" "And so should I," said Alfy. "Still, here we are, Mansy; and the next question is how long shall we be obliged to stay?" "Yes, indeed," she sighed; "that is the question, and one we can't answer!" "We must make the best of it," he said bravely. "I think I could swim to the house and drag the tub by the rope." "I wouldn't hear of it for the world, Master Alfy," protested his nurse; "you'd catch your death!" "Perhaps I could walk in the water," he replied. "I don't believe it is very deep. Try it, dear Mansy, with your umbrella, and see how deep it is." "I wouldn't let you, Master Alfy; I wouldn't indeed. You'd catch your death, I tell you!" "But we can't stay here all night, Mansy." "I can't let you get into the water, Master Alfy. You don't know how deep it is, nor how strong it's a-runnin'; and you'll catch your death!" "What dreadful disasters!" laughed Alfy. But he knew quite well that his nurse could make up her mind firmly, and that it would be useless to argue with her. Still he thought he might have tried to get the boat nearer the house. The moon was now shining brightly, and a beautiful silvery path of light lay on the water. Alfy sat on the side of the tub opposite his nurse and watched the scene. It was a strange picture--the unaccustomed flood, the dark mass of the house, and the tree tops standing out of the water, the bright moonlight, which seemed to make the scene almost more desolate, and the curious craft in which they were sitting. The scene deeply impressed itself on Alfy's mind. "Well, it is of no use to sit here doing nothing," said Mansy presently. "If we cannot do anything else, I think we'll try and go to sleep. I am so tired. Perhaps we can see better in the morning what to do." "How funny to sleep in a tub on the water!" exclaimed Alfy. "Yes, and all through me," said Mansy; "I am sorry. If you had not come for me you might have been in your own nice warm bed!" "Oh, never mind me, Mansy; I could not leave you there all night." "I might have walked to the village." "It's all right, dear Mansy, I'm happy enough. Let us snuggle down and get to sleep." And so after they had said their prayers, and thanked God for His preserving care, they made themselves as comfortable as they could in their strange, cramped quarters, and actually began to doze a little. But it was an uneasy slumber, and presently Alfy awoke and found the moon shining full on his face. The light was also bright on the hedgetop surrounding the garden of the house; and the idea darted into his mind that if he could but get the tub beside the hedge he could work it along toward the house by pushing the paddles against the hedgetops or pulling at them one after the other. No sooner thought of than begun. He glanced at Mansy, but she, good woman, greatly wearied by the events of the day, was still slumbering, if her uneasy doze could be so described. So he commenced quietly to cast off the rope from the branch. "If I can but manage it, how nice it would be for Mansy to wake up and find herself at the house," he said. So the plucky little fellow pushed the tub from the embrace of the branches once more into the flow of the flood; but this time, instead of attempting to stem the stream and struggle to the house, he sought to guide the drifting of his clumsy little bark towards a hedge leading up to the one surrounding the grounds of the house. It was a difficult task, but not so difficult or so hopeless as endeavouring to reach the house by paddling direct up to it against the flood. Presently he was near enough to throw the rope to the hedge. Once! twice! thrice he threw it, before he was able to guide the tub at all by its aid. Then progress was slow at first, but at length the rope was twisted firmly round some branches, and he was able to pull the tub along hand over hand quite quickly. Once beside the hedge, his task was comparatively easy. By pulling at some of the branches, one after the other, he was able to urge his strange craft along, and soon he had reached the point in the hedge nearest the building. Then he paused to consider. Clearly it was of no use to continue beside the hedge. That would only lead him round the house, but not to the house itself. So he looked out for the nearest object to which he could throw the rope. Now, on the little lawn grew a rather tall laburnum tree. "If," thought Alfy, "I could fasten my rope round that, I could soon pull the tub up to it." After considering a few minutes he took the tin in which the tongue had been brought, and fastened it firmly to the end of the rope. "This will make it easier to throw," he said, "and the tin will be more likely to become entangled in the branches or twist round them." His plan was successful. After three or four ineffectual efforts the tin was caught firmly in the branches, and he commenced to haul the tub quite close to the tree. Then another difficulty presented itself. How should the tin be disentangled? He soon found that it could not be done from his position in the tub, for he could not reach it in any way; so he whipped out his knife ready to cut the rope. "Why, bless the boy! where are we?" Mansy was wide awake now. In his efforts to reach the tin he had shaken the tub a good deal and aroused her. "Oh, Mansy, I hoped you would have slept till I got you up to the house!" he said. "Me asleep in a washin' tub! think of that! Well, I was that dead tired I could have slep' anywheres, I do believe. But however did you get here, Master Alfy?" "Worked along by the hedge, Mansy." "You are a brave, clever boy, Alfy! And I do believe there's Miss Edith at the window with a light." "Are you there?" cried a bright, fresh, girlish voice. "At the laburnum tree," answered Alfy. "Oh! Do be quick," answered Edie. "We are so hungry. All the bread and butter and things that were left are spoiled by the water. And we have nothing to eat!" "And we have not much," said Mansy; "the sitiwation is really getting serious!" CHAPTER III. THE YOUNG NAVIGATOR. "The first thing is to get up to the house," said Alfy. "I shall have to jump into the water and wade, after all, Mansy." "I couldn't permit it, Master Alfy, indeed I couldn't!" replied his nurse decidedly. Alfy knew that when Mansy used that word "permit," her mind was very much made up indeed. It was one of her rare words, used only on great occasions and when much emphasis was intended. "Well, how are we to get to the house?" he said. "Let us consider. Oh, I know!" he exclaimed in a few moments. "Good idea! a jolly dodge!" "Can you get my bow and arrows, Edie?" he shouted, "and my kite string?" "What for?" "To shoot the string to us," he replied. "Unwind it, and tie one end to the arrow just above the feathers, and see if you can't shoot it to us." "Don't hit us!" screamed Mansy. Then the girls with the candle-light disappeared from the window, and the boy and the old nurse were left in the tub to await events. "What a long time the girls are!" he exclaimed presently. "I expect they cannot find the things." The girls were not really so long as appeared to the wearied watchers in the moonlight; but at length Edie and her sister, with Jane, the servant-maid, showed themselves again at the window. "Ah! they've got the bow and arrows," said Mansy. "Look out," cried Madge, "I don't want to hurt you." And Alfy and Mansy covered their faces and screwed themselves down in the tub as well as they could, the irrepressible Alfy laughing meanwhile, and saying he did not think they need take such great precautions. Mansy, however, was rather fidgety about it. "If the arrow did get into your eyes, you know, Master Alfy, I should never forgive myself!" she said. "But I should like to peep and see how Madge does it, you know," argued Alfy. "Now, I'm going to shoot," screamed Madge. She shot; and the arrow fell midway between the house and the boat. "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the boy outright "To think of making all that fuss for nothing." Then he cried aloud, "Pull the arrow back quick, Madge, and raise the bow higher when you shoot again; draw the bowstring back as far as you can." "And tie some more string to the kite line if it is not long enough," cried Mansy. So with much laughter from the girls they pulled the arrow back from the water by the string attached to it and tried again. They were not expert archers, and failed once more--failed indeed several times. But at last the arrow fell quite near the tub, and Alfy called out to his sisters not to draw it back as it floated closer, and then with the help of the handle of Mansy's bulgy umbrella he pulled it in and of course the kite string with it. This string was of great length. Alfy was fond of kite flying, and by adding together long pieces of string he had acquired a tether of considerable extent. To lengthen it still more, however, the girls had managed to find some more string, and so it came about that communication was established between the inhabitants of the house and the watchers in the tub. "That thin string will never pull us along," said Mansy doubtfully. "It'll break!" "Not if we help, I hope," exclaimed Alfy cheerfully. "We must paddle our hardest, so the strain on the line won't be so great." "Don't pull yet," he cried; "not till I tell you, Edie." Then he cut the tub free from the laburnum, and, pushing the umbrella hard against the trunk of the tree, gave the tub a vigorous push in the direction of the house; and while it was floating thither, he called out to the girls to pull the string lightly, and commenced to paddle at the same time. Mansy also endeavoured to help with her inseparable umbrella, and so now all of them were endeavouring to persuade the heavily laden and clumsy craft to float against the flood to the house. It was a tiresome task. The young navigator was obliged to go very slowly, and to constantly ask his sisters not to pull hard, lest the string should break. The vigorous push-off had given them a good start, and they made a little progress. Once the string broke, but Alfy was able to fish up the line, for it was near, and Mansy knotted the broken ends together again. He now began to be more expert with his improvised paddles, and the string just kept tight, but with scarcely any strain upon it, yet prevented the tub from "wobbling"--steered it in fact to the house, and helped to counteract the flow of the water. So gradually they progressed to the house. The moon was now declining, and a dark hour before the early dawn was at hand. "How I'm going to get inside that house I don't know!" ejaculated Mansy at last, after surveying the front for some little time. "I can't get through the door--that would let the water in,--and climb to the upper part of that winder, I couldn't!" "Oh, we'll manage it, dear Mansy, somehow, never fear! We are getting through our difficulties splendidly!" But when they did get the tub safe under the window--which was accomplished at last--and Alfy had expressed his joy with a loud hurrah, then the new difficulty presented itself in full force. They were afraid to open the lower sash of the window, as the level of the water was just above it. "How am I to scramble over the upper sash?" she exclaimed; "and how am I to get down on the other side?" "Yes! and the room is full of water," cried Edie from the window above. "Not full, Edie!" expostulated Alfy. "Well, there is a great deal all over the floor, and in all the lower rooms," explained his sister. "Oh! dear me! what a mess to clear up," exclaimed Mansy. "Let me get in and see," said Alfy sturdily. "Do take care, and don't cut yourself with the glass!" Mansy cried, as she saw him clambering up over the top sash of the window. This he had first pulled down as far as he could, and he also helped himself by the sash lines. The breaking of the glass might of course prove very dangerous, but he found another difficulty when, having climbed over the sash, he stood a-tiptoe on the bottom of the window frame inside the room, and clung for support to the top sash. How was he to descend? Inside the room was dark, but he thought he saw the gleam of water. He hesitated to jump at hazard, not knowing where he might alight. "Lower a candle, Edie," he cried, "and then I can see my way better!" So presently down came a lighted candle, bobbing to and fro as the little sister lowered it. Alfy caught it with one hand and held it inside the room. "Oh! what a mess," he exclaimed, as he saw the water all over the apartment, with teapot cosy, music, papers, wool-mats, and all kinds of well-known pleasant household things floating despondingly on its muddy surface. "What shall we do?" cried Mansy from the outside. "Oh! help me to get indoors, so that I can clear up a bit!" "I don't see yet how I am to get down, Mansy. The table is too far off for me to jump to it, and the water seems high!" "Oh! you mustn't get in the water, Master Alfy!" shrieked poor Mansy, "Oh, I am so tired of this rockety old washin' tub! Can't you get me out, Alfy dear?" "I'll get you out, Mansy, somehow, never fear," assented Alfy cheerily. "Now, Edie dear, can you let down a chair and some hassocks for me to stand on?" And the busy girls above tied string to the back of a chair and carefully lowered it, and some hassocks followed. Alfy soon placed the chair in the room and piled the hassocks on it. Then lightly stepping on to them, he was able to make his way to the table, and also to the sideboard. Next, by means of chairs and hassocks he made his way to the staircase, and, having hastily mounted it, put his head out of the nearest upstairs window and shouted, "Hullo, Mansy!" "Oh! bless the boy!" exclaimed Mansy with a start. "You have got up there, have you? I do wish I was safe up there, too, Alfy!" "You soon will be, Mansy," he replied cheerily. "Oh! we are glad you've come," cried his sisters, as he met them and kissed them. "But how are we to get Mansy up? She can never climb in through the window!" "She'd fall in the water," remarked Jane, "and there would be a pretty to-do!" "Do you think we could pull the tub up with Mansy in it to the window?" asked Alfy. "It would be very heavy," suggested Jane. "And Mansy might fall out," exclaimed the younger sister, with eager face and wide-open eyes. "The distance is not very great," remarked Alfy, as he leaned out of the window and looked down. "And it is less still, of course, up to the top sash of the window, where I got in. Oh! I know," he added joyfully; "we will push the table in the downstairs room close to the window and put a chair on it, and then, if we can pull Mansy up to the same level, she can creep in over the sashes of the window, on to the chair." "Oh! that will be delightful," said the girls. But, at first, Mansy would not hear of it. Poor Mansy! her ideas of dignity had been sadly disturbed this evening. "Me pulled up in a washin' tub?" she exclaimed. "The idea! the very idea of such a thing! And I know you'd let me fall!" "If we did, it wouldn't hurt you," said Alfy, "because the tub would float, you know. Come on, Mansy, it's the only way I can see!" She suffered herself to be persuaded by Alfy, and to yield to the logic of circumstances. So she fastened the piece of clothes-line that was left in the tub firmly through its two handles, and Alfy, with the girls, went downstairs, and, standing on chairs and hassocks, managed to push the table close up to the window, through which they expected Mansy to enter. Then a chair was placed upon it, so that she could creep in with comparative ease. The next thing was more difficult. It was to haul up the tub a little way with Mansy in it. By tying a piece of thin kite string to the end of the rope, they were able easily to pull up the rope from Mansy, and then they turned it round the bed-post, and all four pulled hard together. Mansy herself helped very much by pushing the paddles against the window ledge; and presently they felt that the tub was slowly moving. "Hurrah!" cried Alfy, "we shall do it!" "Oh! it's off the water, and swinging about; do be careful!" cried Mansy. "Steady it against the wall," cried Alfy. "Pull away, Jane; pull, Edie; now, all together!" And so with pulling and shouting, and with Mansy also doing her best to help, for she was thoroughly determined to enter the house this time, if possible, they raised the tub. But just as she was preparing to creep in the window--either the children relaxed their efforts, or they were not aware of the necessity of holding the rope very tight when not pulling--suddenly, down went the tub, splash! "Oh! oh! oh!" cried Mansy, "I shall be drowned." The children rushed to the window terror-stricken. But they soon found, to their great relief, that Mansy was more frightened than hurt, and in fact was not hurt at all, though much splashed with water. "Oh, I thought the rockety thing was going down," she cried; "it went down pretty far." "But it's all right, Mansy," said Alfy cheerfully; "and now, we'll try again, and keep tight hold this time!" Mansy was very frightened, but eventually she did try, and all working away for the same object, she did at last manage to clamber in on the chair, and pick her way on chairs and hassocks over the water to the stairs. Oh! what kissings and congratulations there were, when she found herself safe and sound, once more, with all the children! * * * * * Next morning the difficulty of providing food presented itself, as they knew it would. They had barely enough for one good meal. And as they scanned the watery scene around the house, there seemed no sign, and but little likelihood of any person coming to them from the village. "I must go in the tub to the nearest land," said Alfy, "and then run to the village. I shall not be long." "What! go in that rockety thing again, Alfy?" "Why, yes, Mansy. You see it will be lighter with only one in it. And I will take the line and rope. Oh! I shall manage." And so he pushed off. The flood was still flowing, and carried him quickly away from the house. He guided the tub to the laburnum tree, where a piece of the rope was still hanging. "I will get that rope," said he, and twisting a piece of the line in the tub round the tree, he climbed up. He found his task more difficult than he had supposed, but when he had succeeded and was about to descend, behold! to his amazement and chagrin the line had become loose, and the action of the water was just floating the tub away out of his reach. He made a desperate endeavour to save it by trying to throw into it the tin which was still attached to the rope in the tree. But it missed; and on floated the tub, slowly, but provokingly, bobbing about in the morning sunshine, leaving him alone in the tree! [Illustration: "ON FLOATED THE TUB, LEAVING HIM ALONE IN THE TREE!"] CHAPTER IV. "WHAT HAVE YOU HEARD?" What was to be done now? "This is a greater bother than any of the others," said Alfy. "I expect I shall have to wade or swim now, if I can. Then I must run to the village in my wet things. But how shall I get back to the house? Bother the tub, I say! However did it get loose?" The reason was that he had not fastened it very firmly; but then he did not expect he would be so long in the tree, nor did he think the current of the water would have such influence. But the tub had gone, and he must do the best he could without it. From his perch in the tree he could obtain a clear view of the flood. The muddy water glistened in the bright sunshine, as though trying to look pleasant. The house was, as we have said, in a hollow, or depression of the ground, and the flood, Alfy could see distinctly, came from some way behind the house, and flowed round and past it; but whence it came, or whither it went, he could not discover. "It can't come from the river," he said thoughtfully, "for that is in a different direction. I cannot imagine what causes it." Sundry things he noticed were floating on its surface. Here was a quantity of hay, sailing slowly and solidly along in a fairly compact mass; farther on a little yellow straw flashed in the sunshine; not far off again pieces of wood floated; and then, curiously enough, a little tin hand-bowl bobbing about quite pertly, as it was borne along. That tin bowl gave him an idea. "I know!" he cried; "I will ask Mansy and Edie to send off the old tin bath to me from the house." Thereupon he shouted loudly to attract their attention. At first they did not answer, and he could hear various sounds, indicating that Mansy was endeavouring to repair some of the mischief done by the flood. "They are busy," he said, and again he cried, louder this time than before. His shouts attracted Edie's attention, and she hastened to the window, where her exclamation of surprise soon brought the others. "Bless the boy!" exclaimed Mansy, "however did he get there? Where's the tub?" "Can you send me the old bath?" he cried. The girls disappeared hastily from the window, and Mansy cried again: "You are never going to get into that bath, Master Alfy, sure_ly_!" "Oh! I can manage it," he replied briskly, "if you can send it down to the tree. Tell them to put a pole or something in it, dear Mansy, for me to paddle it with." "You must be quick, Alfy, and get us some provisions," urged Mansy, "or I don't know what we shall do. We shall get starved!" Alfy laughed in the gaiety of his heart. He was a merry, cheerful, plucky little lad, who could not talk religion, but strove to act it. Nelson's grand words, "England expects every man to do his duty," was his motto, unexpressed though it was. "Never fear, Mansy," he cried, "I'll be back in good time. You shall have plenty to cook and eat to-day!" Then Mansy disappeared from the window, and Alfy soon heard sounds, as though the bath were being brought along. It was a somewhat high-backed sitz bath, which had seen some service in the family. Splash! Over it went from the window, and of course it fell bottom-upwards! "Ah-h-h!" he cried, "what a mull! Now I shall have to wait here a long time till it is righted. Take care, please; don't let it float away!" he shouted. He soon saw that quick-witted Edie had hastened below to the table, which had remained as it was placed last evening, and stretching out of the window with a broom, which was the handiest and most efficient thing she could readily find, was holding the bath to the house. In answer to Alfy's cries, Mansy went down to help Edie, and then the others following, they all endeavoured to turn the bath top upwards. This task they at length accomplished, with the help of one or two more brooms; and having fastened string round it to prevent its escape, it was launched with a vigorous push in Alfy's direction. It floated pretty buoyantly on the water, though its high back seemed to make it a little top-heavy. Well was it that the strange craft had been tethered, or it might have floated provokingly just out of Alfy's reach; but, with a little pulling and guidance by means of the string, it was coaxed near enough to Alfy, so that he could throw in his tin with the cord attached, and persuade it to float right under the tree. In a very short time he had cautiously descended and dropped into his novel boat. Yes, it floated still, though his weight caused it, of course, to sink deeper in the water. Perhaps, however, it was less liable to overturn, for its load ballasted it, and rendered it less top-heavy. With a loud "Hurrah!" he pushed off smartly from the tree, and giving one wave of the hand to those watching him from the house, turned his attention to navigating his strange craft to the shore. Now, for a paddle Edie had put in a long broom-handle, and grasping this in the middle, he plied it alternately one side and then the other. Strange use for a broom-handle; but the occupants of the Island House never expected to be caught by a flood like this, so they had to do the best they could. "Hullo! I must look out for that mass of hay!" said Alfy. "That I shall call an iceberg; or, no, a whale I think. Out of the way, whale!" he cried, pushing it off briskly with his indispensable broom-handle. Hard though he worked, he made but slow progress, his craft was so unwieldy and difficult to manage. "I wonder where the tub is!" he cried. "Why, actually there, stranded against the hedge! The tub was better than the bath. I've a good mind to go after that tub and bring both to land." And this the plucky little fellow accomplished. He was becoming quite expert in the use of the paddles, and, of course, as soon as he came to the hedge-top, he was able to propel the bath along more quickly. He fastened the tub and bath together, and then transferring himself to the former, set to work to bring both to the bank. He found it a difficult task, but he persevered, and in a short time was successful. At last he leaped on dry land. With a triumphant shout, he attracted the attention of Mansy and his sisters to his success, and then, after firmly mooring his fleet--as he called the tub and the bath--he set off quickly for the village. Now, his way led him soon beside a tall hedge. And, as he was hastening along, he became aware of voices on the other side. At first he paid little attention, but then a word or two about the flood struck his ear. "If I could see them," he said, "I would ask how it was caused." But--what was one voice saying? "If I told what I knew about your neglecting your duty, you would catch it hot, I can tell you." "But you won't tell, I'm sure," replied the other. "I don't know so much about that." "I didn't mean to," whined the other. "Didn't mean to! Of course you didn't. Still you did it. And this here ter'ble flood is the result. You was in drink, you know you was; and you was careless, and didn't do your dooty. You ought to have watched, and given the alarm, and the banks might have been mended, and the flood saved." Alfy heard every word distinctly. There was an opening in the hedge a little farther on, and the voices seemed to be going towards it, even as he was himself. "Who'd have thought," said the second man apologetically, "that that stout wall would have burst." "You may be thankful it didn't burst the other side," answered the first man, "and the water flooded Tarn'ick. It's bad enough as it is, coming to the village; but it would have been very much worse then." So this was the cause of the flood. The reservoir which supplied the populous town of Tarnwick had burst, and its contents had poured down towards the village. And had the village suffered at all? Alfy was anxious to know. And how had the man neglected his duty, and caused the flood? The lad was now near the opening in the hedge, and he suddenly, but distinctly, saw the two men whom he had heard talking. He did not recognise either of them; but, at sight of him, they started in surprise, and stopped at once, and looked at him strangely, as though to ask what he had heard. Alfy walked straight on, past the opening in the hedge, as though the men were not there, and on through the pleasant field. But the faces of those men were impressed on his mind, and he felt he should know them again. Certainly their conversation had given him something to think of, but the chief thing now that he had to do was to purchase provisions, and have them conveyed to the house. Should he find much damage done at the village? That question was soon answered, for, on arriving there, he found that the flood had passed it almost entirely by. Most of the houses were on fairly high ground, and the river being near, much of the water had flowed thither. Yet some of the cottages in the lower part had suffered, and Alfy heard much of them, and of a farmhouse and its buildings, which had also been flooded. He heard, too, of the difficulties which had been experienced in saving some of the animals. He knew that farmhouse well. He and his sisters had played there with the children who lived under its pleasant roof. The flood had come so suddenly, and the house wherein Alfy lived was in such a retired spot, that no one seemed to have thought of it and its inmates. He therefore found himself listened to with eagerness and some surprise when he told of their condition. "And how am I to send you these goods, then?" asked Mr. Daw, the tradesman of whom Alfy had been ordering a supply of grocery. "I could send them by cart, but I have not a boat." "Do you know where I could borrow one?" asked Alfy anxiously. Well, Mr. Daw was not sure. There were a few boats on the river, but how was one to be brought from thence to the flood near the house? Nevertheless, he thought of a few persons to whom Alfy could apply, and the boy left him, after arranging that he would return later to point out the spot where the goods were to be taken. Alfy bought a few more goods, a joint of meat among them, at some other shops, directing them to be taken to Mr. Daw, who had promised to send all together. The boy had then a troublesome task; it was to find a boat or some means of conveying the provisions to the Island House. He had not time to talk much to any of the acquaintances and friends he met, though they were greatly interested in the condition of affairs at his home, and various were the directions he received as to the best means of getting a boat. The river was a small one. It was stony in parts, so that there was not much boating. Still there were one or two kept at points along its course, and Alfy found himself, at length, asking a jolly-looking old gentleman, to whom he had been directed, but whom he did not know at all, if he would lend his boat, and telling him why it was wanted. "Eh! what! house all surrounded by water? Quite an island, eh? That's what we used to learn at school--Island House, eh?" "Yes, that is what we call it," laughed Alfy, somewhat reassured by the jolly old gentleman's cheerfulness and geniality. "Of course I'll lend the boat," said the old gentleman. "That's what we've got to do, help one another--and mind you think of that, my boy; but the question is, how can you get it up to the house?" "I heard that the flood was running into the river," replied Alfy, "so I thought I could row up that way." "What! you row up against the flood!" exclaimed the jolly old gentleman; "you can't do it." "I can try," said Alfy. "Well, I might try and help you, but I am not much of a rower, and my son--it is he, really, who uses the boat--he is away from home. I question if I could pull my own weight. Most mysterious thing this flood. Where does it come from? How did it happen?" So Alfy told what he had heard beside the hedge. "Eh! what! eh! this is getting serious! One of the banks of Tarnwick reservoir burst! One man saying it is because of another's carelessness! This must be seen to. What sort of men were they? Should you know them again?" And the jolly old gentleman who was now looking very serious, drew from Alfy all he knew about the men he had heard talking by the hedge. "I must see to this quickly," said the old gentleman. "Send a policeman after them. Take the boat, my lad, and keep her as long as she is of any use to you. Good-bye, and good luck." And away he went. Knowing that speed was very necessary, Alfy decided to try and row up the boat at once. At first, he thought he would seek help from some friends in the village. Then he determined not to do so. The village was some little distance from the jolly old gentleman's house, and some time, he thought, would be wasted in going to and fro. So he jumped in the boat, and cast off. This was a case, however, of "more haste, less speed." If he had obtained assistance he would have made much better progress. The stream was against him, and he found it hard work pulling against it. But nothing seemed to daunt this boy's pluck. "Put your back into it," he remembered an old boatman said, when last summer's holiday he and his sisters were rowing on a tidal river at a seaside resort, and now indeed he strove hard to put his back into his rowing. He was certainly making progress. To escape the force of the current as far as possible he was creeping along by the shore. He was thinking whether he would row as near as he could to the village, and then jump out and tell Mr. Daw he had secured a boat, or whether he should row on to where he had left the tub and bath. "I want to have as little distance to row the laden boat as I can," he said; "and I cannot take anyone to the house unless they will stay there, as we shall want the boat. What fun we will have to-morrow rowing about, and going for milk and things! I will point out the spot to Mr. Daw's man where they can be brought." He was just considering which course he should pursue when suddenly his boat was stopped, and he heard some words which almost sent his heart jumping to his mouth. "I say, youngster, what was it you heard me and my mate say this morning?" CHAPTER V. WITH TIED WRISTS. Alfy turned. Yes, one of the men he had heard talking beside the hedge, that morning, was leaning from the bank, and had stopped the boat. He looked lowering and threatening. "You don't budge an inch," growled he, "till you've told me what you have been to Squire Watkins's for." "To borrow this boat." "Something else as well," said the man. "What did you hear me and my mate saying this morning, and what have you told about it?" "What right have you to ask me?" replied Alfy sturdily. "I'll soon show you the right," exclaimed the man gruffly, at the same time raising his hand. "Now, then, out with it!" "Out with what?" said Alfy doggedly. Bang! Alfy felt a heavy blow on his head, which made the fire flash from his eyes, and nearly knocked him overboard; but, tingling with pain and indignation, he swept round the oar he held in his right hand, and struck the man sharply on the shoulder. His assailant seized the oar, and a smart struggle ensued, in which the man's superior strength and position enabled him to be victorious. He wrested the oars from Alfy, and then, after cuffing him soundly, and calling him an "insolent young warmint," tied him tightly to the skiff with the boat-rope--which is commonly called the painter. Alfy, smarting with the injustice of the attack, managed to administer a few wholesome kicks to his assailant during the struggle. Then a long, low whistle sounded, and the man hurried away, leaving the boy bound and aching in the boat. The day was now fast wearing on, and the sun was beginning to sink in the heavens. As Alfy lay back in the boat his mind was racked with anxiety about the provisions, and his promises to take back food to the Island House. His sisters and Mansy might starve if he could not get the provisions to them. Then he shouted aloud to attract attention. No answer came. His voice seemed borne back upon him as from an empty void. Again and again he called until he grew weary with shouting, and sickened with suspense and anxiety and disappointment. He seemed as far from his kind here as if he were alone in the deserts of Arabia. Then he bethought him once more of self-help. "I wonder if I could free myself," he said. "I have got over several difficulties lately, perhaps I can get over this one also." He struggled upwards to a sitting position, and looked at his bonds. His wrists and ankles were tied pretty firmly, and one end of the rope was of course fastened to the boat. "I suppose that rascal tied me up like this to give himself time to escape," said Alfy thoughtfully, as he looked down at the rope. "He thinks I know a lot about him, and will tell what I know, and he wants to get a good start. I wonder if I could undo these knots with my teeth? They crack nuts, why not untie knots? I will try." [Illustration: "'I WONDER IF I COULD UNDO THESE KNOTS WITH MY TEETH? I WILL TRY.'"] Happily his teeth were strong and sharp--teeth which many an older person would have envied. He was plucky and persevering also, and he set to work with a will to gnaw, or unfasten, or "worry" open the tough knots which bound him. It was a stiff job, and a tiring one too. But he kept on pluckily, and would not give up. The sun sank lower in the heavens, and the beautiful summer afternoon wore on. "Oh! how they will wonder what has become of me at home!" he sighed. "I must be quick," and he redoubled his efforts. But he found the task too difficult. The rope was hard and tough, and time was fast passing. His teeth and jaws quite ached with the unwonted use to which he was putting them. So after thinking over another plan he changed his tactics entirely. Though his wrists were tied, his fingers were comparatively free; he could, for instance, grasp firmly with them anything that was not very large. He had noticed that the end of the rope tethering the boat had been tied to the bough of a young willow near the water's edge. He resolved to break that bough, and then slowly work the boat along by pulling at the grass, reeds, or anything on the bank. In a short time he carried out the first part of his programme. Compared with gnawing at the hard rope, the twisting of the supple bough backwards and forwards, until he wrested it from the parent stem, was but a light task. It was more difficult to work the boat along against the stream. Yet by patience and pluck and perseverance--the three "p's" that all young folks should seek to acquire--he managed to succeed. "Should that man come back to trouble me," he said, "he will find me gone; that will be something. Still I do not quite see how I am to get the things for the house, tied as I am to this boat." Pluckily he pulled at the grass and reeds, and worked the boat along. When he had gone some distance from the point where the man had fastened the boat, he shouted again, and he continued to shout at intervals. But no cry answered his own. There was no sound but the lapping of the water against the boat or the murmur of the wind. So some time passed. Alfy was getting very weary and hungry. There seemed no chance of help coming to him, and the situation was the more vexing, as he felt that his knife in his pocket, if he could but have got it, would soon have made short work of the knots. But in the circumstances the knife might have been left at the house, for all the good it was to him. At length he came to the place where the flood poured into the river. "Hurrah!" he cried, "this does look like making progress. Now I will try and get as near as I can to the house." It was at times more difficult to make progress on the flood than on the stream, for there was no decided bank such as edged the river; but he took advantage where he could of anything on the brink of the water, such as a hurdle or a bush, a stile or a hedge, and pluckily kept at his work. In the village, Mr. Daw was getting quite fidgety at Alfy's absence. "What can have happened to the lad?" said he. "The boy would surely not be so long in finding a boat, and if he could not find one he would have been here to say so. Jones, just you put all these things in the pony cart and get as near as you can to Fairglen." Fairglen was the right and proper name of the Island House. "He has evidently been to other shops," continued Mr. Daw. "Here's a large sirloin of beef from Smithers, and quite a cargo of bread from Deane's, and vegetables and fruit from Wilson's. Why, good gracious me! one would think they were going to stand a siege up at Fairglen. I 'spect it is as the lad says, they've got nothing at all to eat. What can be keeping the boy I can't think." "Prap's he's tumbled into the water, please, sir, and got drownded," drawled out Jones slowly. "Get on quickly and put these things in the cart," said his master sharply. Jones' slow ways and stupid remarks generally annoyed Mr. Daw. In quick time the goods for the Island House were packed in the grocer's little cart, and the slow Jones seated himself in front. "Drive as near to Fairglen as you can," said his master, "and shout aloud to attract attention. Now, mind you deliver the goods quickly." "As quickly as I can," replied Jones, a grin slowly spreading over his expansive face. Thus it came about in time that while Alfy was slowly working his way along by the brink of the flood, the well-meaning but rather stupid Jones was staring in profound astonishment at the tub and the tin bath Alfy had left in the morning. "Well, I never!" exclaimed Jones. "They be rum boats, they be!" He had driven the cart up the lane as far as he could, and after tethering the horse, was now rambling beside the water. "But how I'm to carry the meat and taters and sugars over to the house in them things I don't know!" Then he remembered his master's injunction to shout, and he shouted accordingly. "I wish I knew where that young gent had got to!" continued Jones, and again he raised his hoarse voice, and shouted. "Why, what's that 'ere?" he exclaimed. "Is it an ecker, or is it the young gent?" Again he shouted, as loud as he could this time, and then paused. Yes, faint and clear came an answering shout. There was no mistake this time! "Why, there he be!" exclaimed Jones in astonishment. "There he be! there he be!" Then he began to move slowly in the direction of the shout, and called aloud again. The answer was louder and more distinct this time. "I be getting nearer to him," chuckled Jones, "that I be!" But when presently he came close enough to see the young boatman distinctly he stood still in complete amazement, with eyes and mouth wide open. The sapient Jones had had other things to astonish him considerably to-day, what with the flood and the tub and the bath, but this beat all. Here was Alfy tied to the boat, and labouring with bound wrists to work the skiff along. "Don't stand staring there!" cried Alfy. "Can't you give me a hand?" "Well I never!" exclaimed Jones. "Whatever did you tie yourself like that for?" "Tie myself!" replied Alfy impatiently; "I didn't tie myself. Come, cut the rope quickly, and help me along." "I ain't got no knife!" "Oh, get mine out of my pocket, and do be quick, please." "Well, I never did see anything like this afore!" spluttered Jones, as he tumbled into the boat. "My stars! however did you get tied up like this 'ere?" Alfy did not vouchsafe any explanation, but gave him directions as to getting the knife quickly, and cutting the rope. "Oh, how jolly!" he exclaimed, as he rose and stretched himself, when, after several clumsy efforts on Jones' part, he was at last made free. "Now, can you row?" he continued briskly. "How fur do 'ee want to go?" "As far as a tub and a bath----" "I see 'em!" interrupted Jones gleefully. "Well, I want to get there, and then to hurry to Mr. Daw for some things," exclaimed Alfy. "Things for Fairglen!" asked Jones, "'cos I got 'em, meat and taters and all!" "Oh, that's right! Where are they?" "In the cart, not far off." "Well, can you row this boat, or shall we tow it along? Perhaps that will be best." "Oh, I can pull with the rope," said Jones; "pull the boat and you too; you look tired enough." So now, after his hard work, Alfy was able to lie back delightfully at his ease in the boat, and feel he was being drawn quickly along. When they reached the two clumsy crafts Alfy had left in the morning he found them quite high and dry. "The flood is subsiding," he said. "Perhaps by to-morrow this time the water will all have gone!" "P'raps it will," was Jones' reply, "and p'raps it won't. But I 'spects reservore's pretty nigh empty now." "Oh, you've heard it's the reservoir?" exclaimed Alfy. "Do you know how the water came to flow out?" "I heerd as how the wall looking this way suddenly bust," answered Jones, "and the water all rushed down here." "But don't you know how the wall came to burst?" persisted Alfy. "No-o; I can't say as how I do," replied Jones slowly, rubbing his head and knitting his brows as though deeply pondering the knotty point. "Well, now, we must hasten on," said Alfy. "Where are those things for the house? Are they far?" "They are in the cart in the lane." "How can they be brought here?" asked Alfy. "Shall I help? Can't you bring the pony and cart through that gate? Let us be quick!" "I think as how you and I must carry them here in lots," drawled slow-witted Jones. "I don't think pony and cart could come." "Well, be sharp then!" urged Alfy, springing from the boat. "Why, I do believe Mansy can see us from the house." And he shouted, and waved his handkerchief. "Now, come on," cried he, "and show me where the things are." The transferring of the goods from Mr. Daw's cart took some time, and made the youths very tired, for it was some little distance off. But Alfy was determined to start for the house as quickly as possible, and continued to urge on the slow-coach Jones; so that the task was accomplished more speedily than he had thought would be the case. But then a new difficulty presented itself. Alfy wished to tie the tub and bath to the boat and take them back to the house, but he found that if he did so, wearied as he was, he could not row the laden boat against the flood. So he was finally obliged to take Jones with him. Even then the task was difficult, for Jones was not an expert oarsman. At length, however, the house was reached, and with joy and gladness, shoutings and hearty congratulations, the goods were borne in through the window, and on to the table as before. Mansy and Alfy's sisters were rejoiced to see him. He had been so long away they feared some accident had befallen him; but he did not tell what had happened until Jones had gone. For Jones had to go back, and of course he went in the boat. This was against Alfy's plan, but he could not help it. Jones could not leave the pony all night, and he could not navigate Alfy's tub. So promising to send some one with the boat in the morning, he departed. Yet, if Alfy had known what would happen with that boat in the night he would have gone with Jones, and tired as he was, would have brought it back. But he did not know; and after a hearty supper all the inmates of the Island House retired to bed. They had hardly passed out of their beauty sleep--_i.e._, the slumber before midnight--when, as the clocks were striking twelve, and an early chanticleer was crowing for the morn, Edie was awakened by some mysterious sounds--sounds as of something bumping against the walls of the house outside. CHAPTER VI. AN UNWELCOME VISITOR. She listened. Yes, it was so. Distinctly she heard something knock against the wall outside and underneath her window. Her first thought was to arouse her brother. "But he must be so tired," she said; so she decided to awaken Mansy instead. The good woman was sleeping in the room next to Edie's, so that it would not be very difficult for the little maiden to go to her. Edie sprang from her bed, her heart beating fast, and was creeping along to Mansy's room, when, noticing the moon shining brightly, she thought she would look out and see if she could discover what had bumped against the wall. Just now everything was very quiet. Cautiously, therefore, she peeped out of her window. No one was to be seen, and the water in the moonlight looked very peaceful and still. But just underneath was a boat--the very boat, as it seemed to her, that Alfy had used that evening. "Oh, I expect that boy from Mr. Daw's brought it back," she said; "that is all. How foolish of me to be frightened. I expect he got another boat and rowed this one back, and has now returned. I hear no sound down below. He must have gone. It was very kind of him to bring the boat. I don't think I need wake Mansy now. Everything seems very quiet." So the little maiden crept back to bed, and secure in the idea that she had solved what had seemed to her something of a mystery, she was soon sound asleep again. But in the early morning, when the busy-minded Mansy, anxious to get forward with the work of the day, descended to the kitchen, what was her amazement and horror, to discover a man lying at full length, and fast asleep, on the table. Her first impulse was to seize the handy broom, and either sweep him away in some mysterious manner into the water, or else challenge him to mortal combat; but wiser counsels prevailed. Mansy thought of a little plan; and her worthy face looked quite knowing as, chuckling to herself, she hastily removed all the food from the room, and then carefully locked the door from the outside. "Now, there is my gentleman safe and sound," she said. "If he gets out of the window he falls into the water and is drownded; while o' course we must see that he doesn't break the door down while Master Alfy is fetching a policeman; so there he is. Horrid idjot! what did he want to come here for; and how did he come?" A glance outside showed her the boat, and showed her also that the water was certainly subsiding. "That's a mercy!" said Mansy; "but, oh! what a mess the garden and everything will be in!" The interior of the house showed that Mansy had been busy, for it presented a much more comfortable and tidy appearance than when she returned. A quantity of the water had been bailed out through the windows; and the cracks of the doors had been tightly plugged to prevent water trickling in again. To-day Mansy wished to continue her tidying arrangements, and she also wanted to cook a good dinner. "Bother the man!" she exclaimed. "What a nuisance he is in the kitchen, when I wanted to have everything ready there!" And she commenced to boil a little water for breakfast over her spirit lamp. Just then the unwelcome visitor gave more evidence of being a nuisance. He had awakened, and finding the door locked, and no means of egress but into the water, he began knocking the panels of the portal to attract attention. "Knock away, my gentleman, knock away!" said Mansy. "You won't get out except into a policeman's arms, I can tell you!" The noise soon brought down the children, and Mansy speedily explained the position of affairs. "Then it was somebody I heard in the night," exclaimed Edie. "I thought of waking you, Mansy." And she told her experience during the dark watches. "As things have turned out, it does not matter," said Mansy; "and I am glad you did not wake me. Out he doesn't come 'cept into a policeman's arms. Do you hear that, you wagabone?" "I'll break the door down," he shouted, "if you don't open it." And he continued to knock loudly. "Why," said Alfy, "that is like the voice of the man who treated me so badly yesterday. I wonder if it is he! Yes, I do believe it is," he added, as he heard the man shout again. "Oh, we must keep the door fast. Let us put chairs and tables against it!" "It will be of no use for you to break the door," cried Alfy aloud, "for we are going to put things against it! What did you come here for?" "I didn't mean no harm," grumbled the man. "I haven't took nothing. I only come for a sleep." Then after a pause he commenced to knock the door more heavily than before. "Be quick, Master Alfy; oh, do be quick, and get a policeman! We can pile up things against the door," and Mansy commenced at once to drag a table towards it. "I have put some breakfast ready for you in the dining-room. Take something to eat as you go along." So in a very short time Alfy found himself sculling the boat along to the shore. He noticed that the flood had much subsided during the night. Indeed, but for the fact that the house lay in a hollow, the water might perhaps have gone down before. He found the village policeman more easily than some of the blue-coated brethren are said to be found. He was at his house, rather tired after his perambulations during the night. Alfy quickly told his errand, and described the man. "Why, I b'lieves it's the very cove as I'm in search of!" exclaimed the policeman. "Looked for him all night, I have; I 'spects he thought your house was empty in the flood, and he should be safe there for the night. But he's reg'lar caught hisself in a trap, ain't he?" And policeman 451 Z. of the Blankshire constabulary chuckled. Then he took out a pair of handcuffs, looked at them, turned them round, clinked them together, and slipped them back into his pocket. "If," said he, "it is as how my man don't go quiet they may come in handy." "Hadn't we better hurry on?" asked Alfy. "He may break the door down and overturn the things." "I don't think he will," said the policeman, shaking his head. "Howsomdever, we will go." And taking a long drink of cold tea, he put some bread and cheese in his pocket, and exclaimed, "Now I'm ready." The two sallied forth, and before very long they had reached the house. As the policeman had anticipated, the man had not beaten the door down, and when it was opened he walked almost literally into the policeman's arms, as Mansy had said. "I'll go quiet," said the man, who in fact looked tired and hungry. "You needn't put on them things," glancing at the shining steel handcuffs. "I s'pose, missus," he said, looking at Mansy, "you couldn't give a half-starved creetur a crust o' bread, could ye? I'm dead beat!" "Well! did you ever!" exclaimed Mansy. "After breaking into one's house, then axin' for bread! The imperence!" "Now then, come on!" said the policeman; "you'll have some food at the lock-up. Get into that boat, smart!" Airy had looked closely at the man. Yes, it was the same who had tied him in the boat yesterday. Should he give him something to eat? The boy hesitated. The man looked very worn and weary. Then the lad thought of the words,--"If thine enemy hunger, feed him." He hesitated no longer. He slipped into the dining-room, took a large slice of bread, and pressed it into the man's hand just as the policeman hustled him off. Then he hurried away, scarcely hearing the man's thanks, though seeing his look of surprise. That day was a busy one for the inhabitants of the Island House. Mansy was very anxious that as far as possible every sign of the damage done by the water should be repaired and cleared away. So she kept the young people well employed. But the Island House, however, was rapidly becoming an Island House no longer, for the flood continued to subside on every hand. When the man was examined before the magistrates, of course Alfy had to be present to testify what he knew about the matter, and the causes of the flood were thoroughly investigated. To do him justice, the man himself did not attempt to conceal anything. His fault was chiefly that of gross carelessness and neglect of duty. The wall of the reservoir had showed signs of weakness which he had failed to report to his superior officers. In fact, he had seen but little of those signs, for, instead of keeping to his work, he had wasted his time in drinking; and on the afternoon when the wall burst he was loitering in a public-house some distance off. He hid in the Island House for the night, not knowing anyone was still there. The heavy rains of an exceptionally wet July had increased the volume of water in the reservoir to a great extent, and placed a much greater strain on the weakened wall. Hence it came to pass that when the increased pressure came, the wall not being repaired and strengthened, gave way with a crash. As the man had entered the Island House, he was committed for trial at the next assizes, and Alfy was complimented on his bravery and cleverness. Next morning, when the children came down, they were quite astonished to find that the water had all disappeared, and the garden and grounds looked very strange and muddy after their long and unusual bath. "Why! where has the flood gone to?" exclaimed Edie. "It has quite vanished away in the night." "It was subsiding quickly yesterday," said Alfy. "Now that we have done up the damage in the house, we must see what we can do for the garden," urged Mansy. "Why here is the postman coming up the path, just as if nothing had happened!" "A letter from Auntie Rose!" cried Edie, taking the packet from the postman. "Perhaps she asks us all to the seaside." That was exactly what Auntie Rose did ask, as they found when they read the letter. She was staying with their cousins in Devonshire, and thought they might come at once, as she knew of suitable apartments for them. Their parents, too, who were on the Continent, might perhaps join them there soon. "Oh, that will be jolly!" cried the children. "And when we come back," said Alfy, "I expect all signs of the flood will have gone. It has not been a bad time, though, has it, Mansy?" "Perhaps not so very bad, Master Alfy," said Mansy, laughing; "only I could not abear that rockety tub. Now let us tidy the garden." THE END. 
31889	----	produced from scans of public domain works at the University of Michigan's Making of America collection.) THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI FLOOD OF 1874. ITS EXTENT, DURATION AND EFFECTS. A CIRCULAR FROM MAYOR WILTZ, OF NEW ORLEANS, TO THE MAYORS OF AMERICAN CITIES AND TOWNS, AND TO THE PHILANTHROPIC THROUGHOUT THE REPUBLIC, IN BEHALF OF SEVENTY THOUSAND SUFFERERS IN LOUISIANA ALONE. NEW ORLEANS: PICAYUNE STEAM BOOK AND JOB PRINT, 66 CAMP STREET. 1874 MAYORALTY OF NEW ORLEANS. NEW ORLEANS, MAY 30th, 1874. On the 25th instant, the kind favor of the Western Union Telegraph Company enabled me to send to the Mayors of thirty-four large American cities the following dispatch: "By request of Relief Committee and leading citizens, I again call on American cities in behalf of fifty-four thousand victims of the great flood, for such aid as your prosperity may permit or your philanthropy prompt you to grant. Contributions in cash and provisions in thirty-five days have been less than one hundred and eighty thousand dollars. In fifteen days our means will be exhausted. The demand for relief will continue great and urgent for many weeks. Daily rations have been distributed to about forty-five thousand--eight thousand furnished by the Government. Painful anxiety as to the results is general. "Nothing but large increase of resources for relief can prevent the horrors of famine and great loss of life. We need a million of dollars more. Details will be given by mail. LOUIS A. WILTZ, Mayor and Treasurer of Relief Fund." To give the information promised, to extend the appeal to many other cities and to towns and corporate institutions, to enlist the aid of philanthropic journalists and to lay before the members of the national legislature a statement of facts for their guidance, I issue this circular, with the hope that the great and increasing distress and danger in which the inhabitants of the overflowed regions now are may thus be made more widely known and the situation better understood. The Mississippi River in average high water from Memphis to the Gulf is confined by artificial banks or levees to a channel, varying from half a mile to a mile in width. But for these embankments the unparalleled flood of this year would have formed, for all this distance, a continuous lake, covering the whole alluvial country, from twenty-five miles to one hundred and seventy-five miles in width, and more than six hundred miles long. But in spite of these levees, considerably more than one-half of this area has been submerged. The levees could not withstand the Mississippi in its mighty and ruthless violence, and they gave way in numerous crevasses, varying from one hundred to five thousand feet in width, aggregating fully six miles. Through these great chasms the flood has been pouring since the 15th April, in a stream seven feet in average depth and at the rate of more than seven miles an hour. More water is even now flowing from the great river over the farms and plantations of Arkansas, Mississippi and Louisiana, than falls over Niagara. This outflow must continue until the river recedes below its natural banks, an indefinite period. In some years high water has lasted a long time. In 1858 the river remained at its maximum 87 days and in 1859 at Vicksburg, 129 days. The flood of 1874, is higher than either, or than any on record. The vast area of the overflow is estimated as follows by Wm. J. McCulloh, Esq.: formerly and for many years United States Surveyor General for Louisiana, a practical engineer and especially familiar with the inundated districts. "I estimate the area submerged by crevasses, and overflow by high and back water, to be in _Louisiana_ about 8,065,000 acres, or 12,600 square miles. It is impossible, in many places, to define the line of separation between the crevasse and overflow water--the former soon reaching the flat land mingles with the latter. "This overflow extents over all, or nearly all of each of the following parishes: Carroll, Madison, Tensas, Concordia, Avoyelles, Point Coupee, West Baton Rouge, Iberville, St. Martin, larger part of New Iberia and of St. Mary, Terrebonne, larger part of Lafourche, Ascension, St. Charles, St. John Baptiste, Jefferson, St. Bernard, part of Plaquemine, Morehouse, Richland, Catahoula, Franklin, Caldwell, Ouachita, and St. Landry. "Were it not for the levees, the whole of the lands west of the Mississippi river, with a belt say of 35 miles from the Arkansas line to Red River--those west of the Atchafalaya, with a breadth of 15 miles from Red River to the Gulf--all from Red River to the Gulf west of the Mississippi river and east of the Atchafalaya--and all east of the river from Baton Rouge to the sea--these including a large part of the cotton region and very nearly all of the section cultivated in rice and sugar, and embracing the city of New Orleans, _would be annually submerged_, being about one sixth of the area of the State, and the most fertile and valuable part of it. "In Mississippi the submerged district is about 2,500,000 acres, and with the exception of a narrow depth of high land fronting the Mississippi river has an average width of about 30 miles, and a length of 130 miles, stretching from Alcorn's landing, in Coahuma county, to Vicksburg, being in that county; in Bolivar, Sunflower, Washington, Isaquena and Warren counties, and comprising what is known as the Yazoo and Mississippi Delta, bounded on the east by the Yazoo river, and the highlands, about 15 miles east of the Sunflower river, in the very heart of the richest cotton region of that State. "In Arkansas the overflow from opposite to Memphis to Helena (about 100 miles direct) has an average width of 40 miles, being all of the county of Crittenden, part of St. Francis and of Phillipps; and from Helena to the Louisiana line, has an average width of 30 miles, being part of Arkansas and Desha Counties, and all of Chicot. To the interior, it covers part of Ouachita, Calhoun, and Union Counties, bordering on the Ouachita river, and has on either side of the White and Arkansas rivers a width of 20 miles. As nearly as I can estimate, the overflowed portion of Arkansas would be about 2,000,000 acres." W. J. McCULLOH. In Louisiana 8,065,000 In Mississippi 2,500,000 In Arkansas 2,000,000 --------- 12,565,060 acres. The inundation, beginning two months ago, reached enormous and alarming proportions by April 16th, continued spreading until May 15th, and only began to show signs of receding about May 20th. Several weeks must pass before now submerged lands become tillable, perhaps one-third by June 20th, one-third more by the 10th July, the remainder in some indefinite time longer and too late for any crop this year. As to the condition in which the subsiding flood will leave the sufferers, I quote from a recent published letter of the Hon. J. M. Sandidge, of our Relief Committee, who hears or reads the appeals of the distressed and who is well acquainted with the overflowed region and the situation of the inhabitants. The few mules, horses and cattle preserved from the flood will be unfit for any immediate service, and must continue to live, if they live at all, upon the leaves, moss and cane tops, until such time as the grass can grow again. The people, with nothing now, will have no more when the water subsides; and cannot have until the land can be made to yield its fruits. How are they to be fed and supported until such time? Death by famine on the dry, but barren ground, would be quite as terrible as to have been swallowed up in the waters! The Relief Committee see and understand all this, and it is a source of the most sickening anxiety to know that they will be impotent to avert what seems inevitable. The people, as rapidly as possible, and under whatever circumstances, hardships and sacrifices, must begin quickly to make arrangements for themselves by engaging for food and raiment alone, to work, wherever work on such terms can be had; and if not to be had in their present neighborhoods, to seek it in more distant places, if able to reach them. It is true that a great part of the most helpless and destitute would be, by such policy, left where they are, to live upon public charities, or perish in the swamps. Nothing less than $1,000,000 in supplies will enable these people to re-commence and continue to labor where they are, until the earliest products of the soil can give subsistence, and if not sustained to that extent who shall say what crimes may not be committed, if crime it could be called, in the desperation of these starving thousands, thrown upon communities, now barely self-supporting? This is a gloomy picture truly, but it is best always to look dangers straight in the face, and see them in their full proportions, if they are to be averted. However generous the people of the country, and of the cities and towns might be, adequate relief from such quarters, could not be depended on; there can be no sufficient aid extended, except through the bounty of the General Government. The contributions in money to our relief fund amount to about one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Donations in provisions from Western cities received before May 29th were, 585 barrels of flour, 218 sacks flour, 54 barrels crackers, 13 half-barrels crackers, 239 barrels meal, 41 boxes crackers, 79 barrels pork, 74,631 pounds bacon, 23 barrels beef, 76 barrels beans, 41 barrels potatoes, together with a shipment from Lexington, Kentucky, of 25 barrels flour, 29 barrels of meal, 900 pounds bacon, 14 sacks of potatoes, 2 barrels sugar, 2 bales and 1 box merchandize, 2 boxes shoes, 1 box clothing. The list of donations includes many valuable articles not above given, consisting of garden seeds, cotton seed, seed corn, clothing, &c. Extensive shipments of provisions have also been announced from Cincinnati, making the total value of donations for relief, not cash, about thirty-five thousand dollars. Up to May 22nd, there had been received from the U. S. Commissary, 608 barrels pork, 1864 barrels army bread, 112 barrels beans, 658 barrels meal, and 87,092 pounds bacon. From this source are obtained 8000 daily rations, which will be continued until June 15th, or longer. Our total shipments to May 29th, were: 1,767 barrels pork 411,260 rations. 201,132 pounds bacon 361,509 " 7,512 barrels meal 1,201,920 " 3,782 " crackers 321,470 " 922 " flour 163,194 " 279 " beans 418,500 " 59 " seed potatoes--175 sacks of salt. 470 sacks cotton seed--700 sacks seed corn. 19 cases garden seeds--16 cases drugs and sundries. Our committee have been shipping supplies thirty days, ending May 29th, averaging 56,219 rations daily which have subsisted at least 70,000 people, the local agents of distribution having been instructed to reduce their _per capita_ issues. With this economy we cannot continue relief to the above numbers with only our present resources beyond the 15th of June. Be not deceived by the falls which may take place in the Mississippi, and be reported from time to time. The waters of the overflow do not drain off by the river's channel nor return to it, but flow to the Gulf of Mexico along the great lake above described. The cultivated lands in the Ouachita and Atchafalaya valleys or basins are from five to fifteen feet below the level of the natural banks of the Mississippi. When the river has fallen ten feet the corresponding fall of the flood waters is not ten inches. The great inundation will subside not faster than one or two inches each day, uncovering the land by degrees so slow and tedious as to weary the hopes and sicken the hearts of the owners and tillers of the soil. I have given and described, as nearly as reasonable limits will permit, the cause, the nature, the extent, the consequences and the probable duration of the flood. I will let this statement have what effect it may upon the moral sense, the philanthropy and the magnanimity of the American people. I could give details and incidents, a few out of thousands of the same nature that world produce emotions of pity and horror. Such is not my purpose. I show you what is needed to prevent intense misery, famine and death; I leave the rest to your honor as men, to your pride as Americans and to your sense of duty as Christians. While there are such fruits of prosperity and such stores of accumulated riches, you cannot afford to let it be recorded in our common history that thousands of people in 1874 STARVED TO DEATH on the borders of the Mississippi, for the want of one fifty thousandth part of the aggregate wealth of their countrymen. I append an interesting letter of Hon. Henry G. Crowell, Commissioner of Relief from Boston, for further information and in testimony of the faithful, systematic, vigorous and effectual operations of our Committees of Relief. LOUIS A. WILTZ, Mayor, Chairman of General Relief Committee and Treasurer of Relief Fund. LETTER OF HON. HENRY G. CROWELL, } New Orleans, May 16th, 1874. } HON. LOUIS A. WILTZ, MAYOR: Dear Sir--I arrived here on the 11th instant, bearing credentials as Commissioner of the Mayor of Boston and of the Boston Committee in charge of subscription for the relief of sufferers in Louisiana by the flood. I came for the purpose of ascertaining what further assistance the citizens of Boston can render towards alleviating the necessities of the suffering, and restoring your ancient prosperity. I was immediately put in communication with the members of the General Committee of Relief, appointed by you, with those of the several subsidiary committees, and with many intelligent citizens, from whom and from eminent professional engineers made diligent enquiry as to the area of the country overflowed, the number of people made destitute by this stupendous calamity, the extent of damage to crops and live stock, the probable continuance of the inundation, the nature and amount of relief absolutely necessary to prevent loss of life by famine, and as to the plan of relief adopted here. I am grieved to find the overflow to be wider in extent, more disastrous in effect, and causing distress and destitution to far greater extent than represented by you in your first appeal for aid from the chief cities of the Union--greater than is generally believed and greater than can be conceived of by those not familiar with the nature of the vast flat alluvial region which the waters of the Mississippi and its lower branches now cover. The calamity surpasses in extent and ruinous consequences any that has occurred from fire, storm or flood on this continent during the current century. To see for myself the nature of the great inundation, I went to Brashear, eighty miles west of New Orleans--the last twenty-three miles through an unbroken flood which pours from the distant crevasses on the Mississippi, and devastates an immense region. I shall not here relate what I saw, but it was sufficient to give me a realizing sense of the magnitude and destructiveness of the great flood, and of the reasons why the suffering, destitution and danger caused by it, must continue for a long time. I have made careful examination of the workings of your committees of relief, which I am pleased to find composed of citizens of high character and distinguished ability, who labor zealously and constantly in the noble work to which you have called them. Their method of purchasing and forwarding supplies, and their rules and regulations for the distribution of relief met my approval in all respects. By the system adopted the donations of the charitable are sure to do the most good to those who are made destitute by the flood. Wise precaution is taken to avoid the encouragement of idleness by strictly withholding relief from such as find work on lands not overflowed, and who refuse to labor; a precaution which I commend and approve. Careful, systematic economy is employed in all relief measures. At their request and yours, I have examined your accounts as Treasurer of the relief fund and the accounts and vouchers of the committees, finding all correct and in order. By a well organized system everything received is properly accounted for and promptly applied. I am pleased to say that you and the members of your committees have shown much executive and administrative ability, and that the disposition of contributions has been so careful and so judicious as to merit entire confidence. You have done and, I am sure, will continue to do all that can be done for the sufferers with the means which the philanthropic put in your hands. I can suggest no improvement in your method. I cannot close without advising you to renew your appeal for help. Your resources for the required relief are altogether insufficient. Put before the people of America the leading facts relating to this unprecedented and enormous visitation of calamity. A true knowledge of the great danger and suffering of your afflicted people will awaken wealthy and prosperous States, cities, churches and associations to an active sense of their duty. While there is such prosperity and abundance of means everywhere else, these poor victims of the flood must not be left to starve. Please accept for yourself, and extend to all others whom I have met here, my thanks for the very many courtesies and kind attentions which I have received at your hands and theirs. Hoping to visit you under more prosperous auspices. I remain Yours very respectfully, HENRY G. CROWELL. Transcriber's Notes: Passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. The following misprints have been corrected: "cites" corrected to "cities" (page 3) "philantrophic" corrected to "philanthropic" (page 3) "witholding" corrected to "withholding" (page 8) "philantropic" corrected to "philanthropic" (page 8) 
21697	----	The Red Man's Revenge, by R.M. Ballantyne. ________________________________________________________________________ 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 Northen 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 HBC. 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. For instance one of these series is "On the Coast", which includes "Saved by the Lifeboat". "The Red Man's Revenge" is very authoritatively written, because its setting is the Red River, where Ballantyne had spent all those years in his youth. As so often with Ballantyne's books there are the threads of two stories running throughout. One of these, occupying the last two-thirds of the book, concerns the Red River flood of May 1826, when the river rose fourteen feet over a largely level plain, causing much loss and annoyance to the settlers in that region, though the loss of only one life. The other thread concerns the kidnapping of a young white child in revenge for a fancied insult offered to a Red Indian, Petanawaquat. They are pursued by the boy's older brother and some other settlers, but not found. They return only when Petanawaquat has a change of heart, after meditating some time on the fact that Jesus Christ gave up His life to save the souls of those who considered themselves His enemies. There are various acutely observed actions, such as a buffalo hunt, various fights with bears, the tracking methods used by the pursuers, foiled only eventually when there is a prairie fire. We learn at this point what to do when a prairie fire is coming straight at you, and there appears to be no escape. There are various canoeing incidents, and indeed much of the action could not occur without the canoe. Re-created as an e-Text by Nick Hodson, August 2003. ________________________________________________________________________ THE RED MAN'S REVENGE, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE. CHAPTER ONE. A TALE OF THE RED RIVER FLOOD. OPENS THE BALL. If ever there was a man who possessed a gem in the form of a daughter of nineteen, that man was Samuel Ravenshaw; and if ever there was a girl who owned a bluff, jovial, fiery, hot-tempered, irascible old father, that girl was Elsie Ravenshaw. Although a gem, Elsie was exceedingly imperfect. Had she been the reverse she would not have been worth writing about. Old Ravenshaw, as his familiars styled him, was a settler, if we may use such a term in reference to one who was, perhaps, among the most unsettled of men. He had settled with his family on the banks of the Red River. The colony on that river is now one of the frontier towns of Canada. At the time we write of, it was a mere oasis in the desert, not even an offshoot of civilisation, for it owed its existence chiefly to the fact that retiring servants of the Hudson's Bay Fur Company congregated there to spend the evening of life, far beyond the Canadian boundary, in the heart of that great wilderness where they had spent their working days, and on the borders of that grand prairie where the red man and the buffalo roamed at will, and the conventionalities of civilised life troubled them not. To this haven of rest Samuel Ravenshaw had retired, after spending an active life in the service of the fur-traders, somewhat stiffened in the joints by age and a rough career, and a good deal soured in disposition because of promotion having, as he thought, been too long deferred. Besides Elsie, old Ravenshaw possessed some other gems of inferior lustre. His wife Maggie, a stout, well-favoured lady, with an insufficient intellect and unbounded good humour, was of considerable intrinsic value, but highly unpolished. His second daughter, Cora, was a thin slip of sixteen years, like her mother in some respects--pretty, attractive, and disposed to take life easily. His eldest son, Victor, a well-grown lad of fourteen, was a rough diamond, if a diamond at all, with a soul centred on sport. His second son, Anthony, between five and six, was large and robust, like his father. Not having been polished at that time, it is hard to say what sort of gem Tony was. When engaged in mischief--his besetting foible--his eyes shone like carbuncles with unholy light. He was the plague of the family. Of course, therefore, he was the beloved of his parents. Such were the chief inmates of Willow Creek, as old Ravenshaw styled his house and property. It was midwinter. The owner of Willow Creek stood at his parlour window, smoking and gazing. There was not much to look at, for snow had overwhelmed and buried the landscape, fringed every twig of the willows, and obliterated the frozen river. Elsie was seated by the stove, embroidering a pair of moccasins. "Victor is bringing down some of the lads to shoot to-day, father," she said, casting a furtive glance at her sire. "Humph! that boy does nothing but shoot," growled the old man, who was a giant in body if not in spirit. "Who all is he bringing?" "There's John Flett, and David Mowat, and Sam Hayes, and Herr Winklemann, and Ian Macdonald, and Louis Lambert--all the best shots, I suppose," said Elsie, bending over her work. "The best shots!" cried Mr Ravenshaw, turning from the window with a sarcastic laugh. "Louis Lambert, indeed, and Winklemann are crack shots, and John Flett is not bad, but the others are poor hands. Mowat can only shoot straight with a crooked gun, and as for that half-cracked schoolmaster, Jan Macdonald, he would miss a barn door at fifty paces unless he were to shut his eyes and fire at random, in which case he'd have some chance--" "Here they is; the shooters is comin'. Hooray!" shouted Master Anthony Ravenshaw, as he burst into the room with a scalping-knife in one hand and a wooden gun in the other. "An' I's goin' to shoot too, daddy!" "So you are, Tony, my boy!" cried the old trader, catching up the pride of his heart in his strong arms and tossing him towards the ceiling. "You shall shoot before long with a real gun." Tony knocked the pipe out of his father's mouth, and was proceeding to operate on his half-bald head with the scalping-knife, when Cora, who entered the room at the moment, sprang forward and wrenched the weapon from his grasp. "We'll give them dinner after the shooting is over, shan't we, father?" asked Cora. "Of course, my dear, of course," replied the hospitable old gentleman, giving the pride of his heart a sounding kiss as he put him down. "Set your mother to work on a pie, and get Miss Trim to help you with a lot of those cakes you make so famously." As he spoke there was a sudden clattering in the porch. The young men were taking off their snow-shoes and stamping the snow from off their leggings and moccasined feet. "Here we are, father!" cried a bright, sturdy youth, as he ushered in his followers. "Of course Elsie has prepared you for our sudden invasion. The fact is that we got up the match on the spur of the moment, because I found that Ian had a holiday." "No explanation required, Victor. Glad to see you all, boys. Sit down," said Mr Ravenshaw, shaking hands all round. The youths who were thus heartily welcomed presented a fine manly appearance. They were clad in the capotes, leggings, fur caps, moccasins, and fingerless mittens usually worn by the men of the settlement in winter. That tall handsome fellow, with the curly black hair and flashing eyes, who bears himself so confidently as he greets the sisters, is Louis Lambert. The thickset youth behind him, with the shock of flaxen hair and imperceptible moustache, is Herr Winklemann, a German farmer's son, and a famed buffalo-hunter. The ungainly man, of twenty-four apparently--or thereabouts--with the plain but kindly face, and the frame nearly as strong as that of the host himself, is Ian Macdonald. In appearance he is a rugged backwoodsman. In reality he is the schoolmaster of that part of the widely-scattered colony. The invitation to sit down was not accepted. Daylight was short-lived in those regions at that season of the year. They sallied forth to the work in hand. "You've had the target put up, Cora?" asked Victor, as he went out. "Yes, in the old place." "Where is Tony?" "I don't know," said Cora, looking round. "He was here just now, trying to scalp father." "You'll find him at the target before you, no doubt," said Elsie, putting away her moccasins as she rose to aid in the household preparations. The target was placed against the bank of the river, so that the bullets might find a safe retreat. The competitors stood at about a hundred yards' distance in front of it. The weapons used were single-barrelled smooth-bores, with flint locks. Percussion locks had not at that time come into fashion, and long ranges had not yet been dreamed of. "Come, open the ball, Lambert," said Victor. The handsome youth at once stepped forward, and old Mr Ravenshaw watched him with an approving smile as he took aim. Puff! went the powder in the pan, but no sound followed save the peal of laughter with which the miss-fire was greeted. The touch-hole was pricked, and next time the ball sped to its mark. It hit the target two inches above the bull's-eye. The "well done" with which the shot was hailed was cut short by an appalling yell, and little Tony was seen to tumble from behind the target. Rolling head over heels, he curled himself round in agony, sprang up with a spasmodic bound, dropped upon his haunches, turned over a complete somersault, fell on his back with a fearful shriek, and lay dead upon the snow! The whole party rushed in consternation towards the boy, but before they had reached him he leaped up and burst into a fit of gleeful laughter, which ended in a cheer and a savage war-whoop as he scampered up the track which led to the house, and disappeared over the brow of the river's bank. "The imp was joking!" exclaimed Mr Ravenshaw, as he stopped and wiped the cold perspiration from his brow. At that moment a Red Indian appeared on the scene, in his blanket robe, paint, and feathers. Attracted by the shot, he had come to look on. Now, the old fur-trader's nerves had received a tremendous shock, and the practical jest which the pride of his heart had perpetrated had roused the irascibility of his nature, so that an explosion became unavoidable. In these circumstances the arrival of the Indian seemed opportune, for the old gentleman knew that this particular savage was a chief, and had visited the colony for the purpose of making inquiries into the new religion reported to be taught by certain white men in black garments; and Mr Ravenshaw, besides having very little regard for missionaries, had a very strong contempt for those Indians who became their disciples. He therefore relieved himself on the red man. "What do you want here, Petawanaquat?" he demanded sternly, in the language of the Indian. "The Little Wolf," replied the Indian, referring to himself, for such was the interpretation of his name, "wishes to see how his white brothers shoot." "Let the Little Wolf put his tail between his legs and be gone," cried the angry old man. "He is not wanted here. Come, be off!" The chief looked straight in the eyes of the trader with a dark scowl, then, turning slowly on his heel, stalked solemnly away. There was an irrepressible laugh at this episode as the group of marksmen returned to their former position. Mr Ravenshaw, however, soon left them and returned home. Here he found Miss Trim in a state of considerable agitation; she had just encountered the redskin! Miss Trim was a poor relation of Mrs Ravenshaw. She had been invited by her brother-in-law to leave England and come to Red River to act as governess to Tony and assistant-companion in the family. She had arrived that autumn in company with a piano, on which she was expected to exercise Elsie and Cora. Petawanaquat, being the first "really wild and painted savage" she had seen, made a deep impression on her. "Oh, Mr Ravenshaw, I have seen _such_ an object in the garden!" she exclaimed, in a gushing torrent--she always spoke in a torrent--"and it was all I could do to stagger into the house without fainting. Such eyes! with black cheeks and a red nose--at least, it looked red, but I was in such a state that I couldn't make sure whether it was the nose or the chin, and my shoe came off as I ran away, having broken the tie in the morning. And such a yell as it gave!--the creature, not the shoe-tie--but I escaped, and peeped out of the upper window--the one in the gable, you know, with the green blind, where you can see the garden from end to end, and I found it had disappeared, though I can't understand--" "Tut, tut, Miss Trim; how you do gallop! Was it a beast?" asked the old trader. "A beast? No; a man--a savage." "Oh! I understand; it was that scoundrel Petawanaquat," said Sam Ravenshaw, with a laugh; "he's Little Wolf by name, and a big thief by practice, no doubt. You needn't fear him, however, he's not so dangerous as he looks, and I gave him a rebuff just now that will make him shy of Willow Creek.--Ha, Tony, you rascal! Come here, sir." Tony came at once, with such a gleeful visage that his father's intended chastisement for the recent practical joke ended in a parental caress. Bitterly did Ian Macdonald repent of his agreeing to join the shooting party that day. Owing to some defect in his vision or nervous system, he was a remarkably bad shot, though in everything else he was an expert and stalwart backwoodsman, as well as a good scholar. But when his friend Victor invited him he could not refuse, because it offered him an opportunity of spending some time in the society of Elsie Ravenshaw, and that to him was heaven upon earth! Little of her society, however, did the unfortunate teacher enjoy that day, for handsome Louis Lambert engrossed not only Elsie, but the mother and father as well. He had beaten all his competitors at the target, but, to do him justice, did not boast of that; neither did he make any reference to the fact that Ian had twice missed the target, though he did not spare the bad shooting of some of the other youths; this, no doubt, because he and Ian had been fast friends for many years. Jealousy--at least on the part of Ian--now seemed about to interfere with the old friendship. Moreover, Lambert had brought to Mrs Ravenshaw a gift of a collar made of the claws of a grizzly bear, shot by himself in the Rocky Mountains. Elsie admired the collar with genuine interest, and said she would give anything to possess one like it. Cora, with the coquettishness of sixteen, said, with a laugh and a blush, that she would not accept such a ridiculous thing if it were offered to her. Ian Macdonald groaned in spirit, for, with his incapacity to shoot, he knew that Elsie's wish could never be gratified by _him_. Seeing that Lambert was bent on keeping Elsie as much as possible to himself, Ian devoted himself to Cora, but Cora was cross. Feeling it up-hill work, he soon rose to say good-bye, and left Willow Creek before the others. "Don't look so crestfallen, man," said old Mr Ravenshaw heartily, as he shook hands; "it's nobler work to teach the young idea how to shoot than to be able to hit a bull's-eye." "True, but he who cannot hit a bull's-eye," returned Ian, with a smile, "can scarcely be expected to touch a maiden's--I mean a grizzly's heart." A shout of laughter from Lambert greeted him as he left the house. His way home lay over the frozen bed of the river. Victor accompanied him part of the way. "That was a strange slip for an unromantic fellow like you to make about a maiden's heart, Ian," said Victor, looking up at the rugged countenance of his friend. "`Unromantic,' eh? Well, I suppose I am." "Of course you are," said Victor, with the overweening assurance of youth. "Come, let's sit down here for a few minutes and discuss the point." He sat down on a snowdrift; Ian kicked off his snowshoes and leaned against the bank. "You're the most grave, sensible, good-natured, matter-of-fact, unsentimental, unselfish fellow I ever met with," resumed Victor. "If you were a romantic goose I wouldn't like you half as much as I do." "Men are sometimes romantic without being geese," returned Ian; "but I have not time to discuss that point just now. Tell me, for I am anxious about it, have you spoken to your father about selling the field with the knoll to my father?" "Yes, and he flatly refused to sell it. I'm really sorry, Ian, but you know how determined my father is. Once he says a thing he sticks to it, even though it should be to his own disadvantage." "That's bad, Victor, very bad. It will raise ill-blood between them, and estrange our families. You think there's no chance?" "None whatever." "One more word before we part. Do you know much about that redskin whom your father called Petawanaquat?" "Not much, except that he has come from a considerable distance to make inquiries, he says, about the Christian religion. He has been prowling about our place for a few days, and father, who has no great love to missionaries, and has strong suspicions of converted Indians, has twice treated him rather roughly." "I'm sorry to hear that, Victor. These fellows are sometimes very revengeful. If you'll be advised by me you'll keep a sharp eye upon Petawanaquat. There, I'll say no more. You know I'm not an alarmist. Good-bye." "Good-bye, old boy." "I say." "Well?" "It was an _awfully_ bad shot, that last of mine." "It was," admitted Victor, with a laugh, "to miss a thing as big as a door at a hundred yards is only so-so." "No chance of improvement, I fear," said Ian, with a sigh. "Oh, don't say that," replied Victor. "Practice, perseverance, and patience, you know, overcome every--" "Yes, yes. I know that well. Good-bye." They shook hands again, and were soon striding over the snow to their respective homes. CHAPTER TWO. CONFLICTING ELEMENTS AND A CATASTROPHE. Hoary winter passed away, and genial spring returned to rejoice the land. In a particularly amiable frame of mind, old Ravenshaw went out one morning to smoke. Everything had gone well that morning. Breakfast had been punctual; appetite good; rheumatics in abeyance; the girls lively; and Miss Trim less of a torrent than was her wont. Mrs Ravenshaw's intellect had more than once almost risen to the ordinary human average, and Master Tony had been better--perhaps it were more correct to say less wicked-- than usual. Old Ravenshaw was what his friends styled a heavy smoker, so was his kitchen chimney; but then the chimney had the excuse of being compelled to smoke, whereas its owner's insane act was voluntary. Be not afraid, reader. We have no intention of entering into an argument with smokers. They are a pigheaded generation. We address those who have not yet become monomaniacs as regards tobacco. In order to the full enjoyment of his pipe, the old gentleman had built on a knoll what Elsie styled a summer-house. Regardless of seasons, however--as he was of most things--her father used this temple at all seasons of the year, and preferred to call it a smoking box. Now, as this smoking-box, with its surroundings, had much to do with the issues of our story, we bring it under particular notice. It resembled a large sentry-box, and the willow-clad knoll on which it stood was close to the river. Being elevated slightly above the rest of the country, a somewhat extended view of river and plain was obtainable therefrom. Samuel Ravenshaw loved to contemplate this view through the medium of smoke. Thus seen it was hazy and in accord with his own idea of most things. The sun shone warmly into the smoking-box. It sparkled on the myriad dew-drops that hung on the willows, and swept in golden glory over the rolling plains. The old gentleman sat down, puffed, and was happy. The narcotic influence operated, and the irascible demon in his breast fell sound asleep. How often do bright sunshine and profound calm precede a storm? Is not that a truism--if not a newism. The old gentleman had barely reduced himself to quiescence, and the demon had only just begun to snore, when a cloud, no bigger than a man's body, arose on the horizon. Gradually it drew near, partially obscured the sky, and overshadowed the smoking-box in the form of Angus Macdonald, the father of Ian. (The demon ceased snoring!) "Coot tay to you, sir," said Angus. "You will pe enchoyin' your pipe this fine mornin'." "Yes, Angus, I am," replied Ravenshaw, with as much urbanity as he could assume--and it wasn't much, for he suspected the cause of his neighbour's visit--"you'd better sit down and light your own." Angus accepted the invitation, and proceeded to load with much deliberation. Now it must be known that the Highlander loved the view from that knoll as much as did his neighbour. It reminded him of the old country where he had been born and bred on a hill-top. He coveted that willow knoll intensely, desiring to build a house on it, and, being prosperous, was willing to give for it more than its value, for his present dwelling lay somewhat awkwardly in the creek, a little higher up the river, so that the willows on the knoll interfered vexatiously with his view. "It's a peautiful spote this!" observed Angus, after a few preliminary puffs. "It is," answered the old trader curtly, (and the demon awoke). Angus made no rejoinder for a few minutes, but continued to puff great clouds with considerable emphasis from his compressed lips. Mr Ravenshaw returned the fire with interest. "It'll no pe for sellin' the knowl, ye are?" said Angus. The demon was fairly roused now. "No, Angus Macdonald," said the trader sternly, "I'll _not_ sell it. I've told you already more than once, and it is worse than ill-judged, it is impertinent of you to come bothering me to part with my land." "Ho! inteed!" exclaimed Angus, rising in wrath, and cramming his pipe into his vest pocket; "it is herself that will pe pothering you no more spout your dirty land, Samyool Ruvnshaw." He strode from the spot with a look of ineffable scorn, and the air of an offended chieftain. Old Ravenshaw tried to resume his tranquillity, but the demon was self-willed, and tobacco had lost its power. There were more clouds, however, in store for him that morning. It so fell out that Ian Macdonald, unable to bear the suspense of uncertainty any longer, and all ignorant of his father's visit to the old trader, had made up his mind to bring things to a point that very morning by formally asking permission to pay his addresses to Elsie Ravenshaw. Knowing the old man's habits, he went straight to the smoking-box. If he had set out half an hour sooner he would have met his own father and saved himself trouble. As it was, they missed each other. Mr Ravenshaw had only begun to feel slightly calmed when Ian presented himself, with a humble, propitiatory air. The old man hated humility in every form, even its name. He regarded it as a synonym for hypocrisy. The demon actually leaped within him, but the old man had a powerful will. He seized his spiritual enemy, throttled, and held him down. "Good-morning, Mr Ravenshaw." "Good-morning." Nothing more was said by either for a few minutes. Ian was embarrassed. He had got up a set speech and forgotten it. He was shy, but he was also resolute. Drawing himself up suddenly he said, with an earnest, honest look, "Mr Ravenshaw, I love your daughter," (there was only one daughter in Ian's estimation!) "and I come to ask leave to woo her. If, by earnest devotion and--" "Ian Macdonald," interrupted the old gentleman, in a voice of suppressed anger, "you may save yourself and me the trouble of more talk on this subject. Your father has just been here wanting me to sell him this knoll. Now, look here," (he rose, and stepping out of the smoking-box, pointed to Angus Macdonald's house, which was full in view), "you see that house, young man. Mark what I say. I will sell this knoll to your father, and give my daughter to you, when you take that house, and with your own unaided hands place it on the top of this knoll!" This was meant by the old trader as a bitterly facetious way of indicating the absolute hopelessness of the case. Ian accepted it in that light, for he was well aware that Samuel Ravenshaw's firmness--or obstinacy--was insurmountable. He did not despair, however; true love never does that; but he felt tremendously cast down. Without a word or look of reproach he turned and walked slowly away. Once again the old trader sought comfort in his pipe, but found none. Besides feeling extremely indignant; with the Macdonalds, father and son, for what he styled their presumption, he was now conscious of having treated both with undue severity. Dashing his pipe on the ground, he thrust both hands into his coat pockets, and returned towards his dwelling. On the way he unfortunately met Petawanaquat in one of his fields, leaning composedly over a gate. That intelligent redskin had not yet finished his inquiries at the missionary village. He had appeared more than once at Willow Creek, and seemed to hover round the old trader like a moth round a candle. The man was innocent of any evil intent on this occasion, but Ravenshaw would have quarrelled with an angel just then. "What are you doing here? Be off!" he said sternly. The Indian either did not or would not understand, and the old man, seizing him by the arm, thrust him violently through the gateway. All the hot blood of the Petawanaquats, from Adam downwards, seemed to leap through the red man's veins and concentrate in his right hand as he turned fiercely on the trader and drew his scalping-knife. Quick as lightning Ravenshaw hit out with his fist, and knocked the Indian down, then, turning on his heel, walked away. For a moment Petawanaquat lay stunned. Recovering, he arose, and his dark glittering eyes told of a purpose of deadly revenge. The trader was still in sight. The Indian picked up his gun, glided swiftly behind a tree, and took a long steady aim. Just then little Tony rushed from the house and leaped into his father's arms, where he received an unusually warm embrace, for the trader wanted some sort of relief for his feelings. The Indian's finger was pressing the trigger at the moment. Death was very near Samuel Ravenshaw just then, but the finger relaxed and the gun was lowered. A more terrible form of revenge had flashed into the mind of the savage. Gliding quietly from his position, he entered the willows and disappeared. Meanwhile Angus Macdonald returned in no very amiable mood to his own house. It was a small house; had been built by its owner, and was, like most of the other houses of the colony at that time, a good solid log structure--a sort of Noah's ark on a small scale. It stood on a flat piece of mother earth, without any special foundation except a massive oblong wooden frame to which all the superstructure was attached. You might, if strong enough, have grasped it by the ridge-pole and carried it bodily away without tearing up any foundation or deranging the fabric. It was kept in order and managed by an elderly sister of Angus, named Martha, for Angus was a widower. His only son Ian dwelt in the school-house, a mile farther up the river. Martha's strong point was fowls. We are too ignorant of that subject to go into particulars. We can only say that she was an adept at fowls. Martha's chickens were always tender and fat, and their eggs were the largest and freshest in Red River. We introduce these fowls solely because one of them acted a very important part on a very critical occasion. As well might the geese who saved Rome be omitted from history as Martha Macdonald's Cochin-China hen which--well, we won't say what just yet. That hen was frightfully plain. Why Cochin-China hens should have such long legs and wear feather trousers are questions which naturalists must settle among themselves. Being a humorous man, Angus had named her Beauty. She was a very cross hen, and her feather unmentionables fitted badly. Moreover, she was utterly useless, and never laid an egg, which was fortunate, for if she had laid one it would have been an egregious monstrosity. She was obviously tough. If they had slain her for the table they would have had to cut her up with a hand-saw, or grind her into meal to fit her for use. Besides all this, Beauty was a widow. When her husband died--probably of disgust--she took to crowing on her own account. She received Angus with a crow when he entered the house after his interview with Ravenshaw, and appeared to listen intently as he poured his sorrows into his sister's ear. "It's up at the knowl I've peen, Martha, an' I left Samyool Ruvnshaw there in a fery pad temper--fery pad inteed. He'll come oot of it, whatever." "An' he'll not be for sellin' you the knowl?" asked Martha. "No, he won't," replied Angus. From this point they went off into a very long-winded discussion of the pros and cons of the case, which, however, we will spare the reader, and return to Willow Creek. The bed of the creek, near to the point where it joined the Red River, was a favourite resort of Master Tony. Thither he went that same afternoon to play. Having observed the child's habits, Petawanaquat paddled his canoe to the same point and hid it and himself among the overhanging bushes of the creek. In the course of his gambols Tony approached the place. One stroke of the paddle sent the light birch-bark canoe like an arrow across the stream. The Indian sprang on shore. Tony gave him one scared look and was about to utter an appalling yell, when a red hand covered his mouth and another red hand half throttled him. Petawanaquat bundled the poor child into the bottom of his canoe, wrapped a leather coat round his head, spread a buffalo robe over him, gave him a smart rap on the head to keep him quiet, and paddled easily out into the stream. Steadily, but not too swiftly, he went down the river, down the rapids, and past the Indian settlement without attracting particular notice. Once the buffalo robe moved; the paddle descended on it with a sounding whack, and it did not move again. Before night closed, the Indian was paddling over the broad bosom of Lake Winnipeg. Of course, Tony was soon missed; his haunts were well known; Miss Trim traced his footprints to the place where he had been seized, saw evidences of the struggle, the nature of which she correctly guessed, and came shrieking back to the house, where she went off into hysterics, and was unable to tell anything about the matter. Fortunately, Victor was there; he also traced the footsteps. Instead of returning home he ran straight to the school-house, which he reached out of breath. "Come, Ian, come!" he gasped. "Tony's been carried off--Petawanaquat! Bring your canoe and gun; all the ammunition you can lay hands on!" Ian asked for no explanations; he ran into the house, shouldered a small bag of pemmican, gave his gun and ammunition to Victor, told his assistant to keep the school going till his return, and ran with his friend down to the river, where his own birch canoe lay on the bank. A few minutes sufficed to launch it. Both Ian and Victor were expert canoe-men. Straining their powers to the utmost, they were soon far down the Red River, in hot pursuit of the fugitive. CHAPTER THREE. THE PURSUIT BEGINS. There is something delightfully exhilarating in a chase, whether it be after man or beast. How the blood careers! How the nerves tingle! But you know all about it, reader. We have said sufficient. There was enough of righteous indignation in Victor's bosom to have consumed Petawanaquat, and ground enough to justify the fiercest resolves. Was not the kidnapper a redskin--a low, mean, contemptible savage? Was not the kidnapped one his brother--his "own" brother? And such a brother! One of a thousand, with mischief enough in him, if rightly directed, to make half a dozen ordinary men! The nature of the spirit which animated Victor was obvious on his compressed lips, his frowning brows, his gleaming eyes. The strength of his muscles was indicated by the foam that fled from his paddle. Ian Macdonald was not less excited, but more under self-control than his friend. There was a fixed look in his plain but pleasant face, and a tremendous sweep in his long arms as he plied the paddle, that told of unfathomed energy. The canoe being a mere egg-shell, leaped forward at each quick stroke "like a thing of life." There was no time to lose. They knew that, for the Indian had probably got a good start of them, and, being a powerful man, animated by the certainty of pursuit sooner or later, would not only put his strength but his endurance to the test. If they were to overtake him it must be by superhuman exertion. Lake Winnipeg was twenty miles off. They must catch up the Indian before he reached it, as otherwise it would be impossible to tell in which direction he had gone. They did not pause to make inquiries of the settlers on the banks by the way, but they hailed several canoes, whose occupants said they had seen the Indian going quietly down stream some hours before--alone in his canoe! "Never mind, Vic, push on," said Ian; "of course he would make Tony lie flat down." The end of the settlement was passed, and they swept on into the wilderness beyond. Warming to their work, they continued to paddle hour after hour--steadily, persistently, with clockwork regularity of stroke, but never decreasing force. To save time they, as it were, cut off corners at the river-bends, and just shaved the points as they went by. "Have a care, Ian!" exclaimed Victor, at one of these places, as his paddle touched the bottom. "We don't draw much water, to be sure, but a big stone might--hah!" A roar of dismay burst from the youth and his companion as the canoe rasped over a stone. We have said that the birch canoe was an egg-shell. The word is scarcely figurative. The slightest touch over a stone has a tendency to rip the bark of such a slender craft, or break off the resinous gum with which the seams are pitched. Water began to pour in. "Too bad!" exclaimed Victor, flinging his paddle ashore, as he stepped over the side into water not much above his ankles, and pulled the canoe slowly to land. "An illustration of the proverb, `The more haste the less speed,'" sighed Ian, as he stepped into the water and assisted in lifting the canoe tenderly to dry ground. "Oh, it's all very well for you to take it philosophically, but you know our chance is gone. If it was _your_ brother we were after you wouldn't be so cool." "He is Elsie's brother," replied Ian, "and that makes me quite as keen as if he were my own, besides keeping me cool. Come, Vic, don't be cross, but light the fire and get out the gum." While he spoke Ian was actively untying a bundle which contained awls and wattape, a small pliable root, with which to repair the injury. The gum had to be melted, so that Victor found some relief to his feelings in kindling a fire. The break was not a bad one. With nimble fingers Ian sewed a patch of bark over it. While that was being done, Victor struck a light with flint and steel, and soon had a blazing firebrand ready. "Hand it here, Vic," said Ian. He covered the stitches with melted gum, blew the charcoal red-hot, passed it here and there over the old seams where they exhibited signs of leakage, and in little more than half an hour had the canoe as tight as a bottle. Once more they embarked and drove her like an arrow down stream. But precious time had been lost, and it was dark when they passed from the river and rested on the bosom of the mighty fresh-water sea. "It's of no use going on without knowing which shore the redskin has followed," said Ian, as he suddenly ceased work and rested his paddle on the gunwale. "It's of no use to remain where we are," replied the impatient Victor, looking back at his comrade. "Yes, it is," returned Ian, "the moon will rise in an hour or so and enable us to make observations; meanwhile we can rest. Sooner or later we shall be compelled to rest. It will be a wise economy of time to do so now when nothing else can be done." Victor was so tired and sleepy by that time that he could scarcely reply. Ian laughed quietly, and shoved the canoe among some reeds, where it lay on a soft bed. At the same time he advised his companion to go to sleep without delay. More than half asleep already, he obeyed in silence, waded to the shore, and sat down on a bank to take off his moccasins. In this position and act he fell asleep. "Hallo!" exclaimed Ian, coming up with the paddles and pemmican bag; "too soon, Vic, too soon, lad," (he tumbled him over on the bank); "come, one mouthful of grub first, then off with the moccasins, and down we go." Victor picked himself up with a yawn. On ordinary occasions a backwoodsman pays some little attention to the comforts of his encampment, but our heroes were in no condition to mind such trifles. They pulled off their wet moccasins, indeed, and put on dry ones, but having done that they merely groped in the dark for the flattest piece of ground in the neighbourhood, then each rolled himself in his blanket and lay, or rather fell, down. "Hah!" gasped Victor. "Wa's wrong?" sighed Ian faintly. "Put m' shoulder 'n a puddle, 'at's all," lisped Victor. "T'ke't out o' the purl, then--oh!" groaned Ian. "W'as 'e marrer now, eh?" sighed Victor. "On'y a big stone i' m' ribs." "Shove't out o' y'r ribs 'en an' 'old y'r tongue." Profound slumber stopped the conversation at this point, and the frogs that croaked and whistled in the swamps had it all to themselves. Deep tranquillity reigned on the shores of Lake Winnipeg during the midnight hours, for the voices of the frogs served rather to accent than to disturb the calm. Stars twinkled at their reflections in the water, which extended like a black mirror to the horizon. They gave out little light, however, and it was not until the upper edge of the full moon arose that surrounding objects became dimly visible. The pale light edged the canoe, silvered the rocks, tipped the rushes, and at last, touching the point of Ian's upturned nose, awoke him. (See Frontispiece). He leaped up with a start instantly, conscious of his situation, and afraid lest he had slept too long. "Hi! leve! leve! awake! up!" he exclaimed in a vigorous undertone. Victor growled, turned on his other side with a deep sigh, wanted to be let alone, became suddenly conscious, and sprang up in alarm. "We're too late!" "No, we're not, Vic. The moon is just rising, but we must be stirring. Time's precious." Victor required no urging. He was fully alive to the situation. A few minutes sufficed to get the canoe ready and roll up their blankets, during the performance of which operations they each ate several substantial mouthfuls of pemmican. Looking carefully round before pushing off the canoe to see that nothing was forgotten, Ian observed some chips of wood on the beach close at hand. "See, Vic!" he said eagerly; "some one has been here--perhaps the Indian." They examined the chips, which had been recently cut. "It's not easy to make out footprints here," said Ian, going down on his knees the better to observe the ground; "and so many settlers and Indians pass from time to time, having little boys with them too, that--. I say, look here, Vic, this little footmark might or might not be Tony's, but moccasins are so much alike that--" "Out o' the light, man; if you were made o' glass the moon _might_ get through you. Why, yes, it _is_ Tony's moccasin!" cried Victor, in eager excitement. "I know it by the patch, for I saw Elsie putting it on this very morning. Look, speak, man! don't you see it? A square patch on the ball of the right foot!" "Yes, yes; I see it," said Ian, going down on his knees in a spirit of semi-worship, and putting his nose close to the ground. He would fain have kissed the spot that had been pressed by a patch put on by Elsie, but he was "unromantic," and refrained. "Now," he said, springing up with alacrity, "that settles the question. At least it shows that there is strong probability of their having taken the left shore of the lake." "Come along, then, let's after them," cried Victor impatiently, pushing off the canoe. The moment she floated--which she did in about four inches of water-- they stepped swiftly yet gently into her; for bark canoes require tender treatment at all times, even when urgent speed is needful. Gliding into deep water, they once more dipped their paddles, deep and fast, and danced merrily over the moonlit sea--for a sea Lake Winnipeg certainly is, being upwards of three hundred miles long, and a gathering together of many waters from all parts of the vast wilderness of Rupert's Land. After two hours of steady work they paused to rest. "Now, Ian," said Victor, leaning against the wooden bar at his back, and resting his paddle across the canoe, "Venus tells me that the sun is about to bestir himself, and something within me tells me that empty space is a bad stomachic; so, out with the pemmican bag, and hand over a junk." Ian drew his hunting-knife, struck it into the mass of meat, and chipped off a piece the size of his fist, which he handed to his comrade. Probably our readers are aware that pemmican is made of dried buffalo meat pounded to shreds and mixed with melted fat. Being thus half-cooked in the making, it can be used with or without further cookery. Sewed up in its bag, it will keep good for months, or even years, and is magnificent eating, but requires a strong digestion. Ian and Victor were gifted with that requisite. They fed luxuriously. A draught from the crystal lake went down their unsophisticated throats like nectar, and they resumed their paddles like giants refreshed. Venus mounted like a miniature moon into the glorious blue. Her perfect image went off in the opposite direction, for there was not the ghost of a zephyr to ruffle the deep. Presently the sun followed in her wake, and scattered the battalions of cloudland with artillery of molten gold. Little white gulls, with red legs and beaks, came dipping over the water, solemnly wondering at the intruders. The morning mists rolling along before the resistless monarch of day confused the visible world for a time, so that between refraction and reflection and buoyant spirits Victor Ravenshaw felt that at last he had found the realms of fairyland, and a feeling of certainty that he should soon rescue his brother filled him with exultation. But the exultation was premature. Noon found them toiling on, and still no trace of the fugitives was to be seen. "What if we have overshot them?" said Victor. "Impossible," answered Ian, "the shore is too open for that, and I have been keeping a sharp look-out at every bend and bay." "That may be true, yet Petawanaquat may have kept a sharper look-out, and concealed himself when he saw us coming. See, here is a creek. He may have gone up that. Let us try. Why! there _is_ a canoe in it. Hup! drive along, Ian!" The canoe seemed to leap out of the water under the double impulse, and next moment almost ran down another canoe which was half hidden among the reeds. In it sat an old Indian named Peegwish, and a lively young French half-breed named Michel Rollin. They were both well known to our adventurers; old Peegwish--whose chief characteristic was owlishness-- being a frequent and welcome visitor at the house of Ian's father. "You 'pears to be in one grand hurray," exclaimed Rollin, in his broken English. Ian at once told the cause of their appearance there, and asked if they had seen anything of Petawanaquat. "Yes, oui, no--dat is to say. Look 'ere!" Rollin pushed the reeds aside with his paddle, and pointed to a canoe lying bottom up, as if it had been concealed there. "Ve's be come 'ere after duck, an' ve find dat," said the half-breed. An immediate investigation showed that Petawanaquat had forsaken his canoe and taken to the woods. Ian looked troubled. Peegwish opened his owlish eyes and looked so solemn that Victor could scarce forbear laughing, despite the circumstances. It was immediately resolved to give chase. Peegwish was left in charge of the canoes. The other three soon found the track of the Red Man and followed it up like blood-hounds. At first they had no difficulty in following the trail, being almost as expert as Indians in woodcraft, but soon they came to swampy ground, and then to stony places, in which they utterly lost it. Again and again did they go back to pick up the lost trail, and follow it only to lose it again. Thus they spent the remainder of that day until night put a stop to their exertions and crushed their hopes. Then, dispirited and weary, they returned to the canoes and encamped beside them. Peegwish was engaged in roasting a duck when they arrived. "What a difference between the evening and the morning," said Victor, as he flung himself down beside the fire. "Dat is troo, an' vat I has obsarve oftin," said Rollin, looking earnestly into a kettle which rested on the fire. "Never mind, Vic," said Ian heartily, "we'll be at it again to-morrow, bright and early. We're sure to succeed in the long-run. Petawanaquat can't travel at night in the woods any more than we can." Old Peegwish glared at the fire as though he were pondering these sayings deeply. As he understood little or no English, however, it is more probable that his astute mind was concentrated on the roasting duck. CHAPTER FOUR. A DISCOVERY--THE CHASE CONTINUED ON FOOT. To bound from the depths of despair to the pinnacles of hope is by no means an uncommon experience to vigorous youth. When Victor Ravenshaw awoke next morning after a profound and refreshing sleep, and looked up through the branches at the bright sky, despondency fled, and he felt ready for anything. He was early awake, but Peegwish had evidently been up long before him, for that wrinkled old savage had kindled the fire, and was seated on the other side of it wrapped in his blanket, smoking, and watching the preparation of breakfast. When Victor contemplated his solemn eyes glaring at a roasting duck, which suggested the idea that he had been sitting there and glaring all night, he burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. "Come, I say, Vic," said Ian, roused by this from a comfortable nap, "if you were a hyena there might be some excuse for you, but being only a man--forgive me, a boy--you ought to have more sense than to disturb your friends so." "Oui, yes; dat is troo. Vraiment, it is too bad," growled Rollin, sitting up and stretching himself. "Howsomewhatever, it is time to rise. Oui!" "I should think it was," retorted Victor; "the sun is already up, and you may be sure that Petawanaquat has tramped some miles this morning. Come, Peegwish, close your eyes a bit for fear they jump out. What have you got to give us, eh? Robbiboo, ducks, and--no, is it tea? Well, we _are_ in luck to have fallen in with you." He rested his head on his hand, and lay looking at the savage with a pleased expression, while Rollin rose and went off to cut more firewood. The robbiboo referred to was a sort of thick soup made of pemmican boiled with flour. Without loss of time the party applied themselves to it. When appetite was partially appeased Ian propounded the question, What was to be done? "Follow up the trail as fast as we can," said Victor promptly. "Dat is bon advise," observed Rollin. "Hand over de duck, Peegvish, an' do try for shut your eyes. If you vould only vink it vould seem more comfortabler." Peegwish did not smile, but with deepened gravity passed the duck. "I'm not so sure of the goodness of the advice," said Ian. "To go scampering into the woods on a chase that may lead us we know not where or how long, with only a small quantity of provisions and ammunition, and but one gun, may seem energetic and daring, but it may not, perhaps, be wise." Victor admitted that there was truth in that, and looked perplexed. "Nevertheless, to give up at this point, and return to the settlement for supplies," he said, "would be to lose the advantage of our quick start. How are we to get over the difficulty?" "Moi, I can you git out of de difficulty," said Rollin, lighting his pipe with a business air. "Dis be de vay. Peegvish et me is out for long hunt vid much pemmican, poodre an' shote. You make von 'greement vid me et Peegvish. You vill engage me; I vill go vid you. You can take vat you vill of our tings, and send Peegvish back to de settlement for tell fat ye bees do." This plan, after brief but earnest consideration, was adopted. The old Indian returned to Willow Creek with pencil notes, written on birch bark, to old Samuel Ravenshaw and Angus Macdonald, and the other three of the party set off at once to renew the chase on foot, with blankets and food strapped to their backs and guns on their shoulders--for Rollin carried his own fowling-piece, and Victor had borrowed that of Peegwish. As happened the previous day, they failed several times to find the trail of the fugitives, but at last Ian discovered it, and they pushed forward with renewed hope. The faint footmarks at first led them deep into the woods, where it was difficult to force a passage; then the trail disappeared altogether on the banks of a little stream. But the pursuers were too experienced to be thrown off the scent by such a well-known device as walking up stream in the water. They followed the brook until they came to the place where Petawanaquat had once more betaken himself to dry land. It was a well-chosen spot; hard and rocky ground, on which only slight impressions could be left, and the wily savage had taken care to step so as to leave as slight a trail as possible; but the pursuers had sharp and trained eyes. Ian Macdonald, in particular, having spent much of his time as a hunter before setting up his school, had the eyes of a lynx. He could distinguish marks when his companions could see nothing until they were pointed out, and although frequently at fault, he never failed to recover the trail sooner or later. Of course they lost much time, and they knew that Petawanaquat must be rapidly increasing the distance between them, but they trusted to his travelling more leisurely when he felt secure from pursuit, and to his being delayed somewhat by Tony, whom it was obvious he had carried for long distances at a stretch. For several days the pursuers went on with unflagging perseverance and ever-increasing hope, until they at last emerged from the woods, and began to traverse the great prairie. Here the trail diverged for a considerable distance southward, and then turned sharply to the west, in which direction it went in a straight line for many miles, as if Petawanaquat had made up his mind to cross the Rocky Mountains, and throw poor Tony into the Pacific! The travellers saw plenty of game--ducks, geese, plover, prairie-hens, antelopes, etcetera,--on the march, but they were too eager in the pursuit of the savage to be turned aside by smaller game. They merely shot a few ducks to save their pemmican. At last they came to a point in the prairie which occasioned them great perplexity of mind and depression of spirit. It was on the evening of a bright and beautiful day--one of those days in which the air seems fresher and the sky bluer, and the sun more brilliant than usual. They had found, that evening, that the trail led them away to the right towards one of the numerous clumps of woodland which rendered that part of the prairie more like a nobleman's park than a wild wilderness. On entering the bushes they perceived that there was a lakelet embosomed like a gem in the surrounding trees. Passing through the belt of woodland they stood on the margin of the little lake. "How beautiful!" exclaimed Ian, with a flush of pleasure on his sunburnt face. "Just like a bit of Paradise." "Did you ever see Paradise, that you know so well what it is like?" asked Victor of his unromantic friend. "Yes, Vic, I've seen it many a time--in imagination." "Indeed, and what like was it, and what sort of people were there?" "It was like--let me see--the most glorious scene ever beheld on earth, but more exquisite, and the sun that lighted it was more brilliant by far than ours." "Not bad, for an unromantic imagination," said Victor, with much gravity. "Were there any ducks and geese there?" "Yes, ducks; plenty of them, but no _geese_; and nobler game--even lions were there, so tame that little children could lead them." "Better and better," said Victor; "and what of the people?" Ian was on the point of saying that they were all--men, women, and children--the exact counterparts of Elsie Ravenshaw, but he checked himself and said that they were all honest, sincere, kind, gentle, upright, and that there was not a single cynical person there, nor a-- "Hush! what sort of a bird is that?" interrupted Victor, laying his hand on Ian's arm and pointing to a small patch of reeds in the lake. There were so many birds of various kinds gambolling on the surface, that Ian had difficulty in distinguishing the creature referred to. At last he perceived it, a curious fat-bodied little bird with a pair of preposterously long legs, which stood eyeing its companions as if in contemplative pity. "I know it not," said Ian; "never saw it before." "We'll bag it now. Stand back," said Victor, raising his gun. The above conversation had been carried on in a low tone, for the friends were still concealed by a bush from the various and numerous birds which disported themselves on the lake in fancied security and real felicity. The crash of Victor's gun sent them screaming over the tree-tops--all save the fat creature with the long legs, which now lay dead on the water. "Go in for it, Rollin, it's not deep, I think," said Victor. "Troo, but it may be dangeroose for all dat," replied the half-breed, leaning his gun against a tree. "Howsomewhatever I vill try!" The place turned out, as he had suspected, to be somewhat treacherous, with a floating bottom. Before he had waded half way to the dead bird the ground began to sink under him. Presently he threw up his arms, went right down, and disappeared. Both Ian and Victor started forward with the intention of plunging into the water, but they had not reached the edge when Rollin reappeared, blowing like a grampus. They soon saw that he could swim, and allowed him to scramble ashore. This misadventure did not prevent them from making further attempts to secure the bird, which Victor, having some sort of naturalistic propensities, was eager to possess. It was on going round the margin of the lake for this purpose that they came upon the cause of the perplexities before mentioned. On the other side of a point covered with thick bush they came upon the remains of a large Indian camp, which had evidently been occupied very recently. Indeed, the ashes of some of the fires, Rollin declared, were still warm; but it was probably Rollin's imagination which warmed them. It was found, too, that the trail of Petawanaquat entered this camp, and was there utterly lost in the confusion of tracks made everywhere by many feet, both large and small. Here, then, was sufficient ground for anxiety. If the savage had joined this band and gone away with it, the pursuers could of course follow him up, but, in the event of their finding him among friends, there seemed little or no probability of their being able to rescue the stolen child. On the other hand, if Petawanaquat had left the Indians and continued his journey alone, the great difficulty that lay before them was to find his point of departure from a band which would naturally send out hunters right and left as they marched along. "It's a blue look-out any way you take it," remarked poor Victor, with an expression worthy of Peegwish on his countenance. "I vish it vas blue. It is black," said Rollin. Ian replied to both remarks by saying that, whether black or blue, they must make the best of it, and set about doing that at once. To do his desponding comrades justice, they were quite ready for vigorous action in any form, notwithstanding their despair. Accordingly, they followed the broad trail of the Indians into the prairie a short way, and, separating in different directions round its margins, carefully examined and followed up the tracks that diverged from it for considerable distances, but without discovering the print of the little moccasin with Elsie's patch, or the larger footprint of Tony's captor. "You see, there are so many footprints, some like and some unlike, and they cross and recross each other to such an extent that it seems to me a hopeless case altogether," said Victor. "You don't propose to give it up, do you?" asked Ian. "Give it up!" repeated Victor, almost fiercely. "Give up Tony? NO! not as long as I can walk, or even crawl." "Ve vill crawl before long, perhaps," said Rollin; "ve may even stop crawling an' die at last, but ve must not yet give in." In the strength of this resolve they returned to the lakelet when the sun went down, and encamped there. It is needless to say that they supped and slept well notwithstanding--or notwithforstanding, as Rollin put it. Rollin was fond of long words, and possessed a few that were his own private property. Victor had a dream that night. He dreamt that he caught sight of an Indian on the plains with Tony on his shoulder; that he gave chase, and almost overtook them, when, to save himself, the Indian dropped his burden; that he, Victor, seized his rescued brother in a tight embrace, and burst into tears of joy; that Tony suddenly turned into Petawanaquat, and that, in the sharp revulsion of feeling, he, Victor, seized the nose of the savage and pulled it out to a length of three yards, twisted it round his neck and choked him, thrust his head down into his chest and tied his arms in a knot over it, and, finally, stuffing him into a mud-puddle, jumped upon him and stamped him down. It was an absurd dream, no doubt, but are not dreams generally absurd? While engaged in the last mentioned humane operation, Victor was awakened by Ian. "It's time to be moving," said his comrade with a laugh. "I would have roused you before, but you seemed to be so busily engaged with some friend that I hadn't the heart to part you sooner." The whole of that day they spent in a fruitless effort to detect the footprints of Petawanaquat, either among the tracks made by the band of Indians or among those diverging from the main line of march. In so doing they wandered far from the camp at the lakelet, and even lost sight of each other. The only result was that Ian and Rollin returned in the evening dispirited and weary, and Victor lost himself. The ease with which this is done is scarcely comprehensible by those who have not wandered over an unfamiliar and boundless plain, on which the clumps of trees and shrubs have no very distinctive features. Victor's comrades, however, were alive to the danger. Not finding him in camp, they at once went out in different directions, fired shots until they heard his answering reply, and at last brought him safely in. That night again they spent on the margin of the little lake, and over the camp-fire discussed their future plans. It was finally assumed that Petawanaquat had joined the Indians, and resolved that they should follow up the trail as fast as they could travel. This they did during many days without, however, overtaking the Indians. Then the pemmican began to wax low, for in their anxiety to push on they neglected to hunt. At last, one evening, just as it was growing dark, and while they were looking out for a convenient resting-place, they came on the spot where the Indians had encamped, evidently the night before, for the embers of their fires were still smoking. Here, then, they lay down with the pleasing hope, not unmingled with anxiety, that they should overtake the band on the following day. CHAPTER FIVE. TONY BECOMES A REDSKIN, AND THE PURSUERS CHANGE THEIR GAME. When Petawanaquat joined the band of Indians, of whom we left Victor Ravenshaw and his comrades in eager pursuit, he deemed it advisable for various reasons to alter the costume and general appearance of his captive, and for that purpose took him to a sequestered spot in the bushes outside the camp. Poor Tony had at first shrunk from his captor with inexpressible horror, but when he found that the Indian did not eat him his mind was calmed. As time advanced, and he perceived that Petawanaquat, although stern and very silent, took much pains to assist him on his long marches, and, above all, fed him with a liberal hand, his feelings changed considerably, and at last he began to regard the taciturn red man with something like fondness. Petawanaquat made no positive effort to gain the child's affections; he never fondled him, and seldom spoke, save for the purpose of giving a brief command, which Tony always obeyed with miraculous promptitude. The utmost that can be said is that the savage was gentle and supplied his wants. Could a civilised man have done much more? It may be well to remark in passing that Tony, having associated a good deal with Indian boys in Red River, could speak their language pretty well. The Indian, of course, spoke his own tongue correctly, while Tony spoke it much as he spoke his own--childishly. As the reader probably does not understand the Indian language, we will give its equivalent as spoken by both in English. On reaching the sequestered spot above referred to, Petawanaquat sat down on a fallen tree and made the wondering child stand up before him. "The white man's boy must become an Indian," he said solemnly. "How zat poss'ble?" demanded the child with equal solemnity. "By wearing the red man's clothes and painting his face," returned his captor. "Zat'll be jolly," said Tony, with a smile of hearty approval. How he expressed the word "jolly" in the Indian tongue we cannot tell, but he conveyed it somehow, for the Indian's lips expanded in a grim smile, the first he had indulged in since the day of the abduction. The process by which Tony was transformed was peculiar. Opening a little bundle, the Indian took therefrom a small coat, or capote, of deer-skin; soft, and of a beautiful yellow, like the skin of the chamois. It was richly ornamented with porcupine-quill-work done in various colours, and had fringes of leather and little locks of hair hanging from it in various places. Causing Tony to strip, he put this coat on him, and fastened it round his waist with a worsted belt of bright scarlet. Next he drew on his little legs a pair of blue cloth leggings, which were ornamented with beads, and clothed his feet in new moccasins, embroidered, like the coat, with quill-work. Tony regarded all this with unconcealed pleasure, but it did not seem to please him so much when the Indian combed his rich curly hair straight down all round, so that his face was quite concealed by it. Taking a pair of large scissors from his bundle, the Indian passed one blade under the hair across the forehead, gave a sharp snip, and the whole mass fell like a curtain to the ground. It was a sublimely simple mode of clearing the way for the countenance--much in vogue among North American savages, from whom it has recently been introduced among civilised nations. The Indian then lifted the clustering curls at the back, and again opened the scissors. For a few moments his fingers played with the locks as he gazed thoughtfully at them; then, apparently changing his mind, he let them drop, and put the scissors away. But the toilet was not yet complete. The versatile operator drew from his bundle some bright-red, yellow ochre, and blue paint, with a piece of charcoal, and set to work on Tony's countenance with all the force of a Van Dyck and the rich colouring of a Rubens. He began with a streak of scarlet from the eyebrows to the end of the nose. Skipping the mouth, he continued the streak from the lower lip down the chin, under which it melted into a tender half-tint made by a smudge of yellow ochre and charcoal. This vigorous touch seemed to rouse the painter's spirit in Petawanaquat, for he pushed the boy out at arm's length, drew himself back, frowned, glared, and breathed hard. Three bars of blue from the bridge of the nose over each cheek, with two red circles below, and a black triangle on the forehead, were touched in with consummate skill and breadth. One of the touches was so broad that it covered the whole jaw, and had to be modified. On each closed upper eyelid an intensely black spot was painted, by which simple device Tony, with his azure orbs, was made, as it were, to wink black and gaze blue. The general effect having thus been blocked in, the artist devoted himself to the finishing touches, and at last turned out a piece of work which old Samuel Ravenshaw himself would have failed to recognise as his son. It should have been remarked that previous to this, Petawanaquat had modified his own costume. His leggings were fringed with scalp-locks; he had painted his face, and stuck a bunch of feathers in his hair, and a gay firebag and a tomahawk were thrust under his belt behind. "Ho!" he exclaimed, with a look of satisfaction, "now Tony is Tonyquat, and Petawanaquat is his father!" "When will zoo take me back to my own fadder?" asked Tony, emboldened by the Indian's growing familiarity. No reply was given to this, but the question seemed to throw the red man into a savage reverie, and a dark frown settled on his painted face, as he muttered, "The Little Wolf meant to take the white man's life, but he was wise: he spared his life and took his _heart_. His revenge is sweeter. Wah!" Tony failed to catch the meaning of this, but fearing to rouse the anger of his new father, he held his tongue. Meanwhile the Indian put the child on a stump a few yards off in front of him, filled his pipe, lighted it, placed an elbow on each knee, rested his chin on his doubled fists, and glared at his handiwork. Tony was used to glaring by that time, though he did not like it. He sat still for a long time like one fascinated, and returned the stare with interest. At last the Indian spoke. "Is Tonyquat a Christian?" Somewhat surprised but not perplexed by the question Tony answered, "Ho, yis," promptly. The Indian again looked long and earnestly at the child, as if he were considering how far such a juvenile mind might be capable of going into a theological discussion. "What _is_ a Christian?" asked the Indian abruptly. "A Kist'n's a dood boy," replied Tony; then, dropping his eyes for a moment in an effort to recall past lessons, he suddenly looked up with an intelligent smile, and said, "Oh, yis, I 'memers now. Elsie teach me a Kist'n boy's one what tries to be like de Lord--dood, kind, gentle, fo'givin', patient, an' heaps more; zat's what a Kist'n is." The Indian nodded approvingly. This accorded, as far as it went, with what he had learned from the missionaries of Red River, but his mind was evidently perplexed. He smoked, meditated a considerable time, and glared at Tony in silence; then said suddenly-- "Tonyquat, your father is _not_ a Christian." "My fadder would knock zoo down if zoo say dat to hims face," replied the child confidently. This seemed so palpable a truth that the Indian nodded several times, and grinned fiendishly. "Do Christians swear, an' drink, and fight, and get angry till the blood makes the face blue, and strike with the fist?" asked Petawanaquat. "Oh, no--_never_," replied Tony, adopting that shocked tone and look which Elsie was in the habit of using when anything wicked was propounded to her; "dey's always dood, like Josuf an' Abel an' Sam'l, an' Cain, an' David, an' Saul--" Tony stopped short, with an indistinct idea that he was mixing pattern characters. "Ho!" muttered the savage, with a gleam of triumph in his eyes, "Petawanaquat has got his _heart_." "Eh, zoo got 'im by heart a'ready? Took me long, long time to git 'em by heart," said Tony, with a look of admiration, which was sadly marred by the paint. "Me's not got 'em all off yet. But you's clever, an'-- an'--big." The Indian's smile became a sad one, and his look was again perplexed, as he rose and returned to the camp, followed by his adopted son. It was obvious that no light was to be thrown on his religious difficulties, whatever they were, by Tonyquat. After leaving the lakelet on the plains, the Indian travelled for several days with his friends; and then parting from them, went towards the west, to rejoin his family. This point of divergence the pursuers had missed, and when they overtook the Indian band, they found, to their intense regret, that the kidnapper had escaped them. "We will hold on with the redskins," said Ian Macdonald, while sitting in council with his companions after this discovery. "The chief tells me that buffaloes have been reported in a spot which lies in the direction we must follow to recover the trail. This advantage we now possess, however: we know where Petawanaquat is going--thanks to his so-called friends here, who don't seem to care much about him--and as he believes he has distanced all pursuers, he will now journey slower than before. Besides, we must help to kill a buffalo or two, our meat being nearly done. What say you, Vic?" "I say what you say, of course, though I'd rather set off ahead of the band, and push on as fast as we can." "Vich means dat youth bees impetoous toujours," said Rollin. In pursuance of this plan they journeyed with the Indians for three days, when an event occurred which modified their plans considerably. This was the discovery one afternoon of a broad trail, made by the passage of numerous carts and horsemen over the prairie. "Buffalo-runners!" exclaimed Rollin, when they came upon the track. "From Red River!" cried Victor. "Even so, boys," said Ian. The Indian chief, who led the party, held the same opinion, and added that they were evidently journeying in the same direction with themselves. This rendered it necessary that they should make a forced march during the night, it being otherwise impossible for men on foot to overtake a party of horsemen. Towards midnight of the same day they had the satisfaction of seeing their campfires in the distance. Soon afterwards they were within the circle of the camp, where men were still smoking and eating round the fires, and women and children were moving busily about. "Why, there are John Flett and David Mowat," exclaimed Victor, as several of the men came forward to meet the party. "An' Hayes, an' Vinklemann," cried Rollin. Another minute and they were shaking hands amid a chorus of surprised and hearty questions and replies. "Is Louis Lambert with you?" asked Victor, after mutual explanations had been given. "No," said David Mowat, with a laugh, "he's got other fish to fry at home." Poor Ian winced, for he at once pictured to himself Elsie as the mermaid hinted at. "Now, boys, I'm going to ask some of you to make a sacrifice," said Ian. "We had intended to follow up this chase on foot, but of course will be able to accomplish our end sooner on horseback. I want three of you to lend us your horses. You're sure to be well paid for them by Sam Ravenshaw and my father. I'll guarantee you that--" "We want no guarantee," interrupted John Flett, "and we have spare horses enough in the camp to mount you without giving up our own; so make your mind easy." "Zat is troo," said Herr Winklemann; "ve has goot horse to spare; buff'lo-runners every von. Bot you mus' stay vid us von day for run ze buff'lo an' git supply of meat." Victor and his friends at once agreed to this, all the more readily that the possession of horses would now enable them easily to overtake the fugitives. Accordingly, they sat down to a splendid supper of robbiboo, and continued to eat, chat, and quaff tea far into the following morning, until nature asserted herself by shutting up their eyelids. The band with which our adventurers were now associated was composed of a motley crew of Red River half-breeds, out for the great spring buffalo hunt. It consisted of nearly 700 hunters, as many women, more than 400 children, and upwards of 1000 carts, with horses and draught oxen, besides about 700 buffalo-runners, or trained hunting-horses, and more than 500 dogs. These latter, although useless in the spring hunt, were, nevertheless, taken with them, fed, and cared for, because of their valuable qualities as draught animals for light sledges in winter. Some of the hunters were steady-going and respectable enough; others were idle, thriftless fellows, who could not settle to farming in the colony, and even in the chase were lazy, bad hunters. The women were there for the purpose of attending to camp duties--cooking, dressing the buffalo skins, making bags from the animals' green hides, with the hair left on the outside, and filling the same with pemmican. This substance, as we have elsewhere remarked, is by no means unpalatable; it is very nutritious, and forms the chief food of the hundreds of voyageurs who traverse Rupert's Land in boats and canoes during the open season of the year. It must be understood, however, that the compost is not attractive in appearance. It is made in the open air by women who are not very particular in their habits. Hence, during windy weather, a modicum of dust is introduced into it. Even stray leaves and twigs may get into it at times, and it is always seasoned more or less profusely with buffalo hairs. But these are trifles to strong and hungry men. Two trips to the plains were made annually by these hunters. The proceeds of the spring hunt were always sold to supply them with needed clothing, ammunition, etcetera, for the year. The "fall or autumn hunt" furnished them with their winter stock of food, and helped to pay off their debts, most of them being supplied on credit. Sometimes the fall hunt failed, in which case starvation stared the improvident among them in the face, and suffering, more or less severe, was the lot of all. Little, however, did the reckless, jovial half-breeds care for such considerations on the occasion about which we write. It was the spring hunt. The year was before them. Health rolled in the veins and hope revelled in the breasts of all as they mounted their steeds, and sallied forth to the chase. Ah! it was a memorable day for Victor, when, at early dawn, he vaulted into the saddle of the horse lent to him, and went off to hunt the buffalo. The said horse began by standing straight up on its hind legs like a man! Victor held on by the mane. Reversing the process, it pointed its tail to the sky. Victor stood in the stirrups. It swerved to the right, it swerved to the left, but Victor swerved with it accommodatingly. He was a splendid horseman. Finding that out at last, the steed took the bit in its teeth and ran away. Victor let it run-- nay, he whacked its sides and _made_ it run. Dozens of wild fellows were curvetting and racing around him. It was his _first_ hunt. Mad with excitement, he finally swept away from his comrades with a series of war-whoops that would have done credit to the fiercest redskin on the North American plains. CHAPTER SIX. DESCRIBES A GREAT HUNT. The huge bison, or buffalo, of the North American prairie is gregarious; in other words, it loves society and travels in herds. These herds are sometimes so vast as absolutely to blacken the plains for miles around. The half-breed buffalo-hunters of Red River were also gregarious. From the moment of their quitting the settlements they kept together for mutual help and protection. Although a free, wild, and lawless set, they found it absolutely necessary for hunting purposes to organise themselves, and thus by voluntary submission to restraint, unwittingly did homage to Law! On a level plain at a place called Pembina, three days out from Red River, the whole camp squatted down; the roll was called, and rules and regulations for the journey were agreed upon and settled. Then ten captains were named, the senior being Baptiste Warder, an English half-breed, a fine bold-looking and discreet man of resolute character, who was thus elected the great war chief of the little army. As commander-in-chief Baptiste had various duties to perform, among others to see that lost property picked up about the camp should be restored to its owner through the medium of a public crier, who went his rounds every evening. Each captain had ten stout fellows under him to act as soldiers or policemen. Ten guides were also appointed, each of whom led the camp day about and carried its flag or standard. The hoisting of the flag each morning was the signal for raising the camp. Half an hour was the time allowed to get ready, unless, any one being sick or animals having strayed, delay became necessary. All day the flag remained up; its being lowered each evening was the signal for encamping. Then the captains and their men arranged the order of the camp. The carts as they arrived moved to their appointed places, side by side, with the trains outwards, and formed a circle, inside of which, at one end, the tents were pitched in double and triple rows, the horses, etcetera, being tethered at the other end. Thus they were at all times ready to resist attack from Indians. Among other rules laid down on this occasion at starting were the following:-- No hunting to be allowed on the Sabbath day. No party to fork off, lag behind, or go before, without permission. No hunter or party to run buffalo before the general order, and every captain in turn to mount guard with his men and patrol the camp. The punishments for offenders were, like themselves, rather wild and wasteful. For a first offence against the laws, a culprit was to have his saddle and bridle cut up! For the second, his coat to be taken and cut up; and for the third he was to be flogged. A person convicted of theft was to be brought to the middle of the camp, and have his or her name loudly proclaimed three times, with the word "thief" added each time. It was the third week out from the settlement when the hunters met with Victor Ravenshaw and his friends, yet up to that day they had failed to find the buffalo, and were well-nigh starving. The intelligence, therefore, that scouts had at length discovered game, had filled the camp with joy. After having taken a little of the mettle out of his steed, as related in the last chapter, Victor caused him to make a wide circuit on the plain, and came up behind the line of hunters just as they topped a prairie undulation, or wave, and sighted the buffalo. It was a grand array, the sight of which thrilled the young sportsman to the heart. Full four hundred huntsmen, mounted on fresh and restive steeds, were slowly advancing, waiting eagerly for the word to start. Baptiste Warder, their chief, was in front with his telescope, surveying the game and the ground. Victor pushed in between Ian and Rollin, who rode near the centre of the impatient line. The wild cattle blackened the plain at the distance of about a mile and a half from them. "Surely they must have seen us by this time," said Victor, in a voice of suppressed agitation. "Have you got your powder-horn and bullets handy?" asked Ian. "Yes; all right." "Put 'im in de mout, de mout," said Rollin quickly. The half-breed here referred to a habit of the hunters, who carry several bullets in their mouths to facilitate loading while running at full speed. The method is simple. The hunter merely pours powder into his left palm, transfers it to his gun, drops a bullet from his mouth into the muzzle, hits the butt smartly on his pommel, which at once sends the charge home and forces priming into the pan, and thus is ready for another shot. Victor, having forgotten all about this, immediately put three bullets into his mouth, his gun being already loaded. "Don't swallow them!" said Ian. "Swallow your own advice," growled Victor. "Start!" shouted Captain Warder. The welcome signal sent an electric thrill along the line. It was promptly obeyed, first at a slow trot, then at a hard gallop. The low rumbling thunder of their tramp was in keeping with the wild eager looks of the half-savage hunters. They had approached to within four or five hundred yards before the buffalo-bulls curved their tails into marks of interrogation and began to paw the ground. Another moment, and the mighty herd took to flight. Then the huntsmen let loose their eager steeds. As squadrons of dragoons charge into the thick of battle, these wild fellows bore down with grand momentum on the buffalo bands. The very earth seemed to tremble when they charged, but when the herd sprang away in the frenzy of terror it was as though a shock of earthquake had riven the plains. Right into the careering mass the horsemen rushed. Shots began--here, there, and everywhere, until a rattle of musketry filled the air, while smoke, dust, shouts, and bellowing added to the wild confusion. The fattest animals were selected, and in an incredibly short space of time a thousand of their carcasses strewed the plain. The men who were best mounted of course darted forward in advance and secured the fattest cows. They seldom dropped a mark to identify their property. These hunters possess a power of distinguishing the animals they have slain during a hot and long ride, which amounts almost to an instinct--even though they may have killed from ten to twelve animals. An experienced hunter on a good horse will perform such a feat during one race. He seldom fires till within three or four yards of his prey, and never misses. A well-trained horse, the moment it hears the shot, springs on one side to avoid stumbling over the buffalo. An awkward or shy horse will not approach nearer than ten or fifteen yards. Badly mounted men think themselves well off if they secure two or three animals during one run. As the battle continued, the very air was darkened with dust and smoke. Of course such a fight could not rage without casualties. There were, in truth, many hairbreadth and some almost miraculous escapes, for the ground was rocky and full of badger-holes. Twenty-three horses and riders were seen at one moment all sprawling on the ground. One horse was gored by a bull and killed on the spot: two other horses fell over it and were disabled. One rider broke his shoulder-blade, another burst his gun by careless loading, and lost three fingers, while another was struck on the knee by a spent ball. The wonder was, not that so many, but that so few, were hurt, when it is considered that the riders were dashing about in clouds of dust and smoke, crossing and recrossing each other in all directions, with shots firing right and left, before, behind--everywhere--in quick succession. The explanation must be that, every man being a trained marksman, nearly every bullet found its billet in a buffalo's body. With his heart in his mouth, as well as his bullets, Victor Ravenshaw entered into the wild _melee_, scarce knowing what he was about. Although inexperienced, he knew well what to do, for many a time had he listened to the stories of buffalo-hunters in times past, and had put all their operations in practice with a wooden gun in mimic chase. But it was not easy to keep cool. He saw a fat animal just ahead of him, pushed close alongside; pointed his gun without raising it to his shoulder, and fired. He almost burnt the animal's hair, so near was he. The buffalo fell and his horse leaped to one side. Victor had forgotten this part of the programme. He was nearly unseated, but held on by the mane and recovered his seat. Immediately he poured powder into his palm--spilling a good deal and nearly dropping his gun from under his left arm in the operation--and commenced to reload while at full speed. He spat a ball into the muzzle, just missed knocking out some of his front teeth, forgot to strike the butt on the pommel of the saddle, (which omission would have infallibly resulted in the bursting of the gun had it exploded), pointed at another animal and drew the trigger. It missed fire, of course, for want of priming. He remembered his error; corrected it, pointed again, fired, and dropped another cow. Elated with success, he was about to reload when a panting bull came up behind him. He seized his bridle, and swerved a little. The bull thundered on, mad with rage; its tail aloft, and pursued by Michel Rollin, who seemed as angry as the bull. "Hah! I vill stop you!" growled the excited half-breed as he dashed along. Animals were so numerous and close around them that they seemed in danger, at the moment, of being crushed. Suddenly the bull turned sharp round on its pursuer. To avoid it the horse leaped on one side; the girths gave way and the rider, saddle and all, were thrown on the bull's horns. With a wild toss of its head, the surprised creature sent the man high into the air. In his fall he alighted on the back of another buffalo--it was scarcely possible to avoid this in the crowd--and slipped to the ground. Strange to say, Rollin was not hurt, but he was effectually thrown out of the running for that time, and Victor saw him no more till evening. We relate no fanciful or exaggerated tale, good reader. Our description is in strict accordance with the account of a credible eye-witness. For upwards of an hour and a half the wild chase was kept up; the plain was strewn with the dead and dying, and horsemen as well as buffaloes were scattered far and wide. Victor suddenly came upon Ian while in pursuit of an animal. "What luck!" he shouted. "I've killed two--by accident, I think," said Ian, swerving towards his comrade, but not slackening his pace. "Capital! I've killed three. Who's that big fellow ahead after the old bull?" "It's Winklemann. He seems to prefer tough meat." As Ian spoke the bull in question turned suddenly round, just as Rollin's bull had done, and received Winklemann's horse on its hairy forehead. The poor man shot from the saddle as if he had been thrown from a catapult, turned a complete somersault over the buffalo, and fell on his back beyond. Thrusting the horse to one side, the buffalo turned and seemed to gore the prostrate German as it dashed onward. Puffing up at once, both Victor and Ian leaped from their horses and hastened to assist their friend. He rose slowly to a sitting posture as they approached, and began to feel his legs with a troubled look. "Not much hurt, I hope?" said Ian, kneeling beside him. "No bones broken?" "No, I think not; mine leks are fery vell, but I fear mine lunks are gone," answered the German, untying his belt. It was found, however, on examination, that the lungs were all right, the bull's horn having merely grazed the poor man's ribs. In a few minutes his horse was caught, and he was able to remount, but the trio were now far behind the tide of war, which had swept away by that time to the horizon. They therefore determined to rest content with what they had accomplished and return to camp. "What a glorious chase!" exclaimed Victor as they rode slowly back; "I almost wish that white men might have the redskin's heaven and hunt the buffalo for ever." "You'd soon grow tired of your heaven," said Ian, laughing. "I suspect that the soul requires occupation of a higher kind than the pursuing and slaying of wild animals." "No doubt you are right, you learned philosopher; but you can't deny that this has been a most enjoyable burst." "I don't deny anything. I merely controvert your idea that it would be pleasant to go on with this sort of thing for ever." "Hah! de more so, ven your back is almost broke and your lunks are gored." "But your `lunks' are not `gored,'" said Victor. "Come, Winklemann, be thankful that you are alive.--By the way, Ian, where are the animals you killed?" "We are just coming to one. Here it is. I threw my cap down to mark it, and there is another one, a quarter of a mile behind it. We have plenty of meat, you see, and shall be able to quit the camp to-morrow." While the friends were thus jogging onwards, the hunt came to an end, and the hunters, throwing off their coats and turning up their sleeves, drew their scalping-knives, and began the work of skinning and cutting up the animals. While thus engaged their guns and bridles lay handy beside them, for at such times their Indian enemies are apt to pounce on and scalp some of them, should they chance to be in the neighbourhood. At the same time the carts advanced and began to load with meat and marrow-bones. The utmost expedition was used, for all the meat that they should be obliged to leave on the field when night closed in would be lost to them and become the property of the wolves. We know not what the loss amounted to on this occasion. But the gain was eminently satisfactory, no fewer than 1375 tongues, (as tit-bits and trophies), being brought into camp. Is it to be wondered at that there were sounds of rejoicing that night round the blazing camp-fires? Need we remark that the hissing of juicy steaks sounded like a sweet lullaby far on into the night; that the contents of marrow-bones oiled the fingers, to say nothing of the mouths, cheeks, and noses, of man, woman, and child? Is it surprising that people who had been on short allowance for a considerable time past took advantage of the occasion and ate till they could hardly stand? Truly they made a night of it. Their Indian visitors, who constituted themselves camp-followers, gorged themselves to perfect satisfaction, and even the dogs, who had a full allowance, licked their lips that night with inexpressible felicity. CHAPTER SEVEN. SOME OF THE SHADOWS OF A BUFFALO-HUNTER'S LIFE. In order to give the women time to prepare some pemmican for them, Victor Ravenshaw and his companions agreed to spend another day with the hunters, and again, as a matter of course, followed them to the chase. The same wild pursuit, accompanied by accidents, serious and serio-comic, took place, and success again attended the hunt, but the day did not end so happily, owing to an event which filled the camp with great anxiety. It happened at the close of the day. The men were dropping into camp by twos and threes, wearied with hard work, more or less covered with dust and blood, and laden with buffalo tongues. Carts, also, were constantly coming in, filled with meat. The women were busy cutting up and drying the meat in the sun, or over a slow fire, melting down fat, pounding the dried meat with stones, and manufacturing bags out of the raw hides. Chatting and merry laughter resounded on all sides, for pemmican and bales of dried meat meant money, and they were coining it fast. Towards sunset a band of several hunters appeared on the ridge in front of the camp, and came careering gaily towards it. Baptiste Warder, the mighty captain, led. Victor, Ian, Rollin, Winklemann, Flett, Mowat, and others followed. They dashed into camp like a whirlwind, and sprang from their steeds, evidently well pleased with the success of the day. "Had splendid sport," said Victor, with glittering eyes, to one of the subordinate captains, who addressed him. "I killed ten animals myself, and Ian Macdonald missed fifteen; Winklemann dropped six, besides dropping himself--" "Vat is dat you zay?" demanded the big German, who was divesting himself of some of the accoutrements of the chase. "I say that you tumbled over six buffaloes and then tumbled over yourself," said Victor, laughing. "Zat is not troo. It vas mine horse vat tombled. Of course I could not go on riding upon noting after mine horse vas down." At supper Herr Winklemann was quieter than usual, and rather cross. His propensity to tumble seemed to be a sore subject with him, both as to body and mind. He made more than one cutting remark to Victor during the meal. After supper pipes were of course lighted, and conversation flowed freely. The only two who did not smoke were Ian Macdonald and, strange to say, Winklemann. That worthy German was a brilliant exception to his countrymen in the matter of tobacco. Victor, under the influence of example, was attempting in a quiet way to acquire the art, but with little success. He took to the pipe awkwardly. "Vat vor you smok?" asked Winklemann, in a tone of contempt to Victor. "It is clear zat you do not loike it." "How d'you know that I don't like it?" asked Victor, with a blush and a laugh. "Becowse your face do show it. Ve does not make faces at vat ve loikes." "That may be," retorted Victor, somewhat sharply. "Nevertheless, I have earned a hunter's right to enjoy my pipe as well as the rest of you." "Bon, bon, c'est vrai--true," cried Rollin, letting a huge cloud escape from his lips. "Bah! doos killing buffalo give you right to do voolishness? Do not try for deceive yourself. You loike it not, bot you tink it makes you look loike a _man_. Zat is vat you tink. Nevair vas you more mistouken. I have seen von leetle poy put on a pair of big boots and tink he look very grand, very loike him fadder; bot de boots only makes him look smaller dan before, an' more foolish. So it is vid de pipe in de mout of de beardless poy." Having thrown this apple of discord into the midst of the party, Winklemann shut his mouth firmly, as if waiting for a belligerent reply. As for Victor, he flushed again, partly from indignation at this attack on his liberty to do as he pleased, and partly from shame at having the real motive of his heart so ruthlessly exposed. Victor was too honest and manly to deny the fact that he had not yet acquired a liking for tobacco, and admitted to himself that, in very truth, his object in smoking was to appear, as he imagined, more like a man, forgetful or ignorant of the fact that men, (even smokers), regard beardless consumers of tobacco as poor imitative monkeys. He soon came to see the habit in its true light, and gave it up, luckily, before he became its slave. He would have been more than mortal, however, had he given in at once. Continuing, therefore, to puff with obstinate vigour, he returned to the charge. "Smoking is no worse than drinking, Winklemann, and you know that you're fond of beer." "Bon!" said Rollin, nodding approval. "Vat then?" cried the German, who never declined a challenge of any kind, and who was fond of wordy war; "doos my sin joostify yours? Bot you is wrong. If smoking be not worse dan trinking, it is less excusable, for to trink is natural. I may apuse mine power an' trink vat is pad for me, but den I may likewise trink vat is coot for me. Vit smoking, no; you cannot smok vat is coot; it is all pad togeder. Von chile is porn; vell, it do trink at vonce, vidout learning. Bot did any von ever hear of a chile vat cry for a pipe ven it was porn?" The laugh with which this question was greeted was suddenly arrested by the sound of a galloping steed. Every one sprang up and instinctively seized a weapon, for the clatter of hoofs had that unmistakable character which indicates desperate urgency. It was low and dull at first, but became suddenly and sharply distinct as a rider rose over the ridge to the left and bore madly down on the camp, lashing his horse with furious persistency. "It's young Valle," exclaimed Captain Baptiste, hastening to meet him. Valle, who was a mere youth, had gone out with his father, Louison Valle, and the rest of the hunters in the morning. With glaring eyes, and scarce able to speak, he now reined in his trembling steed, and told the terrible news that his father had been killed by Sioux Indians. A party of half-breeds instantly mounted and dashed away over the plains, led by the poor boy on a fresh horse. On the way he told the tale more fully. We have already said that when skinning the buffalo late in the evening, or at a distance from camp, the hunters ran considerable risk from savages, and were more or less wary in consequence. It was drawing towards sunset when Louison Valle perceived that night would descend before he could secure the whole of the animals he had shot, and made up his mind to the sacrifice. While busily engaged on a buffalo, he sent his son, on his own horse, to a neighbouring eminence, to watch and guard against surprise. Even while the father was giving directions to the son, a party of Sioux, armed with bows and arrows, were creeping towards him, snake-like, through the long grass. These suddenly rushed upon him, and he had barely time to shout to his son, "Make for the camp!" when he fell, pierced by a shower of arrows. Of course, the savages made off at once, well knowing that pursuit was certain. The murderers were twelve in number. They made for the bush country. Meanwhile, the avengers reached the murdered man. The body was on its back, just as it had fallen. Death must have relieved the unfortunate hunter before the scalp had been torn from his skull. It was the first time that Victor Ravenshaw had looked upon a slain man. Many a time and oft had he read, with a thrill of interest, glowing descriptions of fights in which isolated acts of courage, or heroism, or magnanimity on the battle-field, coupled with but slight reference to the killed and wounded, had blinded his perceptions as to the true nature of the game of war. Now his eyes beheld the contorted form of one with whose manly aspect he had been familiar in the settlement, scarcely recognisable in its ghastliness, with blue lips, protruding eyeballs, and a horrid mass of coagulated blood where the once curling hair had been. Victor's ears were still ringing with the deadly shriek that had burst from Valle's wife when she heard the dreadful news--just as he and his party galloped out of the camp. He knew also that the dead hunter left several young children to be pinched by dire poverty in future years for want of their natural bread-winner. These and many similar thoughts crowded on his throbbing brain as he gazed at the new and terrible sight, and his eyes began for the first time to open to truths which ever after influenced his opinions while reading of the so-called triumphs of war. "Vengeance!" was now the cry, as the hunters left the place in hot pursuit. They knew that the savages could not be far off, and that they were unmounted, but they also knew that if they succeeded in gaining the larger portions of thick bush with which some parts of that region were covered it would be impossible to follow them up. Moreover, it was growing dark, and there was no time to lose. In a few minutes Ian and Victor were left alone with two men who had agreed to look after the body of the murdered man. Sadly and silently they assisted in laying the corpse in a cavity of the rocks, and covering it over with large stones to protect it from wolves, and then prepared to leave the spot. "Will they succeed, think you, in overtaking the murderers?" asked Victor of one of the men. "Succeed? Ay, no fear of that!" replied the hunter, with a vindictive scowl. "It's not the first time some of them have been out after the Sioux." "We will ride back to camp, Vic," said Ian, rousing himself from a reverie; "it is no part of our duty to assist in executing vengeance. If the camp were assailed we should indeed be bound to help defend it, but there are more than enough men out to hunt down these murderers. If a cart is not already on its way for the corpse we will send one. Come." That night the avengers returned; they had overtaken and shot down eight of the Sioux,--the remaining four gained the bushes and escaped. None of themselves were hurt, but one had a narrow escape, an arrow having passed between his shirt and skin. Next day Victor and his friends prepared to leave the hunters and resume the chase of Petawanaquat, but they were arrested by one of those terrific thunderstorms which occasionally visit the prairies. They were already mounted and on the point of taking leave, when the air darkened suddenly, the sky became overcast, lightning began to flash in vivid gleams, and a crash of thunder seemed to rend the earth and heavens. Presently Herr Winklemann, who meant to ride with the parting guests a short way, and was also mounted, uttered a shout, and immediately horse and man rolled upon the plain. The man rose slowly, but the horse lay still--killed by lightning! By the same flash, apparently, another horse was struck dead. "Vell, you has tomble very often vid me," said the German, contemplating the fallen steed, "bot you vill tomble again no mor." "Oui, he is mort," sighed Rollin, looking down. After this first burst there was a considerable lull, but appearances were so gloomy that departure was delayed. Soon after, the storm burst with a degree of violence that the oldest hunter said he had never before witnessed. Lightning, wind, rain, thunder, seemed to have selected the spot for a battle-ground. Although the camp was pitched on comparatively high and rocky ground, the deluge was so great that in the course of ten minutes nearly everything was afloat. (See Note 1.) The camp was literally swimming, and some of the smaller children were with difficulty saved from drowning. So furious was the wind that the tents were either thrown down or blown to ribbons. During the storm three of the Indian tents, or lodges, were struck by lightning. In one of these a Canadian was killed; in another all the inmates--an Indian, his wife, two children, and two dogs--were killed, and a gun beside them was melted in several parts as though it had been lead. Then there fell a shower of hail, the stones of which were solid angular pieces of ice larger than a hen's egg, by which some of the people were severely wounded before they found shelter under the carts and overturned tents. It was a terrible display of the power of God, and yet, strange to say, so far is such a scene incapable of influencing man's fallen nature for good, that occasions such as these, when the camp is in disorder, are often taken advantage of by Indians to approach and steal the horses. Being well aware of this propensity of the red man, Baptiste Warder and his captains kept a sharp look-out. It was well they did so, for, after the storm, a formidable band of Sioux was discovered within a short distance of the camp. Their wily chief was, however, equal to the occasion. He assumed the role of an injured man. He had come to remonstrate with the half-breeds, and charge them with cruelty. "My warriors," said he, "killed only one of your people, and for that one you murdered eight of my braves." The half-breeds spoke the chief fairly, however, and entertained him and his followers hospitably, so that the affair was amicably settled, and they went away in peace. But dark eyes had met in deadly hatred during the conference. The party of Indians who had joined the hunters with Victor and his comrades were Saulteaux, (Pronounced Sotoes), and the bitter enemies of the Sioux. Some time after the Sioux had taken their departure, a band of about fifty of these Saulteaux left the camp stealthily, and pursued a detached party of their foes for about ten miles. They overtook them at a small stream. The unsuspecting Sioux prepared to swim over to them, mistaking them at first for friends, but a volley which killed three undeceived them. The fire was instantly returned and a smoke raised to alarm the country. The Saulteaux retreated, while the Sioux, gathering force, pursued, and it is probable that the whole of the assailants would have been scalped if night had not favoured them. In this raid seven Sioux were killed and three wounded. Of the Saulteaux three were killed and four wounded. Again the camp was visited by enraged and armed Sioux to the number of 300, who challenged the Saulteaux to come forth man to man, and fight it out. The latter declined, and the half-breeds, many of whom were related by marriage to the Saulteaux, managed to patch up a hollow peace between them. At last Victor, Ian, and Rollin got away, glad to have done both with buffalo and savages. They now possessed three good horses, a supply of fresh provisions, and plenty of ammunition. Thus provided they galloped off with light hearts over the boundless plains, and soon left the camp of the hunters far behind them. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. This is no picture of the fancy, but true in all its details. CHAPTER EIGHT. THE CHASE CONTINUED, AND BROUGHT TO A FIERY TERMINATION. With the unerring certainty of blood-hounds, the three friends now settled down to the pursuit of Petawanaquat. From the Saulteaux Indians they had received an exact description of the spot where the fugitive had parted from them; they had, therefore, little difficulty in finding it. Still less difficulty had they in following up the trail, for the grass was by that time very long, and a horse leaves a track in such grass which, if not very obvious to unaccustomed eyes, is as plain as a highway to the vision of a backwoods hunter or a redskin. Over the prairie waves they sped, with growing excitement as their hopes of success increased; now thundering down into the hollows, anon mounting the gentle slopes at full swing, or rounding the clumps of trees that here and there dotted the prairie like islets in an interminable sea of green; and ever, as they rounded an islet or topped a prairie wave, they strained their eyes in earnest expectation of seeing the objects of their pursuit on the horizon, but for several days they raced, and gazed, and hoped in vain. Still they did not lose confidence, but pressed persistently on. "Our horses are fresh and good," said Victor as they reined in to a gentle trot on the brow of a knoll to rest for a few minutes, "and Petawanaquat's horse, whether good or bad, is double-weighted--although, to be sure, Tony is not heavy." "Besides," said Ian, "the redskin does not dream now of pursuit; so that, pressing on as we do, we _must_ overtake him ere long." "Voila, de buffalo!" said Rollin, pointing to a group of these huge creatures, in the midst of which two bulls were waging furious war, while the cows stood by and looked on. "Shall ve go an' chase dem?" "No, Rollin; we have more important game to chase," said Victor, whose conscience, now that he was free from the exciting influences of the camp, had twinged him more than once for his delay--even although it was partly justifiable--while the image of poor Tony, with outstretched, appealing hands on a flying horse behind a savage, was ever before him. "Come on come on!" He switched his horse, and went skimming down the slope, followed by his comrades. Soon they came to a place where the ground was more broken and rocky. "Voila! a bar! a bar!" shouted the excitable half-breed; "com, kill him!" They looked, and there, sure enough, was an object which Rollin declared was a large grizzly bear. It was a long way off, however, and the ground between them seemed very broken and difficult to traverse on horseback. Ian Macdonald thought of the bear's claws, and a collar, and Elsie, and tightened his reins. Then he thought of the risk of breaking a horse's leg if the bear should lead them a long chase over such ground, and of the certain loss of time, and of Petawanaquat pushing on ahead. It was a tempting opportunity, but his power of self-denial triumphed. "No, Rollin, we have no time to hunt." "Behold!" exclaimed Rollin again; "more buffalo!" They had swept past the stony ground and rounded a clump of trees, behind which a small herd of animals stood for a few seconds, staring at them in mute amazement. These snorted, set up their tails, and tore wildly away to the right. This was too much. With a gleeful yell, Rollin turned to pursue, but Victor called to him angrily to let the buffalo be. The half-breed turned back with a sigh. "Ah, vell! ve must forbear." "I say, Vic," remarked Ian, with a significant smile, "why won't you go after the buffalo?" Victor looked at his friend in surprise. "Surely," he said, "it is more important as well as more interesting to rescue one's brother than to chase wild animals!" "True, but how does that sentiment accord with your wish that you might spend eternity in hunting buffalo?" "Oh, you know," returned Victor, with a laugh, "when I said that I wasn't thinking of--of--" He switched his horse into a wilder gallop, and said no more. He had said quite enough. He was not the only youth in North America and elsewhere who has uttered a good deal of nonsense without "thinking." But then that was long ago. Youths are wiser now! On the evening of that day, when the sun went down, and when it became too dark to follow the trail, and, therefore, unsafe to travel for fear of stumbling into badger-holes, the three friends pulled up beside a clump of wood on the margin of a little stream, and prepared their encampment. Little did they imagine, while busy with the fire and kettle, how nearly they had gained their end, yet how disastrously they had missed it. Well for man, sometimes, that he is ignorant of what takes place around him. Had the three pursuers known who was encamped in a clump of trees not half a mile beyond them, they would not have feasted that night so heartily, nor would they have gone to sleep with such calm placidity. In the clump of trees referred to, Petawanaquat himself sat smoking over the dying embers of the fire that had cooked his recently devoured supper, and Tony, full to repletion, lay on his back gazing at him in quiet satisfaction, mingled slightly with wonder; for Tony was a philosopher in a small way, and familiarity with his father's pipe had failed to set at rest a question which perplexed his mind, namely, why men should draw smoke into their mouths merely to puff it out again! When the pipe and the camp-fire had burnt low, Tony observed, with much interest, that the Indian's eyes became suddenly fixed, that his nostrils dilated, his lips ceased to move, the cloud that had just escaped from them curled round the superincumbent nose and disappeared without being followed by another cloud, and the entire man became rigid like a brown statue. At that point Tony ceased to think, because tired nature asserted her claims, and he fell sound asleep. The practised ear of the Indian had detected the sound of horses' feet on the prairie. To any ordinary man no sound at all would have been perceptible save the sighing of the night wind. Petawanaquat, however, not only heard the tramp, but could distinguish it from that of buffalo. He rose softly, ascertained that Tony was asleep, turned aside the bushes, and melted into darkness among the trees. Presently he emerged on the plain at the other side of the clump, and there stood still. Patience is one of the red man's characteristics. He did not move hand or foot for half an hour, during which time, despite the distance of the neighbouring clump, he could easily make out the sound of an axe chopping wood, and even heard human voices in conversation. Then a gleam of light flickered among the trees, and the kindling camp-fire of our three friends became visible. The Indian now felt comparatively safe. He knew that, whoever the new arrivals might be, they were unsuspicious of his presence in the vicinity, and had encamped for the night. He also knew that when men are busy with supper they are not very watchful, especially when danger is not expected. He, therefore, gave them another quarter of an hour to prepare supper, and then moved stealthily over the plain towards them. On gaining the shelter of the trees, Petawanaquat advanced with cat-like caution, until he could clearly see the travellers. He recognised them instantly, and a dark frown settled on his features. His first thought was to steal their horses, and thus leave them incapable of pursuing further, but Ian Macdonald was too much of a backwoodsman to give a foe the opportunity to do this. The horses were tethered close beside the fire. Then the Indian thought of shooting them, but his gun being a single-barrel, such as was sold to the Indians by the fur-traders, could only dispose of one horse at a time, thus leaving the other two to his incensed enemies, who would probably capture him before he could reload or regain his own camp. With a feeling of baffled rage he suddenly thought of murder. He could easily kill Ian Macdonald, could probably reload before Rollin should overtake him, and as for Victor, he was nothing! Quick as thought the Indian raised his gun, and took a long steady aim at Ian's forehead. The contemplative schoolmaster was looking at the fire, thinking of Elsie at the time. He smiled as he thought of her. Perhaps it was the smile that checked the savage perhaps it was the words, "Thou shalt not kill," which had been sounded in his ears more than once during the past winter by the missionary. At all events, the fatal trigger was not drawn. Ian's contemplations were not disturbed, the gun was lowered, and the savage melted once more into the deep shade of the thicket. Returning to his own camp in the same cat-like manner as before, Petawanaquat quietly but quickly packed his provisions, etcetera, on his horse. When all was ready he tried to awaken Tony, but Tony slept the sleep of infancy and comparative innocence. The Indian pushed him, kicked him, even lifted him up and shook him, before he awoke. Then, expressing astonishment at having to resume the journey at so early an hour, the child submitted silently to orders. In a few minutes the Indian led his horse down to the rivulet close at hand, crossed it with Tony, half asleep, clinging to his back, ascended the opposite bank, and gained the level plain. Here he mounted, with Tony in front to guard against the risk of his falling off in a state of slumber, and galloped away. Fortunately for him, the moon had risen, for red men are not a whit better than white at seeing in the dark. Indeed, we question the proverbial capacity of cats in that way. True, the orb of night was clouded, and only in her first quarter, but she gave light enough to enable the horseman to avoid dangers and proceed at full speed. Thus, while the pursuers snored, the pursued went scouring over the prairies, farther and farther towards the fair west. Michel Rollin, being a lively, restless character, used generally to be up before his comrades in the mornings, and gratified an inquisitive propensity by poking about. In his pokings he discovered the trail of the midnight visitor, and thereupon set up a howl of surprise that effectually roused Ian and Victor. These, guns in hand, rushed, as they fancied, to the rescue. "What a noisy goose you are!" said Victor, on learning the cause of the cry. "There is reason for haste, however," said Ian, rising from a close inspection of the trail. "Some one has been here in the night watching us. Why he didn't join us if a friend, or kill us if an enemy, puzzles me. If there were horse-tracks about I should say it must have been Petawanaquat himself. Come, we must mount and away without breakfast." They went off accordingly, and soon traced the Indian's original track to the place where he had encamped. Petawanaquat had taken the precaution to pour water on his fire, so as to cool the ashes, and thus lead to the supposition that he had been gone a considerable time, but Ian was not to be so easily deceived. The moment he had examined the extinct fire, and made up his mind, he leaped up and followed the trail to the spot where the Indian had mounted. "Now then, mount, boys!" he cried, vaulting into the saddle, "no time to lose. The redskin seems to have a good horse, and knows we are at his heels. It will be a straight end-on race now. Hup! get along!" Their course at first lay over a level part of the plain, which rendered full speed possible; then they came to a part where the thick grass grew rank and high, rendering the work severe. As the sun rose high, they came to a small pond, or pool. "The rascal has halted here, I see!" cried Ian, pulling up, leaping off, and running to the water, which he lifted to his mouth in both hands, while his panting horse stooped and drank. "It was very likely more for Tony's sake than for his own. But if he could stop, so can we for a few minutes." "It vill make de horses go more better," said Rollin, unstrapping the pemmican bag. "That's right," cried Victor, "give us a junk--a big one--so--thanks, we can eat it as we go." Up and away they went again, urging their horses now to do their utmost, for they began to hope that the day of success had surely arrived. Still far ahead of his pursuers, the Indian rode alone without check or halt, to the alarm of Tony, who felt that something unusual had occurred to make his self-appointed father look so fierce. "What de matter?" he ventured to ask. "Nobody chase us." "Let Tonyquat shut his mouth," was the brief reply. And Tony obeyed. He was learning fast! Suddenly the air on the horizon ahead became clouded. The eyes of the savage dilated with an expression that almost amounted to alarm. Could it be fire? It was--the prairie on fire! As the wind blew towards him, the consuming flames and smoke approached him at greater speed than he approached them. They must soon meet. Behind were the pursuers; in front the flames. There was but one course open. As the fire drew near the Indian stopped, dismounted, and tore up and beat down a portion of the grass around him. Then he struck a light with flint and steel and set fire to the grass to leeward of the cleared space. It burned slowly at first, and he looked anxiously back as the roar of the fiery storm swelled upon his ear. Tony looked on in mute alarm and surprise. The horse raised its head wildly and became restive, but the Indian, having now lighted the long grass thoroughly, restrained it. Presently he sprang on its back and drew Tony up beside him. Flames and smoke were now on both sides of him. When the grass was consumed to leeward he rode on to the blackened space--not a moment too soon, however. It was barely large enough to serve as a spot of refuge when the storm rolled down and almost suffocated horse and riders with smoke. Then the fire at that spot went out for want of fuel, and thus the way was opened to the coal-black plain over which it had swept. Away flew the Indian then, diverging sharply to the right, so as to skirt the fire, (now on its windward side), and riding frequently into the very fringe of flame, so that his footprints might be burnt up. When, some hours later, the pursuers met the fire, they went through the same performance in exactly the same manner, excepting that Victor and Rollin acted with much greater excitement than the savage. But when they had escaped the flames, and rode out upon the burnt prairie to continue the chase, every trace of those of whom they were in pursuit had completely vanished away. CHAPTER NINE. METEOROLOGICAL CHANGES AND CONSEQUENCES, AND A GRAND OPPORTUNITY MISIMPROVED. It must not be supposed that the life of a backwoodsman is all pleasure and excitement. Not wishing to disappoint our readers with it, we have hitherto presented chiefly its bright phases, but truth requires that we should now portray some of the darker aspects of that life. For instance, it was a very sombre aspect indeed of prairie-life when Victor Ravenshaw and his party crossed a stony place where Victor's horse tripped and rolled over, causing the rider to execute a somersault which laid him flat upon the plain, compelling the party to encamp there for three days until he was sufficiently recovered to resume the journey. Perhaps we should say the chase, for, although the trail had been lost, hope was strong, and the pursuers continued to advance steadily in what they believed to be the right direction. The aspect of things became still more dreary when the fine weather, which was almost uninterrupted as summer advanced, gave way to a period of wind and rain. Still, they pushed on hopefully. Michel Rollin alone was despondent. "It is a wild goose chase now," he remarked sulkily one day, while the wet fuel refused to kindle. That same night Victor half awoke and growled. He seldom awoke of his own accord. Nature had so arranged it that parents, or comrades, usually found it necessary to arouse him with much shouting and shaking--not unfrequently with kicks. But there was a more powerful influence than parents, comrades, or kicks at work that night. Being tired and sleepy, the party had carelessly made their beds in a hollow. It was fair when they lay down. Soon afterwards, a small but exceedingly heavy rain descended like dew upon their unprotected heads. It soaked their blankets and passed through. It soaked their garments and passed through. It reached their skins, which it could not so easily pass through, but was stopped and warmed before being absorbed. A few uneasy turns and movements, with an occasional growl, was the result--nothing more. But when the density of the rain increased, and the crevices in the soil turned into active water-courses, and their hollow became a pool, Victor became, as we have said, half-awake. Presently he awoke completely, sat up, and scratched his head. It was the power of a soft and gentle but persistent influence triumphantly asserted. "W'ass-'e-marrer?" asked Ian, without moving. "Why," (yawning), "Lake Winnipeg is a trifle to this," said Victor. "O-gor-o-sleep," returned Ian. "Niagara have com to de plains!" exclaimed Rollin, rising to a sitting posture in desperation. "It have been rush 'longside of me spine for two hours by de cloke. Oui." This aroused Ian, who also sat up disconsolate and yawned. "It's uncomfortable," he remarked. No one replied to so ridiculously obvious a truth, but each man slowly rose and stumbled towards higher ground. To add to their discomfort the night was intensely dark; even if wide awake they could not have seen a yard in front of them. "Have you found a tree?" asked Victor. "Oui--yes--to be sure," said Rollin angrily. "Anyhow von branch of a tree have found _me_, an' a'most split my head." "Where is it?--speak, Ian; I can see nothing. Is it--ah! I've found it too." "Vid yoos head?" inquired Rollin, chuckling. Victor condescended not to reply, but lay down under the partial shelter of the tree, rolled himself up in his wet blanket, and went to sleep. His companions followed suit. Yes, reader, we can vouch for the truth of this, having more than once slept damp and soundly in a wet blanket. But they did not like it, and their spirits were down about zero when they mounted at grey dawn and resumed the chase in a dull, dreadful drizzle. After a time the aspect of the scenery changed. The rolling plain became more irregular and broken than heretofore, and was more studded with patches of woodland, which here and there almost assumed the dignity of forests. One evening the clouds broke; glimpses of the heavenly blue appeared to gladden our travellers, and ere long the sun beamed forth in all its wonted splendour. Riding out into a wide stretch of open country, they bounded away with that exuberance of feeling which is frequently the result of sunshine after rain. "It is like heaven upon earth," cried Victor, pulling up after a long run. "I wonder what heaven is like," returned Ian musingly. "It sometimes occurs to me that we think and speak far too little of heaven, which is a strange thing, considering that we all hope to go there in the long-run, and expect to live there for ever." "Oh! come now, Mr Wiseman," said Victor, "I didn't mean to call forth a sermon." "Your remark, Vic, only brings out one of the curious features of the case. If I had spoken of buffalo-hunting, or riding, or boating, or even of the redskin's happy hunting-grounds--anything under the sun or above it--all would have been well and in order, but directly I refer to _our own_ heaven I am sermonising!" "Well, because it's so like the parsons," pleaded Victor. "What then? Were not the parsons, as you style them, sent to raise our thoughts to God and heaven by preaching Christ? I admit that _some_ of them don't raise our thoughts high, and a few of them help rather to drag our thoughts downward. Still, as a class, they are God's servants; and for myself I feel that I don't consider sufficiently what they have to tell us. I don't wish to sermonise; I merely wish to ventilate my own thoughts and get light if I can. You are willing to chat with me, Vic, on all other subjects; why not on this?" "Oh! I've no objection, Ian; none whatever, only it's--it's--I say, there seems to me to be some sort of brute moving down in the woods there. Hist! let's keep round by that rocky knoll, and I'll run up to see what it is." Victor did not mean this as a violent change of subject, although he was not sorry to make the change. His attention had really been attracted by some animal which he said and hoped was a bear. They soon galloped to the foot of the knoll, which was very rugged--covered with rocks and bushes. Victor ascended on foot, while his comrades remained at the bottom holding his horse. The sight that met his eyes thrilled him. In the distance, on a wooded eminence, sat a huge grizzly bear. The size of Victor's eyes when he looked back at his comrades was eloquently suggestive, even if he had not drawn back and descended the slope toward them on tiptoe and with preternatural caution. "A monstrous grizzly!" he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper--though the bear was at beast half a mile off on the other side of the knoll. The eyes of Ian surpassed those of Victor in the matter of dilation. "Did he see you?" "No; he was nibbling his paws when I gave him my last look." "Now, comrades," said Ian, whose usually calm demeanour had given place to intense, yet suppressed excitement, "it may seem selfish--though I hope it is not--when I ask you to leave that bear entirely to me. You know, Vic, that your sister Elsie once expressed a wish for a grizzly-bear collar, and at the time I inwardly resolved to get her one, of my own procuring, if I could. It is a whim, you know, but, in the circumstances, I do hope that--that--" "Ah! it is for une dame--une affair of de heart. Bon! You shall go in an' vin," said the gallant Rollin. "I don't know," said Victor dubiously; "it seems to me rather hard to give up my chance of the first grizzly I've ever seen. However, I'm willing to do so on one condition--that Rollin and I go as near you as may be without interfering. You know--excuse me, Ian--what an awful bad shot you are. If you were to miss, you know--which you're sure to do-- and we were not there--eh?" "All right, you shall go with me; but have a care, no helping of me except in case of dire necessity." This being agreed to, they made a wide circuit to reach a hollow. In its shelter they galloped swiftly towards the woodland, near the margin of which the bear had been seen. Arrived at a point which they judged to be near the animal, they dismounted, fastened up their horses, and prepared for war. There were no encumbrances to lay aside, for they travelled in the simplest possible costume, but Ian drew the charge of his gun, wiped the piece carefully out with a bit of rag, made sure that the touch-hole was clear, fixed in a new flint, and loaded carefully with ball. The others acted similarly. "Empty de pan an' prime again ven you gits near," said Rollin. Ian made some uncalled-for reference to eggs and the education of Rollin's grandmother, tightened his belt, felt that the hatchet and scalping-knife were handy behind him, and set off on his adventure, followed by his companions at a considerable distance. On drawing near to the outer edge of the woods he stooped slightly, and trod with the extreme caution of an Indian. Indeed, no red man could have beaten Ian at woodcraft--except, of course, in the matter of shooting. He felt this defect keenly as he glided along, but never faltered for an instant. Elsie smiled at him as visibly as if she had been there. His mind was made up. At the edge of the wood he saw the rough spot where the bear had been seen, but no bear was visible. He felt a sinking of the heart. "It must have heard me and run away," he thought, and hurried forward. The actual spot where it had been seen was reached, but Bruin was not there. Disappointment rendered Ian somewhat impatient. He entered the bushes beyond the knoll hastily. The bear had only changed its position, and was wagging its head and nibbling its paws on the other side of these bushes. It heard a footstep, ceased to nibble and wag, and looked up inquiringly. Suddenly Macdonald burst through the bushes and stood before him. It is an open question whether the man or the beast was the more surprised, for the former had given up all hope by that time. But the bear was first to recover self-possession, and advanced to meet the intruder. It is well known that the king of the western wilds is endowed with more than average ferocity and courage. He may perhaps let you alone if you let him alone, but if you take him by surprise he is not prone to flee. The bear in question was a magnificent specimen, with claws like the fingers of a man. Even in that moment of extreme peril Ian saw these claws strung together and encircling Elsie's neck. We say that the peril was extreme, for not only was the hunter a bad shot, but the hunted was a creature whose tenacity of life is so great that one shot, even if well placed, is not sufficient to kill it outright. No one knew all this better than Ian Macdonald, but Elsie smiled approval, and Ian, being a matter-of-fact, unromantic fellow, clenched his teeth with a snap and went down on one knee. The bear quickened his pace and came straight at him. Ian raised his gun. Then there came a gush of feeling of some sort at his heart. What if he should miss? What if the gun should miss fire? Certain death! he well knew that. He took deadly aim when the monster was within a few yards of him and fired at the centre of its chest. The ball took effect on the extreme point of its nose, coursed under the skin over its forehead, and went out at the back of its head. Never before was a shot taken with a more demonstrative expression of rage. To say that the bear roared would be feeble. A compounded steam-whistle and bassoon might give a suggestive illustration. The pain must have been acute, for the creature fell on its knees, drove its nose into the ground, and produced a miniature earthquake with a snort. Then it sprang up and rushed at its foe. Ian was reloading swiftly for his life. Vain hope. Men used to breech-loaders can scarce understand the slow operations of muzzle-loaders. He had only got the powder in, and was plucking a bullet from his pouch. Another moment and he would have been down, when crack! crack! went shots on either side of him, and the bear fell with a ball from Victor in its heart and another from Rollin in its spine. Even thus fatally wounded it strove to reach its conquerors, and continued to show signs of ungovernable fury until its huge life went out. Poor Ian stood resting on his gun, and looking at it, the picture of despair. "You hit him after all," said Victor, with a look of admiration at his friend, not on account of the shooting, but of his dauntless courage. "And of course," he continued, "the grizzly is yours, because you drew first blood." Ian did not reply at once, but shook his head gravely. "If you and Rollin had not been here," he said, "I should have been dead by this time. No, Vic, no. Do you think I would present Elsie with a collar thus procured? The bear belongs to you and Rollin, for it seems to me that both shots have been equally fatal. You shall divide the claws between you, I will have none of them." There was bitterness in poor Ian's spirit, for grizzly bears were not to be fallen in with every day, and it might be that he would never have another opportunity. Even if he had, what could he do? "I don't believe I could hit a house if it were running," he remarked that night at supper. "My only chance will be to wait till the bear is upon me, shove my gun into his mouth, and pull the trigger when the muzzle is well down his throat." "That would be throttling a bear indeed," said Victor, with a laugh, as he threw a fresh log on the fire. "What say you, Rollin?" "It vould bu'st de gun," replied the half-breed, whose mind, just then, was steeped in tobacco smoke. "Bot," he continued, "it vould be worth vile to try. Possiblement de bu'stin' of de gun in his troat might do ver vell. It vould give him con--con--vat you call him? De ting vat leetil chile have?" "Contrariness," said Victor. "Contradictiousness," suggested Ian; "they're both good long words, after your own heart." "Non, non! Con--convulsions, dat is it. Anyhow it vould injure his digestiveness." "Ha! ha! yes, so it would," cried Victor, tossing off a can of cold water like a very toper. "Well, boys, I'm off to sleep, my digestiveness being uninjured as yet. Good-night." "What! without a pipe, Vic?" "Come, now, don't chaff. To tell you the truth, Ian, I've been acting your part lately. I've been preaching a sermon to myself, the text of which was given to me by Herr Winklemann the night before we left the buffalo-runners, and I've been considerably impressed by my own preaching. Anyhow, I mean to take my own advice--good-night, again." Ian returned "good-night" with a smile, and, lying down beside him, gazed long and thoughtfully through the trees overhead at the twinkling, tranquil stars. Michel Rollin continued to smoke and meditate for another hour. Then he shook the ashes out of his pipe, heaped fresh logs on the declining fire, and followed his comrades to the land of Nod. CHAPTER TEN. FATE OF THE BUFFALO-HUNTERS. In vain did the pursuers search after the lost Tony. Finding it impossible to rediscover the trail, they made for the nearest post of the fur-traders, from whom they heard of an Indian who had passed that way in the direction of the Rocky Mountains, but the traders had taken no special notice of the boy, and could tell nothing about him. They willingly, however, supplied the pursuers with provisions on credit, for they knew Victor's father well by repute, and allowed them to join a party who were about to ascend the Saskatchewan river. On being further questioned, one of the traders did remember that the hair of the boy seemed to him unusually brown and curly for that of a redskin, but his reminiscences were somewhat vague. Still, on the strength of them, Victor and Ian resolved to continue the chase, and Rollin agreed to follow. Thus the summer and autumn passed away. Meanwhile a terrible disaster had befallen the buffalo-hunters of the Red River. We have said that after disposing of the proceeds of the spring hunt in the settlement, and thus securing additional supplies, it is the custom of the hunters to return to the plains for the fall or autumn hunt, which is usually expected to furnish the means of subsistence during the long and severe winter. But this hunt is not always a success, and when it is a partial failure the gay, improvident, harum-scarum half-breeds have a sad time of it. Occasionally there is a total failure of the hunt, and then starvation stares them in the face. Such was the case at the time of which we write, and the improvident habits of those people in times of superabundance began to tell. Many a time in spring had the slaughter of animals been so great that thousands of their carcasses were left where they fell, nothing but the tongues having been carried away by the hunters. It was calculated that nearly two-thirds of the entire spring hunt had been thus left to the wolves. Nevertheless, the result of that hunt was so great that the quantity of fresh provisions--fat, pemmican, and dried meat--brought into Red River, amounted to considerably over one million pounds weight, or about two hundred pounds weight for each individual, old and young, in the settlement. A large proportion of this was purchased by the Hudson's Bay Company, at the rate of twopence per pound, for the supply of their numerous outposts, and the half-breed hunters pocketed among them a sum of nearly 1200 pounds. This, however, was their only market, the sales to settlers being comparatively insignificant. In the same year the agriculturists did not make nearly so large a sum--but then the agriculturists were steady, and their gains were saved, while the jovial half-breed hunters were volatile, and their gains underwent the process of evaporation. Indeed, it took the most of their gains to pay their debts. Thus, with renewed supplies on credit, they took the field for the fall campaign in little more than a month after their return from the previous hunt. It is not our purpose to follow the band step by step. It is sufficient to say that the season was a bad one; that the hunters broke up into small bands when winter set in, and some of these followed the fortunes of the Indians, who of course followed the buffalo as their only means of subsistence. In one of these scattered groups were Herr Winklemann and Baptiste Warder--the latter no longer a captain, his commission having lapsed with the breaking up of the spring hunt. The plains were covered with the first snows. The party were encamped on a small eminence whence a wide range of country could be seen. "There is a small herd on the horizon," said Baptiste, descending from the highest part of the hillock towards the fire where the German was seated eating a scrap of dried meat. "Zat is vell. I vill go after dem." He raised his bulky frame with a sigh, for he was somewhat weak and dispirited--the band with which he hunted having been at the starving-point for some days. Winklemann clothed himself in a wolf-skin, to which the ears and part of the head adhered. A small sledge, which may be described as a long thin plank with one end curled up, was brought to him by a hungry-looking squaw. Four dogs were attached to it with miniature harness made to fit them. When all was ready the hunter flung himself flat on his face at full length on the sledge, cracked his whip, and away went the dogs at full speed. Herr Winklemann was armed only with bow and arrows, such weapons being most suitable for the work in hand. Directing his course to a small clump of trees near to which the buffalo were scraping away the yet shallow snow to reach their food, he soon gained the shelter of the bushes, fastened up the dogs, and advanced through the clump to the other side. It was a fine sight to a hungry man. About a dozen animals were browsing there not far out of gunshot. Winklemann at once went down on all-fours, and arranged the large wolf-skin so that the legs hung down over his own legs and arms, while the head was pulled over his eyes like a hood. Thus disguised, he crept into the midst of the unsuspicious band. The buffalo is not afraid of wolves. He treats them with contempt. It is only when he is wounded, or enfeebled by sickness or old age, that his sneaking enemy comes and sits down before him, licking his chops in the hope of a meal. A fat young cow cast a questioning glance at Winklemann as he approached her. He stopped. She turned aside and resumed her feeding. Then she leaped suddenly into the air and fell quivering on the snow, with an arrow up to the feathers in her side. The hunter did not rise. The animals near to the cow looked at her a moment, as if in surprise at her eccentric behaviour, and then went on feeding. Again the hunter bent his bow, and another animal lay dying on the plain. The guardian bull observed this, lifted his shaggy head, and moved that subtle index of temper, his tail. An ill-directed arrow immediately quivered in his flank. With a roar of rage he bounded into the air, tossed up his heels, and seeing no enemy on whom to wreak his vengeance--for the wolf was crouching humbly on the snow--he dashed wildly away, followed by the rest of the astonished herd. The whole camp had turned out by that time to resume their journey, and advanced joyfully to meet the returning hunter. As they passed one of the numerous clumps of wood with which the plains were studded, another herd of buffalo started suddenly into view. Among other objects of interest in the band of hunters, there happened to be a small child, which was strapped with some luggage on a little sled and drawn by two dogs. These dogs were lively. They went after the buffalo full swing, to the consternation of the parents of the child. It was their only child. If it had only been a fragment of their only child, the two dogs could not have whisked it off more swiftly. Pursuit was useless, yet the whole band ran yelling after it. Soon the dogs reached the heels of the herd, and all were mixed pell-mell together,--the dogs barking, the sled swinging to and fro, and the buffalo kicking. At length a bull gored one of the dogs; his head got entangled in the harness, and he went off at a gallop, carrying the dog on his horns, the other suspended by the traces, and the sled and child whirling behind him. The enraged creature ran thus for full half a mile before ridding himself of the encumbrance, and many shots were fired at him without effect. Both dogs were killed, but, strange to say, the child was unhurt. The supply of meat procured at this time, although very acceptable, did not last long, and the group with which Winklemann was connected was soon again reduced to sore straits. It was much the same with the scattered parties elsewhere, though they succeeded by hard work in securing enough of meat to keep themselves alive. In these winter wanderings after the buffalo, the half-breeds and their families had travelled from 150 to 200 miles from the colony, but in the midst of their privations they kept up heart, always hoping that the sudden discovery of larger herds would ere long convert the present scarcity into the more usual superabundance. But it was otherwise ordained. On the 20th of December there was a fearful snowstorm, such as had not been witnessed for years. It lasted several days, drove the buffalo hopelessly beyond the reach of the hunters, and killed most of their horses. What greatly aggravated the evil was the suddenness of the disaster. According to the account of one who was in Red River at the time, and an eye-witness, the animals disappeared almost instantaneously, and no one was prepared for the inevitable famine that followed. The hunters were at the same time so scattered that they could render each other no assistance. Indeed, the various groups did not know whereabouts the others were. Some were never found. Here and there whole families, despairing of life, weakened by want, and perishing with cold, huddled themselves together for warmth. At first the heat of their bodies melted the snow and soaked their garments. These soon froze and completed the work of destruction. They died where they lay. Some groups were afterwards discovered thus frozen together in a mass of solid ice. While the very young and the feeble succumbed at once, the more robust made a brave struggle for life, and, as always happens in cases of extreme suffering, the good or evil qualities of men and women came out prominently to view. The selfish, caring only for themselves, forsook their suffering comrades, seized what they could or dared, and thus prolonged awhile their wretched lives. The unselfish and noble-hearted cared for others, sacrificed themselves, and in many cases were the means of saving life. Among these last were Baptiste Warder and Winklemann. "I vill valk to de settlement," said the latter, one morning towards the middle of January, as he rose from his lair and began to prepare breakfast. "I'll go with you," said Warder. "It's madness to stop here. Death will be at our elbow anyhow, but he'll be sure to strike us all if we remain where we are. The meat we were lucky enough to get yesterday will keep our party on short allowance for some time, and the men will surely find something or other to eke it out while we push on and bring relief." "Goot," returned the German; "ve vill start after breakfast. My lecks are yet pretty strong." Accordingly, putting on their snow-shoes, the two friends set out on a journey such as few men would venture to undertake, and fewer could accomplish, in the circumstances. On the way they had terrible demonstration of the extent of suffering that prevailed among their friends. They had not walked twenty miles when they came on tracks which led them to a group--a father, mother, and two sons--who were sitting on the snow frozen to death. In solemn silence the hunters stood for a few minutes and looked at the sad sight, then turned and passed on. The case was too urgent to permit of delay. Many lives hung on their speedy conveyance of news to the settlement. They bent forward, and with long swinging strides sped over the dreary plains until darkness--not exhaustion--compelled them to halt. They carried with them a small amount of pemmican, about half rations, trusting to meet with something to shoot on the way. Before daylight the moon rose. They rose with it and pushed on. Suddenly they were arrested by an appalling yell. Next moment a man rushed from a clump of trees brandishing a gun. He stopped when within fifty yards, uttered another demoniacal yell, and took aim at Warder. Quick as thought the ex-captain brought his own piece to his shoulder. He would have been too late if the gun of his opponent had not missed fire. "Stop! 'tis Pierre Vincent!" cried Winklemann, just in time to arrest Warder's hand. Vincent was a well-known comrade, but his face was so disfigured by dirt and blood that they barely recognised him. He flung away his gun when it snapped, and ran wildly towards them. "Come! come! I have food, food! ha! ha! much food yonder in the bush! My wife and child eat it! they are eating eating now! ha! ha!" With another fierce yell the poor maniac--for such he had become--turned off at a tangent, and ran far away over the plains. They made no attempt to follow him; it would have been useless. In the bush they found his wife and child stone-dead. Frequently during that terrible walk they came on single tracks, which invariably showed that the traveller had fallen several times, and at length taken to creeping. Then they looked ahead, for they knew that the corpse of a man or woman was not far in advance of them. One such track led them to a woman with an infant on her back. She was still pretty strong, and trudged bravely over the snow on her snow-shoes, while the little one on her back appeared to be quite content with its lot, although pinched-looking in the face. The men could not afford to help her on. It would have delayed themselves. The words "life and death" seemed to be ringing constantly in their ears. But they spoke kindly to the poor woman, and gave her nearly all their remaining stock of provisions, reserving just enough for two days. "I've travelled before now on short allowance," said Warder, with a pitiful smile. "We're sure to come across something before long. If not, we can travel empty for a bit." "Goot; it vill make us lighter," said Winklemann, with a grave nod. They parted from the woman, and soon left her out of sight behind. She never reached the settlement. She and the child were afterwards found dead within a quarter of a mile of Pembina. From the report of the party she had left, this poor creature must have travelled upwards of a hundred miles in three days and nights before sinking in that terrible struggle for life. Warder and his companion did not require to diverge in order to follow these tracks. They all ran one way, straight for Red River--for home! But there were _many_, very many, who never saw that home again. One exception they overtook on their fourth day. She was a middle-aged woman, but her visage was so wrinkled by wigwam smoke, and she had such a stoop, that she seemed very old indeed. "Why, I know that figure," exclaimed Warder, on sighting her; "it's old Liz, Michel Rollin's Scotch mother!" So it turned out. She was an eccentric creature, full of life, fire, and fun, excessively short and plain, but remarkably strong. She had been forsaken by her nephew, she said. Michel, dear Michel, would not have left her in the lurch if he had been there. But she would be at home to receive Michel on his return. That she would! And she was right. She reached the settlement alive, though terribly exhausted. Warder and Winklemann did not "come across" anything except one raven, but they shot that and devoured it, bones and all. Then they travelled a day without food and without halt. Next day they might reach the settlement if strength did not fail, but when they lay down that night Warder said he felt like going to die, and Winklemann said that his "lecks" were now useless, and his "lunks" were entirely gone! CHAPTER ELEVEN. TO THE RESCUE. Elsie and Cora Ravenshaw were seated at a table in Willow Creek, with their mother and Miss Trim, repairing garments, one night in that same inclement January of which we have been writing. Mr Ravenshaw was enjoying his pipe by the stove, and Louis Lambert was making himself agreeable. The old man was a little careworn. No news had yet been received of Tony or of Victor. In regard to the latter he felt easy; Victor could take care of himself, and was in good company, but his heart sank when he thought of his beloved Tony. What would he not have given to have had him smashing his pipe or operating on his scalp at that moment. "It is an awful winter," observed Elsie, as a gust of wind seemed to nearly blow in the windows. "I pity the hunters in the plains," said Cora. "They say a rumour has come that they are starving." "I heard of that, but hope it is not true," observed Lambert. "Oh! they always talk of starving," said old Ravenshaw. "No fear of 'em." At that moment there was a sound of shuffling in the porch, the door was thrown open, and a gaunt, haggard man, with torn, snow-sprinkled garments, pale face, and bloodshot eyes, stood pictured on the background of the dark porch. "Baptiste Warder!" exclaimed Lambert, starting up. "Ay, what's left o' me; and here's the remains o' Winklemann," said Warder, pointing to the cadaverous face of the starving German, who followed him. Need we say that the hunters received a kindly welcome by the Ravenshaw family, as they sank exhausted into chairs. The story of starvation, suffering, and death was soon told--at least in outline. "You are hungry. When did you eat last?" asked Mr Ravenshaw, interrupting them. "Two days ago," replied Warder, with a weary smile. "It seems like two veeks," observed the German, with a sigh. "Hallo! Elsie, Cora, victuals!" cried the sympathetic old man, turning quickly round. But Elsie, whose perceptions were quick, had already placed bread and beer on the table. "Here, have a drink of beer first," said the host, pouring out a foaming glass. Warder shook his head. Winklemann remarked that, "beer vas goot, ver goot, but they had been used to vatter of late." "Ah!" he added, after devouring half a slice of bread while waiting for Cora to prepare another; "blessed brod an' booter! Nobody can know vat it is till he have starve for two veek--a--I mean two days; all de same ting in my feel--" The entrance of a huge bite put a sudden and full stop to the sentence. "Why did you not stop at some of the houses higher up the river to feed?" asked Lambert. Warder explained that they meant to have done so, but they had missed their way. They had grown stupid, he thought, from weakness. When they lost the way they made straight for the river, guided by the pole-star, and the first house they came in sight of was that of Willow Creek. "How can the pole-star guide one?" asked Cora, in some surprise. "Don't you know?" said Lambert, going round to where Cora sat, and sitting down beside her. "I will explain." "If I did know I wouldn't ask," replied Cora coquettishly; "besides, I did not put the question to _you_." "Nay, but you don't object to my answering it, do you?" "Not if you are quite sure you can do so correctly." "I think I can, but the doubts which you and your sister so often throw on my understanding make me almost doubt myself," retorted Lambert, with a laughing glance at Elsie. "You must know, then, that there is a constellation named the Great Bear. It bears about as much resemblance to a bear as it does to a rattlesnake, but that's what astronomers have called it. Part of it is much more in the shape of a plough, and one of the stars in that plough is the pole-star. You can easily distinguish it when once you know how, because two of the other stars are nearly in line with it, and so are called `pointers.' When you stand looking at the pole-star you are facing the north, and of course, when you know where the north is, you can tell all the other points of the compass." It must not be supposed that the rest of the party listened to this astronomical lecture. The gallant Louis had sought to interest Elsie as well as Cora, but Elsie was too much engrossed with the way-worn hunters and their sad tale to think of anything else. When they had eaten enough to check the fierce cravings of hunger they related more particulars. "And now," said Warder, sitting erect and stretching his long arms in the air as if the more to enjoy the delightful sensation of returning strength, "we have pushed on at the risk of our lives to save time. This news must be carried at once to the Governor. The Company can help us best in a fix like this." "Of course, of course; I shall send word to him at once," said his host. "All right, Baptiste," said Lambert, coming forward, "I expected you'd want a messenger. Here I am. Black Dick's in the stable. He'll be in the cariole in ten minutes. What shall I say to the Governor?" "I'll go with you," answered Warder. "So vill I," said Winklemann. "You'll do nothing of the sort," retorted Ravenshaw. "You both need rest. A sound sleep will fit you to do your work more actively in the morning. I myself will go to the fort." "Only _one_ can go, at least in my cariole," remarked Lambert, "for it only holds two, and no one can drive Black Dick but myself." Baptiste Warder was immoveable; it ended in his going off in the cariole with Lambert to inform the governor of the colony, who was also chief of the Hudson's Bay Company in Red River, and to rouse the settlement. They had to pass the cottage of Angus Macdonald on the way. "Oh! wow!" cried that excitable old settler when he heard the news. "Can it pe possible? So many tead an' tying. Oh! wow!--Here, Martha! Martha! where iss that wuman? It iss always out of the way she iss when she's wantit. Ay, Peegwish, you will do equally well. Go to the staple, man, an' tell the poy to put the mare in the cariole. Make him pe quick; it's slow he iss at the best, whatever." Lambert did not wait to hear the remarks of Angus, but drove off at once. Angus put on his leather coat, fut cap, and mittens, and otherwise prepared himself for a drive over the snow-clad plains to Fort Garry, where the Governor dwelt, intending to hear what was going to be done, and offer his services. With similarly benevolent end in view, old Ravenshaw harnessed his horse and made for the same goal, regardless alike of rheumatism, age, and inclement weather. At a certain point, not far from the creek, the old trader's private track and that which led to the house of Angus Macdonald united, and thereafter joined the main road, which road, by the way, was itself a mere track beaten in the snow, with barely room for two carioles to pass. Now, it so happened that the neighbours came up to the point of junction at the same moment. Both were driving hard, being eager and sympathetic about the sufferings of the plain-hunters. To have continued at the same pace would have been to insure a meeting and a crash. One _must_ give way to the other! Since the affair of the knoll these two men had studiously cut each other. They met every Sabbath day in the same church, and felt this to be incongruous as well as wrong. The son of the one was stolen by savages. The son of the other was doing his utmost to rescue the child. Each regretted having quarrelled with the other, but pride was a powerful influence in both. What was to be done? Time for thought was short, for two fiery steeds were approaching each other at the rate of ten miles an hour. Who was to give in? "I'll see both carioles smashed to atoms first!" thought Ravenshaw, grinding his teeth. "She'll tie first," thought Angus, pursing his lips. The instinct of self-preservation caused both to come to a dead and violent halt when within six yards of the meeting-point. A happy thought burst upon Angus at that instant. "Efter you, sir," he said, with a palpable sneer, at the same time backing his horse slightly. It was an expression of mock humility, and would become an evidence of superior courtesy if Ravenshaw should go insolently on. If, on the other hand, he should take it well, a friendly reference to the roads or the weather would convert the sneer into a mere nasal tone. "Ah, thanks, thanks," cried Mr Ravenshaw heartily, as he drove past; "bad news that about the plain-hunters. I suppose you've heard it." "Ay, it iss pad news--ferry pad news inteed, Mister Ruvnshaw. It will pe goin' to the fort ye are?" "Yes; the poor people will need all the help we can give them." "They wull that; oo ay." Discourse being difficult in the circumstances, they drove the remainder of the way in silence, but each knew that the breach between them was healed, and felt relieved. Angus did not, however, imagine that he was any nearer to his desires regarding the knoll. Full well did he understand and appreciate the unalterable nature of Sam Ravenshaw's resolutions, but he was pleased again to be at peace, for, to say truth, he was not fond of war, though ready to fight on the smallest provocation. Baptiste Warder was right in expecting that the Company would lend their powerful aid to the rescue. The moment the Governor heard of the disaster, he took immediate and active steps for sending relief to the plains. Clothing and provisions were packed up as fast as possible, and party after party was sent out with these. But in the nature of things the relief was slow. We have said that some of the hunters and their families had followed the Indians and buffalo to a distance of between 150 and 200 miles. The snow was now so deep that the only means of transport was by dog-sledges. Dogs, being light and short-limbed, can travel where horses cannot, but even dogs require a track, and the only way of making one on the trackless prairie, or in the forest, is by means of a man on snow-shoes, who walks ahead of the dogs and thus "beats the track." The men employed, however, were splendid and persevering walkers, and their hearts were in the work. Both Samuel Ravenshaw and Angus Macdonald gave liberally to the cause; and each obtaining a team of dogs, accompanied one of the relief parties in a dog-cariole. If the reader were to harness four dogs to a slipper-bath, he would have a fair idea of a dog-cariole and team. Louis Lambert beat the track for old Ravenshaw. He was a recognised suitor at Willow Creek by that time. The old gentleman was well accustomed to the dog-cariole, but to Angus it was new--at least in experience. "It iss like as if she was goin' to pathe," he remarked, with a grim smile, on stepping into the machine and sitting down, or rather reclining luxuriously among the buffalo robes. The dogs attempted to run away with him, and succeeded for a hundred yards or so. Then they got off the track, and discovered that Angus was heavy. Then they stopped, put out their tongues, and looked humbly back for the driver to beat the track for them. A stout young half-breed was the driver. He came up and led the way until they reached the open plains, where a recent gale had swept away the soft snow, and left a long stretch that was hard enough for the dogs to walk on without sinking. The team was fresh and lively. "She'd petter hold on to the tail," suggested Angus. The driver assented. He had already left the front, and allowed the cariole to pass him, in order to lay hold of the tail-line and check the pace, but the dogs were too sharp for him. They bolted again, ran more than a mile, overturned the cariole, and threw its occupant on the snow, after which they were brought up suddenly by a bush. On the way the travellers passed several others of the wealthy settlers who were going personally to the rescue. Sympathy for the plain-hunters was universal. Every one lent a willing hand. The result was that the lives of hundreds were saved, though many were lost. Their sufferings were so great that some died on their road to the colony, after being relieved at Pembina. Those found alive had devoured their horses, dogs, raw hides, leather, and their very moccasins. Mr Ravenshaw and his neighbour passed many corpses on the way, two of which were scarcely cold. They also passed at various places above forty sufferers in seven or eight parties, who were crawling along with great difficulty. To these they distributed the provisions they had brought with them. At last the hunters were all rescued and conveyed to the settlement--one man, with his wife and three children, having been dug out of the snow, where they had been buried for five days and nights. The woman and children recovered, but the man died. Soon after this sad event the winter began to exhibit unwonted signs of severity. It had begun earlier, and continued later than usual. The snow averaged three feet deep in the plains and four feet in the woods, and the cold was intense, being frequently down to forty-five degrees below zero of Fahrenheit's scale, while the ice measured between five and six feet in thickness on the rivers. But the great, significant, and prevailing feature of that winter was snow. Never within the memory of man had there been such heavy, continuous, persistent snow. It blocked up the windows so that men had constantly to clear a passage for daylight. It drifted up the doors so that they were continually cutting passages for themselves to the world outside. It covered the ground to such an extent that fences began to be obliterated, and landmarks to disappear, and it weighted the roofs down until some of the weaker among them bid fair to sink under the load. "A severe winter" was old Mr Ravenshaw's usual morning remark as he went to the windows, pipe in hand, before breakfast. To which his better half invariably replied, "Never saw anything like it before;" and Miss Trim remarked, "It is awful." "It snows hard--whatever," was Angus Macdonald's usual observation about the same hour. To which his humble and fast friend Peegwish--who assisted in his kitchen--was wont to answer, "Ho!" and glare solemnly, as though to intimate that his thoughts were too deep for utterance. Thus the winter passed away, and when spring arrived it had to wage an unusually fierce conflict before it gained the final victory over ice and snow. CHAPTER TWELVE. VICTORY! But before that winter closed, ay, before it began, a great victory was gained, which merits special mention here. Let us retrace our steps a little. One morning, while Ian Macdonald was superintending the preparation of breakfast in some far-away part of the western wilderness, and Michel Rollin was cutting firewood, Victor Ravenshaw came rushing into camp with the eager announcement that he had seen the footprints of an _enormous_ grizzly bear! At any time such news would have stirred the blood of Ian, but at that time, when the autumn was nearly over, and hope had almost died in the breast of our scholastic backwoodsman, the news burst upon him with the thrilling force of an electric shock. "Now, Ian, take your gun and go in and win," said Victor with enthusiasm, for the youth had been infected with Rollin's spirit of gallantry. "You see," Rollin had said to Victor during a confidential _tete-a-tete_, "ven a lady is in de case ye must bow de head. Ian do love your sister. Ver goot. Your sister do vish for a bar-claw collar. Ver goot. Vell, de chance turn up at last--von grizzly bar do appear. Who do shot 'im? Vy, Ian, certaintly. Mais, it is pity he am so 'bominibly bad shot!" Victor, being an unselfish fellow, at once agreed to this; hence his earnest advice that Ian should take his gun and go in and win. But Ian shook his head. "My dear boy," he said, with a sigh, "it's of no use my attempting to shoot a bear, or anything else. I don't know what can be wrong with my vision, I can see as clear and as far as the best of you, and I'm not bad, you'll allow, at following up a trail over hard ground; but when it comes to squinting along the barrel of a gun I'm worse than useless. It's my belief that if I took aim at a haystack at thirty yards I'd miss it. No, Vic, I must give up the idea of shooting altogether." "What! have you forgotten the saying, `Faint heart never won fair lady?'" exclaimed Victor, in surprise. "Nay, lad, my memory is not so short as that, neither is my heart as faint as you seem to think it. I do intend to go in and win, but I shall do it after a fashion of my own, Vic." Rollin, who came up at the moment and flung a bundle of sticks on the fire, demanded to know what "vas the vashion" referred to. "That I won't tell you at present, boys," said Ian; "but, if you have any regard for me, you'll make me a solemn promise not in any way to interfere with me or my plans unless you see me in actual and imminent danger of losing my life." "Jus' so," said Rollin, with a nod, "ye vill not step in to de reskoo till you is at de very last gasp." Having obtained the requisite promise, Ian set off with his comrades to examine the bear's track. There could be but one opinion as to the size of the grizzly which had made it. As Victor had said, it was enormous, and showed that the animal had wandered about hither and thither, as if it had been of an undecided temperament. Moreover the track was quite fresh. Of course there was much eager conversation about it among the friends; carried on in subdued tones and whispers, as if they feared that the bear might be listening in a neighbouring bush. After discussing the subject in every point of view, and examining the tracks in every light, they returned to the camp, at Victor's suggestion, to talk it over more fully, and make preparations for the hunt. Ian, however, cut short their deliberations by reminding his comrades of their promise, and claiming the strict fulfilment of it. "If this thing is to be undertaken by me," he said, "I must have it all my own way and do the thing entirely by myself." "Nobody objects to your having it all your own way," retorted Victor, somewhat testily, "but why should you be so secret about it? Why not give a fellow some sort of idea what your plan is, so that, if we can't have the pleasure of helping you, we may at least enjoy the comfort of thinking about it?" "No, Vic, no. I won't give you a hint, because my plan is entirely new, and you would laugh at it; at least it is new to me, for I never heard of its having been attempted with grizzlies before, though I have heard of it in connection with other bears. Besides, I may fail, in which case the less that is known about my failure the better. Only this much will I say, the idea has been suggested to me by the formation of the land hereabouts. You know there is a gap or pass in the rocks just ahead of us, through which the bear seems to have passed more than once in the course of his rambles. Well, that gap is the spot where I will make my attempt. If you follow me to that gap I will at once return to camp and let you manage the matter yourselves." "Well, well, do as you please," said Victor, with a laugh, "and the sooner you set about it the better. Rollin and I will ride away some miles in the opposite direction and see if we can't get hold of a wild goose for supper." "Ha! perhaps de grizzly vill get hold of anoder and a vilder goose for supper," said Rollin, with a shake of his head. When his companions had departed, Ian Macdonald cleaned his gun carefully and loaded with ball; then placing his axe in his belt beside his scalping-knife, he proceeded with long and rapid strides towards the gap or pass above referred to. The bear's track led through this pass, which was a narrow cut, not more than thirty feet wide, in a steep rocky ridge with which the country at that place was intersected for a considerable distance. The ridge itself, and the pass by which it was divided, were thickly covered with trees and dense undergrowth. The floor of the pass was level, although rugged, and the rocks on either side rose in a sheer precipice, so that whoever should attempt to penetrate without wings to the region beyond must needs go by that narrow cut. Arrived at the middle of the pass, where it was narrowest, Ian leant his gun against the precipice on one side, took off his coat, tucked up his sleeves, grasped his axe, and attacked a mighty tree. Like Ulysses of old, he swung the axe with trenchant power and skill. Huge chips flew circling round. Ere long a goodly tree creaked, groaned, and finally fell with a crash upon the ground. It was tough work. Ian heaved a sigh of satisfaction and wiped his streaming brow as he surveyed the fallen monarch. There was another king of the same size near to the opposite precipice, which he felled in the same way. Both monarchs mingled and severely injured their royal heads in the middle of the pass, which thus became entirely blocked up, for our woodsman had so managed that the trees fell right across it. Next, Ian attacked the united heads, and with great labour hewed a passage through them, near to a spot where a large boulder lay. Selecting another forest king, Ian cut it so that one end of it fell on the boulder. The result of all this hewing and guiding of the falling monarchs was that the only available track through the pass was a hole about four feet in diameter, with a tree of great weight suspended above it by the boulder. To chop off the branches and convert this latter tree into a log did not take long. Neither did it take much time or exertion to fashion a sort of support, or trigger, in the shape of a figure 4, immediately under the log, so as to obstruct the hole before mentioned. But to lower the log gently from the boulder on to this trigger without setting it off was a matter of extreme difficulty, requiring great care and much time, for the weight of the log was great, and if it should once slip to the ground, ten Ian Macdonalds could not have raised it up again. It was accomplished at last, however, and several additional heavy logs were leaned upon the main one to increase its weight. "If he returns this way at all, he will come in the evening," muttered Ian to himself, as he sat down on a stump and surveyed his handiwork with a smile of satisfaction. "But perhaps he may not come back till morning, in which case I shall have to watch here all night, and those impatient geese in the camp will be sure to disturb us on the plea that they feared I had been killed--bah! and perhaps he won't come at all!" This last idea was not muttered; it was only thought, but the thought banished the smile of satisfaction from Ian's face. In a meditative mood he took up his gun, refreshed the priming and slightly chipped the flint, so as to sharpen its edge and make sure of its striking fire. By that time it was long past noon, and the hunter was meditating the propriety of going to a neighbouring height to view the surrounding country, when a slight noise attracted his attention. He started, cocked his gun, glared round in all directions, and held his breath. The noise was not repeated. Gradually the frown of his brows melted, the glare of his eyes abated, the tension of his muscles was relaxed, and his highly-wrought feelings escaped in a long-drawn sigh. "Pshaw 'twas nothing. No bear in its senses would roam about at such an hour, considering the row I have been kicking up with hacking and crashing. Come, I'll go to the top of that crag, and have a look round." He put on his coat and belt, stuck his axe and knife into the latter, shouldered his gun, and went nimbly up the rocky ascent on his left. Coming out on a clear spot at the crag which had attracted him, he could see the whole pass beneath him, except the spot where his trap had been laid. That portion was vexatiously hidden by an intervening clump of bushes. Next moment he was petrified, so to speak, by the sight of a grizzly bear sauntering slowly down the pass as if in the enjoyment of an afternoon stroll. No power on earth--except, perhaps, a glance from Elsie--could have unpetrified Ian Macdonald at that moment. He stood in the half-crouching attitude of one about to spring over the cliff-- absolutely motionless--with eyes, mouth, and nostrils wide open, as if to afford free egress to his spirit. Not until the bear had passed slowly out of sight behind the intervening bushes was he disenchanted. Then, indeed, he leaped up like a startled deer, turned sharp round, and bounded back the way he had come, with as much caution and as little noise as was compatible with such vigorous action. Before he had retraced his steps ten yards, however, he heard a crash! Well did he know what had caused it. His heart got into his threat somehow. Swallowing it with much difficulty, he ran on, but a roar such as was never uttered by human lungs almost stopped his circulation. A few seconds brought Ian within view of his trap, and what a sight presented itself! A grizzly bear, which seemed to him the hugest, as it certainly was at that moment the fiercest, that ever roamed the Rocky Mountains, was struggling furiously under the weight of the ponderous tree, with its superincumbent load of logs. The monster had been caught by the small of the back--if such a back can be said to have possessed a small of any kind--and its rage, mingled as it must have been with surprise, was awful to witness. The whole framework of the ponderous trap trembled and shook under the influence of the animal's writhings. Heavy though it was, the bear shook it so powerfully at each spasm of rage, that it was plainly too weak to hold him long. In the event of his breaking out, death to the trapper was inevitable. Ian did not hesitate an instant. His chief fear at the moment was that his comrades at the camp might have heard the roaring--distant though they were from the spot--and might arrive in time to spoil, by sharing, his victory. Victory? Another struggle such as that, and victory would have rested with the bear! Ian resolved to make sure work. He would put missing out of the question. The tremendous claws that had already worked a small pit in the earth reminded him of the collar and of Elsie. Leaping forward, he thrust the point of his gun into the ear of the infuriated animal and pulled the trigger. He was almost stunned by the report and roar, together with an unwonted shock that sent him reeling backward. We know not how a good twist-barrelled gun would behave if its muzzle were thus stopped, but the common Indian gun used on this occasion was not meant to be thus treated. It was blown to pieces, and Ian stood gazing in speechless surprise at the fragment of wood remaining in his hand. How far it had injured the bear he could not tell, but the shot had not apparently abated its power one jot, for it still heaved upwards in a paroxysm of rage, and with such force as nearly to overthrow the complex erection that held it down. Evidently there was no time to lose. Ian drew his axe, grasped it with both hands, raised himself on tiptoe, and brought it down with all his might on the bear's neck. The grizzly bear is noted for tenacity of life. Ian had not hit the neck-bone. Instead of succumbing to the tremendous blow, it gave the handle of the axe a vicious twist with its paw, which jerked the hunter violently to the ground. Before he could recover himself, the claws which he coveted so much were deep in his right thigh. His presence of mind did not forsake him even then. Drawing his scalping-knife, he wrenched himself round, and twice buried the keen weapon to the haft in the bear's side. Just then an unwonted swimming sensation came over Ian; his great strength seemed suddenly to dissipate, and the bear, the claw collar, even Elsie, faded utterly from his mind. The stars were shining brightly in the calm sky, and twinkling with pleasant tranquillity down upon his upturned countenance when consciousness returned to Ian Macdonald. "Ah, Vic!" he murmured, with a long sad sigh; "I've had such a splendid dream!" "Come, that's right, old boy. Here, have another mouthful," said Victor, holding a tin can to his friend's lips. "It's only tea, hot and strong--the best thing in the world to refresh a wounded man; and after such a fight--" "What!" exclaimed Ian, starting and sitting bolt upright, while he gazed in the faces of his two comrades. "Is it true? _Have_ I killed the-- the--grizzly?" "Killed him!" exclaimed Victor, rising; "I should think you have." "Killed 'im!" echoed Rollin. "You's killed 'im two or tree time over; vy, you's axed 'im, stabbed 'im, shotted 'im, busted 'im, squashed 'im-- ho!--" "Am I much damaged?" inquired Ian, interrupting, for he felt weak. "Oh! no--noting whatsocomever. Only few leetil holes in you's legs. Be bedder in a veek." "Look here," said Victor, kneeling beside the wounded man and presenting to him a piece of wood on which were neatly arranged a row of formidable claws. "I knew you would like to see them." "How good of you, Vic! It was thoughtful of you, and kind. Put them down before me--a little nearer--there,--so." Ian gazed in speechless admiration. It was not that he was vain of the achievement; he was too sensible and unselfish for that; but it was _such_ a pleasure to think of being able, after all, and in spite of his bad shooting, to present Elsie with a set of claws that were greatly superior to those given to her mother by Louis Lambert--the finest, in short, that he had ever seen. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. A CUNNING DEVICE ENDS IN FAILURE FOLLOWED BY DESTRUCTION. In a previous chapter it has been told how the long hard winter of that year, (1826), had passed away, after an unwontedly severe tussle with the spring. The prophets of the land now began to hold up their heads and look owlishly wise, for their predictions were evidently about to be fulfilled. Had not old Sam Ravenshaw said all through the winter that "something would come of it"? Was it not the daily remark of Angus Macdonald that such a state of things, "could not go on for ever--whatever"? Had not Peegwish glared prophecy with a degree of solemnity that rendered words not only impossible, but unnecessary? and had not Miss Trim asserted that dreadful consequences of some sort were _sure_ to follow? Dreadful consequences did follow, and they began with a fine warm day. For a considerable time the fields of snow had been subjected to the influence of the blazing sun, and had been greatly diminished in depth. The day in question, however, was so very warm that Louis Lambert was induced to take his horse and gun with a view to wolf-hunting on the plains. The hard crust formed on the snow's surface by the partial meltings of early spring is sufficiently strong to bear the weight of a wolf, but will not support a horse. Wolves, therefore, roam about with ease and at will at that period, while horses are obliged to keep to beaten tracks. When, however, the thaws set in, the case is reversed. The wolf, with his short limbs, flounders laboriously in the drifts of soft snow, while the horse, with his long and powerful legs, can gallop in spite of these. Thus wolf-hunting becomes, for a time, possible. Louis Lambert was fond of the chase. He was also fond of courting, and, resolving to combine the two, galloped away to the abode of old Ravenshaw. He had been there so often of late that he felt half ashamed of this early morning visit. Lovers easily find excuses for visits. He resolved to ask if Herr Winklemann had been seen passing that morning, as he wished his companionship on the plains--the shallow deceiver! "Good-morning, Cora," he said, on entering the hall. Elsie, who stood at the window with her back to the door, turned quickly round. "Oh, I beg pardon," he said, with a slightly confused air; "I thought you were Cora, and--" "Well," interrupted Elsie, with a hurt look that accorded ill with a twinkle in her eyes; "I think you might know the difference between me and Cora by this time, though you only saw my back." "Ah, Elsie!" returned the youth, as he shook hands, "you ought in fairness to make allowance for the effects of spring. You know full well that the glare of the sun on the snow half blinds a fellow, so that even when, when--" "Come, now, don't search about in your empty brain for one of your unmeaning compliments, but say at once what brings you here at so early an hour. Has a war party of Sioux come down on us, or is the river about to break up?" "War-parties of Sioux are no doubt prowling about the plains somewhere," returned Lambert, with a smile, "and the ice will go soon if this heat continues; but neither of these things brought me here. The truth is, I came to ask if Winklemann has been seen to pass your windows this morning?" "The truth?" repeated Elsie, with a searching look. "Well," replied the youth, with a laugh, "I came also to see you and-- and--Cora." "And father also, I suppose?" "Why, Elsie, you are unusually sharp this morning; but I really do wish to know if Winklemann has been seen, because he had left home when I passed his house, and I want him to hunt with me." "Then I may tell you that he passed our window not ten minutes before your arrival, going in the direction of the Lower Fort. He rides fast, as you know, so if you would catch him up you must follow quickly." The young man stood for a moment undecided, then, perceiving that Elsie gave him no encouragement to remain, he bade her adieu and rode away. "Louis is remarkably fond of coming here," said Elsie to Cora, who entered the room a few minutes later, "but he did not come to see _us_ this morning. He only came to ask after Herr Winklemann." Cora laughed, but gave no further evidence of the state of her mind. Just then Peegwish the Indian entered. He walked towards the sisters with that solemn dignity of manner peculiar to the North American savage, but the intensified solemnity of his looks and a certain unsteadiness in his gait rather marred the dignity. "Peegwish," said Elsie, going towards him with a grieved look, "you have been drinking beer again." The Indian protested, in very bad English, that he had not tasted beer since the previous Christmas; whereupon Elsie proceeded to administer an earnest reproof to the muddled hypocrite, for she was really anxious to save him from the destruction which had already overtaken many of his red brethren through the baleful influence of fire-water; but Peegwish was just then in no condition to appreciate her remarks. To all she said his only reply was that he wanted "bally." "You want bally?" returned Elsie, with a puzzled look. "Yis--bally," he repeated, and a gleam of indescribable slyness broke like a sunbeam on his solemn visage as he said it. "What can he mean by bally, Cora?" "Perhaps he means barley." "Ho!" exclaimed the Indian, with emphasis, by which he meant, "You're right." But Elsie had no barley to give him. She tried to find out what he wanted to do with the barley, but Peegwish was not communicative. The gleam of cunning faded from his mahogany countenance, and he relapsed into a state of impenetrable wisdom, in which condition he retired, and betook himself to the upper part of the settlement, near Fort Garry, in quest of "bally." Here he found the people in a state of considerable excitement owing to the sudden and unusual rise of the river. At Fort Garry the Assinaboine River joins the Red River, and flows with it into Lake Winnipeg. At the period of which we write, (the month of May), both rivers were yet covered with the icy garment--between four and five feet thick--under which they had gone to rest five or six months before. The vast accumulation of snow which had fallen that winter was melted so fast that the Red River had risen with terrible rapidity, and it was obvious, from the ominous complainings of the "thick-ribbed ice," that a burst-up of unwonted violence was impending. The strength of the ice, however, was so great that it rose with the swelling waters without breaking until nearly on a level with the top of the river banks. In some places, where the banks were low, the pent-up floods broke forth and swamped the land, but as yet little damage had been done. Of course the alarm of the settlers was considerable. Rumours of former floods which had devastated the surrounding plains were rife, and those of the people whose houses stood on the lower grounds began to remove their goods and chattels to higher places. Others delayed doing so in the belief that the river would not rise much higher, at all events that it would subside as soon as the ice broke up and cleared away to Lake Winnipeg. Some there were whose dwellings stood on high ground, and who professed to have no belief in floods at all. In other circumstances Peegwish would have noted the state of things that prevailed, but at that time his faculties were steeped in beer. For some days past they had been in this condition, but his supply was exhausted, and people who knew his propensity refused to give him more. Peegwish, therefore, being a somewhat resolute savage, resolved to adopt a course which would render him independent. Chuckling to himself at the depth and cunning of his intended course of action, he went among the farmers begging for "bally"! Some to whom he appealed treated him facetiously, others turned him away from their doors, being too anxious about the impending flood to listen to him. At last he found a soft-hearted soul in the person of Michel Rollin's mother, old Liz, who dwelt in a very small log-hut on a knoll at a considerable height above the river. "What d'ee want wi' the barley?" demanded old Liz, who, besides being amiable, had a feeling of kindness for the man with whom her absent son had for years been in the habit of hunting. "To heat 'im," replied the Indian. "To eat it," echoed the sturdy little woman; "weel, come in. I can spare some, but dinna mak' a noise, Daddy's sleepin'." The savage entered with solemn though wavering caution. Old though she was, Liz had a living father. He was so very ancient, that if he had dwelt in Egypt he would probably have been taken for a live mummy. He sat in the chimney corner, in an arm-chair to which Liz had tied him to prevent his falling into the fire. He smiled and nodded at the fire when awake, and snored and nodded at it when asleep. Beyond this, and a grateful recognition of his daughter's attentions, he did and said nothing. Gazing at Daddy, Peegwish fell into an owlish reverie, from which he was aroused by old Liz putting a small sack of barley on the ground before him. The Indian received it with thanks, threw it on his shoulder, and with an expression of unalterable determination on his visage, returned to his own home. The home of Peegwish was dilapidated like himself. It stood on a portion of ground belonging to Angus Macdonald, and was very near to the river's brink. It was a mere log-cabin of the smallest dimensions, having one low door and one glassless window. The window also served the purpose of a chimney. Its furniture was in keeping with its appearance--a stool, a couple of blankets, two little heaps of brushwood for beds, a kettle or two, a bag of pemmican, an old flint gun, two pairs of snow-shoes, a pair of canoe-paddles, a couple of very dirty bundles, and an old female. The latter was the dirtiest piece of furniture in the establishment. She was sister to Peegwish, and was named by him Wildcat. Despite appearances, the hut was comfortably warm, for Wildcat--who, to do her justice, had been grossly misnamed--was fond of heat. She devoted the chief part of her existence to the collection of fuel, most of the remainder being spent in making moccasins, etcetera, and cooking. "Put on the pot, Wildcat," said Peegwish on entering, as he threw down the sack of barley. The woman obeyed with alacrity. The fire burned on the earthen floor in primitive style. Erecting three sticks over it in the tripod form, she hung a pot therefrom, filled it with water, and awaited further orders. Knowing her brother's cast of mind well, she refrained from questioning, though she perceived from the peculiar cunning of his looks that something unusual occupied his mind. Peegwish saw that Wildcat's curiosity was aroused, and resolved to keep it in that condition. He had learned the fact that beer was made from barley, and had resolved, thenceforth, to brew his own beer; but no hint of this did he permit to escape him. He even went to the other extreme, and became unusually communicative on subjects remote from beer. He told how that the people up the river were being frightened by the rise in the water; how he had met Lambert and Winklemann going to hunt wolves; how these Nimrods had been obliged to change their minds and turn back for the purpose of looking after their property; and, in short, he wandered as far from the subject of beer and brewing as possible. His reference to the rise of the river, however, turned Wildcat's thoughts to the fact that the ice in their immediate neighbourhood had been forced up in a manner that caused her some anxiety. She mentioned her fears to Peegwish, but that worthy was too deeply immersed in his experiments just then to care much for anything else. To her remarks he merely replied by a solemn shake of the head and an owlish gaze into the big pot. Soon the water in the pot began to boil. Peegwish put in a large proportion of barley, lighted his pipe, and sat down to await the result with the patience of a Stoic. Wildcat sat beside him with equal patience. An hour passed, Peegwish dipped a wooden spoon into the pot and tasted. The result was not satisfactory--it burnt his lips. He let the spoonful cool, and tried again. The liquid was marvellously like barley-broth, with which delicacy he was well acquainted. Another hour passed; again he dipped the spoon, and again met with disappointment, for his brew was not yet beer. The sun went down, the moon arose, the stars came out, and still Peegwish and Wildcat sat watching and dozing over the big pot. At last the former bade the latter watch alone while he slept. He lay back where he sat and slumbered instantly. Wildcat obeyed orders by heaping fresh logs on the fire and following suit. They snored in concert. The night advanced; the uneasy grindings of the ice increased; the tinkling of a thousand snow-born rills filled the air with liquid melody. The sub-glacial murmuring of many waters filled many hearts with anxious care, and numerous households near the river's brink sat up the live-long night to watch--perhaps to pray. Intermittent cracking of the ice kept up the sound, as it were, of spattering musketry, and occasional loud reports were interspersed like the thunder of heavy guns. At grey dawn Peegwish awoke, looked slowly round, observed his sister asleep, and seized her by the nose. She awoke, rose hastily, and stirred the fire. An inspection of the big pot showed that its contents had become barley porridge. Even Peegwish's imagination failed to regard it as beer. But Peegwish had been somewhat sobered by his sleep. Hearing the ominous sounds on the river he jumped up and ran outside. The sight that presented itself was sufficiently alarming. During the night the water had risen six feet, and the ice had been raised to a level with the floor of the Indian's hut. But this was not the worst. A short tongue of land just above the hut had up to that time formed a sort of breakwater to the dwelling. Now, however, the ice had been forced quite over the barrier by the irresistible pressure behind, and even while he gazed a great wedge of ice, nearly five feet thick and several yards in length, was being reared up like a glittering obelisk, and forced slowly but surely down upon the hut. Peegwish had not recovered from his first surprise when the obelisk broke off by its own weight and fell in a mass of ruins, whilst the ice behind kept thrusting with terrible force towards him. If Peegwish was sluggish by nature his malady was evidently not incurable. He uttered a shout, and leaped back into his hut like a panther. His sister came out, gave one glance at the river, became wild-cattish for the first time in her life, and sprang after her brother. A few seconds later and the pair reappeared, bearing some of their poor possessions to a place of safety higher up the bank. They returned for more, and in a very few minutes had the whole of their worldly wealth removed from their doomed edifice. Then they sat down on the bank, and sadly watched the destruction of their home. From their point of view they could see that the main body of ice on the river was still unbroken, and that it was merely a huge tongue, or needle, which had been thrust up at that point by the form of the land above referred to. The shattered masses were soon forced against the side of the hut. There was a slight pause and a creaking of timbers; then the ice slipped upwards and rose above the roof. More ice came down from above--slowly grinding. Again there was a pause. The creaking timbers began to groan, the hut leaned gently over. One of the door-posts snapped, the other sloped inwards, the roof collapsed, the sides went in, the ice passed over all, and the hut of Peegwish was finally obliterated from off the face of the earth. So, a giant with his foot might slowly and effectually crush the mansion of a snail! CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE FLOOD BEGINS TO DO ITS WORK. "It is very sad that the hut of poor Peegwish has been carried away," observed Miss Martha Macdonald, while presiding at the breakfast-table. "Yes, it iss fery sad," responded Angus Macdonald, in a somewhat unamiable tone; "but it iss more sad that he will pe living in our kitchen now, for that wuman Wildcat must pe there too, and it iss not coot for Wildcat to live in the kitchen. She will pe too fond of the kitchen altogether, an' she will pe a greater thief than our own cawtie, for she is more omniferous an' not so easy to scare." "But cook is as good as a weasel at watching cats," returned Martha, with a smile; "and it is reason we have to be thankful we have no heavier trouble, Angus, for many of the people up the river are driven out of their houses." "What you say iss true, Martha. Just pefore breakfast I met that Cherman crater, Winklemann, ridin' to the mission-house for help. The ice would pe scrapin' the end of his gardin, he was tellin' me, an' if the ruver would pe risin' another fut it would come into the house. He says the people are goin' off to the mountain like flocks of sheep, carryin' their coots and trivin' their cattle pefore them. It is fery pad times, whatever." In the parlour of Willow Creek House the breakfast party enlarged on the same theme. "Things look serious," observed Samuel Ravenshaw, as he commenced his third egg. "If the water rises at this rate much longer, not only the houses that stand low on the river banks, but the whole settlement will be in danger. It is said that four houses and a barn were swept away last night by the force of the ice somewhere above the mission premises, and that about sixty people slept in the church." "It is well that our house stands high," said Mrs Ravenshaw. "Don't you think, Sam, that we might have the barn prepared, in case some of our neighbours have to leave their houses?" "The barn is ready, mother," said Elsie. "Father and I have been arranging it all the morning with the aid of Peegwish, poor fellow, who has been sent to us by Macdonald." "Ay, and it's as trim as an hospital," added Mr Ravenshaw; "but I hope it won't be wanted. The ice is now clearing away. When it is gone, the river will be sure to fall.--Tell the boy to saddle the horse, Cora," continued the old gentleman, attacking his fourth egg. "I shall ride up to see how Winklemann gets on. Lambert is helping him." "Is Lambert's own house safe?" asked Elsie, with a glance at her sister. "Safe enough just now," replied her father; "for it stands much higher and further back." "Don't forget old Liz Rollin," said Elsie. "Her hut stands high, but if things get worse she will be in danger, and there is no one to look after her, you know." "No fear of my forgetting the mother of the man who is helping to search for my dear boy," returned Ravenshaw, "besides, old Liz is not without friends. Both Louis and Winklemann have promised to keep their eyes on her." This reference to the mother of Michel Rollin turned the thoughts of the party into a channel that was very familiar, for the lost Tony and his brother were seldom absent from their thoughts. Of late, however, they had ceased to talk much of the absent ones, because, as months flew by without any tidings, their anxieties increased, and as their fears increased they felt less inclined to talk hopefully. Long before the breaking up of the ice Mr Ravenshaw had sent off an expedition at his own cost in search of the searchers. It consisted of a trusty Indian and two half-breeds. They were to cross the plains towards the Saskatchewan district, and make inquiries among the fur-traders there; but nothing had yet been heard of them, and although the face and figure of Tony were never absent from the old man's memory, his name was not now so frequently on his lips. A sigh from Miss Trim revealed clearly the nature of _her_ thoughts. Poor Miss Trim! Her occupation was almost gone since Tony's disappearance. Besides losing the terrible and specific task of teaching Tony his lessons, the amiable lady had lost the general duty of keeping Tony in order, putting right what Tony had put wrong, and, generally, undoing what Tony did. She also missed painfully those little daily attentions to her hands and shins, which were rendered necessary in consequence of Tony's activity with his nails and the toes of his boots, to say nothing of his teeth. For many weeks past--it seemed to her years--Miss Trim had not bandaged a cut, or fomented a bruise, or mollified a scratch with ointment. She absolutely felt as though she had suffered bereavement. The silence which had descended on the breakfast-table was not broken until Mr Ravenshaw's horse was reported ready at the door. On his way to the main road the old gentleman had to pass close to the summer-house on the knoll so much coveted by Angus Macdonald. There he reined up a few minutes. The position commanded an extensive view, and the aspect of the river was sufficiently alarming. The ice, which by that time had broken up, was rolling and crashing along with inconceivable force before the impetuous torrent. The water had risen to such a height that the lower lands were completely inundated. That it was still rising was made obvious by the fact that the rolling masses at the river-sides were being thrust higher and higher on obstructing points, carrying bushes and trees before them. Even while he gazed a lofty elm that grew on a low part of Angus Macdonald's property was overthrown as if it had been a mere twig, and swept away. Several young maple and oak trees further down shared the same fate a few minutes later. The house of Angus was full in view. It occupied a mound nearly, though not quite, as high as the knoll on which he stood, and was still, like his own dwelling, far above the reach of the raging flood. The spot where the hut of Peegwish had stood was by that time deep below the surface of the ice-torrent. Mr Ravenshaw did not remain long in contemplation. The weather, which had been stormy, became suddenly cold, and a blinding fall of sleet induced him to button his greatcoat up to the chin as he hastened away. Arriving at the mission station after a gallop of several miles, he found a state of things which almost beggars description. Men, women, and children were hurrying to and fro, laden with their chief valuables, or driving carts loaded with household goods, which they deposited on the mission premises for safety, preparatory to the desertion of houses, which was expected to take place on the morrow. Goods of every description were scattered about in wild confusion, for many of the people were half mad with alarm. The missionary, with his assistants, was doing his best to reduce the chaos to order. Farther up the river Mr Ravenshaw encountered Herr Winklemann bearing a huge arm-chair on his shoulders. "Mine hause is toomed!" he said. "Doomed? I hope not. Where are you going with the chair?" "To zee hause of old Liz." Without waiting for a rejoinder the stout German hurried on, and was soon lost to view among the bushes. Ravenshaw followed him shortly afterwards, and found old Liz arranging and piling away the belongings of Winklemann, who, after depositing the arm-chair by the side of the fire opposite the corner occupied by Daddy, had returned to his doomed house for more. Anxious to know in what condition his friend's house was, the old gentleman took the road to it. The house of old Liz, as we have said, stood high, and well back from the river. It had been made a place of refuge by the nearest neighbours, and was not only filled but surrounded by goods and furniture, as well as live stock. A dense mass of willow bushes, by which the little hut was surrounded, completely shut out the view all round, except backward, in the direction of the prairie, so that Ravenshaw did not come in sight of the spot where the flood had already commenced its work of destruction until he had traversed a footpath for nearly a quarter of a mile. Many wet and weary settlers passed him, however, with their possessions on their backs, and here and there groups of women and children, to all of whom he gave a cheering word of hope and encouragement. On clearing the bushes the full extent of desolation was presented to view. The river here had overflowed its banks, so that a large part of the country wore the aspect of a lake. Knolls and slight eminences, which in happier times had been scarcely observable, now stood boldly out as conspicuous islets, while many farmhouses were either partly submerged or stood on the margin of the rising waters which beat against them. There was a strong current in some places, elsewhere it was calm; but the river itself was clearly traceable by the turmoil of crashing ice and surging water which marked its course. Men and women were seen everywhere--in the water and out of it--loading carts or barrows with their property, and old people, with children, looked on and shivered, for the thermometer had fallen to five degrees below the freezing-point of Fahrenheit's scale, as indicated by the thermometer at the parsonage. The sleet had ceased, and the wind had fallen, but dark masses of clouds hurried athwart the lowering sky, and the dreary character of the scene was heightened by the poor cattle, which, being turned out of their warm places of shelter, stood on knolls or in the water and lowed piteously. One of the most conspicuous objects of the scene, from Ravenshaw's point of view, was poor Winklemann's house--a small one which stood on a low spot already surrounded by water. In front of it was Winklemann himself, wading through the flood, without coat or hat, and carrying a large bundle in his arms. "What have you got there?" asked Ravenshaw, as German went staggering past. "Mine moder," he replied, and hurried on. Herr Winklemann had a mother--as old as the hills, according to his own report, and any one who beheld her feeble frame and wrinkled visage might well have believed him. With tender regard for her welfare her stout son had refrained from removing or even alarming her until the last moment, partly from fear that fright and the removal might do her serious injury, and partly from the hope that the flood had reached its highest point; but when the danger to his dwelling became great he resolved to carry her to the hut of old Liz, and, as a preliminary step, had removed her old arm-chair, as we have seen, to be ready for her reception. On returning to the house, however, he found that a portion of the river bank above had unexpectedly given way, diverging the flood a little in that part, so that his dwelling was already a foot deep in water. The old woman, however, lay safely on the bed where Winklemann had placed her, and was either unconscious of, or indifferent to what was going on. She did indeed look a little surprised when her son wrapped the blanket, on which she lay, completely round her, and took her up in his arms as if she had been a little child, but the look of surprise melted into a humorous smile as he drew the last fold over her face. She clearly believed it to be one of her dear boy's little practical jokes, and submitted without a murmur. Staggering through the flood with her, as we have said, Winklemann carried her to the cottage of old Liz, who received her with tender care, helped to place her in the big chair, and remembering Daddy's tendency to fall into the fire, tied her securely therein. Meanwhile Winklemann ran back to his house, where he found Mr Ravenshaw and Louis Lambert assisting several men to secure it on its foundations by tying it with ropes to the nearest trees. Joining these, he lent his powerful aid; but a power greater than his was at work, which could not be resisted. Not only did the water rise at an alarming rate and rush against the house with tremendous violence, but great cakes of ice bore down on it and struck it with such force as to make every timber tremble. Like all the other houses of the settlement, it was built entirely of wood, and had no other foundation than the levelled ground on which its framework stood. When the water rose considerably above his knees, and ice-floes threatened to sweep him away, Mr Ravenshaw thought it was time for an elderly gentleman to retire. The others continued for some time longer securing the ropes and, with poles, turning aside the ice; but ere long they also were driven to the higher ground, and compelled to stand idly by and watch the work of destruction. "You've got everything out, I fancy?" asked Lambert. "Everyt'ing," replied Winklemann, with a deep sigh; "not'ing is left but zee hause." "An' that won't be left long," observed Mr Ravenshaw, as a huge mass of ice went against its gable-end like a battering-ram. It seemed to be the leader of a fresh battalion of the destroyer. A succession of ice-floes ran against the house and trees to which it was fastened. An additional rush of water came down at the same time like a wave of the sea. Every one saw that the approaching power was irresistible. The wave, with its ice-laden crest, absolutely roared as it engulfed the bushes. Two goodly elms bowed their heads into the flood and snapped off. The ropes parted like packthread; the building slewed round, reeled for a moment with a drunken air, caught on a shallow spot, and hung there. "Ach! mine goot old hause--farvell!" exclaimed Winklemann, in tones of deepest pathos. The house bowed as if in recognition of the old familiar voice, sloped into deeper water, gurgled out its latest breath, like a living thing, through its doors and windows, and sank beneath the wreck and ruin of its old surroundings. It was what men aptly term a clean sweep, but Winklemann's was not the only house that succumbed to the flood on that occasion. Many besides himself were rendered homeless. That night, (the 4th of May), the waters rose four feet, and the settlers even on the higher grounds began to think of flight. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. THE FLOOD CONTINUES TO DO ITS WORK. Rapidly and steadily did the waters of the Red River rise, until, overflowing all their banks, they spread out into the plains, and gradually settler after settler retired before the deluge, each forsaking his home at the last moment, and going off in quest of higher ground with his cattle and property. These high places were not numerous, for the whole region was very level. Many settlers discovered at that time a number of features in the colony which had been unrecognised before, and found refuge on spots which had never been observed as lying above the dead level of the plains. Even these spots were not all safe. Many of them were speedily submerged, and those who had fled to them sought refuge on the still higher knolls, which soon became inconveniently crowded. Some miles from the river there was an elevation of ground named the "Little Mountain," and to this many of the people repaired. It was about as deserving of its title as is a molehill; nevertheless it proved a safe asylum in the end. Louis Lambert was driven from his home the day after that on which the house of his friend Winklemann was destroyed. His house was a stout one of two storeys, and, owing to its position, was less exposed to the current of the flood than many other dwellings. Confident of its strength and the security of its position, its owner had carried all his goods and furniture to the upper storey, but on returning, after assisting his friend, he found the water in it so high that he feared it might be set afloat--as some of the houses had already been--and finally made up his mind to remove. But where should he remove to? That was the question. "To zee hause of old Liz," observed his friend. "It is close to hand, an' zere is yet room." This was true, but Lambert's inclinations turned in the direction of Willow Creek; he therefore protested there was not room. "No, no," he said; "it's not fair to crowd round old Liz as we are doing. I'll ride down to Ravenshaw's and see if there is room on his ground to place my property. There will be plenty of time. Even if the water should go on rising, which I hope it won't, my house can't float for many hours. Meanwhile, if you'll fetch round the boat, and place some of the heavy goods in it, you'll be doing me a good turn." "Vell, vell," muttered the German, as he looked after his friend with a quiet smile and a shake of the head, "dere is no madness like lof! Ven a man falls in lof he becomes blind, qvite blind!" The blind one, meanwhile, mounted his steed and galloped away on the wings of "lof." Lambert was a reckless rider, and an impatient though good-natured fellow. He dashed at full speed through shallow places, where the floods were creeping with insidious, tide-like persistency over the farm-lands, and forded some of the creeks, which almost rendered swimming unavoidable; but in spite of his daring he was compelled to make many a vexatious detour in his headlong course down to Willow Creek. On the way his mind, pre-occupied though it was, could not escape being much affected by the scenes of devastation through which he passed. Everywhere near the river houses were to be seen standing several feet deep in water, while their owners were either engaged in conveying their contents in boats and canoes to the nearest eminences, or removing them from such eminences in carts to spots of greater security. Some of the owners of these deserted houses had become so reckless or so despairing under their misfortunes, that they offered to sell them for merely nominal sums. It is said that some of them changed hands for so small a sum as thirty shillings or two pounds. Cantering round the corner of a fence, Lambert came within a hundred yards of a house round which the water was deep enough to float a large boat. Here he observed his friends, John Flett and David Mowat, embarking household goods into a large canoe out of the parlour window. Riding into the water, Lambert hailed them. "Hallo, Flett, d'ee want help?" "Thank 'ee, no; this is the last load. Got all the rest down to the church; the minister is lettin' us stow things in the loft." "You're in too great haste, Flett," returned Lambert. "The water can't rise much higher; your place is sure to stand." "Not so sure o' that, Louis; there's a report brought in by a redskin that all the country between the sources of the Assinaboine and Missouri is turned into a sea, and the waters o' the Missouri itself are passing down to Lake Winnipeg. He says, too, that a whole village of redskins has been swept away." "Bah! it's not true," said Lambert. "True or false," rejoined Flett, resuming his work, "it's time for me to clear out o' this." Forsaking the road, which he had hitherto attempted to follow, Lambert now stretched out at full gallop into the plains. He came to a small creek and found that the simple wooden bridge had been washed away, and that the waters of the river were driving its tiny current in the wrong direction. In a fit of impatience he applied the whip to his steed, which, being a fiery one, rushed furiously at the creek. Fire does not necessarily give an untrained horse power to leap. The animal made an awkward attempt to stop, failed, made a still more awkward attempt to jump, failed again, and stumbled headlong into the creek, out of which he and his master scrambled on the opposite side. Lambert shook himself, laughed, leaped into the saddle, and went off again at full speed. He came to the mission station, but did not stop there. It still stood high above the waters, and was crowded with settlers. Not far from it was a spot of rising ground, which was covered with more than a hundred tents and wigwams belonging to Canadian and half-breed families. Passing on, he came upon other scenes of destruction, and finally arrived at the abode of old Mr Ravenshaw. It, like the mission premises, still stood high above the rising flood. The family were assembled in the chief sitting-room, old Ravenshaw enjoying a pipe, while the ladies were variously occupied around him. "You've heard the report brought by the Indian about the flood, I fancy?" "Oh, yes; but I give no ear to reports," said the old gentleman, emitting an indignant puff of smoke; "they often end like _that_." "True; nevertheless, it's as well to be prepared," said Lambert, with a glance at Elsie and Cora, who sat together near the window; "and I've come to beg for house-room for my goods and chattels, for the old house is not so safe as I had thought." "There's plenty of room in the barn for people in distress," said Elsie, with a glance at her sister. "Or in the cow-house," added Cora, with a laugh and a slight toss of her head; "we've had the cattle removed on purpose to make room for you." "How considerate! And the cow-house of Willow Creek, with its pleasant associations, is a palace compared to the hall of any other mansion," said the gallant Louis. A crash was heard outside just then. On looking from the windows, a great cake of ice about five feet thick, with a point like a church spire, was seen attempting, as it were, to leap the lower end of the garden-fence. It failed; but on making a second attempt was more successful. The fence went slowly down, and the spire laid its head among the vegetables, or rather on the spot where the vegetables would have been had the season been propitious. It was accompanied by a rush of water. The sight was viewed with comparative composure by old Mr Ravenshaw, but his better half took it less quietly, and declared that they would all be drowned. "I hope not!" exclaimed Miss Trim fervently, clasping her hands. "We're high and dry just now, Louis," said Mr Ravenshaw gravely, "but Willow Creek won't be a place of refuge long if the rise goes on at this rate. See, my neighbour is beginning to show signs of uneasiness, though the ground on which he stands is not much lower than my own." As he spoke, the old fur-trader pointed to the house of Angus Macdonald, where a large cart was being loaded with his property. Angus himself entered at the moment to beg leave to remove some of his valuables to his friend's barn. "It iss not the danger, you see, Muster Ruvnshaw, that troubles me; it iss the watter. There are some things, as the leddies fery well know, will pe quite destroyed py watter, an' it is puttin' them out of harm's way that I will pe after." "Put whatever you like in the barn, Macdonald," said Mr Ravenshaw promptly; "Elsie and I have had it and the other outhouses prepared. You are heartily welcome. I hope, however, that the water won't rise much higher." "The watter will rise higher, Muster Ruvnshaw," returned Angus, with the decision of an oracle; "an' it will pe goot for us if it will leave our houses standin' where they are. Peegwish will be tellin' me that; an' Peegwish knows what he iss apout when he is not trunk, whatever." Peegwish did indeed know what he was about. At the very time that Angus was speaking about him, Peegwish, feeling convinced that Macdonald's house was in danger, was on his way to the mission station, which he knew to be a place of greater safety, and where he felt sure of a welcome, for the Reverend Mr Cockran--in charge at the time--had a weakness for the old hypocrite, and entertained strong hopes of bringing about his reformation. For two days he stayed in the parsonage kitchen, smoking his pipe, revelling in the odds and ends, such as knuckle-bones, stray bits of fat and tripe, which fell to his lot, and proudly exhibiting himself in one of the minister's cast-off black coats, which contrasted rather oddly with a pair of ornamented blue leggings and a scarlet sash. When not busy in the kitchen, he went about among the homeless settlers assembled round the mission, sometimes rendering a little help, oftener causing a good deal of obstruction, and vainly endeavouring to obtain beer, while he meditated sadly now and then on his failure in the brewing line. At the end of these two days, however, a great change took place at the mission station, for the flood continued steadily to increase until it reached the church and parsonage, and drove the hundreds of people who had assembled there away to the more distant knolls on the plains. Mr Cockran, with his household and Sabbath scholars, besides a few of the people, resolved to stick to the church as long as it should stick to the ground, and Peegwish remained with them. He had unbounded confidence in the good missionary, and still more unbounded confidence in the resources of the parsonage kitchen. Wildcat was similarly impressed. At last the water rose to the church itself and beat against the foundations of the parsonage, for the current was very strong and had carried away some of the fences. All the people were thus obliged to take refuge in the church itself, or in the parsonage. On the 13th of May there were very few dry spots visible on or near the banks of the Red River. Dozens of houses had been carried away, and were either destroyed or stranded on localities far from their original sites. As far as the eye could reach, the whole region had been converted into a mighty lake, or rather sea; for in the direction of the plains the waters seemed to join the horizon. Everywhere this sea was studded with islets and knolls, which grew fewer and smaller as the floods increased. Here and there piles of floating firewood looked like boats with square-sails in the distance, while deserted huts passed over the plains with the stream like fleets of Noah's arks! When the water began to touch the parsonage, its owner gave orders to collect timber and make preparation for the erection of a strong stage as a final place of refuge. "Come," said he to Peegwish, when his orders were being carried out; "come, get your canoe, Peegwish, and we will pay a visit to the poor fellows on the knoll up the river." The Indian waded to a spot close by, where his canoe was fastened to a post, and brought it to the door, after the fashion of a gondolier of Venice. The faithful Wildcat took the bow paddle; the clergyman stepped into the middle of the craft and sat down. They shot swiftly away, and were soon out of sight. The day was calm and warm, but the sky had a lurid, heavy appearance, which seemed to indicate the approach of bad weather. Paddling carefully along to avoid running against sunk fences, they soon came into the open plains, and felt as though they had passed out upon the broad bosom of Lake Winnipeg itself. Far up the river--whose course was by that time chiefly discernible by empty houses, and trees, as well as bushes, half-submerged--they came in sight of a stage which had been erected beside a cottage. It stood only eighteen inches out of the water, and here several women and children were found engaged in singing Watts' hymns. They seemed quite comfortable, under a sort of tarpaulin tent, with plenty to eat, and declined to be taken off, though their visitors offered to remove them one at a time, the canoe being unable to take more. Further up, the voyagers came to the hut of old Liz. This hut was by that time so nearly touched by the water that all the people who had formerly crowded round it had forsaken it and made for the so-called mountain. Only Liz herself remained, and Herr Winklemann, to take care of their respective parents. "Do you think it safe to stay?" asked the clergyman, as he was about to leave. "Safe, ya; qvite safe. Besides, I have big canoe, vich can holt us all." "Good-bye, then, and remember, if you want anything that I can give you, just paddle down to the station and ask for it. Say I sent you." "Ya, I vill go down," said Herr Winklemann gratefully. And Herr Winklemann _did_ go down, much to his own subsequent discomfiture and sorrow, as we shall see. Meanwhile Mr Cockran reached the knoll which he had set out to visit. It was of considerable extent, and crowded with a very miscellaneous, noisy, and quarrelsome crew, of all sorts, ages, and colours, in tents and wigwams and extemporised shelters. They received the clergyman heartily, however, and were much benefited by his visit, as was made apparent by the complete though temporary cessation of quarrelling. The elements, however, began to quarrel that evening. Mr Cockran had intended to return home, but a gale of contrary wind stopped him, and he was fain to accept the hospitality of a farmer's tent. That night the storm raged with fury. Thunder and lightning added to the grandeur as well as to the discomfort of the scene. Some time after midnight a gust of wind of extreme fury threw down the farmer's tent, and the pole hit the farmer on the nose! Thus rudely roused, he sprang up and accidentally knocked down Peegwish, who happened to be in his way. They both fell on the minister, who, being a powerful man, caught them in a bear-like grasp and held them, under the impression that they had overturned the tent in a quarrel while he was asleep. At that moment a cry of fire was raised. It was found that a spark from a tent which stood on the windward side of the camp had caught the long grass, and a terrestrial conflagration was added to the celestial commotions of the night. It was a moment of extreme peril, for the old grass was plentiful and sufficiently dry to burn. It is probable that the whole camp would have been destroyed but for a providential deluge of rain which fell at the time and effectually put the fire out. Of course Mr Cockran became very anxious about those he had left at home, for the storm had increased the danger of their position considerably. Happily, with the dawn the gale moderated. The improvement did not, indeed, render canoeing safe, for the white-crested waves of that temporary sea still lashed the shores of the new-made islet; but the case was urgent, therefore the clergyman launched his canoe, and, with Peegwish and the faithful Wildcat, steered for the station. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. WINKLEMANN AND OLD LIZ GET INTO TROUBLE. At the parsonage, before the storm had fairly begun, the canoe party was thought of with considerable anxiety, for Mrs Cockran knew how frail the craft was in which her husband had embarked, and among the sixty-three persons who had taken refuge with her not one was capable of taking command of the rest in a case of emergency. Great, therefore, was her satisfaction when Herr Winklemann appeared in his canoe with a request for a barrel of flour. "You shall have one," said Mrs Cockran, "and anything else you may require; but pray do not leave me to-night. I can give you a comfortable bed, and will let you go the moment my husband returns. I fully expect him this evening." "Madam," answered the gallant Winklemann, with a perplexed look, "you is vere goot, bot de gale vill be rise qvickly, an' I dares not leaf mine moder vidout protection." "Oh! but just stay for an hour or two," entreated Mrs Cockran, "and show the people how to go on with the stage. Perhaps my husband may return sooner than we expect. Perhaps the storm may not come on; many such threatenings, you know, come to nothing." Winklemann looked anxiously up at the sky and shook his head, but the entreaties of the lady prevailed. The good-natured German consented to remain for a "ver leetle" time, and at once set about urging on and directing the erection of the stage. This stage was planned to be a substantial platform about thirty feet square, supported on posts firmly driven into the ground, so that the water might pass freely under it. In the event of the parsonage becoming untenable it would form a refuge of comparative safety. It was while Winklemann was busily engaged on the stage that the storm broke forth which compelled the clergyman to spend the night on the islet, as already described. Of course the storm also forced Winklemann to remain at the station. But that impulsive youth's regard for his "moder" would not permit of his giving in without a struggle. When he saw that the gale increased rapidly, he resolved to start off without delay. He launched his canoe; a half-breed in his employment managed the bow paddle, but they found that their united strength was insufficient to drive the craft more than a hundred yards against wind and waves. Returning to the station, Winklemann engaged two additional men to aid him, but the increasing gale neutralised the extra force. After a vain struggle the canoe was hurled back on the knoll, a wave caught the bow, overturned it, and threw the men into the water at the very door of the parsonage. The canoe was partially broken. Time was required to repair it. Time also gave the gale opportunity to gather power, and thus the chafing German was compelled to spend the night at the station. Meanwhile, those men whom he had left behind him spent a terrible night, but the brunt of the trouble fell upon old Liz. Poor old Liz! She was a squat piece of indomitable energy, utterly regardless of herself and earnestly solicitous about every one else. When the storm commenced, her dwelling had begun to show symptoms of instability. This fact she carefully concealed from Daddy and old Mrs Winklemann, who remained in their respective chairs smiling at each other, for both were accustomed to good treatment from their children, and regarded life in general from a sunny point of view. They knew that something very unusual was going on, but the old frau said--or thought-- to herself, "My boy will look after me!" while Daddy said, or thought, "Liz knows all about it." Happy trustful spirits! Enviable pair! Having informed the pair that she was going away for a minute or two to look after something outside, old Liz left them. She found herself up to the knees in water, of course, the moment she passed the doorway. From an outhouse she procured a strong rope. This she fastened to a large iron ring in the side of the hut, and attached the other end to a thick tree whose branches overshadowed it. Even during the brief time she was thus engaged the flood increased so rapidly, and the rising wind blew so wildly, that the poor creature was almost carried off her short legs. But old Liz had a powerful will, and was strong-hearted. Having accomplished her object, and lost for ever her frilled cap in so doing, she struggled back towards the door of the hut. A passing billet of firewood tripped her up and sent her headlong into the flood. She disappeared, but emerged instantly, with glaring eyes, gasping mouth, and streaming hair. A resolute rush brought her to the door-step; she seized the door-post, and was saved. "Hech! but it's an awfu' time," gasped old Liz, as she wrung the water from her garments.--"Comin', Daddy! I'll be their this meenit. I've gotten mysel' a wee wat." "What's wrang?" asked Daddy, in a feeble voice, as his ancient daughter entered. "It's only a bit spate, Daddy. The hoose is a'maist soomin', but ye've nae need to fear." "I'm no' feared, Liz. What wad I be feared o' whan ye're there?" "Ver is mine boy?" demanded old Mrs Winklemann, looking round. "He's gane to the kirk for floor. Ne'er fash yer heed aboot _him_. He'll be back afore lang." The old woman seemed content, though she did not understand a word of Liz's Scotch. "Bless mine boy," she said, with a mild smile at Daddy, who replied with an amiable nod. But this state of comparative comfort did not last long. In half an hour the water came over the threshold of the door and flooded the floor. Fortunately the old couple had their feet on wooden stools and thus escaped the first rush, but old Liz now felt that something must be done to keep them dry. There was a low table in the room. She dragged it out and placed it between the couple, who smiled, under the impression, no doubt, that they were about to have their evening meal. "Daddy, I'm gaun to pit yer legs on the table. It'll be mair comfortabler, an'll keep ye oot o' the wat." Daddy submitted with a good grace, and felt more easy than usual, the table being very little higher than his chair. Mrs Winklemann was equally submissive and pleased. Covering the two pairs of legs with a blanket, old Liz produced some bread and cheese, and served out rations thereof to keep their minds engaged. She plumed herself not a little on the success of the table-and-legs device, but as the water rose rapidly she became anxious again, though not for herself. She waded about the hut with supreme indifference to the condition of her own lower limbs. At last she mounted upon the bed and watched, as the water rose inch by inch on the legs of the two chairs. "What _wull_ I do whan it grups them?" she muttered, experiencing that deep feeling of anticipation with which one might watch the gradual approach of fire to gunpowder. The objects of her solicitude snored pleasantly in concert. "It'll kill them wi' the cauld, to say naething o' the start," continued the old woman with deepening, almost desperate, anxiety. "Oh man, man, what for did ye leave us?" This apostrophe was addressed to the absent Winklemann. One inch more, five minutes longer, and the flood would reach the bodies of the old couple. Liz looked round wildly for some mode of delivering them, but looked in vain. Even if her strength had been adequate, there was no higher object in the room to which she could have lifted them. The bed, being a truckle one, and lower than the chairs, was already submerged, and old Liz herself was coolly, if not calmly, seated in two inches of water. At the very last moment deliverance came in an unexpected manner. There was a slight vibration in the timbers of the hut, then a sliding of the whole edifice. This was followed by a snap and a jolt: the ring-bolt or the rope had gone, and old Liz might, with perfect propriety, have exclaimed, in the words of the sea song, "I'm afloat! I'm afloat! and the Rover is free!" For one moment her heart failed; she had read of Noah's ark, but had never quite believed in the stability of that mansion. Her want of faith was now rebuked, for the old hut floated admirably, as seamen might say, on an even keel. True, it committed a violent assault on a tree at starting, which sent it spinning round, and went crashing through a mass of drowned bushes, which rendered it again steady; but these mishaps only served to prove the seaworthiness of her ark, and in a few minutes the brave little woman revived. Splashing off the bed and spluttering across the room, she tried to open the door with a view to see what had happened and whither they were bound, for the two windows of the mansion were useless in this respect, being fitted with parchment instead of glass. But the door was fast, and refused to open. "We'll a' be lost!" exclaimed Daddy, in alarm, for he had been awakened by the shock against the tree, and was now slightly alive to their danger. "Ver is mine boy?" asked the old frau, in a whimpering voice. "Nae fear o' 'ee," said Liz, in a soothing tone. "Him that saved Noah can save us." "Open the door an' see where we are, lassie," said the old man. "It'll no' open, Daddy." "Try the wundy, then." "I'm sweer'd to break the wundy," said Liz. "Losh, man, I'll try the lum!" The chimney, to which old Liz referred, was capacious enough to admit a larger frame than hers. Moreover, it was a short one, and the fire had long ago been drowned out. With the enthusiasm of an explorer, the little woman stooped and entered the fireplace. She felt about inside for a few moments, and in doing so brought down an enormous quantity of soot. Immediately there was a tremendous coughing in the chimney. "Lassie! lassie! come oot! Ve'll be chokit," cried Daddy, in alarm. "Hoots, man, hand yer gab," was the polite reply. Liz was not to be easily turned from her purpose. Raising one leg up she found a crevice for her right foot, and the aged couple beheld the old creature, for the first time, in the attitude of a _danseuse_, standing on one toe. Next moment the remaining leg went up, and she disappeared from view. If there had been any one outside, the old woman would have been seen, two minutes later, to emerge from the chimney-top with the conventional aspect of a demon--as black as a Zulu chief, choking like a chimpanzee with influenza, and her hair blowing freely in the wind. Only those who have intelligently studied the appearance of chimney-sweeps can form a proper idea of her appearance, especially when she recovered breath and smiled, as she thought of her peculiar position. But that position was one which would have damped the courage of any one except old Liz. The storm was beginning to grow furious; the sun, which had already set, was tingeing the black and threatening clouds with dingy red. Far as the eye could reach, the once green prairie presented an angry sea, whose inky waves were crested and flecked with foam, and the current was drifting the hut away into the abyss of blackness that seemed to gape on the horizon. "What see ye, Liz?" cried Daddy, bending a little, so as to send his voice up the chimney. "I see naethin' but watter; watter everywhere," said Liz, unconsciously quoting the Ancient Mariner, and bending so as to send her reply down. She did more; she lost her balance, and sent herself down to the bottom of the chimney, where she arrived in a sitting posture with a flop, perhaps we should say a squash, seeing that she alighted in water, which squirted violently all over her sooty person. This sudden reappearance astonished the aged couple almost more than it surprised Liz herself, for she could not see herself as they saw her. "Hech! but that _was_ a klyte; but ne'er heed, Daddy. I'm nane the waur. Eh, but I'll ha'e to clean mysel'," said old Liz, rising slowly and going straight to a corner cupboard, whence she took a slab of soap, and began to apply it vigorously, using the entire room, so to speak, as a wash-tub. The result was unsatisfactory; beginning the process as a pure black, she only ended it as an impure mulatto, but she was content, and immediately after set herself to fasten the aged pair more securely in their chairs, and to arrange their limbs more comfortably on the table; after that she lighted a candle and sat down on the sloppy bed to watch. Thus that household spent the night, rocked, as it were, on the cradle of the deep. At daylight Herr Winklemann rose from his sleepless couch at the parsonage, and finding that the wind had moderated, launched his canoe. He left the mission station just an hour before Mr Cockran returned to it. Anxious was the heart of the poor youth as he wielded the paddle that morning, and many were the muttered remarks which he made to himself, in German, as he urged the canoe against wind and current. As he neared home his fears increased. On reaching a certain part from which he had been wont to descry the chimney of old Liz's hut, he perceived that the familiar object was gone, and uttered a mighty roar of horror. The half-breed in the bow ceased paddling, and looked back in alarm. "Git on, you brute!" shouted Winklemann, at the same time exerting his great strength as though he meant to urge the light craft out of the water into the air. A few minutes more and they swept round into the space where the hut had once stood. There was nothing left but the bit of rope that had been made fast to the ring-bolt. Poor Winklemann let his paddle drop and sank almost double with his face in his hands. "Mine moder," was all he could say, as he groaned heavily. In a few seconds he recovered with a start and bade the man in the bow paddle for his life. Winklemann, of course, knew that the house must have floated downwards with the current, if it had not been utterly overwhelmed. He directed his search accordingly, but the breadth of land now covered by the flood caused the currents to vary in an uncertain manner, as every ridge, or knoll, or hollow in the plains modified them. Still, there could be only one general direction. After a few minutes of anxious reflection the bereaved man resolved to keep by the main current of the river. He was unfortunate in this, for the hut, in commencing its adventurous career, had gone off in the direction of the plains. All day he and his companion paddled about in search of the lost family, but in vain. At night they were forced to return to the parsonage for a little food and rest, so as to fit them for a renewal of the search on the following morning. At the mission station they found Mr Cockran, with his wife and forty of his people, established on the stage. Early in the day the water had burst into the parsonage, and soon stood a foot deep on the floor, so that the pastor deemed it high time to forsake it and take to the last refuge. It was a crowded stage, and great was the anxiety of many of the mothers upon it lest their little ones should be thrust over the edge into the water. No such anxiety troubled the little ones themselves. With that freedom from care which is their high privilege, they even gambolled on the brink of destruction. Next day was the Sabbath. To go to church was impossible. There were three and a half feet of water in that building. The day was fine, however, and sunny. The pastor, therefore, had service on the stage, and being an earnest, intelligent man, he made good use of the floods and the peculiarity of their circumstances to illustrate and enforce his discourse. Long before the hour of worship had arrived, however, poor Winklemann went off in his canoe, and spent the whole of that day, as he spent several succeeding days, in anxious, diligent, hopeful, but finally despairing search for his lost old "moder." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THE WAVES STILL RISE, AND MISS TRIM COMES TO GRIEF. On the night of the 15th the gale broke out again with redoubled fury, and the stage at the mission station was shaken so much by the violence of the waves and wind that fears were entertained of its stability, despite its great strength. The water rose six inches during that night, and when the vast extent of the floods is taken into account, this rise was prodigious. The current was also so strong that it was feared the church itself, with the property and people in its loft, would be swept away. Towards daylight a boat was seen approaching. It turned out to be that of Mr Ravenshaw, containing himself and Lambert, with a crew from Willow Creek. The house of the old gentleman had, he said, much water in the lower rooms, so that he had been driven to its upper floor; but he felt sure of its strength, having himself helped to lay its foundations. Knowing the danger of those who dwelt in the parsonage, he had come to offer an asylum to as many as his house would hold. But Mr Cockran declined to quit his post. The gale was by that time abating, the cheering daylight increasing; and as he had a large boat of his own moored to a neighbouring post, he preferred to remain where he was. Mr Ravenshaw therefore ordered Louis to hoist the sail, and bidding adieu to the clerical party, returned to Willow Creek. Of all the household there, Miss Trim had viewed the approach of the water with the greatest anxiety and Mrs Ravenshaw with the greatest philosophy. Miss Trim, being an early riser, was the first to observe the enemy on the morning of its entrance. She came down-stairs and found the water entering the house quietly by the sides, oozing from under the boards and secretly creeping along till it covered the floors. She rushed up-stairs to alarm Mr Ravenshaw, and met that active old gentleman coming down. He set to work at once to rescue his goods on the lower floor, while Miss Trim, in great excitement, went and roused the girls, who leaped up at once. Then she went to Mrs Ravenshaw's room. "Oh, Mrs Ravenshaw, get up quick; the flood is coming in at last--over the floors--through the chinks--up the seams--everywhere--do--do get up! We shall all be--" She stopped. A long-drawn sigh and a gentle "hush!" was all the reply vouchsafed by Mrs Ravenshaw. A quarter of an hour later Miss Trim came nervously back. "It's _rushing_ in now like anything! Oh, _do_ get up! We may have to fly! The boards of the floor have been forced up, and they've had to take the door off its hinges--" She stopped again. Mrs Ravenshaw, with placid face and closed eyes, had replied with another gentle "hush-sh!" Descending once more, Miss Trim was met by a sudden stream, which had burst in the back door. Rushing again into the old lady's bedroom, she cried vehemently, "Woman! _won't_ you get up?" "Why should I?" asked the other in a sleepy tone. "Isn't Samuel looking after it?" "Of course he is, but--" "Well, well," interrupted the old lady, a little testily, "if _he's_ there it's all right. _He_ knows what to do, I don't. Neither do you, Miss Trim; so pray go away and let me sleep." Poor Miss Trim retired discomfited. Afterwards when the family were driven to the upper storey of the dwelling she learned to regard things with something of Mrs Ravenshaw's philosophy. One morning at daylight there was a calm so profound that the sleepers at Willow Creek were not awakened until the sun rose in a cloudless sky and glittered over the new-born sea with ineffable splendour. It was a strange and sad though beautiful sight. Where these waters lay like a sheet of glass, spreading out to the scarce visible horizon, the grass-waves of the prairie had rolled in days gone by. There were still some knolls visible, some tops of trees and bushes, like islets on the sea, and one or two square masses of drift-wood floating slowly along with the now imperceptible current, like boats under full sail. Here and there could be seen several wooden houses and barns, some of which had come down from the upper parts of the settlement, like the hut of old Liz, and were stranded awkwardly on shoals, while others were still drifting over the watery waste. All this was clearly visible from the windows of the upper room, in which slept the sisters Elsie and Cora, and presented itself to the former when she awoke like a vision of fairyland. Unable to believe her eyes, she rubbed them with her pretty little knuckles, and gazed again. "How beautiful!" she exclaimed. The exclamation awoke Cora, who sat up and yawned. Then she looked at her sister, and being only half-awake, smiled in an imbecile manner. "Isn't it?" asked Elsie. "Splendid!" replied Cora, turning to the windows. "Oh, I'm _so_ sleepy!" She sank on the pillow again and shut her eyes. "Come, Cora, let us finish the discussion we began last night about Louis Lambert," said Elsie, with an arch smile. "No, I won't! Let me sleep. I hate Louis Lambert!" said Cora, with a shake of her uppermost shoulder. Elsie laughed and rose; she was already dressed. Mr Ravenshaw had on the previous night ordered both his daughters to lie down in their clothes, as no one could tell what might happen to the house at any moment. The flood had not yet begun to abate; Elsie could tell that, as she sat arranging her hair, from the sound of water gurgling through the lower rooms. We have said that the Ravenshaws had been driven by the floods to the upper floor of their residence. This floor consisted of three bedrooms and a lumber-room. One of the bedrooms was very small and belonged to the sisters, to whose sole use it was apportioned. For convenience, the other two rooms were set apart on this occasion as the male and the female rooms of the establishment, one being used by as many of the women as could get comfortably into it, the other by the men. The overflow of the household, including those neighbours who had sought refuge with the family, were accommodated in the adjoining barn, between which and the main building communication was kept up by means of a canoe, with Peegwish and Wildcat as the ferrymen. The lumber-room having had most of its lumber removed, was converted into a general hall, or _salon_, where the imprisoned family had their meals, received their friends, and discussed their trials. It was a rather dusty place, with sloping roof, no ceiling, and cross-beams, that caused cross tempers in those who ran against them. In one corner a door, removed from its hinges, did duty as a dresser. In another Mr Ravenshaw had erected a small stove, on which, being rather proud of his knowledge of cookery, he busied himself in spoiling a good deal of excellent food. A couple of planks, laid on two trunks, served for a table. Such cooking utensils and such portions of light furniture as were required had been brought up from the rooms below, that which was left having been weighted with large stones to prevent its being carried away, for the lower doors and windows had been removed to prevent their being driven in or out, as the case might be. So complete was the destruction everywhere, that Samuel Ravenshaw had passed into a gleeful state of recklessness, and appeared to enjoy the fun of thus roughing it rather than otherwise, to the amusement of his amiable wife, who beheld his wasteful and daring culinary efforts without a murmur, and to the horror of Miss Trim, who was called upon to assist in and share the triumphs as well as the dangers of these efforts. "Fetch the pepper now, Miss Trim. That's it, thank 'ee.--Hallo! I say, the top has come off that rascally thing, and half the contents have gone into the pan!" He was engaged in frying a mess of pemmican and flour, of which provender he had secured enough to stand a siege of at least six months' duration. "Never mind," he continued; "in with more flour and more pemmican. That's your sort. It'll make it taste more like curry, which is hot enough, in all conscience." "But pepper is not like curry," said Miss Trim, who had a brother in India, and was consequently a secondhand authority on Indian affairs. "Curry is hot, no doubt, and what one may call a seasoning; but it has not the flavour of pepper at all, and is not the colour of it, and--" "Yes, yes, _I_ know all about that, Miss Trim. Why, there's a box of it, isn't there, in the little cupboard on the stair? I quite forgot it. Fetch it, please, and we'll have real pemmican curry; and rouse up my lazy girls as you pass. Don't disturb Mrs R, though. The proverb says, `Let sleeping'--no, I don't mean _that_ exactly. By the way, don't slip on the stair. The water's about up to that cupboard. Mind, there are six feet water or more in the passage now, and if--" He stopped, for Miss Trim had already left the room, just as Lambert entered it. The cupboard to which Miss Trim had been sent was an angular one, let into the wall to utilise a crooked corner. The step of the stair immediately below it was the last dry one of the flight. From that step to the bottom was held by the flood, which gurgled oilily through the deserted basement. Descending to that step with caution, and gazing anxiously at her own image reflected below, she opened the cupboard door. Now, it chanced that Angus Macdonald's Cochin-China hen, having been driven from its own home by the flood, had strayed into Mr Ravenshaw's house and established itself, uninvited, in the cupboard. It received Miss Trim with a croak of indignation and a flutter. Starting back with a slight, "Oh!" the poor lady fell; and who shall adequately describe, or even imagine, the effects of that fall? Many a time had Miss Trim descended that stair and passage on her feet, but never until then had she done so on her back, like a mermaid or a seal! Coming to the surface immediately, she filled the house with a yell that almost choked the hearers, caused old Ravenshaw to heave the pemmican curry into the lap of Lambert, and induced Lambert himself to leap down-stairs to the rescue like a harlequin. The bold youth had to swim for it! A gurgle at the far end of the passage told where Miss Trim was going down, like wedding announcements, for the third and last time. Lambert went in like an otter, caught the lady in his arms, and bore her to the staircase, and thence to the upper floor in a few minutes. She was at once taken to the sisters' bedroom, and there restored to life and lamentation. "My dear," said Mr Ravenshaw to his wife when she appeared, "you'd better look after our breakfast--I've made a mess of it, and I'll go over to Angus Macdonald and invite him and his household to come and stay with us. Their house must be almost afloat by this time." The old gentleman hailed Peegwish, who was outside in the canoe at the moment. That would-be brewer at once made for the house, paddled his canoe through the doorway and up the passage to the staircase, where Wildcat, who managed the bow paddle, held on by the bannister while Mr Ravenshaw embarked. Reissuing from the doorway, they made for their neighbour's residence. Macdonald's house had indeed become almost uninhabitable. It stood so deep in the water that only the upper windows were visible. The chimneys and roofs of some of the outhouses formed, with the main building and a few tree-tops, a small Archipelago. "You are fery kind, Mr Ruvnshaw," said Angus from an upper window, beneath which the canoe floated. "It iss not improbaple that my house will pe goin' down the river like a post, but that iss nothing--not anything at all--when there will pe such a destruction goin' on all over the settlement whatever. It iss fery coot of you, oo ay. I will put my fuddle into the canoe, an' my sister she will pe ready at wance.--Wass you ready, Martha?" A voice from the interior intimated that Miss Martha would be, "ready in two minutes." "Pe quick, then," said Macdonald, looking inwards while he lowered his violin, to which he was passionately attached, into the canoe, "you hef not much time to waste, Martha, for it wass time we will pe goin'." In a few minutes Angus Macdonald's house was abandoned to its fate, and himself and sister, with a couple of domestics, were added to the number of refugees who crowded to the abode of hospitable Sam Ravenshaw. "Hef you forgotten the cawtie?" asked Angus of his sister, while assisting her to land on the steps from which Miss Trim had taken her dive. "No, Angus, I've got it in my basket, but I fear the poor old hen has been lost. It's all over the house I sought for it before comin' away, but--" A triumphant cackle from the cupboard overhead interrupted Miss Martha. "Ha! ha!" shouted Mr Ravenshaw; "thats where the sound came from this morning! And I do believe it must have been that brute which caused Miss Trim to fall into the water." With a twinkle in his eye, the old gentleman related the incident of the morning, while Angus, with a grim expression, kept his eye on Beauty, who gazed inquiringly out at the half-open door of her retreat. "It iss a pad craitur you've peen--fery pad--ever since I got you, but it iss no more mischief you will pe dooin' after this--whatever." Angus seized the unfortunate hen by the neck as he spoke, and flung it along the passage, where it fell into the water, and went cackling and choking through the doorway. Beauty's powers were varied as well as surprising. Although thus, for the first time in her life, compelled to take to the water, she swam as well as any duck, and went straight off as if by instinct, to the forsaken house. From the window of the lumber-room Angus saw her reach it, scramble, somehow, on to its roof, and there utter a crow of defiance that would have done credit to her defunct husband. There was one other object besides his own house and surroundings which Angus saw from that window. It was the smoking-box on the willow-clad knoll, which formed a separate island in the flood. The sight stirred up unpleasant recollections. He turned from the window, and gave his attention to the substantial breakfast to which his host invited him. The greater part of that day was spent in rearranging the habitable parts of Willow Creek, and placing the more delicate valuables further out of danger. At night candles were lighted, fresh wood was heaped up in the stove, and the lumber-room became comparatively comfortable. "Will you play us a tune, Angus?" said Louis Lambert, drawing a stool between Elsie and Cora and sitting down. "The ladies, you know, never tire of your music." "I hef not anything new," replied Angus, with becoming modesty; "but if the leddies wass willin' to listen to some o' the old tunes, my fuddle an' I will try what we can do." "We love the old tunes best," said Cora. As every one else echoed the sentiment, Angus, nothing loath, began to discourse sweet sounds, which, to say truth, were indeed very sweet, and mingled not inharmoniously with the sound of waters which gurgled gently underneath. Angus could play Scotch reels in a manner that made dancing almost unavoidable, but he preferred slow, plaintive music, and on this occasion indulged his taste to the full, so as to fling a mantle of quiescence and pathos over the family circle. Samuel Ravenshaw had retired to a darkish corner to enjoy his pipe, but the music awoke sad memories. The lost Tony came vividly before him, and beside his darling boy arose the dark form of the Red Man, whose mode of taking his revenge had been to him so terrible, all the more terrible that the nature of the old man was secretive in regard to sorrow. His joys he was ever ready to share with every one, but his griefs he smothered in his own breast, and scorned to let his countenance betray his heart. No one knew how much he suffered. Perhaps Elsie understood him best. At all events she had become more earnest and thoughtful in her attentions after that dark day when her little brother was spirited away. Leaving Lambert to Cora, she went over to her father, sat down beside him, and, laying her head upon his shoulder, listened with a sort of melancholy pleasure to the sweet strains of the violin. They were suddenly and rudely awakened from this state of quiescence by a blinding flash of lightning, followed almost instantaneously by a tremendous clap of thunder which sounded like colliding worlds overhead, and then rolled away in deep mutterings of discontent. This was repeated at short intervals, then the rain and hail came down in torrents, and the wind rose so that soon the waves began to beat violently on the house. The day which had begun so calmly ended in furious storm--emblematic of many a day in every human life. Seated there with feelings of awe and anxiety, the Ravenshaw household passed the night in silence. And still the waters of the Red River continued to rise--slowly, it is true, and inch by inch instead of foot by foot--until these settlers in the great wilderness began to think, with something akin to superstitious fear, of that mighty deluge which had been sent to submerge the world in the days of old. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. OLD RAVENSHAW GOES EXPLORING AND RESCUING. Another fine calm day came to comfort the victims of the flood in the midst of that tempestuous time, with its April character of mingled storm and sunshine. The rise in the water on the previous night had been almost imperceptible. Feeling, therefore, somewhat easier in his mind, old Mr Ravenshaw determined to embark in his boat for the purpose of paying a visit to those unfortunates who, after being driven from their homes, had taken refuge on the imperceptible eminence which had been styled "The Mountain." Taking with him Lambert and a stout crew, he embarked from his upper bedroom window, bade his wife and daughters an affectionate adieu, hoisted his sail, and pushed off. The hoisting of the sail was a mere matter of form. "It's of no use at present, but will be ready to catch the first puff that may favour us," observed the old gentleman, as he sat down and took the tiller. "Give way, lads." The oars were dipped, and the Willow Creek mansion was soon but a speck on the horizon of the watery waste. And now the old fur-trader learned the full extent of the desolation with which it had pleased God to visit the settlement at that time. While taken up with the cares and anxieties connected with Willow Creek, he was of course aware that terrible destruction, if not death, must have been going on around him; but now, when he rowed over the plains, saw the state of things with his own eyes, and heard the accounts of many settlers, some of whom he rescued from positions of danger, the full extent of the damage done by the great flood of 1826 was borne powerfully in upon his mind. The varied stories which some had to tell of their escapes, others of their losses, and all, of their sufferings, were sad as well as interesting. Some of the people had taken shelter in garrets or on stages, where they had to wait anxiously till some boat or canoe should turn up to rescue them. Some had been surprised by the sudden rise of the flood at night while asleep, and had wakened to find themselves and their beds afloat. Two men who had gone to sleep on a rick of hay found themselves next morning drifting with the current some three miles below the spot where they had lain down. Others, like old Liz, had been carried off bodily in their huts. Not a few had been obliged to betake themselves to the housetops until help came. Some there were who took to swimming, and saved themselves by clinging to the branches of trees; yet, strange to say, during the whole course of that flood only one man lost his life. (See Note 1.) It was very different, however, with regard to the lower animals. When at its height the water spread out on each side of the river to a distance of six miles, and about fourteen miles of its length, so that not only were many horses, cattle, pigs, and poultry drowned in the general stampede, but the pretty little ground squirrels were driven out of their holes, and along with rats, mice, snakes, and insects, perished in thousands. Even the frogs discovered that too much of a good thing is bad, for they found no rest for the soles of their feet, except floating logs, planks, and stray pieces of furniture, on which many of them were seen by our voyagers gazing contemplatively at the situation. Everywhere houses and barns were seen floating about, their owners gone, but with dogs and cats in the doorways and windows, and poultry on the roofs; and the barking, mewing, and cackling of these, with the squealing of sundry pigs, tended to increase the general desolation. Such of the contents of these houses as had been left behind in the flight were washed out of them, and the waters were sprinkled here and there with bedsteads, chairs, tables, feather-beds, and other property, besides the carcasses of dead animals. At certain points of the river, where there were shallows towards which the currents set, carts, carioles, boxes, carriages, gigs, fencing, and property of every description were stranded in large quantities and in dire confusion, but much of the wreck was swept onward and engulfed in Lake Winnipeg. The unfortunate settlers found refuge ultimately, after being driven from knoll to knoll, on the higher ground of the Assinaboine, on the Little Mountain, and on a low hill twelve miles from the settlement. On his way to the Little Mountain Mr Ravenshaw touched at the mission station. Here the various groups in the garret of the parsonage, the gallery of the church, and on the stage, were greatly reduced in numbers, many of the refugees having availed themselves of the visits of several settlers and gone off to the mountain in their boats or canoes, with what of their property they had managed to save. Among those who remained there was a marked spirit of cheerful submission. "You see," said the pastor, in reply to an observation of Mr Ravenshaw on this point, "I have endeavoured to impress upon my poor people that mere quiet submission to the inevitable is not a Christian characteristic, that men of all creeds and nations may and do thus submit, and that it is the special privilege of the follower of Jesus to submit _cheerfully_ to whatever befalls--pleasant or otherwise--because he has the promise that _all_ things shall work together for his good." "Humph!" said the trader with a shrug of his shoulders; "it seems to me that some of us don't avail ourselves much of our privilege." The pastor could scarcely repress a laugh at the grumpy tone in which his visitor spoke. "You are right, Mr Ravenshaw, none of us come nearly up to the mark in our Christian course. The effort to do so constitutes much of the battle that we have to fight, but our comfort is, that we shall be more than conquerors in the long-run. There sits a widow now," he continued, pointing to an Indian woman seated on the stage who was busy making a pair of moccasins for a little child that played by her side, "who is fighting her battle bravely at present. Not a murmur has yet escaped her lips, although she has lost all her possessions--except her boy." "Ah! except her boy!" The old trader did not speak. He only thought of Tony and quickly changed the drift of the conversation. Soon after leaving the mission station a breeze sprang up; the sail filled; the oars were pulled in, and they went more swiftly on. Ere long they sighted the stage on which the women had been previously discovered singing hymns. They did not sing now. Their provisions were failing, their hopes of an abatement in the flood were dying out, and they no longer refused to accept deliverance from their somewhat perilous position. "Have you seen anything of Herr Winklemann lately?" asked Lambert of one of the women. "Nothing; but John Flett and David Mowat passed our stage yesterday in a canoe, and they told us that the hut of old Liz Rollin has been carried away with her and her father and Winklemann's mother, and they say that her son has been seen in a small canoe rangin' about by himself like a madman searchin' for her." "The moment we reach the Mountain I'll get hold of a canoe and go in search of him," said Lambert. "Right, boy! right!" said Ravenshaw; "I fear that something may have happened to the poor lad. These small canoes are all very well when you can run ashore and mend 'em if they should get damaged, but out here, among sunk posts and fences, and no land to run to, it is dangerous navigation.--Hist! Did ye hear a cry, lads?" The men ceased to talk, and listened intently, while they gazed round the watery waste in all directions. Besides a stranded house here and there, and a few submerged trees, nothing was to be seen on the water save the carcasses of a few cattle, above which a couple of ravens were wheeling slowly. The cry was not repeated. "Imagination," muttered old Ravenshaw to himself, after Lambert had given a lusty shout, which, however, elicited no reply. "It must have been; I hear nothing," said Lambert, looking round uneasily. "Come, out oars again, lads," said the old gentleman, as the sail flapped in the failing breeze. "Night will catch us before we reach--. Hallo! back your oars--hard! Catch hold of 'im." A living creature of some sort came out from behind a floating log at that moment, and was almost run down. The man at the bow oar leaned over and caught it. The yell which followed left no shadow of doubt as to the nature of the creature. It was a pig. During the next two minutes, while it was being hauled into the boat, it made the air ring with shrieks of concentrated fury. Before dismissing this pig, we may state that it was afterwards identified by its owner, who said it had been swept way from his house two days before, and must therefore have been swimming without relief for eight-and-forty hours. "That accounts for the cry you heard," said Louis Lambert, when the screams subsided. "No, Louis; a pig's voice is too familiar to deceive me. If it was not imagination, it was the voice of a man." The old trader was right. One of the objects which, in the distance, resembled so closely the floating carcass of an ox was in reality an overturned canoe, and to the stern of that canoe Herr Winklemann was clinging. He had been long in the water, and was almost too much exhausted to see or cry. When the boat passed he thought he heard voices. Hope revived for a moment, and he uttered a feeble shout, but he failed to hear the reply. The canoe happened to float between him and the boat, so that he could not see it as it passed slowly on its course. Poor Winklemann! In searching wildly about the wide expanse of water for his lost mother, he had run his canoe violently against the top rail of a fence. The delicate birch bark was ripped off. In another minute it sank and turned bottom up. It was a canoe of the smallest size, Winklemann having preferred to continue his search alone rather than with an unwilling companion. The German was a good swimmer; a mere upset might not have been serious. He could have righted the canoe, and perhaps clambered into it over the stern, and baled it out. But with a large hole in its bottom there was no hope of deliverance except in a passing boat or canoe. Clinging to the frail craft, the poor youth gazed long and anxiously round the horizon, endeavouring the while to push the wreck towards the nearest tree-top, which, however, was a long way off. By degrees the cold told on his huge frame, and his great strength began to fail. Once, a canoe appeared in the distance. He shouted with all his might, but it was too far off. As it passed on out of sight he raised his eyes as if in prayer, but no sound escaped his compressed lips. It was noon when the accident occurred. Towards evening he felt as though his consciousness were going to forsake him, but the love of life was strong; he tightened his grasp on the canoe. It was just then that he heard the voices of Ravenshaw's party and shouted, but the cry, as we have said, was very feeble, and the poor fellow's sense of hearing was dulled with cold and exhaustion, else he would have heard Lambert's reply. "Oh! mine moder! mine moder!" he sighed, as his head drooped helplessly forward, though his fingers tightened on the canoe with the convulsive grasp of a drowning man. Night descended on the water. The moon threw a fitful gleam now and then through a rift in the sailing clouds. All was still and dark and desolate above and around the perishing man. Nothing with life was visible save a huge raven which wheeled to and fro with a solemn croak and almost noiseless wing. But the case of Winklemann was not yet hopeless. His chum, Louis Lambert, could not shake himself free from a suspicion that the cry, which had been put down to imagination, might after all have been that of some perishing human being--perhaps that of his friend. Arrived at the Little Mountain, Louis lost no time in obtaining a canoe, also an Indian to take the bow paddle. The mountain, which was a mere undulation of the prairie, presented a strange scene at that time. Many settlers--half-breeds, Canadians, and Indians--were encamped there; some under tents of various sizes, others under upturned boats and canoes; not a few under the wider canopy of the heavens. Intermingled with the men, women, and children, were horses, cattle, sheep, pigs, poultry, dogs, cats, and pets of the feathered tribe, besides goods, household furniture, carts, etcetera, so that no words can adequately describe the scene. It was confusion worse confounded! Many were the hospitable proposals made here to Louis Lambert that he should remain all night, for he was a general favourite, but to all these he turned a deaf ear, and set out on a searching expedition, in the canoe, just after the sun had gone down. At first he made as straight as he could for the place where Mr Ravenshaw had fancied he heard the cry, but on consideration came to the conclusion that, as the current must have carried all floating objects considerably farther down the settlement by that time, he ought to change his course. Soon it grew too dark to see objects distinctly, but an occasional gleam of moonshine came to his aid. He passed several floating barns and cow-houses, but found them empty. He also nearly ran against several dead animals, but the silent Indian in the bow was wary and vigilant. Hope was at last beginning to die within Louis's breast, when he observed a raven circling round some floating object. "Ho! there's something yonder. Strike out, old copper-nose," he exclaimed, as he directed the canoe towards it. The light craft cut the water like a knife, and was quickly alongside. "Why, it _is_ a canoe, bottom up. Have a care. Ha! hold on!" Lambert nearly overturned his own canoe as he made a sudden grasp at something, and caught a man by the hair. "Hallo! I say, let go your canoe and hold on to _me_," cried Lambert, in excitement, but the man spoken to made no reply, and would not let go the wrecked canoe. Lambert therefore hauled him powerfully and slowly alongside until his visage was level with the gunwale. Just then a gleam of moonlight broke forth and revealed the face of Herr Winklemann! The difficulties that now beset the rescuers were great, for the poor German, besides being stupefied, had grasped his canoe with tremendous power, and could not be detached. To get an active and living man out of the water into a birch canoe is no easy matter; to embark a half-dead one is almost impossible; nevertheless Lambert and his red-skinned comrade managed to do it between them. Raising his unconscious friend as far out of the water as possible, Louis caught one of his hands and wrenched it from its hold. Meanwhile the Indian leaned out of the opposite side of the canoe so as to balance it. Another violent wrench freed the other hand. It also freed Winklemann's spirit to some extent, and called it back to life, for he exclaimed, "Vat is dat?" in a tone of faint but decided surprise. "Here, lay hold of my neck," said Lambert, in a peremptory voice. Winklemann obeyed. Lambert exerted all his strength and heaved. The Indian did not dare to lend a hand, as that would have upset the canoe, but he leaned still farther over its other side as a counterpoise. At last Lambert got his friend on the edge, and tumbled him inboard. At the same moment the Indian adroitly resumed his position, and Winklemann was saved! "You'll soon be all right," said Lambert, resuming his paddle. "Haven't swallowed much water, I hope?" "No, no," said Winklemann faintly; "mine lunks, I do tink, are free of vatter, but mine lecks are stranchly qveer. I hav no lecks at all! 'Pears as if I vas stop short at zee vaist!" Herr Winklemann said no more, but was swiftly borne, in a state of semi-consciousness, to his friends on the Little Mountain. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Twenty-six years later, in 1852, Red River Settlement was visited by a flood very similar in its main features to that of 1826, above described; and it is a curious coincidence that only one man lost his life during the latter flood; also, that the waters of the floods of both years began to subside on exactly the same date. CHAPTER NINETEEN. THE RED MAN RECEIVES A VISITOR, COGITATES DEEPLY, AND ACTS WITH DECISION. We return now, to the red man, who, with his captive, spent the greater part of that winter on the slopes of the Rocky mountains, in a valley between two spurs of the range which merged gradually into the prairie. In this sequestered spot Petawanaquat could, by turning to the right hand, seek the rugged haunts of the grizzly near and the Rocky Mountain goat; or, by turning to the left, ride after the buffalo on his own undulating plains. Here the Indian instructed Tony in all the mysteries of the hunter's craft, showed him how to set traps for wolves and foxes, and snares for rabbits, and taught him how to use the gun, and how to follow the tracks of game in the snow. He also made him a little bow, with a sheaf of blunt-headed arrows, and a pair of snow-shoe frames, the interstices of which were filled up by the red man's wife. Petawanaquat had only one wife, named Meekeye. He might have had half a dozen wives if he had chosen, because he was a strong, able, and successful hunter, which is equivalent to saying he was, for an Indian, a rich man, and among the Indians there is no legal limit, we believe, to the number of a man's wives. But _our_ red man seemed to think one quite enough. He was very good to her--which is more than can be said, alas! of many white men. He never failed to bring her the tit-bits of all animals slain in the chase. He never beat her if she grew weary on the march, as too many of his savage countrymen are wont to do, but, on the contrary, relieved her of part of her burden, and, as a rule, carried the heaviest part of the family baggage on his own shoulders or sledge. Moreover, when on a visit with his furs to the stores of the fur-traders, he never failed to consult Meekeye as to every purchase that he made, and invariably gladdened her heart with gifts of scarlet cloth and white enamelled beads, and brilliant ribbons and little circular mirrors, which were deemed ample in size, though hardly big enough to display to advantage the point of an average nose. In short, Petawanaquat was quite un-Indian and chivalrous in his attentions to his squaw, who repaid him with faithful service, and, above all, with loving looks from the orbs which had originated her name. Some people may think the loving looks produced the chivalry; others that the chivalry caused the looks. Whichever way it was, the result was mutual felicity. The red man had no family, hence Meekeye took to Tony with something of the fervour of a mother. Tony soon reciprocated. At first he indulged some of his mischievous tendencies, but, being only smiled at when he was naughty, found that the interest of being bad was gone, and ere long gave it up. In the presence of his new father he never dared to be other than absolute perfection. Petawanaquat's solemnity was too much for him. Thus it came to pass that Tony was soon thoroughly broken in. Meekeye taught him to make leggings and to ornament moccasins, for the boy was omnivorous in his thirst for knowledge. He swallowed everything with avidity, including immense quantities of food, so that his frame and mind developed together in a marvellous manner. Of course the red man did not take Tony with him on his longest hunting expeditions, but he took him considerable distances from home notwithstanding, and showed him the "far west" sport in all its phases, insomuch that Tony, who could scarcely sit a trotting horse in the settlements, became Tonyquat the Fearless in the course of time--could ride bare-backed steeds with ease, and could send his little arrows into the flank of a buffalo with as much coolness, if not as much force, as his instructor. Tony even got the length of drawing first blood from a grizzly bear. It happened thus:-- He was out with Petawanaquat one day, in a narrow defile of the mountains. The Indian carried his gun; the boy his bow. Tony's quiver contained two sorts of arrows, one set shod with iron, and sharp, the other set not only blunt, but with a lumpy wooden head, meant not to pierce but to stun birds. "Ho, look here!" exclaimed Tony, fitting a blunt arrow to the string, and pointing up at a tree, among the branches of which sat a bird resembling a grey hen in size and colour. Petawanaquat stopped, let the butt of his gun fall to the ground, rested his hands on the muzzle, and smiled approval. The arrow flew, hit the bird on its astonished eye, and brought it down. "Good! Tonyquat will be a great chief," said the red man, with another grave nod. "Ho, look _there_!" whispered Tony, glaring in the direction of a thicket while he fitted a sharp arrow to his bow. Turning quickly, the Indian saw a grizzly bear rise from behind a rock and look at the hunters inquiringly. Before he could raise his gun he heard a twang, and next moment saw an arrow quivering in the bear's neck. The roar of the enraged animal and the report of his own gun commingled. Another instant, and Tony found himself in the midst of the tree out of which he had just brought the grey bird, hurled there by Petawanaquat, who was himself not a moment too soon in climbing to the same place of refuge. From this point of vantage the Indian, having carried his gun up with him, fired several deadly shots, and killed the bear, whose claws Tony afterwards wore in commemoration of the event. This was but one of the varied and stirring adventures which befell our little hero while under the care of his red-skinned captor. What passed in the mind of the Indian during that winter Tony had little opportunity of knowing, for he was remarkably taciturn, though at night, when smoking the calumet over his wigwam fire, the thoughtful expression of his face, and occasional troubled look on his brows, suggested the idea that he was ill at ease. He frequently gazed at his captive as if about to speak to him seriously, but as often seemed to abandon the idea with something like a sigh. One evening, however, Petawanaquat seemed more troubled than usual, and held frequent earnest consultations with Meekeye in an undertone, in the midst of which Tony could distinguish a few words, such as "tracks," "white strangers," "encampment," etcetera. Before going to rest the Indian smoked an extra pipe, and then said-- "Tonyquat is a brave boy!" "Yes," answered Tony, with an air of gravity quite equal to that of his red father. The few months he had been in captivity had indeed wrought an almost miraculous change in the child. His ideas were much more manly. Even his speech had lost its childish lisp, and he had begun to express himself somewhat in the allegorical language of the American Indian. Under the influence of a will stronger than his own he had proved himself an apt scholar. "Tonyquat is a boy who keeps his word?" continued the other, with a keen glance. Tony turned his large eyes full on the Indian. "Has my Indian father ever found Tonyquat telling lies?" To this Petawanaquat said "Good," and smoked his pipe with increasing vigour, while Tony sat with his hands clasped over one knee, gazing sternly at the fire, as though he were engaged in consulting on matters of life and death. He glanced, however, for one instant at Meekeye, to see that she observed his staid demeanour. The same glance revealed to Tony the fact that Meekeye's right foot was rather near the fire, with the red-hot end of a log close to it. Tony's own left foot chanced to rest on the other and unburnt end of the same log. A very gentle motion on his part sufficed to bring Meekeye's toes and the fire into contact. She drew back with a sudden start, but was too much of an Indian to scream. Tony was enough of one to remain motionless and abstracted like a brown statue. The slightest possible twitch at one corner of Petawanaquat's mouth showed that he had observed the movement, but his brow did not relax as he said-- "Tonyquat must make his red father a promise. White men are coming here. They travel towards the setting sun. If they hear the voice of Tonyquat they will take him away." "Will they take me to my own father?" cried Tony, forgetting his role in the excitement of the moment. "Petawanaquat has said that the white strangers travel towards the setting sun. Red River lies in the direction of the rising sun. Would Tonyquat like to go with white strangers into the mountains?" Tony was most emphatic in his denial of entertaining any such desire, and declared with his wonted candour that he loved Petawanaquat and Meekeye next to his own father and mother. "If this be so," returned the Indian, "Tonyquat must be dumb when the white men speak to him. He must know nothing. His voice must be more silent than the waters of a lake when the wind is dead." Tony promised to be as dumb as a stone, as ignorant as a new-born infant, and as quiet as a dead man. He then questioned the Indian about the white men, but obtained no further information than that Petawanaquat had come on their camp unexpectedly the day before, had observed them secretly from among the bushes, knew that the route they were pursuing would infallibly lead them to his wigwam, and that therefore he had hurried home to be ready for them. He could not tell who the white men were. They looked like traders--that was all he knew, or, at least, chose to communicate. That night Meekeye repainted Tony's neck and face with considerable care; dyed his luxuriant hair with grease and charcoal; touched up his eyebrows with the same, and caused him to dirty his hands effectively with mud and ashes. Next morning, a little after sunrise, the twinkle of bells, the yelping of dogs, and the cracking of whips were heard. Petawanaquat and Tony had just time to step out of the tent when a cariole, somewhat in the form of a slipper-bath, drawn by four dogs, dashed up to the door. The dogs, being fresh and young, took to fighting. Their driver, who wore a head-dress with horns, belaboured the combatants and abused them in French, while a tall, quiet-looking man arose from the furs of the cariole, and, mounting the slope on which the Indian stood to receive him, advanced towards the wigwam. Some minutes later another team of dogs with a provision-sled and driver came rattling up. "What cheer?" said the tall man heartily, as he held out his hand. "Wat-chee?" replied Petawanaquat, grasping the hand, and repeating the phrase as he had learnt it in the settlements. The tall man was very affable, and at once revealed the object of his journey. He was a missionary, he said, and was making a tour among the native tribes of that region to preach the good news of salvation from sin and its consequences through Jesus Christ the Son of God. Petawanaquat listened with grave intelligence, but with the reticence of an Indian. "Some tribes of Indians, I have been told, are encamped not far from this spot," said the missionary through his interpreter. Petawanaquat admitted that such was the case, and that some lodges of Indians were pitched in the mountains not two days' march from his tent. The missionary entered the wigwam and sat down. He gradually introduced the subject of his mission, and endeavoured to bring it home to the Indian and his wife, who, however, replied in very brief sentences. He also addressed Tony, but that sharp child seemed to be less impressionable than a pine stump, and refused to utter a word on any subject. The missionary, however, was a true man, with the love of God burning brightly in his breast. Although slightly disappointed he was not discouraged. He spoke of Christ crucified with great earnestness, and commended the Christian virtues--among others the duty of forgiving, nay, even loving, one's enemies, and especially of returning good for evil. He also dwelt much on the wickedness of harbouring revengeful feelings, and on the sweetness and blessedness of doing good to others-- enforcing his arguments on the latter point by quoting the Saviour's own words, "Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them." Still the red man listened with stolid composure, Meekeye with apparent indifference, and Tony with absolute vacancy, so that the missionary, after offering up a silent prayer, went on his way with a sad feeling at his heart that his labour with that family of savages had been in vain. He comforted himself, however, with the reflection that it is written, "Your labour is _not_ in vain in the Lord." And he was right. His labour had not been in vain, though it was not given to him at that time to see the fruit thereof. We have said that Petawanaquat had smoked and pondered deeply in the evenings that winter over his wigwam fire. His slightly enlightened mind had been busy with those difficult problems about good and evil, God and man, which seem to exercise all earnest souls more or less in every land, savage as well as civilised. The revenge which he had taken on Mr Ravenshaw was sweet--very sweet, for his indignation against that irascible old gentleman was very bitter; justifiably so, he thought. But the clergyman at Red River had enlightened the red man's conscience, and conscience being once aroused cannot easily be put to sleep again. His reasoning powers told him that the revenge which he had taken was far in excess of the injury which he had received. This was unjust, and conscience told him that injustice was wrong. The great Manitou Himself could not be unjust. Had He not taken the guilt of man on Himself in the person of Jesus, in order that, without injustice, He might be the justifier of sinners? Injustice is wrong, reiterated conscience again and again; but revenge is sweet, thought the Indian. Now this visit of the missionary had cleared the mind of Petawanaquat to some extent. It was a new idea to him that returning good for evil was sweeter than revenge. He coupled this thought with the fact that the Saviour had laid down His life for His _enemies_, and the result was that a change, gradual but decided, was wrought in the red man's sentiments. The seed thus sown by the wayside fell into good ground. Unlike ordinary seed, it bore fruit during the winter, and that fruit ripened into action in the spring. "Tonyquat," said the red man one morning, after much of the snow had left the ground, "your Indian father intends to start on a long journey to-morrow." "Petawanaquat," replied Tony, "your white-faced son is ready to follow." It must be understood that Tony's language was figurative, for at the time he was speaking his "white" face was changed so much by paint and smoke that it quite equalled that of his adopted father in dirty brownness. "Meekeye will get ready," continued the Indian. "Our journey shall be towards the rising sun." The result of this order was that on the following day the Indian's leather tent was taken down, wrapped up into a bundle, and fastened to a couple of poles along with the rest of the family property. One end of each of these poles was fastened to a horse like shafts; the other ends were left to trail on the ground, the load resting between these ends and the steed's tail. It was, as it were, a cart without wheels or body. Meekeye mounted the horse after the fashion of a man. Petawanaquat and Tony together mounted another steed. Three dogs formed part of the establishment. These were harnessed to little poles like those of the horse, and each dragged a little load proportioned to his size. Thus they left the spur of the Rocky Mountains and travelled over the plains towards Red River settlement. About the same time, and with the same destination in view, and not far distant from the same region, another party on horseback commenced their journey towards the rising sun. The two parties ultimately met--but these and other matters we shall reserve for our next chapter. CHAPTER TWENTY. A TERRIBLE DISASTER AND A JOYFUL MEETING. We left Ian Macdonald, it will be remembered, far away in the western wilderness, suffering from the wounds received during his memorable and successful combat with a grizzly bear. These wounds were much more serious than had at first been supposed, and, despite the careful nursing of Vic Ravenshaw and Michel Rollin, he grew so weak from loss of blood that it became evident to all of them that they should have to take up their abode in that wild unpeopled spot for a considerable period of time. They therefore planned and built a small log-hut in a wood well stocked with game, and on the margin of a little stream where fish abounded. At first Victor resolved to ride to the nearest fort of the fur-traders and fetch a doctor, or the means of conveying their wounded friend to a place where better attendance and shelter were to be had, but insurmountable difficulties lay in the way. There were no doctors in the land! The nearest abode of civilised man was several hundred miles distant, and neither he nor Rollin knew the way to any place whatever. They had depended entirely on Ian as a guide, and now that he was helpless, so were they! It would have been difficult for them even to have found their way back to the Red River Settlement without the aid of the scholastic backwoodsman. They were constrained, therefore, to rest where they were, hoping from day to day that Ian would regain strength sufficient to bear the fatigue of a journey. Thus the winter slowly slipped away, and wild-fowl--the harbingers of spring--were beginning to awake the echoes of the northern woods before Ian felt himself strong enough to commence the journey homewards. That winter, with all its vicissitudes, hopes, fears, adventures, and pleasures, we must pass over in absolute silence, and re-introduce our three friends on the evening of a fine spring day, while riding over a sweep of prairie land in the direction of a thick belt of forest. "The river must be somewhere hereabouts," said Ian, reining up on an eminence, and gazing earnestly round him. "Vas you ever here before?" asked Rollin. "Ay, once, but not at this precise spot. I don't quite recognise it. I hope my long illness has not damaged my memory." "If we don't reach the river soon," said Victor, with something of weariness in his tone, "this poor brute will give in." Victor referred to his horse, which had been reduced by some unknown disease to skin and bone. "However, I'm well able to walk," he continued, more cheerfully; "and it can't be long before we shall fall in with the river, and some Indians, who will sell or lend us a canoe." "Ah! my cheval is not much more better dan your von," said Rollin; and he spoke the truth, for his horse was afflicted with the same disease that had attacked that of Victor. Ian's steed, however, was in excellent condition. That night the invalid horses were freed from all their troubles by a pack of wolves while their owners were asleep. They had been "hobbled" so carelessly that they had broken loose and strayed far from the encampment. Being weak they fell an easy prey to their sneaking enemies. Next day, however, the three friends reached the river of which they were in search, found a family of Indians there who bartered with them a canoe and some provisions for the remaining horse, and continued their homeward journey by water. For a time all went well. The river was in high flood, for the snow-fall there, as elsewhere, had been unusually heavy, but all three were expert voyageurs, and succeeded in steering past difficulties of all kinds, until one afternoon, when good fortune seemed to forsake them utterly. They began by running the canoe against a sunk tree, or snag, and were obliged to put ashore to avoid sinking. The damage was, however, easily remedied; and while Ian was busy with the repairs his comrades prepared a hot dinner, which meal they usually ate cold in the canoe. Next they broke a paddle. This was also easily replaced. After that they ventured to run a rapid which almost proved too much for them; it nearly overturned the canoe, and filled it so full of water that they were compelled to land again, unload, and empty it. "Dat is too bad," observed Rollin, with a growl of discontent. "It might have been worse," said Ian. "Bah!" returned Rollin. "Pooh!" ejaculated Victor. "Very good," said Ian; "I only hope the truth of my remark mayn't be proved to both of you." It has been asserted by the enemies of Ian Macdonald that the catastrophe which followed was the result of a desire on his part to prove the truth of his own remark, but we acquit him of such baseness. Certain it is, however, that the very next rapid they came to they ran straight down upon a big stone over which the water was curling in grand fury. "Hallo!" shouted Ian, in sudden alarm, dipping his paddle powerfully on the right. "Hi!" yelled Rollin, losing his head and dipping wildly on the same side--which was wrong. "Look out!" roared Victor. He might as well have roared "Look in," for any good that could have come of it. There was a crash; the canoe burst up and doubled down, the bow was hurled high in the air, the rest of it lay out limp, and disappeared. Rollin went clean over the rock, Victor went round it, and Ian, after grasping it for a second, went under it apparently, for, like the canoe, he disappeared. That rapid treated these voyagers roughly. Of the three, Michel Rollin appeared to suffer most. After sending him round the stone in a rush of foam that caused his arms and legs to go round like a mad windmill, it sucked him down, rubbed his head on the boulders at the bottom, shot him up feet foremost into the air, received him on its raging breast again, spun him round like a teetotum, and, at last, hurled him almost contemptuously upon a sandbank at its foot. Ian and Victor also received a severe buffeting before gaining the same sandbank, where they faced each other in a blaze of surprise and horror! Unable to find words to express their feelings, they turned simultaneously, and waded in silence from the sandbank to the shore. Here a consultation of the most doleful character that can be imagined was entered into. "Everything lost," said Ian, sitting down on a bank, and wringing the water out of his garments. "Not even a gun saved," said Victor gravely. "No, nor von mout'ful of pemmican," cried Rollin, wildly grasping his hair and glaring. The poor fellow seemed to his friends to have gone suddenly mad, for the glare of despair turned to a grin of wild amusement, accompanied by a strange laugh, as he pointed straight before him, and became, as it were, transfixed. Turning to look in the direction indicated, they beheld a small Indian boy, absolutely naked, remarkably brown, and gazing at them with a look of wonder that was never equalled by the most astonished owl known to natural history. Seeing that he was observed, the boy turned and fled like an antelope. Rollin uttered a yell, and bounded away in pursuit. The half-breed could easily have caught him, but he did not wish to do so. He merely uttered an appalling shriek now and then to cause the urchin to increase his speed. The result was that the boy led his pursuer straight to the wigwam of his father, which was just what Rollin wanted. It stood but a short distance from the scene of the wreck. And now, when, to all appearance, they had reached the lowest turn in the wheel of fortune, they were raised to the highest heights of joy, for the Indian proved to be friendly, supplied them with provisions to continue their journey, and gave them a good bow and quiver of arrows on their simple promise to reward him if he should visit them at Red River in the course of the summer. He had not a canoe to lend them, however. They were therefore constrained to complete their journey over the prairies on foot. "You see, I said that things might be worse," said Ian, as they lay on their backs beside each other that night after supper, each rolled in his blanket and gazing complacently at the stars. "Yes, but you did not say that they might also be better. Why did not your prophetic soul enable you to see further and tell of our present state of comparative good fortune, Mr Wiseman?" asked Victor with a sigh of contentment. "I did not prophesy, Vic; I only talked of what _might_ be." "Vat is dat you say? vat _might_ be?" exclaimed Rollin. "Ah! vat _is_ is vorse. Here am me, go to bed vidout my smok. Dat is most shockable state I has yet arrive to." "Poor fellows!" said Ian, in a tone of commiseration. "You indeed lose everything when you lose that on which your happiness depends." "Bah!" ejaculated Rollin, as he turned his back on his comrades and went to sleep. A feeling of sadness as well as drowsiness came over Victor as he lay there blinking at the stars. The loss of their canoe and all its contents was but a small matter compared with the failure of their enterprise, for was he not now returning home, while Tony still remained a captive with the red man? Ian's thoughts were also tinged with sadness and disappointment on the same account. Nevertheless, he experienced a slight gleam of comfort as the spirit of slumber stole over him, for had he not, after all, succeeded in killing a grizzly bear, and was not the magnificent claw collar round his neck at that very moment, with one of the claw-points rendering him, so to speak, pleasantly uncomfortable? and would he not soon see Elsie? and--. Thought stopped short at this point, and remained there--or left him--we know not which. Again we venture to skip. Passing over much of that long and toilsome journey on foot, we resume the thread of our tale at the point when our three travellers, emerging suddenly from a clump of wood one day, came unexpectedly to the margin of an unknown sea! "Lak Vinnipeg have busted hisself, an' cover all de vorld," exclaimed Rollin, with a look of real alarm at his companions. "The Red River has overflowed, and the land is flooded," said Ian, in a low solemn voice. "Surely, surely," said Victor, in sudden anxiety, "there must have been many houses destroyed, since the water has come so far, but--but, father's house stands high." Ian's face wore a troubled look as he replied-- "Ay, boy, but the water has come more than twelve miles over the plains, for I know this spot well. It must be deep--very deep--at the Willow Creek." "Vat shall ye do vidout bot or canoe?" Rollin's question was not heeded, for at that moment two canoes were seen in the distance coming from the direction of Lake Winnipeg. One was paddled by an Indian, the other by a squaw and a boy. They made straight for the spot where our travellers were standing. As they drew near, Victor hailed them. The boy in the bow of the foremost canoe was observed to cease paddling. As he drew nearer, his eyes were seen to blaze, and eager astonishment was depicted on his painted face. When the canoe touched land he leaped of it, and, with a yell that would have done credit to the wildest redskin in the prairie, rushed at Victor, leaped into his arms, and, shouting "Vic! Vic!" besmeared his face with charcoal, ochre, vermilion, and kisses! To say that Victor was taken by surprise would be feeble language. Of course he prepared for self-defence, at the first furious rush, but the shout of "Vic!" opened his eyes; he not only submitted to be kissed, but returned the embrace with tenfold interest, and mixed up the charcoal, ochre, and vermilion with his mouth and pose and Tony's tears of joy. Oh, it was an amazing sight, the meeting of these brothers. It is hard to say whether the eyes or the mouth of the onlookers opened widest. Petawanaquat was the only one who retained his composure. The eyes of Meekeye were moistened despite her native stoicism, but her husband stood erect with a grave sad countenance, and his blanket folded, with his arms in classic fashion, on his breast. As for Rollin, he became, and remained for some time, a petrifaction of amazement. When the first burst was over, Victor turned to Petawanaquat, and as he looked at his stern visage a dark frown settled on his own, and he felt a clenching of his fists, as he addressed the Indian in his native tongue. "What made you take him away?" he demanded indignantly. "Revenge," answered the red man, with dignified calmness. "And what induces you now to bring him back?" asked Victor, in some surprise. "Forgiveness," answered Petawanaquat. For a few moments Victor gazed at the calm countenance of the Indian in silent surprise. "What do you mean?" he asked, with a puzzled look. "Listen," replied the Indian slowly. "Petawanaquat loves revenge. He has tasted revenge. It is sweet, but the Indian has discovered a new fountain. The old white father thirsts for his child. Does not the white man's Book say, `If your enemy thirst, give him drink?' The red man brings Tonyquat back in order that he may heap coals of fire on the old white father's head. The Great Spirit has taught Petawanaquat that forgiveness is sweeter than revenge." He stopped abruptly. Victor still looked at him with a puzzled expression. "Well," he said, smiling slightly, "I have no doubt that my father will forgive you, now that you have brought back the child." A gleam, which seemed to have a touch of scorn in it, shot from the Indian's eye as he rejoined-- "When Petawanaquat brings back Tonyquat, it is a proof that _he_ forgives the old white father." This was all that the Indian would condescend to say. The motives which had decided him to return good for evil were too hazy and complex for him clearly to understand, much less explain. He took refuge, therefore, in dignified silence. Victor was too happy in the recovery of his brother to push the investigation further, or to cherish feelings of ill-will. He therefore went up to the Indian, and, with a smile of candour on his face, held out his hand, which the latter grasped and shook, exclaiming "Wat-chee!" under the belief that these words formed an essential part of every white man's salutation. This matter had barely been settled when a man came out of the woods and approached them. He was one of the Red River settlers, but personally unknown to any of them. From him they heard of the condition of the settlement. Of course they asked many eager questions about their own kindred after he had mentioned the chief points of the disastrous flood. "And what of my father, Samuel Ravenshaw?" asked Victor anxiously. "What! the old man at Willow Creek, whose daughter is married to Lambert?" "Married to Lambert!" exclaimed Ian, turning deadly pale. "Ay, or engaged to be, I'm not sure which," replied the man. "Oh, he's all right. The Willow Creek house stands too high to be washed away. The family still lives in it--in the upper rooms." "And Angus Macdonald, what of him?" asked Ian. "An' ma mere--my moder, ole Liz Rollin, an' ole Daddy, has you hear of dem?" demanded Rollin. At the mention of old Liz the man's face became grave. "Angus Macdonald and his sister," he said, "are well, and with the Ravenshaws, I believe, or at the Little Mountain, their house being considered in danger; but old Liz Rollin," he added, turning to the anxious half-breed, "has been carried away with her hut, nobody knows where. They say that her old father and the mother of Winklemann have gone along with her." Words cannot describe the state of mind into which this information threw poor Michel Rollin. He insisted on seizing one of the canoes and setting off at once. As his companions were equally anxious to reach their flooded homes an arrangement was soon come to. Petawanaquat put Tony into the middle of his canoe with Victor, while Ian took the bow paddle. Michel took the steering paddle of the other canoe, and Meekeye seated herself in the bow. Thus they launched out upon the waters of the flood, and, bidding adieu to the settler who had given them such startling information, were soon paddling might and main in the direction of the settlement. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. RETURN OF THE LOST ONE. It chanced that, on the morning of the arrival of Victor and his comrades at the margin of the flood, Peegwish went a-fishing. That astute Indian was fond of fishing. It suited his tastes and habits; it was an art which was admirably adapted to his tendencies. Peegwish was, naturally as well as by training, lazy, and what could be more congenial to a lazy man than a "gentle art" which involved nothing more than sitting on a river bank smoking a pipe and awaiting a bite? It had a spice of intellectuality about it too, for did it not foster a spirit of meditation, contemplation, and even of philosophical speculation--when he chanced to be awake? Moreover, it saved him from harder labour, and shut the mouths of those ill-natured people who objected to drones, and had a tendency to reproach them, for was he not assiduously procuring for men and women a portion of that nourishment without which labour would be impossible? The peculiar action of the flood had favoured Peegwish in regard to his beloved art, for, whereas in former days he was obliged to get up from his lair and go down to the river bank to fish, now he had nothing more to do than open the window and cast out his line, and Wildcat was close at hand to fetch him a light when his pipe chanced to go out, which it frequently did, for the red old savage slept much. When, therefore, we say that Peegwish went a-fishing, it must be understood that he merely left his seat by the stove in the upper room at Willow Creek and opened the window. Wildcat was as fond of fishing as her brother, but there were a few difficulties in her way which did not exist in his. Water had to be drawn, wood to be chopped, moccasins and leggings and coats to be made, as well as meals to be cooked. She was, therefore, compelled to fish in moderation. "Bring a light," said Peegwish, in that tone of mild entreaty with which he was wont to make his wants known. There being no one else in the room at the moment, Wildcat obeyed. Peegwish looked into the room for a moment, and extended his left hand for the piece of lighted stick; with his right hand he held his line. Suddenly that hand received an amazing tug. Peegwish unintentionally scattered the firebrand, dropped his pipe from his lips, and uttered a shout, while with both hands he held on to the jerking line. One of Mr Ravenshaw's largest pigs had been swept out of the outhouse lofts. Struggling with the stream, he passed under the window of the storeroom, and came across the line of Peegwish with his tail. Every one must be familiar with the tendency of tails in general to shut down when touched. The unfortunate pig obeyed the natural law, and the line continued to slip until the hook was reached, when, of course, the natural result followed. There could be no hope of escape, for the tail was remarkably tough and the line strong. Peegwish held on stoutly. Wildcat lent her aid. The jerking on the tail depressed the snout of the pig, whose shrieks, being thus varied by intermittent gurgles, rendered the noise more appalling, and quickly drew the whole household to the windows. Unfortunately there were none there but women--Mr Ravenshaw and the other men being still absent with the boat. The canoe had also been sent off that morning for a load of firewood, so that the only way of relieving the pig was to haul him in at the window. But he was too heavy to be thus treated, and as Peegwish did not wish to break his line and lose his hook he could only hold on in despair, while Elsie and Cora, with their mother and Wildcat, stood by helpless and horrified, yet amused, by the novelty of the situation and the frightful noise. While this scene was being enacted at Willow Greek, Victor, with the recovered Tony and the rest of them, were drawing quickly near. Deeply though the hearts of most of these wanderers were filled with anxious fears, they could not help being impressed with the scenes of desolation--deserted and submerged homesteads, wreck and ruin--through which they passed. At one moment the two canoes were skimming over the waters of a boundless lake; at another they were winding out and in among the trees of a submerged bit of woodland. Presently they found themselves among house tops, and had to proceed cautiously for fear of sunken fences, and then out they swept again over the wide sheet of water, where the once familiar prairie lay many feet below. The maple-trees were by that time in full leaf, and the rich green verdure of bush and tree was bursting out on all sides, when not submerged. Swallows skimmed about in hundreds, dipping the tips of their blue wings in the flood, as though to test its reality, while flocks of little yellow birds--like canaries, but rather larger, with more black on their wings--flitted from bush to tree or from isle to isle. The month of May in those regions is styled the "flower month," and June the "heart-berry month," but flowers and heart-berries were alike drowned out that year in Red River of the North, and none of the wonted perfumes of the season regaled the noses of our voyagers as they returned home. "There they are at last!" exclaimed Victor, with sparkling eyes, "the elms on the knoll. D'ye see them, Tony? I do believe I see the smoking-box. But for the bushes we might see the chimneys of Willow Creek." Tony's excitement was great, but the effect of his late training was seen in the suppression of all feeling, save that which escaped through the eyes. Paint and charcoal concealed the flush on his cheeks effectually. "Tonyquat sees," he replied. Victor received this with a loud laugh, but Tony, although annoyed, did not lose his dignity, which the red man in the stern of the canoe observed with a look of pride and satisfaction. Michel Rollin, in the other canoe, close alongside, was observed to hold up his hand. "Hush!" he said, turning his head as if to listen. "I do hear someting--someting not meloderous." "Is it melliferous, then?" asked Vic, with a smile. But Rollin made no reply. He was far from jesting, poor fellow, at that moment. The thought of his old mother and grandfather, and fears as to their fate, weighed heavily on his heart, and took all the fun out of him. "It sounds like pigs," said Ian. "Oui. Dey be killin' porkers," said Rollin, with a nod, as he dipped his paddle again and pushed on. As they drew near, the excitement of the voyagers increased, so did their surprise at the prolonged and furious shrieking. Gradually the vigour of their strokes was strengthened, until they advanced at racing speed. Finally, they swept round the corner of the old house at Willow Creek, and burst upon the gaze of its inhabitants, while Peegwish and the pig were at the height of their struggles. Mrs Ravenshaw chanced to be the first to observe them. "Ian Macdonald!" she shouted, for his form in the bow of the leading canoe was the most conspicuous. "Victor!" cried the sisters, with a scream that quite eclipsed the pig. They rushed to another window, under which the canoes were pulled up. "Oh! Victor, Victor," cried Mrs Ravenshaw, with a deadly faintness at her heart; "you haven't found--" "Mother!" cried Tony, casting off his Indian reserve and starting up with a hysterical shout, "Mother!" "Tony!" exclaimed everybody in the same breath, for they all knew his voice, though they did not believe their eyes. It was only four feet or so from the canoe to the window. Mrs Ravenshaw leaned over and seized Tony's uplifted hands. Elsie and Cora lent assistance. A light vault, and Tony went in at the window, from which immediately issued half-stifled cries of joy. At that moment Peegwish uttered a terrible roar, as he fell back into the room with the broken line in his hand, accidentally driving Wildcat into a corner. A last supreme effort had been made by the pig. He had broken the hook, and went off with a final shriek of triumph. Thus, amid an appropriate whirlwind of confusion, noise, and disaster, was the long-lost Tony restored to his mother's arms! Seated calmly in the stern of his canoe, Petawanaquat observed the scene with a look of profound gravity. His revenge was complete! He had returned to his enemy the boy of whom he had become so fond that he felt as though Tony really were his own son. He had bowed his head to the dictates of an enlightened conscience. He had returned good for evil. A certain feeling of deep happiness pervaded the red man's heart, but it was accompanied, nevertheless, by a vague sense of bereavement and sadness which he could not shake off just then. Quite as calmly and as gravely sat Ian Macdonald. His eyes once more beheld Elsie, the angel of his dreams, but he had no right to look upon her now with the old feelings. Her troth was plighted to Lambert. It might be that they were already married! though he could not bring himself to believe that; besides, he argued, hoping against hope, if such were the case, Elsie would not be living with her father's family. No, she was not yet married, he felt sure of that; but what mattered it? A girl whose heart was true as steel could never be won from the man to whom she had freely given herself. No, there was no hope; and poor Ian sat there in silent despair, with no sign, however, of the bitter thoughts within on his grave, thoughtful countenance. Not less gravely sat Michel Rollin in the stern of his canoe. No sense of the ludicrous was left in his anxious brain. He had but one idea, and that was--old Liz! With some impatience he waited until the ladies inside the house were able to answer his queries about his mother. No sooner did he obtain all the information they possessed than he transferred Meekeye to her husband's canoe, and set off alone in the other to search for the lost hut--as Winklemann had done before him. Meanwhile the remainder of the party were soon assembled in the family room on the upper floor, doing justice to an excellent meal, of which most of them stood much in need. "Let me wash that horrid stuff off your face, darling, before you sit down," said Miss Trim to Tony. The boy was about to comply, but respect for the feelings of his Indian father caused him to hesitate. Perhaps the memory of ancient rebellion was roused by the old familiar voice, as he replied-- "Tonyquat loves his war-paint. It does not spoil his appetite." It was clear from a twinkle in Tony's eye, and a slight motion in his otherwise grave face, that, although this style of language now came quite naturally to him, he was keeping it up to a large extent on purpose. "Tonyquat!" exclaimed Mrs Ravenshaw, aghast with surprise, "what does the child mean?" "I'll say Tony, mother, if you like it better," he said, taking his mother's hand. "He's become a redskin," said Victor, half-amused, half-anxious. "Tony," said Miss Trim, whose heart yearned towards her old but almost unrecognisable pupil, "don't you remember how we used to do lessons together and play sometimes?" "And fight?" added Cora, with a glance at Ian, which caused Elsie to laugh. "Tonyquat does not forget," replied the boy, with profound gravity. "He remembers the lessons and the punishments. He also remembers dancing on the teacher's bonnet and scratching the teacher's nose!" This was received with a shout of delighted laughter, for in it the spirit of the ancient Tony was recognised. But Ian Macdonald did not laugh. He scarcely spoke except when spoken to. He seemed to have no appetite, and his face was so pale from his long illness that he had quite the air of a sick man. "Come, Ian, why don't you eat? Why, you look as white as you did after the grizzly had clawed you all over." This remark, and the bear-claw collar on the youth's neck, drew forth a question or two, but Ian was modest. He could not be induced to talk of his adventure, even when pressed to do so by Elsie. "Come, then, if _you_ won't tell it I will," said Victor; and thereupon he gave a glowing account of the great fight with the bear, the triumphant victory, and the long illness, which had well-nigh terminated fatally. "But why did you not help him in the hunt?" asked Elsie of Victor, in a tone of reproach. "Because he wouldn't let us; the reason why is best known to himself. Perhaps native obstinacy had to do with it." "It was a passing fancy; a foolish one, perhaps, or a touch of vanity," said Ian, with a smile, "but it is past now, and I have paid for it.-- Did you make fast the canoe?" he added, turning abruptly to the Indian, who was seated on his buffalo robe by the stove. Without waiting for an answer he rose and descended the staircase to the passage, where poor Miss Trim had nearly met a watery grave. Here the canoe was floating, and here he found one of the domestics. "Has the wedding come off yet?" he asked in a low, but careless, tone, as he stooped to examine the fastening of the canoe. "What wedding?" said the domestic, with a look of surprise. "Why, the wedding of Mr Ravenshaw's daughter." "Oh no, Mr Ian. It would be a strange time for a wedding. But it's all fixed to come off whenever the flood goes down. And she do seem happy about it. You see, sir, they was throw'd a good deal together here of late, so it was sort of natural they should make it up, and the master he is quite willin'." This was enough. Ian Macdonald returned to the room above with the quiet air of a thoughtful schoolmaster and the callous solidity of a human petrifaction. Duty and death were the prominent ideas stamped upon his soul. He would not become reckless or rebellious. He would go through life doing his duty, and, when the time came, he would die! They were talking, of course, about the flood when he returned and sat down. Elsie was speaking. Ian was immediately fascinated as he listened to her telling Victor, with graphic power, some details of the great disaster--how dwellings and barns and stores had been swept away, and property wrecked everywhere, though, through the mercy of God, no lives had been lost. All this, and a great deal more, did Elsie and Cora and Mrs Ravenshaw dilate upon, until Ian almost forgot his resolve. Suddenly he remembered it. He also remembered that his father's house still existed, though it was tenantless, his father and Miss Martha having gone up to see friends at the Mountain. "Come, Vic," he exclaimed, starting up, "I must go home. The old place may be forsaken, but it is not the less congenial on that account. Come." Victor at once complied; they descended to the canoe, pushed out from the passage, and soon crossed the flood to Angus Macdonald's dwelling. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. THE "IMPOSSIBLE" ACCOMPLISHED. And _what_ a dwelling Angus Macdonald's house had become! "What a home-coming!" exclaimed Ian, thinking, in the bitterness of his soul, of Elsie as well as the house. "It's awful!" said Victor, with a sympathetic glance at his friend. The desolation was indeed complete--symbolic, Ian thought, of the condition of his own heart. Besides having eight or ten feet of water on its walls, all the lower rooms were utterly wrecked. A heavy log, ready for the saw-pit, had come down with the torrent, and, taking upon it the duties of a battering-ram, had charged the parlour window. Not only did it carry this bodily into the room, but it forced it into the passage beyond, where it jammed and stuck fast. The butt of this log, projecting several feet from the window, had intercepted straw and hay to such an extent that a miniature stack was formed, in which all sorts of light articles of furniture and debris had been caught. With the stubborn determination of a Celt, Angus had refused to remove his main door, which faced up stream. The result was that the flood removed it for him with a degree of violence that had induced Miss Martha to exclaim, "The house is goin' at last!" to which Angus had replied doggedly. "Let it go. It will hef to go some day, whatever." But the house had not gone. It was only, as we have said, the main door which went, and was hurled through the passage into the kitchen, where it charged the back door, wrenched it off, and accompanied it to Lake Winnipeg with a tail of miscellaneous cooking utensils. Only shreds of the back windows remained hanging by twisted hinges to the frames, telling with mute eloquence of heroic resistance to the last gasp. Whatever had not been removed by Angus from the ground-floor of his house had been swept out at the windows and doorways, as with the besom of destruction. Paddling in through the front door, the two friends disembarked from their canoe on the staircase, and ascended to the upper floor. Here everything betokened a hurried departure. Furniture was strewn about in disorder; articles of clothing were scattered broadcast, as if Miss Martha and her maid had been summoned to sudden departure, and had rummaged recklessly for their most cherished possessions. In the principal bedroom, on the best bed, stood Beauty in her native ugliness--the only living thing left to do the honours of the house. "What a brute!" exclaimed Victor. He seized a saucepan that stood handy, and hurled it at her. Beauty was equal to the emergency; she leaped up, allowed the pan to pass under her, fled shrieking through the window, and took refuge on the top of the house. "I'm glad you missed her, Vic," said Ian, in a slightly reproachful tone; "she's an old friend of the family, and a harmless thing." "Miss Trim would not agree with you in your opinion of her," returned Victor, with a laugh; "but I'm also glad I missed her. It was a sudden impulse that I couldn't resist, and you know a fellow is scarcely accountable for his impulses." "True; not for his impulses, but he is very accountable for actions resulting from impulse. If you had killed Beauty I should have had an irresistible impulse to pitch you over the window. If I were to do so in such circumstances would you hold me unaccountable?" "I'm not sure," said Victor, with a grim smile. "But we'll change the subject; I don't like argument when I'm likely to get the worst of it. It's plain that you can do no good here, I therefore propose that we return to Willow Creek, take the small boat, and go up to the Mountain to see father, taking Tony and Petawanaquat along with us." Ian shook his head with an expression of sadness that surprised his friend. "No, Vic, no; my work with you in search of your brother is done, my father's home now claims my chief care. You are wrong in saying I can do no good here; look round at the wreck and mess. There is much to be done. Now I tell you what I'll do. I'll remain here all day and all night too. You will return home and send me the little punt, if it can be spared, for I shall have to row to the outhouses a good deal, and round the house too. As you see, nothing can be done without a craft of some sort. Send Peegwish with it, without Wildcat, she would only be in the way." Victor tried to induce his friend to change his mind, but Ian was immoveable. He therefore returned to Willow Creek in the canoe, and sent Peegwish back with the punt--a tub-like little boat, with two small oars or sculls. Left alone, Ian Macdonald leaned on the sill of a window in the gable of the house, from which he could see the house at Willow Creek, and sighed deeply. "So then," he thought, "all my hopes are blighted; my air castles are knocked down, my bear-hunting has been in vain; Elsie is engaged to Louis Lambert!" There was no bitterness in his heart now, only a feeling of profound loneliness. As he raised himself with another sigh, the top of the window tipped off his cap, which fell into the water. He cared little for the loss, but stood watching the cap as it floated slowly away with the current, and compared its receding form with his dwindling joys. The current, which was not strong there, carried the cap straight to the knoll several hundred yards off, on which stood the smoking-box of old Sam Ravenshaw, and stranded it there. The incident turned the poor youth's mind back to brighter days and other scenes, especially to the last conversation which he had held with the owner of the smoking-box. He was mentally enacting that scene over again when Peegwish pulled up to the house and passed under the window. "Come along, you old savage," said Ian, with a good-humoured nod; "I want your help. Go round to the front and shove into the passage. The doorway's wide enough." Peegwish, who was fond of Ian, replied to the nod with a hideous smile. In a few minutes the two were busily engaged in collecting loose articles and bringing things in general into order. While thus engaged they were interrupted by Beauty cackling and screaming with tremendous violence. She was evidently in distress. Running up a ladder leading to the garret, Ian found that the creature had forced her way through a hole in the roof, and entangled herself in a mass of cordage thrown in a heap along with several stout ropes, or cables, which Angus had recently bought with the intention of rigging out a sloop with which to traverse the great Lake Winnipeg. Setting the hen free, Ian returned to his work. A few minutes later he was again arrested suddenly, but not by Beauty this time. He became aware of a peculiar sensation which caused a slight throbbing of his heart, and clearly proved that, although lacerated, or even severely crushed, that organ was not quite broken! He looked round at Peegwish, and beheld that savage glaring, as if transfixed, with mouth and eyes equally wide open. "Did you feel _that_, Peegwish?" Yes, Peegwish had felt "that," and said so in an awful whisper without moving. "Surely--no, it cannot have been the--" He stopped short. There was a low, grinding sound, accompanied by a strange tremor in the planks on which they stood, as if the house were gradually coming alive! There could be no mistake. The flood had risen sufficiently to float the house, and it was beginning to slide from its foundations! "Peegwish," he said, quickly dropping the things with which he had been busy, "is there a stout rope anywhere? Oh, yes; I forgot," he added, springing towards the attic. "Blessings on you, Beauty, for having guided me here!" In a few seconds a stout rope or cable was procured. The end of this Ian ran out at the main doorway, round through the parlour window, and tied it in a trice. The other end he coiled in the punt, and soon made it fast to a stout elm, under whose grateful shade Angus Macdonald had enjoyed many a pipe and Martha many a cup of tea in other days. The tree bent slowly forward; the thick rope became rigid. Ian and Peegwish sat in the boat anxiously looking on. In that moment of enforced inaction Ian conceived an idea! Thought is quick, quicker than light, which, we believe, has reached the maximum of "express speed" in material things. By intermittent flashes, so rapid that it resembled a stream of sparks, the whole plan rushed through his mind, from conception to completion. We can only give a suggestive outline, as follows. The knoll, the smoking-box, the smoker, his words, "Mark what I say. I will sell this knoll to your father, and give my daughter to you, when you take that house, and with your own unaided hands place it on this knoll!" The impossible had, in the wondrous course of recent events, come just within the verge of possibility--a stout arm, a strong will, coupled with a high flood--"There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood,"--immortal and _prophetic_ bard! There could be no chance of Elsie now, but even to win the right to claim her if she had been willing was better than nothing. In any case old Angus and the knoll would be united! "Peegwish!" shouted Ian, turning on the unfortunate ex-brewer with a flushed face and blazing eyes that caused him to shrink in alarm, "can you sit still and _do nothing_?" "Eh?" exclaimed Peegwish, in surprise. "Bah!" said Ian, seizing the sculls. The punt whirled round, leaped over the water, dashed through the doorway, and went crashing into the staircase. Before Peegwish could pick himself up, Ian had vanished up the stairs. The savage found him a moment later wildly selecting a rope from the heap that lay on the floor of the attic. As Peegwish entered, Ian suddenly turned on him with a gaze of increased intensity. Had the young man gone mad? Peegwish felt very uncomfortable. He had some reason to! Another thought had flashed into Ian's mind--the words "your own unaided hands" troubled him. Peegwish could be kept out of the boat, but he could not be kept from rendering aid of some sort, in some way or other. There was but one resource. Ian sprang on Peegwish like a lion. The savage was both bold and strong, but he was elderly, and Ian was young and bolder; besides, he had the unusual strength of a half-madman at that moment. Down went the ex-brewer. He struggled hard. Ian crushed him in his arms, raised him, crammed him into a chair, seized a pliant rope and bound him therewith, winding him and the chair round and round in his haste--for there was no time to tie knots--until he resembled a gigantic spool of ravelled thread. Not a moment too soon! There was a snap outside; the rope was gone! A grind, a slide, and then a lurch, as of a ship at sea. Ian is on the staircase now, in the punt, and out upon the flood with a stout rope fast to the stern and to the door-post. Panting from his recent exertions, and half-wild with the mingled excitement, danger, novelty, and fun of the thing, he draws two or three long breaths as he grasps the sculls and looks quickly round. The house moves sluggishly, probably retarded by sunken shrubs, or dragging debris connected with the foundation. This is somewhat of a relief. There is time. He pulls ahead till the rope tightens, and then stands up in the punt to observe the situation critically. The current is bearing him straight towards the knoll. So far well; but there are two slightly diverging currents on right and left, caused by the knoll itself, which are so strong that if the house should get fairly into either of them no power that he possessed could prevent its being swept, on the one hand, into the main current of the Red River, on the other hand away over the flooded plains. To watch with lynx eyes the slightest tendency to divergence on the part of the house now absorbs his whole being. But thought again intervenes. What if he should be observed by those at Willow Creek, and they should send assistance? horror! But by good fortune all the males at the Creek have departed, and none are left but women. He casts one of the lynx glances in that direction--no one is coming. He breathes again, freely. Suddenly the house diverges a little to the right. Away flies the punt to the left, and he is just about to bend to the sculls with the force of Goliath, when he perceives his mistake--the divergence was to the _left_! In agonies of haste he shoots to the other side, where he discovers that the divergence must have been in his own excited brain, for the house still holds on the even tenor of its way; and Ian, puffing straight ahead, tightens the rope, and helps it on its voyage. Presently there is a sudden, and this time a decided divergence to the right--probably caused by some undercurrent acting on the foundations. Away goes the punt in the opposite direction, and now Goliath and David together were babes to Ian! Talk of horse-power. Elephanto-hippopotamus-Power is a more appropriate term. The muscles of his arms rise up like rolls of gutta-percha; the knotted veins stand out on his flushed forehead, but all in vain--the house continues to diverge, and Ian feeling the game to be all but lost, pulls with the concentrated energy of rage and despair. The sculls bend like wands, the rowlocks creak, the thole-pins crack. It won't do. As well might mortal man pull against Niagara falls. At this moment of horrible disappointment the house touches something submerged--a post, a fence, a mound; he knows not nor cares what--which checks the divergence and turns the house back in the right direction. What a rebound there is in Ian's heart! He would cheer if there were a cubic inch of air to spare in his labouring chest--but there is not, and what of it remains must be used in a tough pull to the opposite side, for the sheer given to the building has been almost too strong. In a few minutes his efforts have been successful. The house is bearing steadily though slowly down in the right direction. Ian rests on his oars a few seconds, and wipes his heated brow. So--in the great battle of life we sometimes are allowed to pause and breathe awhile in the very heat of conflict; and happy is it for us if our thoughts and hearts go out towards Him whose love is ever near to bless those who trust in it. He is drawing near to the knoll now, and there seems every chance of success; but the nearer he draws to the goal the greater becomes the risk of divergence, for while the slack water at the head of the knoll becomes slacker, so that the house seems to have ceased moving, the diverging currents on either side become swifter, and their suction-power more dangerous. The anxiety of the pilot at this stage, and his consequent shooting from side to side, is far more trying than his more sustained efforts had been. At last the punt reaches the smoking-box, which itself stands in several feet of water, for the ground of the knoll is submerged, its bushes alone being visible. There is only the length of the rope now between our hero and victory! In that length, however, there are innumerable possibilities. Even while he gazes the house bumps on something, slews round, and is caught by the current on the right. Before Ian has time to recover from his agony of alarm, and dip the sculls, it bumps again and slews to the left; a third favouring bump sends it back into the slack water. The combined bumps have given an impulse to the house under the influence of which it bears straight down upon the knoll with considerable force. Its gable-end is close to the smoking-box. Entranced with expectancy Ian sits in the punt panting and with eyes flashing. There is a sudden shock! Inside the house Peegwish and his chair are tumbled head over heels. Outside, the gable has just touched--as it were kissed--the smoking-box, Elsie's "summer-house;" Beauty, flapping her wings at that moment on the ridge-pole, crows, and Angus Macdonald's dwelling is, finally and fairly, hard and fast upon Sam Ravenshaw's knoll. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. FOUND AND SAVED. Now it must not be imagined that old Liz, after being carried away by the flood, submitted to her fate without a struggle. It was not in her nature to give in without good reason. She did not sit down and wring her hands, or tear her hair, or reproach her destiny, or relieve her feelings by venting them on the old couple under her charge. In short, she did not fall back in her distress on any of the refuges of the imbecile. Her first care was to arrange Daddy and Mrs Winklemann in such a manner that they could sleep with some degree of comfort in their chairs. This she did by means of pillows and blankets, and, after accomplishing it, sat down on the wet bed to contemplate the pair. Her satisfaction was soon marred, however, by the discovery that Mrs Winklemann was given to kicking in her sleep. In one of the spasmodic lunges with her lower limbs she gave Daddy's legs such a shake that the old gentleman was half awakened by the surprise. It will be remembered that the pair were seated _vis-a-vis_ in their respective arm-chairs, with a low table between them, and their legs resting thereon. To prevent a recurrence of the kick Liz put a piece of broken plank between them on the table, and by means of a rope wound round legs and table, effectually restrained the unruly members. She then returned to her place on the soaking truckle-bed, and, leaning her wet shoulders against the wall, endeavoured to think what was to be done when the return of day should enable her to act. To act was easy to Liz, but thought was difficult. In attempting it she fell sound asleep. Her shape helped her; she did not require to lie down. Her head merely dropped on one of her fat shoulders. The rotundity of her frame rendered a collapse impossible. Thus she slept and snored until daylight shone through the parchment windows--until Daddy awoke her with a gasping cough. "Hough! Hi! Liz, there's sumthin' wrang wi' my legs!" "Hoots! haud yer gab!" cried his polite daughter, leaping from her damp couch into the water, with no other evidence of feeling than a sharp "Hech!" as the cold element laved her limbs. "There's naethin' wrang wi' yer legs, only I've tied them to the table to keep them frae tum'lin' aff." "Mine boy, have he comin' back?" asked Mrs Winklemann, who was awakened by the conversation. "Na; he's no come back yet, but he'll be here afore lang, nae doot. Be quiet noo, like guid bairns. I canna let yer legs doon yet, for the floor's dreedfu' wat. There!" she added, casting loose the ropes and arranging the limbs more comfortably; "jist let them lie where they are, and I'll gie ye yer brekfists in a meenit." She was as good as her word. In a few minutes the submissive pair were busy with bread and cheese, which, with a little cold water, was the only breakfast poor Liz had to give them. While the morning meal was being dispensed the anxious little woman thrust a bite or two into her own mouth, and ate as she moved about. Then she told the old people she was "gauin' up the lum to look aboot her." Without more ado she dipped into the fireplace and disappeared up the chimney. Her surprise on reaching this point of vantage was very great. The cottage was no longer driven over the bosom of a wide sea, but floated quietly in a calm basin surrounded by trees. During the night it had been carried far down in the direction of Lake Winnipeg, and had got entangled in one of the clumps of wood with which some parts of that region were studded. The hut had been so completely thrust into the copse that it was quite encompassed by foliage, and nothing of the surrounding country was visible from the chimney-top. The only thing that remained obvious to old Liz was the fact that the hut still floated, and was held in position by a stout branch which had caught the roof. We have said that thought--that is, profound or consecutive thought--was a trouble to old Liz. Her mind leaped in an interjectional, flashing manner. Her actions were impulsive. A tall tree, a squirrel, and a bird's-eye view flashed into her brain at the same moment. She desired the last, and proceeded to act like the second, by seizing a limb of the first, which hung conveniently at her elbow. But her emulation of the squirrel was not very successful, for, although a strong frame and powerful will are useful in climbing tall trees, petticoats, even when short, are against that operation. It is needless to say, however, that in the case of old Liz difficulties were only met to be overcome. In five or ten minutes she stood with dishevelled hair, bleeding hands, and torn garments, among the topmost branches of the tall tree, and surveyed the world beneath with feelings of mingled surprise and dismay. There was evidently no abatement of the flood. On her left hand lay a boundless lake; on her right there spread out a little archipelago of trees and bushes. While she gazed her eye was arrested by two dark specks on the horizon. Could they be boats? Yes; they moved! Clearly they must be either boats or canoes. One of the old woman's intellectual flashes occurred at this point. There was a fishing-rod in the hut below, a primitive one, such as Adam might have used in Eden--the branch of a tree. Down came old Liz, much faster than she went up; slipping, scratching, rending, grasping, and clutching, until she gained the chimney, down which she went unceremoniously, alighting as formerly, with a squash which not only alarmed but besprinkled the old couple. Liz caught up the rod, tied an apron to it, and then, using it as a lance, charged the fireplace. It stuck, of course, but Liz was in no mood to be baffled. She bent the rod powerfully and forced it up. Following it, she emerged from the chimney, and, with a spirit worthy of Excelsior, bore her banner to the tall tree-top, and fastened it to the topmost bough with the last remnant of her torn neckerchief. It was in the morning of the day about which we now write, that Victor Ravenshaw and his friends arrived at the settlement. We have said that Michel Rollin set off alone in a canoe in search of his mother the moment he obtained sufficient information to enable him to act. At first he paddled wildly over the watery plain, as if mere exertion of muscle would accomplish his end, but soon he began to consider that without giving definite direction to his energies he could not hope for success. He therefore made straight for the mission station, where he found Mr Cockran's family and people encamped on the stage, the minister himself being away in his canoe visiting some of his scattered flock, and offering them such comfort as only those can who truly trust in Christ. Here he was advised to go to the Mountain, to which place it was probable his mother and grandfather would have been conveyed if picked up by any passing boat or canoe. Deciding to do so, he paddled away at once with diminishing hopes and a heavy heart, for the evidences of total destruction around him were terribly real. He had not gone far when a canoe appeared on the horizon. There was one figure in it. As it drew near the figure seemed familiar. Nearer still, and he recognised it. "Vinklemann!" "Michel!" The friends arrested their canoes by grasping hands. "I seek for ma mere," said the half-breed. "I for mine moder," returned the German. A hurried consultation ensued. It was of no use going to the Mountain. Winklemann had just come from it, having failed to find his mother. He was still suffering from the effects of his recent accident, but he could not wait. He would continue the search till he died. Rollin was of the same mind, though neither he nor his friend appeared likely to die soon. They resolved to continue the search together. Both of them were thoroughly acquainted with the Red River plains in all directions, but Rollin was more versed in the action of water. The greater part of his boyhood had been spent in canoeing and hunting expeditions with his father, from whom he inherited the French tongue and manners which showed so much more powerfully than the Scotch element in his composition. After his father's death he had consorted and hunted much with Peegwish, who spoke Indian and French, but remarkably little English. Peegwish was also a splendid canoe-man, so that Rollin had come to study with great intelligence the flow and effect of currents of water, whether deep or shallow, narrow or broad. Hence when Winklemann related circumstantially all he had done, he shook his head and gave it as his opinion that he had not gone the right way to work at all, and that, according to the lie of the land and the height of the flood, it was certain the hut must have been carried far below that part of the settlement in the direction of the lower fort. Poor Winklemann was so worn out with unsuccessful searching that he was only too glad to follow wherever Michel Rollin chose to lead. Hence it came to pass that in the afternoon of the same day the searchers came in view of the tall tree where old Liz had hoisted her flag of distress. "Voila!" exclaimed Michel, on first catching sight of the ensign. "Vat is dat?" said his companion, paddling closer alongside of his friend, and speaking in a hoarse whisper. "It look like a flag," said Rollin, pushing on with increased vigour. "There's something like one crow below it," he added, after a short time. "It have stranch voice for von crow," said the German. He was right. The yell of triumphant joy uttered by old Liz when she saw that her signal had been observed was beyond the imitative powers of any crow. As the poor creature waved her free arm, and continued to shout, while her loose hair tossed wildly round her sooty face, she presented a spectacle that might well have caused alarm not unmixed with awe even in a manly breast; but there was a certain tone in the shouts which sent a sudden thrill to the heart of Rollin, causing him, strange to say, to think of lullabies and infant days! With eyeballs fixed on the tree-top, open-mouthed and breathing quick, he paddled swiftly on. "Michel," said Winklemann, in a whisper, even hoarser than before, "your moder!" Rollin replied not, but gave a stentorian roar, that rolled grandly over the water. Why was it that old Liz suddenly ceased her gesticulations, lifted her black brows in unutterable surprise, opened her mouth, and became a listening statue? Did she too recognise tones which recalled other days--and the puling cries of infancy? It might have been so. Certain it is that when the shout was repeated she broke down in an effort to reply, and burst into mingled laughter and tears, at the same time waving her free arm more violently than ever. This was too much for the branch on which she had been performing. It gave way, and old Liz suddenly came down, as sailors have it, "by the run." She crashed through the smaller branches of the tree-top, which happily broke her fall, bounded from mass to mass of the thicker foliage below, and finally came down on a massive bough which, shunting her clear of the tree altogether, and clear of the hut as well, sent her headlong into the water. With something like frozen blood and marrow, Michel witnessed the fall. A few seconds more and his canoe went crashing through the leafy screen that hid the hut. Old Liz was up and floundering about like a black seal, or mermaid. She could not swim, but, owing to some peculiarity of her remarkable frame, she could not sink. Her son was at her side in a moment, seized her, and tried to kiss her. In his eagerness the canoe overturned, and he fell into her arms and the water at the same time. It was a joyful though awkward meeting. Much water could not quench the love wherewith the poor creature strained Michel to her heart. Winklemann came up in time to rescue both, and dragged them to the door-step of the floating hut, the door of which he burst open with a single kick, and sprang in. Who shall attempt to describe the meeting that followed? We ask the question because we feel unequal to the task. There issued from the hut a roll of German gutturals. Winklemann, rushing through two feet of water, seized his mother's hand and fell on his knees beside her. He was thus, of course, submerged to the waist; but he recked not--not he! Michel and old Liz entered, dripping like water-nymphs, and sat down on the soppy bed. Daddy, impressed with the idea that a good practical joke was being enacted, smiled benignantly like a guardian angel. "Now den, zee night draws on. Ve must be gone," said Winklemann, turning to Rollin; "git zee canoes ready--qveek!" Both canoes were soon got ready; blankets and pillows were spread in the centre of each. Mrs Winklemann was lifted carefully into one; Daddy, as carefully, into the other. Old Liz quietly took her seat in the bow of Daddy's canoe; her son sat down in the stern, while Herr Winklemann took charge of that which contained his mother. "No room to take any of de property to-night, ma mere," said Michel. "Hoots! niver heed," replied Liz. "No, I vill not heed. Moreover, Veenklemann and moi ve vill retoorn demorrow." As he spoke he chanced to look up and saw the apron which had guided him to the spot waving gently at the tree-top. In a few seconds he was beside it. Cutting the staff free, he descended and stuck it in the bow of his canoe as a trophy. Thus they paddled away from the old home. It was night when they reached the camp of the settlers on the Little Mountain. The homeless people were busy with their evening meal, and, sad though their case was, the aspect of things just then did not convey the idea of distress. The weather was fine; camp-fires blazed cheerfully lighting up bronzed and swarthy men, comely women, and healthy children, with a ruddy glow, while merry laughter now and then rose above the general hum, for children care little for unfelt distress, and grown people easily forget it in present comfort. Ruined though they were, many of them felt only the warmth of the hour. There was a shout of welcome when Winklemann's canoe was observed emerging from surrounding darkness, and a cheer burst from those who first heard the glad news--"The old folk saved!" But that was a mere chirp to the roar of congratulation that rang out when the little party landed, and the rescuers strode into camp bearing the rescued in their arms. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. A SURPRISING DISCOVERY--AND MORE. When Ian Macdonald had seen his father's house fairly stranded on the knoll, and had made it fast there with innumerable ropes, thin and thick, as the Lilliputians secured Gulliver, he bethought him that it was high time to visit the Little Mountain, to which his father had gone on at that time, and inform him of the amazing fact. Before setting off, however, common propriety required that he should look in at Willow Creek in passing, not only to let them know what had occurred, if they had not already observed it, but to ask if there was any message for Mr Ravenshaw. First releasing Peegwish, who now regarded him as a maniac, he embarked with him in the punt, and rowed over. It was by that time approaching the afternoon. Before that--indeed before the house of Angus had gone afloat--Tony, Victor, and Petawanaquat had gone off to the Little Mountain in search of Mr Ravenshaw. Those of the family who remained behind had been so busy about their various avocations, that no one had observed the sudden removal of their neighbour's dwelling. "Cora! quick! come here!" cried Elsie, in a tone that alarmed her sister. "Am I dreaming?" Cora looked out at the window, where the other stood as if petrified. "Angus Macdonald's house on the knoll!" she screamed. The scream brought her mother and Miss Trim hurriedly into the room. They stared in speechless amazement, and rubbed their eyes, but they could not rub the house of Angus Macdonald off the knoll. "There comes Ian in the punt," said Cora; "he will explain it." "He seems to be miserable enough about it if one may judge from the expression of his face," observed Miss Trim. Poor Ian was indeed profoundly miserable. The excitement of the recent event over, his mind insisted on reverting to his forlorn condition. "So near," he thought, "and yet to miss her! Old Ravenshaw could not refuse her to me now, but of what avail is his consent without Elsie's? Ah, Lambert! you're a lucky fellow, and it is shameful in me to wish it were otherwise when it makes Elsie happy." Ian now tried to act philosophically, but it would not do. In the upper room he gave the ladies a brief account of his adventure. He spoke in a cold, passionless manner, without looking once at Elsie. Of course, he did not reveal the motives that had influenced him. When he had finished he rose abruptly to leave. "Don't go yet," said Mrs Ravenshaw, "there's a bit of carpentering that I want done, and there is not a man left at the house to do it. The last gale loosened some of the shingles on the roof, and one of them slipped down to-day, so that the place leaks.--Go, Elsie, and show him the shingle near the attic window." Ian looked at Elsie, and his resolves vanished like smoke. He went meekly to the attic. "You are much changed," said Elsie, "since you went on this trip." "Changed? Not for the worse, I hope," said Ian. "Well, scarcely for the better," returned the girl with a smile. "See, here is the window, and the loose shingle is close to the sill. You won't require to go out on the roof. There is father's tool-box. If you want anything some of us will be in the room below. You may call, or come down." "Stay, Elsie," said the youth, turning abruptly on her. "You say I am changed. Well, perhaps I am. I've gone through pretty severe hardships since we parted, and the injuries I received on gaining _this_ have left their mark." He touched, as he spoke, the splendid bear-claw collar which still graced his neck. "I doubt not you have suffered," returned Elsie, in a softened tone, "but you are now well, or nearly so, and your reason is not a sufficient one to account for your being rude to all your old friends, and taking no interest in anything." "Am I, then, so rude, so callous?" rejoined Ian, drawing his hand across his brow. "Ah! Elsie, if--if--but what am I saying? Forgive me! I think that grizzly must have touched my brain when he had me under his paw. There can be no harm, however, in telling you that a wish, lightly expressed by you long ago, has been the motive power which led to the procuring of this collar. Will you accept it of me now? It is but a trifle, yet, being a bad hunter, and more used to grammars than to guns, it cost me no trifle of anxiety and trouble before I won it. I am afraid that the hope of procuring it for you had almost as much to do with cheering me on as the hope of finding Tony. Nay, don't refuse it, Elsie, from one who has known you so long that he feels almost as if he might regard you as a sister." He took off the collar as he spoke, and, with a return of his wonted heartiness, presented it to Elsie. There was something in his manner, however, which induced her to blush and hesitate. "Your kindness in searching for Tony we can never forget or repay," she said quickly, "and--and--" She paused. "Well, well," continued Ian, a little impatiently; "I did not mean to talk of Tony just now. Surely you won't refuse a gift from so old a friend as I on the eve of my departure for Canada?" "For Canada!" echoed Elsie, in surprise. "Yes. I leave the instant I can get my affairs in Red River settled." "And you return?" "Never!" Elsie looked at the youth in undisguised astonishment. She, too, began to suspect that a claw of the collar must have touched his brain. "But why hesitate?" continued Ian. "Surely you cannot refuse me so simple a favour! Even Lambert himself would approve of it in the circumstances." "Lambert!" exclaimed Elsie, with increasing amazement; "what has Lambert got to do with it?" It was now Ian's turn to look surprised. "Forgive me if I have touched on a forbidden subject; but as every one in the settlement seems to know of your engagement to Lambert, I thought--" "_My_ engagement!" interrupted Elsie. "It is Cora who is engaged to Lambert." A sudden and mighty shock seemed to fall on Ian Macdonald. He slightly staggered, paled a little, then became fiery red, leaped forward, and caught the girl's hand. "Elsie! Elsie!" he exclaimed, in tones of suppressed eagerness, "will-- will you accept the collar?" He put it over her head as he spoke, and she blushed deeply, but did not refuse it. "And, Elsie," he added, in a deeper voice, drawing her nearer, "will you accept the hunter?" "No," answered Elsie, with _such_ an arch smile; "but I would accept the schoolmaster if he were not going away to Canada for--" She did not finish the sentence, because something shut her mouth. "You're taking a _very_ long time to that shingle," called Mrs Ravenshaw from below. "Have you got everything you want, Ian?" "Yes," replied Ian promptly; "I've got all that the world contains." "What's that you say?" "It will soon be done now, mother," cried Elsie, breaking away with a soft laugh, and hurrying down-stairs. She was right. A few minutes sufficed to put the loose shingle to rights, and then Ian descended to the room below. "What a time you have been about it!" said Cora, with a suspicious glance at the young man's face; "and how flushed you are! I had no idea that fixing a loose shingle was such hard work." "Oh yes, it's tremendously hard work," said Ian, recovering himself; "you have to detach it from the roof, you know, and it is wonderful the tenacity with which nails hold on sometimes; and then there's the fitting of the new shingle to the--" "Come, don't talk nonsense," said Cora; "you know that is not what kept you. You have been telling some secret to Elsie. What was it?" Instead of answering, Ian turned with a twinkle in his eyes, and asked abruptly: "By the way--when does Louis Lambert return?" It was now Cora's turn to flush. "I don't know," she said, bending quickly over her work; "how should _I_ know? But you have not answered my question.--Oh! look there!" She pointed to the doorway, where a huge rat was seen seated, looking at them as if in solemn surprise at the trifling nature of their conversation. Not sorry to have a reason for escaping, Ian uttered a laughing shout, threw his cap at the creature, missed, and rushed out of the room in chase of it. Of course he did not catch it; but, continuing his flight down-stairs, he jumped into the punt, pushed through the passage, and out at the front door. As he passed under the windows he looked up with a smile, and saw Cora shaking her little fist at him. "You have not improved in your shooting," she cried; "you missed the rat." "Never mind," he replied, "Lambert will fetch his rifle and hunt for it; and, I say, Cora, ask Elsie to explain how shingles are put on. She knows all about it." He kissed his hand as he turned the corner of the house, and rowed away. A dark shadow falling over him at the moment caused him to turn round, and there, to his amazement, stood one of his father's largest barns! It had been floated, like many other houses, from its foundation, and, having been caught by a diverging current, had been stranded on the lawn at the side of Mr Ravenshaw's house so as to completely shut out the view in that direction. Intense amusement followed Ian's feeling of surprise. His first impulse was to return and let the inmates of Willow Creek know what had occurred; but be thinking himself that they would find it out the first time they chanced to look from the windows on that side of the house, and observing that the day was advancing, he changed his mind and rowed away in the direction of the plains, chuckling heartily as he meditated on the very peculiar alterations which the flood had effected on the properties of his father and Samuel Ravenshaw, to say nothing of the probable result in regard to his own future. A stiffish breeze sprang up soon after he left. Being a fair wind, he set up a rag of sail that fortunately chanced to be in the punt, and advanced swiftly on his voyage to the Little Mountain. On their way to the same place, at an earlier part of the day, Victor and Tony, with Petawanaquat and Meekeye, touched at the mission station. Many of the people were still on the stage, but Mrs Cockran, finding that the water had almost ceased to rise, and that the parsonage still stood fast, returned to the garret of her old home. Here she received Victor and the recovered Tony with great delight. It chanced to be about the period which Tony styled feeding-time, so that, although Victor was anxious to reach his father as soon as possible, he agreed to remain there for an hour or so. While they were enjoying the hospitality of the garret, Petawanaquat was entertained in a comparatively quiet corner of the stage, by a youth named Sinclair, a Scotch half-breed, who had been a pupil in Ian Macdonald's school, and, latterly, an assistant. Petawanaquat had made the acquaintance of young Sinclair on his first visit to Red River. They were kindred spirits. Both were earnest men, intensely desirous of finding out truth--truth in regard to everything that came under their notice, but especially in reference to God and religion. This grave, thoughtful disposition and earnest longing is by no means confined to men of refinement and culture. In all ranks and conditions among men, from the so-called savage upwards, there have been found more or less profound thinkers, and honest logical reasoners, who, but for the lack of training, might have become pillars in the world of intellect. Both Sinclair and Petawanaquat were naturally quiet and modest men, but they were not credulous. They did not absolutely disbelieve their opponents, or teachers; but, while giving them full credit for honesty and sincerity--because themselves were honest and sincere--they nevertheless demanded proof of every position advanced, and utterly refused to take anything on credit. Bigoted men found them "obstinate" and "troublesome." Capable reasoners found them "interesting." Sinclair possessed a considerable amount of education, and spoke the Indian language fluently. Petawanaquat, although densely ignorant, had an acute and logical mind. To look at them as they sat there, spoon in hand, over a pan of burgout, one would not readily have guessed the drift of their conversation. "It almost broke my heart," said Sinclair, "when I heard you had stolen Mr Ravenshaw's boy, and words cannot express my joy that you have repented and brought him back. What induced you to steal him?" "My bad heart," replied the Indian. "Was it then your _good_ heart that made you bring him back?" asked Sinclair, with a keen glance at his friend. "No; it was the voice of the Great Spirit in Petawanaquat that made him do it. The voice said, `Forgive! Return good for evil!'" "Ah; you learned these words here, and have been pondering them." "Petawanaquat heard them here; he did not learn them here," returned the red man quietly. "Listen!" he continued with a sudden glow of animation on his countenance, "My brother is young, but he knows much, and is wise. He will understand his friend. In the mountains I pitched my tent. It was a lonely spot. No trappers or Indians came there, but one day in winter a paleface came. He was a servant of the Great Spirit. He talked much. I said little, but listened. The paleface was very earnest. He spoke much of Jesus. He told the story of His love, His sufferings, His death. He spoke of little else. When he was gone I asked Jesus to forgive me. He forgave. Then I was glad, but I looked at Tonyquat and my spirit was troubled. Then it was that I heard the voice of the Great Spirit. It did not fall on my ear: it fell upon my heart like the rippling of a mountain stream. It said, `Send the child back to his father.' I obeyed the Voice, and I am here." With sparkling eyes Sinclair stretched out his right hand, and, grasping that of the red man, said in a deep voice--"My brother!" Petawanaquat returned the grasp in silence. Before either of them could resume the conversation they were interrupted by Victor shouting from a window of the parsonage to fetch the canoe. A few minutes later they were again on their way. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. BRINGS THINGS TO A POINT. While Tony was being received at the old home, as already related, and Michel Rollin and Winklemann were rescuing their mothers, and Ian Macdonald was busy transplanting his father's house, Mr Samuel Ravenshaw was sitting disconsolate on the Little Mountain. Lest the reader should still harbour a false impression in regard to that eminence, we repeat that the Little Mountain was not a mountain; it was not even a hill. It was merely a gentle elevation of the prairie, only recognisable as a height because of the surrounding flatness. Among the settlers encamped on this spot the children were the most prominent objects in the scene, because of their noise and glee and mischievous rapidity of action. To them the great floods had been nothing but a splendid holiday. Such camping out, such paddling in many waters, such games and romps round booths and tents, such chasing of cattle and pigs and poultry and other live stock, and, above all, such bonfires! It was a glorious time! No lessons, no being looked after, no restraint of any kind. Oh! it _was_ such fun! It was the sight of this juvenile glee that made Mr Ravenshaw disconsolate. Seated in the opening of a tent he smoked his pipe, and looked on at the riotous crew with a tear in each eye, and one, that had overflowed, at the point of his nose. The more these children laughed and shouted the more did the old gentleman feel inclined to weep. There was one small boy--a half-breed, with piercing black eyes and curly hair, whose powers of mischief were so great that he was almost equal to the lost Tony. He did his mischief quietly, and, as it were, with restrained enthusiasm. For instance, this imp chanced to be passing a group of Canadian buffalo-hunters seated round one of the camp-fires enjoying a can of tea. One of them raised a pannikin to his lips. The imp was at his elbow like a flash of light; the elbow was tipped, by the merest accident, and half of the tea went over the hunter's legs. The awful look of hypocritical self-condemnation put on by the imp was too much for the hunter, who merely laughed, and told him to "get along" which he did with a yell of triumph. Old Mr Ravenshaw felt a strong desire to embrace that boy on the spot, so vividly did he bring before his mind his beloved Tony! Sometimes the older people in that miscellaneous camp emulated the children in riotous behaviour. Of course, in such an assemblage there were bad as well as good people, and some of the former, taking advantage of the unprotected state of things, went about the camp pilfering where opportunity offered. One of these was at last caught in the act, and the exasperated people at once proceeded to execute summary justice. The thief was a big, strong, sulky-looking fellow. He was well known as an incorrigible idler, who much preferred to live on the labours of other men than to work. The captor was Baptiste Warder, the half-breed chief who had acted so conspicuous a part in the buffalo hunt of the previous season. "Let's string him up," cried John Flett, as Warder, grasping the thief's collar, led him into the middle of the camp. But there were two objections to this proceeding. First, it was deemed too severe for the offence, and, second, there was not a tree or a post, or any convenient object, whereon to hang him. "Roast him alive!" suggested David Mowat, but this also was laughed at as being disproportioned to the offence. "Duck him!" cried Sam Hayes. This was hailed as a good proposal, though some were of opinion it was too gentle. However, it was agreed to, with this addition, that the culprit's capote should be cut to pieces. In order to accomplish the latter part of the ceremony with more ease, one of the men removed the capote by the simple process of ripping the back up to the neck, and slitting the sleeves with a scalping-knife. The man here showed a disposition to resist, and began to struggle, but a quiet squeeze from Warder convinced him that it was useless. He was then seized by four men, each of whom, grasping an arm or a leg, carried him down to the water's edge. They passed Mr Ravenshaw in the opening of his tent. He rose and followed them. "Serves him right," said the old gentleman, on hearing who it was, and what he had done. "Ay, he's done worse than that," said one of the men who carried him. "It's only last Sunday that he stole a blanket out of old Renton's tent, and that, too, when Mr Cockran was holding service here; but we'll put a stop to such doings. Now, then, heave together--one, two, three--" The four powerful men hurled the thief into the air with vigour. He went well up and out, came down with a sounding splash, and disappeared amid shouts of laughter. He rose instantly, and with much spluttering regained the shore, where he was suffered to depart in peace by the executioners of the law, who returned quietly to their tents. Mr Ravenshaw was left alone, moralising on the depravity of human nature. The sun was setting in a blaze of golden light, and tipping the calm waters of the flood with lines of liquid fire. Turning from the lovely scene with a sigh, the old trader was about to return to his tent when the sound of a voice arrested him. It came from a canoe which had shot suddenly from a clump of half-submerged trees by which it had been hitherto concealed. As the canoe approached, Mr Ravenshaw ascended a neighbouring mound to watch it. Soon it touched the shore, and three of its occupants landed--an Indian and two boys. A woman who occupied the bow held the frail bark steady. The Indian at once strode up towards the camp. In doing so he had to pass the mound where Mr Ravenshaw was seated on a ledge of rock. He looked at the trader, and stopped. At the same moment the latter recognised Petawanaquat! If a mine had been sprung beneath his feet he could not have leaped up with greater celerity. Then he stood for a moment rooted to the spot as if transformed into stone--with mouth open and eyes glaring. To behold his enemy standing thus calmly before him, as if they had only parted yesterday and were on the best of terms, with no expression on his bronzed visage save that of grave solemnity, was almost too much for him! He grasped convulsively the heavy stick which he usually carried. The thought of the foul wrong done him by the red man rushed into his memory with overwhelming force. It did not occur to him to remember his own evil conduct! With a roar of rage worthy of a buffalo bull he rushed towards him. The red man stood firm. What the result would have been if they had met no one can tell, for at that moment an Indian boy ran forward and planted himself right in front of the angry man. "Father!" Mr Ravenshaw dropped his cudgel and his jaw, and stood aghast! The painted face was that of a savage, but the voice was the voice of Tony! The old man shut his mouth and opened his arms. Tony sprang into them with a wild cheer that ended in a burst of joyful tears! The way in which that boy hugged his sire and painted his face all over by rubbing his own against it was a sight worth seeing. It had been a concerted plan between Tony and Victor that the latter was to keep a little in the background while the former should advance and perplex his father a little before making himself known, but Tony had over-estimated his powers of restraint. His heart was too large for so trifling a part. He acted up to the promptings of nature, as we have seen, and absolutely howled with joy. "Don't choke him, Tony," remonstrated Victor; "mind, you are stronger than you used to be." "Ha! Choke me?" gasped Mr Ravenshaw; "try it, my boy; just try it!" Tony did try it. But we must not prolong this scene. It is enough to say that when Tony had had his face washed and stood forth his old self in all respects--except that he looked two or three sizes larger, more sunburnt, and more manly--his father quietly betook himself to his tent, and remained there for a time in solitude. Thereafter he came out, and assuming a free-and-easy, off-hand look of composure, which was clearly hypocritical, ordered tea. This was soon got ready, and the joyful party seated themselves round the camp-fire, which now sent its ruddy blaze and towering column of sparks into the darkening sky. Victor was not long in running over the chief outlines of their long chase, and also explained the motives of the red man--as far as he understood them--in bringing Tony back. "Well, Vic," said Mr Ravenshaw, with a puzzled look, "it's a strange way of taking his revenge of me. But after all, when I look at him there, sucking away at his calumet with that pleased, grave face, I can't help thinkin' that you and I, Christians though we call ourselves, have something to learn from the savage. I've been mistaken, Vic, in my opinion of Petawanaquat. Anyhow, his notion of revenge is better than mine. It must be pleasanter to him now to have made us all so happy than if he had kept Tony altogether, or put a bullet through _me_. It's a clever dodge, too, for the rascal has laid me under an obligation which I can never repay--made me his debtor for life, in fact. It's perplexing, Vic; very much so, but satisfactory at the same time." There were still more perplexing things in store for old Samuel Ravenshaw that night. "But why did you not bring Ian Macdonald along with you, Vic?" he asked. "I expect his father here this evening from Fort Garry, where he went in the morning for some pemmican." Before Victor had time to reply, Ian himself stepped out of the surrounding darkness. Just previous to this the party had been joined by Herr Winklemann and Michel Rollin, who, after seeing their respective mothers made as comfortable as possible in the circumstances, had been going about the camp chatting with their numerous friends. Louis Lambert had also joined the circle, and Peegwish stood modestly in the background. "Come along, Ian, we were just talking of you," said Mr Ravenshaw heartily, as he rose and extended his hand, for the disagreeables of his last meeting with the young man had been obliterated by the subsequent kindness of Ian in going off to aid in the search for Tony. Ian returned the grasp with good will, but he soon destroyed the good understanding by deliberately, and it seemed unwisely, referring to the two points which still rankled in the old man's breast. "Tut, man," said Mr Ravenshaw, a little testily, "why drag in the subjects of the knoll and my Elsie to-night, of all nights in the year?" "Because I cannot avoid it," said Ian. "Events have occurred to-day which compel me to speak of them--of the knoll, at least." "Oh, for the matter of that," interrupted the old gentleman angrily, "you may speak of Elsie too, and the old woman, and Cora, and all the household to boot, for all that I care." "I come here to claim a right," went on Ian, in a calm voice. "It is well known that Samuel Ravenshaw is a man of his word; that what he promises he is sure to perform; that he never draws back from an agreement." This speech took Mr Ravenshaw by surprise. He looked round until his eyes rested on Tony. Then he said, in a slightly sarcastic tone-- "What you say is true. Even Tony knows that." "Tonyquat knows that what Ian says of his white father is true," said the boy. At the name Tonyquat, which was the only word of the sentence he understood, Petawanaquat cast a look of affection on Tony, while his father and the others burst into a laugh at the child's sententious gravity. But Tony maintained his Indian air, and gazed solemnly at the fire. "Well, go on, Ian," said the old gentleman, in somewhat better humour. "You remember our last meeting in the smoking-box on the knoll?" continued Ian. "Too well," said the other, shortly. "Part of what you said was in the following words: `Mark what I say. I will sell this knoll to your father, and give my daughter to _you_, when you take that house, and with your own unaided hands place it on the top of this knoll!'" "Well, you have a good memory, Ian. These are the words I used when I wished to convince you of the impossibility of your obtaining what you wanted," said Mr Ravenshaw, with the determined air of a man who is resolved not to be turned from his purpose. "What you wanted to convince me of," rejoined Ian, "has nothing to do with the question. It is what you _said_ that I have to do with." Again the irascible fur-trader's temper gave way as he said-- "Well, what I said I have said, and what I said I'll stick to." "Just so," returned Ian, with a peculiar smile, "and, knowing this, I have come here to claim the knoll for my father and Elsie for myself." This was such a glaring absurdity in the old gentleman's eyes that he uttered a short contemptuous laugh. At that moment Angus Macdonald appeared upon the scene. His look of amazement at beholding his son may be imagined. Angus was not, however, demonstrative. He only stepped across the fire, and gave Ian a crushing squeeze of the hand. "It iss fery glad to see you I am, my poy, but it is taken py surprise I am, _whatever_. An' ho!" (as his eyes fell on Tony), "it iss the child you hef found. Well, it iss a happy father you will pe this night, Mr Ruvnshaw. I wish you choy. Don't let me stop you, whatever. It wass something interesting you would pe telling these chentlemen when I came up." "I was just going to tell them, father," said Ian, resting a hand on his sire's shoulder, "that I have come straight from Willow Creek with the news that this day I have, with my own unaided hands,"--he cast a sidelong glance at the old gentleman--"transported your house to Mr Ravenshaw's knoll, and have asked Elsie Ravenshaw to be my wife, and been accepted." "Moreover," continued Ian, in a calm, steady tone, "my father's biggest barn has, without any assistance from any one, stranded itself on Mr Ravenshaw's lawn!" "Bless me, Ian, iss it jokin' ye are?" "No, father. It's in earnest I am." Good reader, the aspect of the party--especially of old Ravenshaw and Angus--on hearing these announcements is beyond our powers of description; we therefore prefer to leave it to your own vivid imagination. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. THE LAST. A change--like the flashing colours of a kaleidoscope; like the phantoms of a dream! Red River settlement is dry again, or drying; but ah! what a scene of wreck and ruin! It looks as if the settlement had been devastated by fire and sword as well as water. Broken-down houses, uprooted fences and trees, piles of debris, beds and boxes, billets of wood and blankets, habiliments and hay, carioles and cordage and carcasses of cattle, all mixed up more or less, and cemented together with mud. Nearly every house in the settlement had been destroyed. Of course many a day passed after the great catastrophe before Red River was itself again, with its river confined to the proper channel, and its prairies rolling with grass-waves; but it was not long before the energetic inhabitants returned to their labours and their desolated houses to begin the world anew. About the 1st of May the flood began; by the 20th of the same month it had reached its height, and on the 22nd the waters began to assuage. On that day they had made a decided fall of two inches. The height to which the waters had risen above the level of ordinary years was fifteen feet. The flood subsided very gradually. About the middle of June the ploughs were at work again, and the people busy sowing what was left to them of their seed-barley and potatoes. Among the busiest of the busy at that bustling time was Peegwish. While others were hard at work clearing, rebuilding, ploughing, and sowing, our noble savage was fishing. The labour of this occupation consisted chiefly in staring at his line, while he sat on a mud-heap on the river bank, and smoked in the pleasant sunshine. Occasionally he roused himself to haul out a goldeye. Wildcat assisted him ably in his labours, and still more ably in the after consumption of the goldeyes. Angus Macdonald discovered them thus occupied, and had difficulty in resisting his desire to pitch the lazy fellow into the river. "What wass you doin' there?" he cried. "Wass it wastin' your time wi' small fush you will pe doin', an' every wan else workin' hard? Go an' putt the ox in the cart an' haul watter. Look sharp!" Angus concluded with some deep gutturals in Gaelic which we cannot translate, and Peegwish, rising hastily, went off to do as he was bid. But Peegwish was a poor water-drawer. The ox turned out to be more obstinate than himself, and also more callous, for when it became fatigued with hauling the water-barrel to and fro, it stopped at the foot of the slope near a corner of the garden, and refused to budge. Peegwish lashed it, but it did not feel--at all events, it did not care. He tried to wheedle it, but failed: he became abusive, and used bad language to the ox, but without success. He was in the height of his distress when Petawanaquat passed by with a load of firewood on his shoulder. The red man having been reconciled to his old enemy, had remained at Red River, partly to assist him, partly to see the end of the flood, and partly to be near his friend Sinclair and his adopted son Tonyquat. From the latter he could not tear himself away. The Indian stood and gazed solemnly at his brother savage for some minutes, then he threw down his load, and entering the garden, cut the remains of a cabbage which had survived the flood. With this he went to the ox and held it to its nose. The animal advanced; the Indian retreated a few steps. The ox advanced again in the hope of obtaining a savoury mouthful, but the Indian still retreated. Thus, step by step, the slope was ascended! "Wah!" said Petawanaquat, with a grave look, as he handed the cabbage to Peegwish, who profited by the lesson, and gained his ends. "She's fery lazy," muttered Angus to himself--referring to Peegwish--as he went up the river bank towards the knoll, where his house now stood triumphantly, "fery lazy; more lazy than--than--" Failing to find a just comparison, he tailed off in expressive but untranslatable Gaelic. "Goot tay to you, Muster Ruvnshaw," said Angus, on reaching the summit of the knoll. "It wass fery goot of you, whatever, to let my hoose stand here." "Don't mention it, Angus," said the old gentleman, removing his pipe with one hand, and extending the other. "It would be difficult to prevent it remaining where it is now. Besides, I passed my word, you know, and that cannot be broken. Come, sit down. I'm thankful your house was so considerate as to spare my smoking-box, though it has given it a shove of a few feet to the south'ard. In other respects the house is an advantage, for while it has not hurt the view, it serves to protect my box from the quarter which used to be exposed to east winds. But there is one stipulation I have to make Angus, before the bargain is closed." "An' what may that pe?" asked Angus, with a shade of anxiety. "That this smoking-box and the ground on which it stands, together with the footpath leading up to it, shall remain my property as long as I live." Angus smiled. He had the peculiarity of turning the corners of his mouth down instead of up when he did so, which gave a remarkably knowing look to his smile. "You shall pe fery welcome," he said. "And now, Muster Ruvnshaw, I came here to say a word for my poy. You know it iss natural that Ian will pe getting anxious apout the wedding. It iss impatient he will pe, whatever. He is a little shy to speak to you himself, and he will pe botherin' me to--" "All right, Angus, I understand," interrupted Mr Ravenshaw. "You know both he and Lambert are busy removing your barn from my lawn. When that is finished we shall have the weddings. My old woman wants 'em to be on the same day, but nothing can be done till the barn is removed, for I mean to have the dance on that lawn on the double-wedding day. So you can tell them that." Angus did tell them that, and it is a remarkable fact which every one in the establishment observed, that the unsightly barn, which had so long disfigured the lawn at Willow Creek, disappeared, as if by magic, in one night, as Cora put it, "like the baseless fabric of a vision!" Time passed, and changed the face of nature entirely. Wrecks were swept away; houses sprang up; fences were repaired; crops waved on the fields of Red River as of yore, and cattle browsed on the plains; so that if a stranger had visited that outlying settlement there would have been little to inform his eyes of the great disaster which had so recently swept over the place. But there would have been much to inform his ears, for it was many a day before the interest and excitement about the great flood went down. In fact, for a long time afterwards the flood was so much in the thoughts and mouths of the people that they might have been mistaken for the immediate descendants of those who had swarmed on the slopes of Ararat. Let us now present a series of pictures for the reader's inspection. The first is a little log-hut embosomed in bushes, with a stately tree rising close beside it. Flowers and berries bedeck the surrounding shrubbery, pleasant perfumes fill the air. A small garden, in which the useful and ornamental are blended, environs the hut. The two windows are filled with glass, not parchment. A rustic porch, covered with twining plants, conceals the door, and a general air of tidiness marks all the surroundings. Need we say more to convince the intelligent reader that this is the hut of old Liz? It occupies the spot where it was deposited by the flood, the family having been allowed to remain there. Under the genius of Herr Winklemann and Michel Rollin the old hut has displayed some characteristics of the cactus in sending forth offshoots from its own body. An offshoot in the rear is the kitchen; another on the right is a mansion, as large nearly as the parent, in which Winklemann has placed his mother, to the great relief of Daddy, who never forgot, and with difficulty forgave, the old woman's kicking habits when their legs reposed together on the table. It must be added, however, that the old people live on good terms, and that Mrs Winklemann frequently visits Daddy, and smokes with him. The offshoot on the left, built by Michel, is a stable, and an excrescence beyond is a cow-house. There, are fowls in front of the hut, and flour, sugar, pork, and tea within, so it may be concluded that the families are now in comfort. When the improvements just mentioned were completed, Michel Rollin, unable to settle down, had arranged with Peegwish and Wildcat to go off on a fishing expedition. Before starting he entered the hut, and said to Winklemann, who was filling his "moder's" pipe for her-- "You vill be here ven I come back? You vill not leave the ol' peepil?" "No; I vill stope till you retoorns. Be sure I vill take care of zee old vons. But dere is not much fear of anodor flood joost now." "What says he, Liz?" asked old Daddy, with a hand to his ear. "Speak oot." "Oh, he's jist haverin' aboot the flood. He says there's nae fear o' anither flood, an' I think he's aboot right." "I'm no sae sure o' _that_," returned Daddy, whose memory for the past was much stronger than for current events. "It's been said, on the best authority, that there was a seemilar flood i' the year seeventeen hunner an' seeventy-sax, anither in seeventeen ninety, an' anither in aughteen hunner an' nine." "Hoots! haud yer gab. What div _ye_ ken aboot floods?" Daddy, hearing nothing, and believing from the pleasant expression of Liz's countenance that she appreciated his remarks, nodded to Mrs Winklemann cheerily, and smiled. "Ha!" laughed her son; "you is von stranch being, old Liz--ver stranch." Having finished the filling of his "moder's" pipe and lighted it for her, Herr Winklemann arose and followed his friend Michel out of the hut. Let us look at another picture. It is a pair of cottages close to each other, and about a stone's cast from the farm at Willow Creek. The buildings are new, and much alike in form and size. There are well-tilled fields around, and fat cattle and a few sheep. The insides of these mansions have not much to boast of in the way of ornament, but there is enough to display the influence, the good taste, and the refinement of woman. Immediately after the abating of the waters Ian Macdonald and Louis Lambert set to work to build these houses, and you may be sure they were not long about it, for the tyrannical old father-in-law elect not only compelled them to take down the barn on the lawn before the weddings, but also to build houses for their brides. And after the knots were tied and the dance on the lawn at Willow Creek was over, and the happy couples were fairly established in their own homes, they kept open house for a long time, and interchanged innumerable visits between Bearclaw Cottage, (that was Ian's), and Hunter's Lodge, (that was Lambert's), and the Ark on Ararat, (that was the house of Angus), and Willow Creek, insomuch that Tony was heard one day to inform Miss Trim confidentially that he found it difficult to tell where he lived, or which was his proper home--and Miss Trim confessed that she was in much the same condition of mind. "What an amazing time we have passed through!" said Miss Trim, referring to the flood, at one of their social gatherings. "Yes," said Victor hastily, for he knew that Miss Trim was on the point of delivering one of her parenthetical and pointless orations, "it was indeed an amazing time! Such boating on the plains, and such camping out! To say nothing of tumbling into the water and being half drowned." "By the way," asked Ian, "was not poor John Flett nearly drowned about the beginning of the flood?" "Of course he was," said Mr Ravenshaw, "and if it had not been for your father he and his family would have been lost altogether. Is not that so, Angus?" "Well, it iss droont he would have been in all probabeelity," said Angus, "for he was on the wrong road when I met him, an' he couldn't find the right wan, whatever. Shon Flett iss a good man, but he iss also foolish. You see, when the watter came on him so strong that his hoose began to slup away, he took two of his oxen an' he tied them together wi' ropes, an' put planks on their backs, which he also tied; ay! an' so he made a sort of livin' stage, on which he sat his wife and four children; two of them wass poys and the other two wass girls, whatever. The frightened craters went about the best way they could, sometimes wadin' an' sometimes sweemin', an' Shon, he wass leadin' them wi' a line roond their horns, an' he wass wadin' an' sweemin' also. I came across them wi' my post an' took them in. That was just pefore we saw the hoose on fire floatin' down the river." "The house on fire!" exclaimed Cora; "I did not hear of that." "No wonder," said Lambert. "There have been so many strange incidents and hairbreadth escapes during the flood that we won't likely hear about them all for many a day to come." "But what about the house on fire?" asked Victor; "was any one in it?" "No, it was only a house that had been left somewhat hastily by its owners, who must have forgot to put out the fire or capsized something over it. At all events the house was seen floating down stream at night, and a splendid sight it was, burning furiously, with the flames glittering in the water that swept it away." "How sad!" said Elsie, whose mind dwelt on the evil rather than on the picturesque aspect of the incident. "I can't imagine what ever was the cause of the flood," remarked Mrs Ravenshaw. "Well, my dear," said her husband, in a somewhat oracular tone, "no one can certainly tell what caused it, but my own opinion is that it was caused by the unusual wetness of the fall. You remember how it rained; well, when the lakes and rivers were as full as they could hold, and the ground was soaking like a full sponge, the winter came on us suddenly and set all fast, thus preventing the water getting away. Then came the snow, also unusually heavy. Then came a late spring with a sudden burst of warm weather, and a south wind for several days in succession, turning all this accumulation into water. Red Lake, Otter-tail Lake, and Lake Travers overflowed, as you know; the Red River ice burst up and jammed against the solid ice of Lake Winnipeg, which stopped the current, and thus caused the overflow. That's _my_ notion about the flood. Whether it's right or no, who can tell?" "Your observations, sir, are fery goot, whatever," said Angus, taking an unusually long draw at his pipe. Turn we now to look upon one more picture. It is on the shores of the great lake--Lake Winnipeg. There among a tangled but picturesque mass of reeds and bushes, a canoe is resting on the reeds, and, not far from it, a rude structure of boughs and bark has been set up. It is open in front, and before it burns a large fire, whose light, however, is paled by the effulgence of the glorious sun as it dips into the lake. Petawanaquat is there, seated with a book on his knee, and a dignified, yet slightly perplexed expression on his face. His friend Sinclair is there too, teaching him to read the Word of God. Meekeye, faithful partner and sympathiser with the red man, is also there; and beside them reclines our friend Tony. That child's taste for hunting is strong. Having been--according to Miss Trim's report--a very good boy and _remarkably_ diligent at his lessons, he has been granted a holiday and permission to go a-hunting with his red father. He is tired after the day's hunt, and reclines placidly awaiting supper, which Meekeye with downcast look prepares. Having spent two hours over the Book that evening, Petawanaquat closed it slowly and looked up. "You find it rather difficult to understand," said Sinclair, with a pleasant smile. The red man rose, drew himself up, and, turning his black eyes, like the eagle, on the flashing sun, stretched out his hand. "My brother," he said, "beholds the sun. Can he tell where it comes from, or whither it goes? No; but he understands that the Great Spirit guides its course, and he is satisfied. When Petawanaquat was a child he understood very little. He is a man now, and understands a little more. When the Great Spirit takes him up yonder, no doubt his mind shall be made bigger, and it shall be filled. The book that the Great Spirit has sent is very big. Some things in it are hard to understand, but the greatest thing of all is not hard. There is but _one thing needful_. Is not Jesus the one thing? Petawanaquat wishes to live for ever. To know the Great Spirit and Jesus is to live for ever. Petawanaquat has lived long and seen much. He has seen men torture men like evil spirits. He has seen scalps torn from men and women. He has seen little ones dashed against the stones. The spirit of Petawanaquat has groaned within him--he knew not why--perhaps the Great Spirit was speaking to him in his heart. `Shall these deeds of evil never have an end?' he asked, but there was no answer. Now, an answer has come. Jesus is the Saviour _from sin_. All things shall be put under Him. When that time comes _all_ things shall be good. At present good and evil are mixed." The red man paused a moment, with a slightly troubled look, but the shadow passed like a fleeting cloud as he dropped his arm, and, with an air of simple humility, sat down again beside his friend. "Petawanaquat is only a child," he added; "at present he is only learning. In good time he shall know all." The sun's last rays were still gilding the horizon and flickering on the waves of Winnipeg when the tired hunters lay down to rest. Gradually the camp-fire lost its ruddy glow; the evening breeze died slowly down; one by one the stars came out, and the soft curtain of night, descending like a gentle spirit on the wilderness, hid the red man and his comrades from mortal eyes, and wrapped them in profound repose. THE END. 
45667	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 45667-h.htm or 45667-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/45667/45667-h/45667-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/45667/45667-h.zip) Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). THE BOY SCOUTS ALONG THE SUSQUEHANNA Or The Silver Fox Patrol Caught in a Flood by HERBERT CARTER Author of "The Boy Scouts' First Campfire," "The Boy Scouts In the Blue Ridge," "The Boy Scouts On the Trail," "The Boy Scouts In the Maine Woods," "The Boy Scouts Through the Big Timber," "The Boy Scouts In the Rockies," Etc. Etc. Copyright, 1915 By A. L. Burt Company [Illustration: "CLOSE IN ON ALL SIDES AND KEEP THEM WELL COVERED, BOYS!" SAID THAD. _Page 20_ _The Boy Scouts Along the Susquehanna._] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. The Tramp Chase. 3 II. Sighing for Trouble. 15 III. When Bumpus Climbed Over the Fence. 24 IV. Giraffe Admits That the Shoe Fits. 35 V. The Camp in the Haymow. 47 VI. Scouts to the Rescue. 58 VII. On the River Road. 67 VIII. Useful Knowledge. 77 IX. Any Port in a Storm. 88 X. The Deserted Shanty Boat. 96 XI. Adrift on the Flood. 105 XII. Hearts Courageous. 113 XIII. The Island of Hope. 122 XIV. Still Surrounded by Perils. 130 XV. The Return of Giraffe. 138 XVI. What Davy Heard. 147 XVII. Looking for Signs. 156 XVIII. More Serious News. 164 XIX. The Trail of the Marauder. 172 XX. Solving a Mystery. 181 XXI. An Empty Larder. 189 XXII. Drawing the Net. 197 XXIII. The Smoke Clew. 206 XXIV. The Capture. 214 XXV. Forced to Tell. 222 XXVI. The Keepers of the Camp. 231 XXVII. Headed for Home--Conclusion. 239 THE BOY SCOUTS ALONG THE SUSQUEHANNA. CHAPTER I. THE TRAMP CHASE. "I'm no weather sharp, boys; but all the same I want to remark that it's going to rain like cats and dogs before a great while. Put a pin in that to remember it, will you?" "What makes you say so, Davy?" "Yes, just when we're getting along splendidly, with the old Susquehanna not a great ways off, you have to go and put a damper on everything. Tell us how you know all that, won't you, Davy Jones?" "Sure I will, Giraffe, with the greatest of pleasure, while we're sitting here on this log, resting up. In the first place just notice how gray the sky's gotten since we had that snack at the farm house about noon!" "Oh! shucks! that's no positive sign; it often clouds up, and never a drop falls." "There's going to be quite some drops come _this_ time, and don't you forget it, Step Hen. Why, can't you feel the dampness in the air?" "That brings it a little closer home, Davy; any more reasons?" demanded the boy answering to the singular name of "Step Hen," but who, under other conditions, would have come just as quickly if someone had shouted "Steve!" "Well, I was smart enough to look up the weather predictions before we left Cranford yesterday," replied the active boy whom they called Davy, as he laughed softly to himself; "and they said heavy rains coming all along the line from out West; and that they ought to hit us here by to-night, unless held up on the road." "Whee! is that so? I guess you've made out your case, then, Davy," admitted the boy called "Giraffe," possibly on account of his unusually long neck, which he had a habit of stretching on occasion to abnormal dimensions. "Mebbe Thad knew about what was in the air when he told us to fetch our rubber ponchos along this trip," suggested Step Hen, whose last name was Bingham. There were just eight boys in khaki sprawled along that log in various favorite positions suggestive of comfort. They constituted the full membership of the Silver Fox Patrol connected with the Cranford Troop of Boy Scouts, and the one designated as Thad Brewster had been the leader ever since the start of the organization. Those of our readers who have been fortunate enough to possess any of the previous volumes in this Series need not be told just who these enterprising lads are; but for the purpose of introducing them to newcomers, a few words may be deemed necessary in the start. Besides the patrol leader there were Allan Hollister, a boy whose former experiences in the woods of Maine and the Adirondacks made him an authority on subjects connected with outdoor life; a Southern boy, Robert Quail White, called "Bob White" by all his chums; Conrad Stedman, otherwise the "Giraffe," previously mentioned; "Step Hen" Bingham; Davy Jones, an uneasy fellow, whose great specialty seemed to lie in the way of wonderful gymnastic feats, such as walking on his hands, hanging by his toes from a lofty limb, and kindred remarkable reckless habits; Cornelius Hawtree, a very red-faced, stout youth, with fiery hair and a mild disposition, and known as "Bumpus" among his set; and last though not least "Smithy," whose real name was Edmund Maurice Travers Smith, and who had never fully overcome his dainty habits that at first had made him a subject of ridicule among the more rough-and-ready members of the Silver Fox Patrol. There they were, as active a lot of scouts as could have been found from the Atlantic to the Pacific. They had been through considerable in the way of seeing life; and yet their experiences had not spoiled them in the least. At the time we discover them seated on that big log they were a good many miles away from their home town; and seemed to be bent upon some object that might make their Easter holidays a season to be long remembered. When Step Hen so naively hinted that the patrol leader may have suspected a spell of bad weather was due, when he ordered them to be sure and fetch along their rubber ponchos, there was a craning of necks, as everybody tried to set eyes on the face of Thad. Of course Giraffe had the advantage here, on account of that long neck of his, which he often thrust out something after the style of a tortoise when the land seems clear. "How about that, Mr. Scout Master?" asked Bumpus. Thad Brewster had a right to be called after that fashion, for he had duly qualified for the position, and received his commission from scout headquarters, empowering him to take the place of the regular scout master, when the latter could not be present. As Dr. Philander Hobbs, the young man who gave of his time and energies to help the cause along, found himself unable to accompany the scouts on many of their outings, the necessity of assuming command frequently fell wholly on Thad, who had always acquitted himself very well indeed. Thad laughed as he noted their eagerness to hear his admission. "I'll have to own up, fellows," he went on to say frankly, "that I did read the paper, just as Davy Jones says happened with him; and when I saw the chances there were of a storm coming down on us, I made up my mind we ought to go prepared. But even if we didn't have a rubber poncho along I wouldn't be afraid to wager we'd get through in pretty decent shape." "That's right, Thad," commented Giraffe; "after scouts have gone the limit, like we did down South last winter, when the schoolhouse burned, and we had a fine vacation before the new brick one was completed, they ought to be able to buck up against nearly anything, and come out of the big end of the horn." "Horn!" echoed Bumpus, involuntarily letting his hand fall upon the silver-plated bugle he carried so proudly, and the possession of which told that he must be the bugler of the troop--"Horn! that reminds me I haven't had a chance to use my dandy instrument only at reveille and taps for quite some time now." "Well, don't start in now, Bumpus, whatever you do," remonstrated Step Hen. "To my mind a horn's a good thing only on certain occasions. Now, when I'm just gettin' the best sleep after sun-up it's sure a shame to hear you tooting away to beat the band." "But none of us make any sort of a row when he blows the assembly at meal times, I notice," Smithy remarked sagely; and not a protest was raised, showing that in this particular the members of the patrol were unanimously agreed. The last exploit of the scouts had taken them into the Far South, in fact among the lagoons and swamps of Louisiana; and although some months had since passed, it would seem as though the events of that thrilling experience were still being threshed out whenever the eight boys came together. Thad was an orphan, living with an uncle, a quaint old man whom everyone knew as "Daddy." Acting from information that had been received in a round-about way, the leader of the scout patrol had organized an expedition to go South during the unexpected vacation, to look for a certain man who had once worked for his widowed mother, and was suspected of having been concerned in the mysterious disappearance of Thad's little sister, Pauline, some years back. The boys had carried this enterprise through to a successful termination; and after meeting with many thrilling, likewise comical adventures, had actually traced this man, and managed to recover the child; who was now a happy inmate of the Brewster home, the pride of old Daddy's heart. Judging from the numerous burdens with which the eight boys were weighted down it would seem that they must be in heavy marching order, after the manner of troops afield. Each fellow carried a blanket, folded so as to hang from his shoulder, and with the two ends secured under the other arm. Besides, he had a haversack that looked as though it might contain more or less food and extra clothing. Giraffe also sported a frying-pan of generous dimensions; another scout carried a coffee pot; and doubtless the necessary tin cups, knives, forks, platters and spoons would be forthcoming whenever needed. The convenient log which served the boys as a seat lay close to the road along which they had been tramping for hours that day, making inquiries whenever a chance offered, and picking up clews after the fashion of real scouts. As the reason for their coming to this part of the country has everything to do with our story, it had better be explained before we follow Thad and his chums any further along the rather muddy road that led across country to the Susquehanna River. Just a couple of days before the coming of the Easter holidays Thad had been asked over the 'phone to come and see Judge Whittaker, one of the most respected citizens of Cranford. Wondering what the strange request could mean, the patrol leader had immediately complied, after school that same afternoon. He heard a most remarkable thing, and one that thrilled his nerves as they had not been stirred for many a day. The Judge first of all told him that he had long observed the doings of the scouts with growing admiration, and finding himself in need of assistance of a peculiar order, made bold to call upon Thad to help him. Shorn of all unnecessary particulars, it would seem that the Judge, obeying a whim which he now called the height of foolishness, and while waiting for a new safe to be delivered from New York to take the place of the one that had to be opened by an expert because the time-lock had gone wrong, had actually sewed a very valuable paper in the red lining of an old faded blue coat which was hanging in his closet, and which he kept as a memento of the time his only son served in the engineer corps of the army. It seemed that as the Judge had married again, his wife was not very fond of seeing that old blue army overcoat with the red lining hanging around; and thinking it a useless incumbrance, she had figured that it would be doing more good shielding some poor tramp from the cold than just tempting the moths in that closet. And so it came about that one day, upon looking for the army coat, the Judge discovered to his utmost dismay that it could not be found. When he asked his wife, she was compelled to admit that three days before, after pitying a shivering hobo who came to the door and asked for food, she had obeyed a sudden generous instinct and given him the warm if faded blue overcoat. The Judge was in a great predicament now. His first thought was to start out in search of "Wandering George" himself, and buy back the coat, which the hobo could not imagine would be worth more than a dollar or so at the most. Then, when he remembered his rheumatism, and how unfitted for such a chase he must be, the Judge gave this plan up. His next idea was to send to the city and have a detective put on the track; but he had a horror of doing this, because he fancied that most of these professional detectives were only too ready to demand blackmail if given half a chance; and there was something about that paper which Judge Whittaker did not want known in a public way. And just about that time he happened to think of Thad and his scouts; which gave him an inspiration. He felt sure they would be able to follow the hobo who wore the faded army overcoat, and in due time come up with him. Then Thad was to offer him a few dollars for the garment, using his discretion so that the suspicions of the tramp might not be aroused. It promised to be a pretty chase, and already they had been on the road for the better part of two days, here and there learning that a man wearing such a coat had been seen to pass along. Part of the time they had tramped the ties of the railroad, but latterly the chase had stuck to the highway. Now, acting on the suggestion of the sorrowful Judge, Thad had not told any one of the scouts, saving his close chum Allan, what the real reason of the hunt for the lost army coat meant. The others simply fancied that Judge Whittaker valued the old garment highly because his only son, now in Alaska, had worn it during the Spanish-American war, and was unwilling to have it come to such a disgraceful end. All they thought about was the fun of tracking the hobo and eventually bringing back the old engineer corps overcoat to its late owner. That was glory enough for Step Hen, Giraffe, Bumpus and the rest. It afforded them a chance to get in the open, and imagine for a time at least that they were outdoing some of those dusky warriors who, in the good old days of "Leatherstocking" and others of Cooper's characters, roamed these very same woods. "If you feel rested enough, fellows," Thad now told them, "perhaps we'd better get a move on again. The last information we managed to pick up told us this Wandering George, as he likes to call himself, can't be a great distance ahead of us now. In fact, I'm in hopes that we may run across him before night comes and forces us to go into camp somewhere along the river." Accordingly, the other scouts sprang to their feet, everyone trying to make out that he was as "fresh as a daisy," though poor fat Bumpus gave an audible groan when he pried himself loose from that comfortable log. He was not built for long hikes, though possessed of a stubborn nature that made it hard for him to give up any object upon which he had set his heart. "Yes, we've rested long enough," admitted Giraffe, who, being tall and slim, was known as a fine runner, and long distance pedestrian. "Sorry to say there won't be any wagon following us to pick up stragglers; so if you fall down, Bumpus, better stop at the first farmhouse you strike, and wait till we come back." This little slur only caused the fat scout to look at the speaker contemptuously; but from an unexpected quarter help came. "Huh! you certainly do like to rub it into Bumpus, Giraffe, because he's built on the heavy order," Step Hen went on to say; "but go slow, my boy. Don't you know the battle isn't always to the swift or the strong? Have you forgotten all about the race between the hare and the tortoise; and didn't the old slow-moving chap come in ahead, after all? I've known Bumpus to beat you out before this. You may have to use a crow-bar to get him started sometimes; but once he does move he don't let little things balk him. Besides, it ain't nice of you nagging him because he happens to weigh twice as much as you do. Bumpus is all right!" "Thank you, Step Hen; I'll remember that," observed the freckled-face scout, as he gave his defender an appreciative grin. Down the road they went, straggling along without any particular order, because Thad knew from past experiences he could get better work out of his followers when they relaxed. Still, they kept pretty well bunched, for whenever the conversation started up none of them wished to lose a word of what was said. On the previous night they had been forced to make a temporary shelter with all manner of fence rails, boughs from trees, and such brush as they could find. Having their blankets along, and being cheered with a camp fire during the night, the experience had been rather delightful on the whole. These energetic boys had been through so much during the time they belonged to the Cranford Scouts that nothing along ordinary lines seemed to daunt them. They were well equipped for meeting and overcoming such difficulties as might arise to confront them on a trip like the present one; in fact, they took keen delight in matching their wits against all comers, and a victory only served to whet their appetite for more problems to be solved along the line of woodcraft knowledge. For something like half an hour they pushed steadily along. Bumpus, in order to positively prove to the sneering Giraffe that he was in the best of condition, had actually pushed ahead with the leaders. If he limped occasionally he did his best to conceal the fact by mumbling something about the nuisance of stepping on pebbles and being nearly thrown off his balance; a ruse that caused the said wily Giraffe to smile broadly, and wink toward Step Hen knowingly. However, this disposition of their forces enabled Bumpus to make a discovery of apparently vast importance, which he suddenly communicated to the rest in what he intended to be a stage whisper: "Hey! hold on here, what's this I see ahead of us, boys? Unless my eyes have gone back on me, which I don't believe they have, there's the smoke of a fire rising over yonder alongside the road; and Thad, tell me, ain't there a couple of trampy looking fellows sitting on stones cooking their grub? Bully for us, fellows, I wouldn't be surprised a bit now if we'd gone and ketched up with our quarry right here and now!" Every scout stared as Bumpus was saying all of this. They saw that smoke was undoubtedly rising close to the road, showing the presence of a fire; while their keen, practiced eyes, used to observing things at long distances, told them that in all probability the two men who occupied the roadside camp belonged to the order of hoboes; for their clothing showed signs of much wear and tear, and moreover they were heating their coffee in old tomato cans, after the time-tried custom of the tramp tribe the country over. Naturally, under the circumstances, this discovery caused their hearts to beat with additional rapidity as they contemplated an early closing of their campaign. CHAPTER II. SIGHING FOR TROUBLE. "Well, I'm sorry, that's all!" ejaculated Step Hen. "What at?" demanded Giraffe; "we ought to be puffed up with pride over our success, and here you go to pulling a long face. What ails you, Step Hen?" "It's just this way," muttered the scout addressed disconsolately; "we never did run across a better chance to have a great time than when we started out on this hobo chase; and here it's turned out too easy for anything. Shucks! a tenderfoot might have followed that Wandering George right along to here; and now all we've got to do is to surround the camp, and make him fork over that old blue coat the judge loves so well. It's a shame, that's what!" "I feel something the same way you do, Step Hen," remarked Allan; "why, I figured on doing all sorts of smart stunts while we were on this hike; and here, before a chance comes along, we corral our game!" "I'm just as sorry as you, suh," observed the Southern boy, with the accent that stamped him a true Dixie lad; "but I reckon now you wouldn't have Thad tell us to sheer off, and give the hoboes a chance to run away, just to let us keep up this chase. We promised to recover that old army coat for the judge, and for one I'd be ashamed to look him in the face again, suh, if we let it slip through our fingers on account of wanting to lengthen the sport." "That's the right sort of talk, Bob White," said Thad, with a nod of his head, and a sparkle in his eyes. "Much as we all like the sport of showing what we know in the way of woodcraft, duty comes first. And we couldn't shirk our responsibility in this case just to gratify our liking for action." "What's the program, then, Thad?" asked Smithy, yawning as though he did not feel quite as much interest in the chase as some of the others; for Smithy of late, Thad noticed with regret, was apparently losing some of his former vigor, and acting as though ready to shirk his duty when it did not happen to appeal to him very strongly. "We can have a little fun out of the thing by planning a complete surround, can't we, Thad?" asked Step Hen eagerly. "I hope you say yes to that, Mr. Scout Master," added Giraffe; "because it'll be apt to take some of the sting out, after having our game come to such a sudden end." "I was going to say something along those lines, boys, if you had let me," Thad told them. "So far the tramps have given no sign that they suspect our being here. We'll arrange it so as to surround the camp, and then at a signal from me everybody stand up and show themselves. I'll arrange it so that we'll make a complete circle around the fire, and to do that we'll move in couples." He immediately paired them off, and each detachment was told what was expected of it in making the move a practical success. Even in these apparently small matters Thad proved himself a capable commander, for he picked out the most able to undertake the difficult part of the work, while to Smithy and Bumpus was delegated the easier task of crawling along the side of the road until they found shelter close to the hoboes' fire. Giraffe and Step Hen were ordered to cross to the other side of the road and, making a little detour, came up from the north. The remaining four scouts branched off to the south, and it was the intention of Thad, taking Davy Jones along, to continue the enveloping movement until he could approach from the opposite quarter, which would mean along the road in the other direction. Meanwhile Bob White and Allan would be taking positions to the south, and then curbing their impatience until Thad had signaled and learned that all of them were in place. This was a most interesting piece of work for the boys. They delighted in just such practices, and for the simple reason that it enabled them to bring to bear on the matter all the knowledge they had managed to accumulate connected with the real tactics of scouting, as practiced by hunters and Indians, as well as the advance guard of an army sent out to "feel" of the enemy's lines. At a certain point Thad gave Allan and Bob White the sign that they were to turn to one side, and begin advancing toward the smoke again, while he and Davy would keep straight on. They did not have to creep as yet, but kept bending low, in order to render the risk of being discovered as small as possible. Later on, however, as they headed toward the hub of the wheel, which was marked by the cooking fire, Thad and his companion did not hesitate to flatten themselves out on occasion, and do some pretty fine wriggling in passing from one patch of leafless bushes to another. Every time they raised their heads cautiously to look, Davy would give one of his little chuckles, telling that the situation was eminently satisfactory, so far as he could see. The two men were still hovering over their miserable little fire, which was such a poor excuse for a cooking blaze that any practical scout must curl his lip in disdain, knowing how easy it is to manage so as to have red coals, instead of smoky wood, when doing the cooking. Davy could see that there was no longer the first question about their being genuine tramps. A dozen signs pointed to this fact; and he found himself wondering which of the pair would turn out to be Wandering George. He did not see the faded blue army coat on either of them; but then it would be only natural for the possessor to discard this extra weight when keeping so close to a warm blaze. Doubtless, the object of their search would be found nearby, used in lieu of a blanket, to cover the form of the new owner as he slept in the open, or in some farmer's haystack. Several of the scouts carried guns, even Bumpus having so burdened himself in the hope that during their chase after the lost army coat they might happen to run across some game worth taking, in order to lend additional zest to the outing. As Thad and Davy had chosen the longest task in making for the further side of the hobo camp, they could take it for granted when they finally reached the position the scout leader had in his eye, that all of the other detachments must by then have arrived. To test this Thad gave a peculiar little sound that was as near like the bark of a fox as possible. Every member of the patrol had in times past perfected himself in making just that sort of sound, and of course they would immediately recognize it as the signal of the scout master, desirous of knowing whether all of them had gained their positions. There came an immediate "ha! ha!" from across the road, and also from deeper in the woods, where Allan and Bob White were lying; but none from Bumpus and Smithy. Evidently, something had happened to cause a delay there. Thinking they had what they might call a "snap," the two slow moving scouts covering this quarter had delayed their advance too long, and were now holding back. As the tramps, however, had heard those strange barking sounds coming from three quarters, and jumped to their feet in alarm, Thad did not consider it wise to delay the exposure of their presence any longer. Accordingly, he gave a shrill whistle that was well known to the others. Imagine the consternation of the hobo campers when from behind concealing bushes they saw figures in khaki rise up, some of them bearing threatening guns. Even Bumpus and Smithy followed suit, though not as near the fire as the rest. Perhaps the first thought of the alarmed tramps was that they were surrounded by a detachment of the militia, for the sight of those khaki suits must have stunned them. Before they could gather their wits together to think of resistance Thad was heard to call out with military precision: "Close in on all sides; and keep them well covered, boys!" At that those who carried guns made out to aim them, and their manner was so threatening that both hoboes immediately elevated their hands, as though desirous of letting their captors see that they did not expect to offer the slightest resistance. Slowly the scouts came forward, converging toward the common center, which of course was the smoky fire, alongside of which those two old tomato cans stood, each secured at the end of a bunch of metal ribs taken from a cast-off umbrella. That successful surround would have made a picture worthy of being framed and hung upon the wall of their meeting room in the home town, some of the scouts may have proudly thought, as they walked slowly forward, thrilled with the consciousness of power. The tramps kept turning around, to stare first at one pair of boys and then at another lot, as though hardly knowing whether they were awake or dreaming. If they had guilty consciences, connected with stolen chickens, or other farm products, they must have believed that the strong arm of the law had found them out, and that the next thing on the program would be their being marched off to some country town lockup. "Aw! it's too, too easy, that's what!" grumbled Step Hen disconsolately. "Like taking candy from the baby!" added Giraffe, who always liked to have some spice connected with their adventures, and could not bear the idea of being on a team that outclassed its rival in every department; a tough struggle was what appealed to him every time, though of course he wanted the victory to eventually settle on the banner of the Silver Fox Patrol. "Makes me think of that old couplet we used to say about old Alexander," Bumpus here thought it policy to remark, just to show them that he too hoped there might have been some warm action before the tramps surrendered; "let's see, how does she go? 'Alexander with ten thousand men, marched up the Alps, and down again!'" "Mebbe it was Hannibal you're thinking about, Bumpus," suggested Step Hen; "but it don't matter much who did it, we've gone and copied after him. I say, we ought to go home by a roundabout course, so as to try and stir things up some. This is sure too easy a job for scouts that have been through all we have." The tramps were listening, and eagerly drinking in all that was said; perhaps a faint hope had begun to possess them that after all things might not turn out to be quite as bad as first appearances would indicate. "Thad, it's up to you to claim that coat now, so we can evacuate this camp," observed Smithy, who was observed to be pinching his nose with thumb and forefinger, as though the near presence of the tattered hoboes offended his olfactory nerves; for as has been said before, the Smith boy had been a regular dude at the time he joined the patrol, and even at this late day the old trait occasionally cropped out. Thad looked around at his comrades, and somehow when they saw the smile on his face a feeling bordering on consternation seized hold of them. "What is it, Thad?" asked Davy Jones solicitously. "Yes, why don't you tell us to get what we came after, and fly the coop?" demanded Giraffe, who did not fancy being so close to the ill-favored tramps much more than the elegant Smithy did. "There's nothing doing, fellows," said the acting scout master, with an eloquent shrug of his shoulders that carried even more weight than his words. "What!" almost shrieked Step Hen, "do you mean to tell us that we're on the wrong trail, and that neither of these gents is the one we want, Wandering George?" "That's just what ails us," admitted Thad; "we counted our chickens before they were hatched, that's all. Stop and remember the descriptions we've had of this Wandering George, and you'll see how we've been barking up the wrong tree!" All eyes were immediately and eagerly focused on the faces of the two wondering hoboes. At the same time, no doubt, there was passing through each boy's mind that description of the man who had gone off with the faded army overcoat, and which had been their mainstay in the way of a clew, while following the trail. CHAPTER III. WHEN BUMPUS CLIMBED OVER THE FENCE. A brief silence followed these words of the patrol leader. Then the boys were seen to nod their heads knowingly. It was evident that, once they had their suspicions aroused by Thad, every fellow could see what a dreadful mistake had been made. "Well, I should say now that Wandering George was half a foot taller'n either of these fellows!" declared Bumpus, being the first to control his tongue, which was something remarkable, since as a rule he was as slow of speech as he was with regard to moving, on account of his weight. "And had red hair in the bargain!" added Step Hen. "Oh! everybody's doing it now," mocked Davy Jones; "and I can see that there ain't the first sign of an old faded blue army overcoat anywhere around _this_ camp." "After all, who cares?" exclaimed Giraffe, as he lowered his threatening gun; an act that doubtless gave the two tramps much solid satisfaction. "All of us felt mean and sore because our fine tracking game had come to such a sudden end. Now there's still a chance we'll meet up with a few crackerjack adventures before we pick the prize. I say bully all around!" Davy Jones immediately threw himself into an acrobatic position, and waved both of his feet wildly in the air, as though he felt that the situation might be beyond weak words, and called for something stronger in order to express his exuberant feelings. "Yes, all of those things would be enough to convince us we've made a mistake," remarked Thad; "and if we want any further proof here it is right before us." He pointed to the ground as he spoke. There were a number of footprints in the half dried mud close to the border of the road, evidently made by the two men as they walked back and forth collecting dead wood for their cooking fire. "You're right, Thad," commented Allan Hollister, who of course instantly saw what the other meant when he pointed in that way. "We settled it long ago that we ought to know Wandering George any time we came up with him, simply because he's got a rag tied around his right shoe to keep it on his foot, it's that old, and going to flinders. Neither of these men has need to do that; in fact, if you notice, they've both got shoes on that look nearly new!" At that one of the tramps hastened to speak, as though he began to fear that as it was so remarkable a thing for a road roamer to be wearing good footgear, they were liable to arrest as having stolen the same. "Say, we done a little turn for a cobbler two days back, over in Hooptown, an' he give us the shoes. Said he fixed 'em fur customers what didn't ever come back to pay the charges; didn't we, Smikes?" "We told him his barn was on fire, sure we did, an' helped him trow water on, an' keep the thing from burnin' down. He gives us a hunky dinner, an' trows de trilbies in fur good measure. But dey hurts us bad, an' we was jest a-sayin' we wishes we had de ole uns back agin. If it wa'n't so cold we'd take 'em off right now, and go bare-footed, wouldn't we, Jake?" "Oh! well, it doesn't matter to us where you got the shoes," said Thad. "We happen to be looking for another man, and thought one of you might be him. So go on with your cooking; and, Giraffe, where's that knuckle of ham you said you hated to lug any further, but which you thought it a sin to throw away? Perhaps we might hand the same over to Smikes and Jake, to pay up for having given them such a bad scare." This caused the two tramps to grin in anxious anticipation; and when Giraffe only too willingly extracted the said remnant of a half ham which the scouts had started with, they eagerly seized upon it. "It's all right, young fellers," remarked the one who had been called Smikes, as he clutched the prize; "we ain't a-carin' if we gits the same kind o' a skeer 'bout once a day reg'lar-like, hey, Jake? Talk tuh me 'bout dinner rainin' down frum the clouds, this beats my time holler. Cum agin, boys, an' do it sum more." Thad knew it was folly to stay any longer at the camp, but before leaving he wished to put a question to the men. "We're looking for a fellow who calls himself Wandering George," he went on to say. "Just now he's wearing an old faded blue army overcoat that was given to him by a lady who didn't know that her husband valued it as a keepsake. So we just offered to find it for him, and give George a dollar or so to make up. Have either of you seen a man wearing a blue coat like that?" "Nixey, mister," replied Jake promptly. "Say, I used to wear a blue overcoat, like them, when I was marchin' fur ole Unc Sam in the Spanish war, fool thet I was; but honest to goodness now I ain't set eyes on the like this three years an' more," the second tramp asserted. "That settles it, then, fellows!" ejaculated Step Hen, with a note of joy in his voice; "we've got to go on further, and run our quarry down. And let me tell you I'm tickled nearly to death because it's turned out so." "Who be you boys, anyhow?" asked Smikes. "Air ye what we hears called scouts?" "Just what we are," replied Allan. "That's why we think it's so much fun to follow this Wandering George, and trade him a big silver dollar for the old coat the lady gave him when she saw he made out to be cold. Scouts are crazy to do all kinds of things like that, you know." "Well, dew tell," muttered the tramp, shaking his head; "I don't git on ter the trick, fur a fact. If 'twar me now, I'd rather be a-settin' in a warm room waitin' tuh hear the dinner horn blow." "Oh! we all like to hear that, let me tell you," asserted Giraffe, who was unusually fond of eating; "but we get tired of home cooking, and things taste so fine when you're in camp." "Huh! mebbe so, when yuh got plenty o' the right kind o' stuff along," observed the man who gripped the ham bone that Giraffe had tossed him, "but yuh'd think a heap different, let me tell yuh, if ever any of the lot knowed wat it meant tuh be as hungry as a wolf, and nawthin' tuh satisfy it with. But then there seems tuh be all kinds o' people in this ole world; an' they jest kaint understand each other noways." Thad saw that the tramp was rather a queer customer, and something along the order of a hobo philosopher; but he had no more time just then to stand and talk with him out of idle curiosity. So he gave the order, and the scouts, wheeling around, strode out upon the road, their faces set toward the east. The last they saw of the two tramps was just before turning a bend in the road they looked back and saw that the men were apparently hard at work dividing the remnant of the ham that had been turned over by the boys as some sort of solace to soothe their wounded feelings. Half a mile further on and the woods gave place to cultivated fields and pastures, although of course it was too early in the season for much work to be done by the farmers, except where they were hauling fertilizer to make ready for the first plowing. "If we get the chance, boys, to-night, let's sleep in a barn," suggested Giraffe, as he rubbed his right shank as though it might pain him. "Where we lay last night it seemed to me a million roots and stones kept pushing into my body till I was black and blue this morning. And I always did like to nestle down in good sweet hay. I don't blame tramps for taking the chance every opportunity that opens. What do the rest of you say to that?" "It strikes me favorably," Step Hen quickly admitted. "Oh! any old place is good enough for me," sighed Bumpus. "If you can only be sure there are no rats around, I believe I'd enjoy sleeping in a hay mow," Davy told them. "I've never had the experience," remarked Smithy with a shrug of his shoulders, and a grimace; "and I must confess I don't hanker much for it. Bad enough to have to roll up in your own blanket any old time; but spiders and hornets and all that horrible set are to be found in haylofts, they tell me. I'm more afraid of them than an alligator or a wild bull. A gypsy once told me I would die from poison bites, and ever since I've had to be mighty careful." Of course the rest of the scouts had to laugh to hear Smithy confess that he believed in the prophecy of a gypsy, or any other fake fortune-teller. "I wouldn't lie awake a minute," ventured Step Hen, "if a dozen gypsies told me I was going to break my neck falling out of bed. Fact is, I'm built so contrary that like as not I'd hunt up the highest bed I could find to sleep on. I do everything on Friday I can think of; and when the thirteenth of the month comes around I'm always looking out to see how I can tempt fate. Ain't an ounce of superstition in my whole body, I guess. Fortune-tellers! Bah! you ought to have been a girl, Smithy." "Oh! well, I didn't say I _believed_ I'd die by poison, did I?" demanded the other adroitly; "I'm only explaining that I don't mean to let the silly prophecy come true by taking hazards that are quite unnecessary." "Seems to me we've been walking like hot cakes ever since we said good-by to Smikes and Jake," observed Bumpus, who was puffing a little from his exertions; "and Thad, would you mind if we took a little breathing spell about now? Just see how inviting this pile of old fence rails looks alongside the road. I hope you say yes, Thad, because I want to get fit to keep on the go till dark comes along." "No objections to favoring you, Bumpus," Thad told him; "and if looks count for anything I rather think all the rest of us will be glad of a chance to rest up a little. So drop down, and take things easy, boys. I'll give you ten minutes here." "Look sharp before you sit down!" warned Smithy, who had disengaged his blanket, as though meaning to use it for a soft cushion--time was when he invariably brushed a board or other intended resting-place with his handkerchief before sitting down; but the other scouts had long ago laughed him out of this habit, which jarred upon their nerves as hardly consistent with rough-and-ready scout life. Giraffe had a most remarkable pair of eyes. He often discovered things that no one else had any suspicion existed. On this account, as well as the fact that he was able to see further and more accurately than his chums, he was sometimes designated as "Old Eagle Eye," and the employment of that name invariably gave him more or less pleasure, since it proclaimed his superiority in the line of observation. Giraffe was also a great hand for practical jokes. When some idea flashed into his mind he often gave little heed to the possible result, but immediately felt impelled to put his scheme into practice, with the sole idea of creating a laugh, of course with another scout as the victim. They had hardly been sitting there five minutes when Giraffe might have been heard chuckling softly to himself, though no one seemed to pay any particular attention to him. He elevated that long neck of his once or twice as if desirous of making sure concerning a certain point before going any further. Then, when satisfied on this score, he glanced from one to another of his companions, evidently seeking a victim. When his gaze, after going along the entire line, returned once more to plump, good-natured Bumpus, who had now ceased puffing, and was looking rested, it might be set down as certain that there was trouble of some sort in store for the red-haired, freckle-faced scout. Now Giraffe was a sharp schemer. He knew how to go about his business in a way least calculated to arouse suspicion. Instead of immediately blurting out what he had in mind, he started to "beating around the bush," seeking to first disarm his intended victim by drawing him into a little discussion. Before another full minute had passed Thad noticed that Giraffe and Bumpus were warmly discussing some matter, and that the stout scout seemed to be unusually in earnest. Doubtless, this was on account of the sly assertions which Giraffe inflicted upon him, the tall scout being a past master when it came to giving little digs that hurt worse than pins thrust into one's flesh. "I tell you I _can_ do it!" Bumpus was heard to say stubbornly. "Don't believe you'd ever come within a mile of making it, and that goes, Bumpus." Giraffe went on as though he might be a Doubting Thomas who could only be convinced by actual contact; "and tell you what I'll do to prove I'm in earnest. If you make it in three trials, straddling the limb while my watch is counting a whole minute, I'll hand over that fine compass you always liked so much. How's that, Bumpus; are you game to show us, or have I dared you to a standstill?" "What, _me_ back down for a little thing like that? Well, you just watch me make you eat your words, Giraffe!" So saying the fat scout clambered up over the rail fence, and dropped in the open pasture beyond. "What's he going to do?" asked Thad, as they saw Bumpus start on a waddling sort of gait toward a tree that stood by itself some little distance from the fence, and with a clump of bushes not far away. He looked a little suspiciously at Giraffe, who immediately stopped his chuckling, and tried to draw a solemn face, though he shut one eye in a humorous fashion. "Why, he started to boast that he had been doing some fine climbing lately," explained the tall scout; "and I dared him to go over and get up in that tree while I held the watch on him. He's got to start climbing and make it inside of sixty seconds; and between you and me, Thad, I reckon now he might manage it in half that time--if hard pushed." "You've got some game started, Giraffe; what is it?" asked the patrol leader, as he turned again and watched the portly scout moving like a ponderous machine toward the tree which Giraffe had mentioned as a part of the contract. Giraffe did not need to answer, for at that very second there came what seemed to be a loud bellow of rage from over in the field somewhere. Looking hastily through the bars of the fence, the seven boys saw a spectacle that thrilled them with various emotions. From out of the sheltering bushes, where those keen roving eyes of Giraffe must have discovered her presence, came a dun-colored cow. Possibly her calf had recently been taken from her by the butcher, for she was furious toward all humankind. Her tail was held in the air, and as she ran straight toward poor Bumpus she stopped for a moment several times to toss a cloud of earth up with her hoofs, for she had no horns, Thad noted, which was at least one thing favoring Bumpus. CHAPTER IV. GIRAFFE ADMITS THAT THE SHOE FITS. "Look out, Bumpus!" shrieked Davy Jones, as though instantly realizing what a perilous position the stout scout would be in if that angry cow succeeded in bowling him over with her hornless head. "Run! run, Bumpus; a wild bull is after you!" shouted Step Hen, who may have really believed what he was saying with such a vim; or else considered that by magnifying the danger he might add more or less to the sprinting ability of the said Bumpus. There was really little need to send all these warnings pealing over the field, because Bumpus had already glimpsed the oncoming enemy, and was in full flight. At the moment of discovery he chanced to be fully two-thirds of the way over to the tree which had been the special object of his attention. It was therefore much easier for him to reach this haven of refuge than it would have been to dash for the fence with any hope of making that barrier. "Go it, Bumpus, I'll bet on you!" howled Giraffe, jumping up on the fence in his great excitement, so that he might not miss seeing anything of the amusing affair. Now, possibly, the angry cow that had been bereft of her beloved calf by a late visit of the butcher might have readily overhauled poor Bumpus had she kept straight on without a stop, for she could cover two yards to his one. For some reason which only a cow or bull could understand, the animal seemed to consider it absolutely necessary that with every few paces she must come to a halt and paw the ground again, sending the earth flying about her. That gave the stout runner his chance, and so he succeeded in gaining the tree, with his four-footed enemy still a little distance away. Bumpus was evidently unnerved. He had seen that terrifying spectacle several times as he looked anxiously over his fat shoulder, and it had always caused him to put on an additional spurt. When finally he banged up against the tree, having of course stumbled as usual, his one idea was to climb with lightning speed. His agreement with the scheming Giraffe called for an ascent in sixty seconds, but he now had good reason for desiring to shorten this limit exceedingly. He doubtless imagined that he would feel the crash of that butting head against his person before he had ascended five feet, and this completely rattled him. Left to himself and possibly he could have climbed the smooth trunk within the limit of time specified in his arrangement with Giraffe; but such was his excitement now that he made a sorry mess of it. The boys were shrieking all sorts of instructions to him to "hurry up," or he was bound to become a victim; one was begging him with tears in his eyes to "get a move on him!" while another warned Bumpus of the near approach of the oncoming cow, and also the fact that she had "fire in her eyes!" Twice did the scout manage to get part way up, when in his tremendous excitement he lost his grip, and in consequence slipped down again, amid a chorus of hollow groans from the watchers beyond the fence. The avenging cow was now close up, and still enjoying the situation, as was evidenced by the way she made the earth fly. She could be heard giving a series of strange moaning sounds peculiarly terrifying; at least Bumpus evidently thought so, for after his second fall he just sat there, and stared at the oncoming enemy as if he had actually lost his wits. "Get behind the tree, Bumpus!" That was Thad shouting, and using both his hands in lieu of any better megaphone. Now, since Thad had always been the leader of the patrol ever since its formation, Bumpus was quite accustomed to obeying any order which the other might give. Doubtless, he recognized the accustomed authority in those tones; at any rate, it was noticed that he once more began to make a move, struggling to his feet in his usual clumsy way. "Oh! he just missed getting struck!" ejaculated Smithy, as they saw Bumpus move around the tree, and heard a loud crash when the head of the charging cow smashed against the covering object. The animal was apparently somewhat stunned by the contact, for she stood there, looking a little "groggy," as Giraffe called it. Had Bumpus known enough to remain perfectly still, and allow the tree to shelter him the best it could, all might have gone well; but something that may have been boyish curiosity impelled the fat scout to thrust out his head. Why, he had so far recovered from his fright, thanks to the substantial aid of that tree-trunk, that he actually put his fingers to his nose, and wiggled them at the cow! She must have seen him do it, and immediately resented the implied insult; for all of a sudden she was seen to be in motion again. There was a flash of dun-colored sides, and around the tree the cow sped, chasing Bumpus ahead of her. Of course the scout did not have to cover as much ground as the animal, but the fact must be remembered that he was a very clumsy fellow, and apt to trip over his own feet when excited, so that the danger of his falling a victim to the rage of the mother cow was as acute as ever, despite the sheltering tree. Giraffe seemed to be enjoying the game immensely. He sat there, perched on the rail fence, and clapped his hands with glee, while shouting all manner of brotherly advice at Bumpus. This of course fell on deaf ears, because just then the imperiled scout could think of only one thing at a time, and that was to keep out of reach of that battering ram. Thad knew that something must be done to help Bumpus, who if left to his own resources never would be able to extricate himself from the bad fix into which he had stumbled, thanks to that love of a joke on the part of Giraffe, and his own blindness. "Hi, there, Bumpus, she thinks you look like the butcher that took her calf away, that's what's the matter!" cried Step Hen. "Pity you ain't a cow puncher, Bumpus," Giraffe went on to say; "because then you could throw that poor thing easy. Huh! think I could do it with one hand!" "Then suppose you get off that fence and do it!" said Thad severely. "You got poor old Bumpus in that hole, and it ought to be your business to rescue him!" Giraffe looked dubious. When he spoke so confidently about believing himself able to down the raging cow he certainly could not have meant it. "Oh! he ain't going to get hurt, Thad," he started to say; "if I saw him knocked down, course I'd jump and run to help him. The exercise ought to do Bumpus good, for he's been putting on too much flesh lately, you know. You'll have to excuse me, Thad, sure you will. I'll go if things look bad for him; but I hate to break up the game now by interfering." Thad paid no more attention to Giraffe, since he knew that the other's inordinate love for practical joking made him blind to facts that as a true scout he should have kept before his mind. "Hello! Bumpus!" the patrol leader once more shouted. "Yes--T-had, what is it?" came back in a wheezy voice, for to tell the truth Bumpus was getting pretty well winded by now, thanks to the rapid manner in which he had to navigate around that tree again, with the active bovine in pursuit. "Take off that red bandanna from your neck, and put it in your pocket!" ordered the patrol leader. Strange to say no one else--saving possibly the artful Giraffe--had once considered this glaring fact, that much of the cow's anger was excited by seeing the hated color so prominently displayed by the boy who had invaded the pasture at such an unfortunate time in her life of frequent bereavements. Taking it for granted that Bumpus would obey the first chance he got to unfasten the knot by which his big bandanna was secured around his neck, Thad clambered over the fence and started to run. He did not head directly for the tree around which this exciting chase was being carried on, but obliquely. In doing this Thad had several reasons, no doubt. First of all he was more apt to catch the attention of the angry cow, for he was waving his own red handkerchief wildly as he ran, and doing everything else in his power to attract notice. Then, if he did succeed in luring the animal toward him he would be taking her away from the tree at such an angle that when Bumpus headed for the spot where his other chums were gathered the cow would not be apt to see him in motion and give chase. Thad knew how to work the thing nicely. He succeeded in attracting the attention of the cow, for he saw her stop in her pursuit of Bumpus, and start to pawing the turf again. "She's coming, Thad!" roared Allan. As he spoke the cow started on a full run for the new enemy. That flaunting red rag bade her defiance, apparently, and no respectable bovine could refuse to accept such a gage of battle. Thad had not gone far away from the fence at any time. He was not hankering to play the part of a bull-baiter, and run the chance of being tossed high in the air, or butted into the ground. He had, like a wise general, also marked out the way of retreat, and when the onrushing animal was fully started, so that there seemed to be little likelihood of her stopping short of the fence, Thad nimbly darted along, and just at the proper time he was seen to make a flying leap that landed him on the top rail, from which he instantly dropped to the ground. He continued to flaunt the red handkerchief as close to the nose of the cow as he could, so as to hold her attention; while she butted the fence again and again, as only an angry and baffled beast might. Thad was meanwhile again shouting his directions to the dazed Bumpus, who, winded by his recent tremendous exertions, had actually sunk down at the base of the friendly tree as though exhausted. "Get moving, Bumpus!" was what the patrol leader told him. "Back away, and try to keep the tree between the cow and yourself all you can. Don't waste a single minute, because she may break away from me, and hunt you up again! Get a move on you, Bumpus, do you hear?" Finally aroused to a consciousness of the fact that he was not yet "out of the woods" so long as no fence separated him from that fighting cow, Bumpus started in to obey the directions given by the leader of the Silver Fox Patrol. It was no difficult matter to back away, keeping in a line that would allow the tree to cover him, and the fat scout in this manner drew steadily closer to where his comrades awaited him. He was near the fence when the cow must have discovered him again, for the first thing Bumpus knew he heard Davy shrieking madly. "Run like everything, Bumpus! Whoop! here she comes, licketty-split after you! To the fence, and we'll help you over, Bumpus! Come on! Come on!" Which Bumpus was of course doing the best he knew how, not even daring to look over his shoulder for fear of being petrified by the awful sight of that "monster" charging after him, and appearing ten times as big as she really was. Arriving at the fence he found Davy and Giraffe awaiting him, for the latter, possibly arriving at the repentant stage, had begun to realize that a joke may often be very one-sided, and that "what is fun for the boys is death to the frogs." Assisted by their willing arms the almost breathless fat scout was hustled over the fence. There was indeed little time to spare. Hardly had Davy and Giraffe managed to follow after him, so that all three landed beyond the barrier, when the baffled bovine arrived on the spot, to bellow with rage as she realized that her intended prey had escaped for good. Bumpus was hardly able to breathe. He was fiery red in the face, and quite wet with perspiration; but nevertheless he looked suspiciously at Giraffe, as though a dim idea might be taking shape in that slow-moving mind of his. "Oh, no, Bumpus! You don't get that compass this time," asserted the tall scout, shaking his head in the negative, while he grinned at Bumpus. "You never climbed the tree at all, you know. Our little wager is off!" "If I thought you knew--about that pesky cow, Giraffe--I'd consider that you played me a low-down trick!" said Bumpus, between gasps. Giraffe made no reply. Perhaps the enormity of his offense had begun to trouble him, because Bumpus was such a good-natured fellow, with his sunny blue eyes, and his willing disposition, that it really seemed a shame to take advantage of his confiding nature. So Giraffe turned aside, and amused himself by thrusting his hand, containing his own red bandanna, through the openings between the rails of the fence, and tempting the cow to butt at him, when, of course, he would adroitly withdraw from reach in good time. When Bumpus had fully recovered his breath, the march was resumed. Giraffe loitered behind a bit. He knew from the signs that he was in for what he called a "hauling over the coals" by the patrol leader, and fully expected to see Thad drop back to join him. The sooner the unpleasant episode was over with the better--that was Giraffe's way of looking at it, and he was really inviting Thad to hurry up and get the scolding out of his system. Sure enough, presently Thad dropped back and joined him. Looking up out of the tail of his eye, Giraffe saw that the other was observing him severely. He fully expected to hear something unpleasant about the duty one scout ought to assume toward his fellows. To his surprise Thad started on another tack entirely. "I want to tell you a little story I read the other day, Giraffe," he said quietly, "and, if the shoe fits, you can put it on." "All right, Thad; you know I like to hear stories first rate," mumbled Giraffe, glad at least that the others of the party were far enough ahead so that none of them could hear what passed between himself and the patrol leader. "I think," began Thad, "it was told to illustrate the old saying that 'curses, like chickens, come home to roost.' The lecturer went on to say that when a boy throws a rubber ball against a wall it bounds back, and, unless he is careful, it's apt to take him in the eye; and that's the way everything we do comes back to us some time or other." "Sure thing it does; and p'raps some day I expect Bumpus will be getting one over on me to pay the score," admitted Giraffe; but Thad did not pay any attention to what he said, only went on with his story. "There was once a boy, a thoughtless boy, with a little cruel streak in his make-up, who always wanted to find a chance for a good laugh, without thinking of what pain he might be causing others," Thad went on, at which Giraffe winced, for the shaft went home. "One day he was playing on a hillside with their big dog, Rover. He would roll a stone down the hill, and Rover would obediently run after it, and bring it back. He seemed to be enjoying the sport as much as the boy. "Then all at once the boy discovered a big hornet's nest almost a foot in diameter, hanging low down on a bush. He saw a chance to have a great lark. He would roll a stone so as to hit the nest, and send Rover after it. Then the hornets would come raging out, and it would be such a lark to see them chasing poor Rover down the hill. "Well, the stone he rolled went true to the mark, and came slam against the hornet's nest. Rover was in full pursuit, and he banged up against it, too. Out came a black swarm of furious hornets, and of course they tackled poor Rover like everything. "The boy up on the hill laughed until he nearly doubled up, to hear Rover yelp, and whirl around this way and that. He thought he had never had such a bully time in all his life as just then. Rover was a fine dog, and the boy thought just heaps of him; but then it was so comical to see how he twisted, and bit at himself, and he howled so fiercely, too, that the boy could hardly get his breath for laughing. "But all at once he saw to his alarm that poor Rover, unable to help himself, was running up the hill straight to his master, as though thinking that the boy could save him. Then the boy stopped laughing. It didn't seem so funny then. And, Giraffe, inside of ten seconds there was a boy running madly down the hill, fighting a thousand mad hornets that stung him everywhere, and set him to yelling as if he were half crazy. When he got home finally, and saw his swollen face in the glass, and felt Rover licking his hand as if the good fellow did not dream that his master had betrayed him so meanly, what do you suppose that boy said to himself, if he had any conscience at all?" Giraffe looked up. He was as red in the face as any turkey that ever strutted and gobbled. Giraffe at least had a conscience, as his words proved beyond any doubt. "Served him right, Thad; that's what I say! And I thank you for telling me that story. It's a hummer, all right, and I won't ever forget it, either, I promise you. It _was_ a cruel joke, and some time I'm going to make up for playing it. That's all I want to say, Thad." And the wise patrol leader, knowing that it would do Giraffe a lot more good to commune with himself just then, rather than to be taken to task any further, walked away, to rejoin Allan, who was at the head of the expedition. Nor did Giraffe make any effort to hasten his footsteps so as to catch up with the rest, until quite some little time had elapsed. CHAPTER V. THE CAMP IN THE HAYMOW. "There's a farmhouse over yonder, Thad; and night's coming on pretty fast now!" called out Davy Jones later on, after the expedition had covered several more miles of ground, and seemed to be descending an incline that would very likely shortly take them to the bank of the winding Susquehanna. "I hope we decide to bunk in a haymow, and not out in the open to-night," added Step Hen. "Not having any tents along makes it a poor business trying to keep off the rain, if she should drop in on us. How about it, Thad?" "I reckon, suh, we're all of one mind there," remarked Bob White. "Just as you say, boys," Thad announced. "We'll turn in here, and see if the farmer will allow us to camp in his barnyard." "And mebbe he might sell us a couple of fat chickens, and some fresh milk or cream to go with our coffee. That would be about as fine as silk, I'm telling you," and Giraffe, who had rejoined his comrades, looking just the same as ever, rubbed his stomach as he said this, by that means implying that the prospect pleased him even more than words could tell. Accordingly the line of march was changed. They abandoned the road, and started up the lane that led to the farmhouse. A watchdog began barking furiously, and at the sound several people came out of the house, and the big barn as well; so that while the scouts had clustered a little closer together, as though wishing to be ready for an attack, they knew there was now nothing to fear. Three minutes later and they were talking with the grizzled farmer, his good wife, a couple of girls, and the stout young hired help named Hiram, all of whom were fairly dazzled by the sight of eight khaki-clad young fellows, some of whom carried shotguns, grouped in their dooryard. Thad explained that they were a patrol of Boy Scouts from Cranford, on a hike, and not having tents along with them, made bold to ask the farmer if they might sleep in his haymow, and cook their supper in the open space before the barns. There was something inviting about Thad Brewster's manner that drew most people toward him. That same farmer might have been tempted to say no under ordinary conditions, for he looked like a severe man; but somehow he was quite captivated by the manly appearance of these lads. Besides, he had doubtless read considerable about the activities of the scouts, and felt that the chance of hearing something concerning them at first hand was too good to be lost. "I ain't got the least objection to you boys sleeping in my hay, if you promise me not to light matches, or do any smokin' there," he said. "I'll look out for that, sir," replied Thad promptly, "and we all promise you that there will be no damage done from our staying over. We will want to make a cooking fire somewhere, but it can be done at a safe distance from the barn, and to leeward, so that any sparks will go the other way." "And if so be you could spare us a couple of chickens, mister," put in Giraffe, "we'd be glad to pay you the full market price; as also for any milk or cream or eggs you'd let us have." "Oh! you can fix that with the missus," returned the farmer; "she runs that end of the farm. I look after the crops and the stock. Now, if you wanted a four-hundred-pound pig I've got a beauty to offer you." "Thanks, awfully," returned Step Hen quickly, giving Giraffe, who was a big eater, a meaning look; "but I reckon we're well supplied in that way already." Arrangements were quickly made with the farmer's wife, and under charge of the willing Hiram, who never could get over staring at the uniforms of the scouts with envy in his pale eyes, some of the boys gave chase to a couple of ambitious young roosters that were trying their first crow on a nearby fence, finally capturing and beheading the same. Thad meanwhile accompanied the good woman to her dairy, and returned with a brimming bucket of morning's milk, as well as a pitcher of the thickest yellow cream any of them had ever gazed upon. The girls brought out some fresh eggs, and altogether the sight of so much riches caused Giraffe to smile all over. Giraffe was the acknowledged leader when it came to making fires, and that duty as a rule devolved upon him. He had made a particular study of the art, and in pursuing his hobby to the limits was able to get fire at his pleasure, whether he had a match or not. And in more than a few times in the past this knowledge had proved very useful to the tall scout, as the record in previous stories concerning the doings of the Silver Fox Patrol will explain. Accordingly Giraffe had chosen to make a neat little fireplace out of smooth blocks of stone which happened to lie handy. This he had built at the spot selected by Thad as perfectly safe; for what little wind there was would blow the sparks in a direction where they could do no possible damage. When Hiram came back he forgot all about any chores that might be waiting. Never before had he been given such a glorious chance to witness the smart doings of Boy Scouts. He observed everything Giraffe did when he made that cunning little out-of-doors cooking range, and noted that while the double row of stones spread wide apart at one end, just so the big frying pan would set across, they drew much closer at the other terminus, like the letter V, so that the coffee pot could be laid there without spilling. Then Giraffe started his fire. Hiram noticed how he picked certain kinds of wood from the abundant supply over at the chopping block. Giraffe liked to be in the lime light; and he was also an accommodating chap. He saw that the farmhand was intensely interested, as well as quite green at all such things; but the fact of his "wanting to know" was enough to start the scout to imparting information. So he told Hiram how certain kinds of wood are more suitable for cooking purposes, since they make a fierce heat, and leave red ashes that hold for a long time; and it is over such a bed that the best cooking can be done, and not when there is more or less flame and smoke to interfere. Allan and Davy had been very busy plucking the fowls during this time, while Bumpus busied himself getting some fresh water from the well near by, and fixing the coffee ready to go on the fire when Giraffe gave the word that he was prepared. One of the girls brought a loaf of fresh homemade bread, and a roll of genuine country butter that was as sweet as could be. Fancy with what impatience those boys waited while supper was being cooked. The odors that arose when the cut-up chicken was browning in the pan along with some slices of salt pork, and the coffee steaming on one of the stones alongside the fire, made a combination that fairly set several of the fellows wild, so that they had to walk away in order to control themselves. Finally the welcome signal was given by Bumpus, and never had those silver notes of the "assembly" sounded sweeter in mortal ears than they did that night in the barnyard of that Susquehanna farm, with the eight khaki-clad scouts sitting on logs, and any other thing that offered, and every inmate of the farmhouse gathered near by to watch operations. They had a feast indeed, and there was plenty for every one and to spare. Indeed, Hiram had accepted the invitation of Giraffe to hold off supper, and join them, and the big fellow seemed to be enjoying his novel experience vastly, if one could judge from the broad grin that never once left his rosy face. After the meal was over they found seats, and as the fire sparkled and crackled merrily Thad told them all that he possibly could about the aims and ambitions of the scout movement. He found a very attentive and appreciative audience; and it was possible that seeds were planted in the mind of Hiram on that occasion calculated to bear more or less good fruit later on in his life. Of course Thad had to explain to some extent why they were so far away from home, and this necessitated relating the story about the old army overcoat that had been turned over to a tramp through the desire of the judge's second wife to get rid of it. Thad of course only went so far as to say that the judge mourned the loss of an article which he really valued highly on account of its association with his only son's army life years before; and he made out such a strong case that those who heard the story could easily understand why the gentleman should wish to recover the garment again, if it were possible. None of them could remember having seen any party wearing such a coat; and it would seem that if the hobo had passed along that way, he might have applied at the farmhouse for a meal, though the presence of the dog usually deterred those of his kind from bothering the good farm wife. "Guess they've got the chalk mark on your gate post, mister," commented Step Hen, when he heard this; "I've been told these hoboes leave signs all along the way for the next comer to read. Some places they say are good for a square meal; then at another place you want to look sharp, for the farmer's wife will ring pies on you that are guaranteed to break off a tooth in trying to bite 'em. Now, like as not there's a sign on your post that says: 'Beware of the dog; he's a holy terror!'" "I hope there is," replied the farmer; "and if I knew what it was I'd see it got on every post I own, for if there's one thing I hate it's a tramp. I've had my chickens stolen, my hogs poisoned, and my haymow out in the pasture burned twice by some of that worthless lot. They kind of know me by now, and that I ain't to be trifled with." The evening passed all too quickly; and when Step Hen happened to mention that Bumpus was the possessor of a beautiful soprano voice of course the country girls insisted that he entertain them. Bumpus, as has been remarked before, was an accommodating fellow, and he allowed himself to be coaxed to sing one song after another, with all of them joining in the chorus, until he was too hoarse to keep it up. Then they spied his lovely silver-plated bugle, and nothing would do but he must sound all the army calls he knew, which added to the enjoyment considerably. Taken in all, that was the most novel entertainment any of them had ever experienced; and especially those who lived in the lonely farmhouse. It must have been a tremendous and pleasant break in the monotony that usually hangs like a pall upon all farm work. No wonder, Thad thought, all of them looked so happy when they were bidding the boys good night, and admitted that they had enjoyed the coming of the expedition greatly. Hiram could not be "pried loose," as Giraffe said. He insisted on seeing all he could of these new and remarkable friends, and had announced his intention of accompanying the scouts to the hay, and sleeping near them. No one offered the least objection. Indeed, by this time, after such an exhausting march as they had been through since sun-up, all of them were pretty tired, and their one thought was to snuggle down in the hay, with their blankets wrapped around them, and get some sleep. "Still cloudy and threatening," remarked Allen, as he and Thad took a last look around ere turning in. "Yes, it's holding off in a queer way," replied the other, "but when it does hit us, look out for a downpour. I'd be glad if we ran on that Wandering George before the rain starts in, because it'll be hard getting around when the whole country is soaked and afloat." "I'm told the river is already close to flood stage, owing to so much snow melting at headwaters," observed Allan. "Yes, we had an unusual lot last winter, you remember; and when the weather turned actually hot a few days back it must have started the snow melting at a furious rate. If we get a hard rain now there'll be a whopping big flood all along the Susquehanna this spring." "Everything seems all right around here, doesn't it?" asked Allan, as he bent down over Giraffe's fireplace, with the caution of a hunter who knew how necessary it always is to see that no glowing embers have been forgotten that a sudden wind could carry off to cause a disastrous conflagration. "I saw Giraffe throw some water over the coals," remarked Thad. "He loves a fire better than anyone I know, but you never find him neglecting to take the proper precautions. Yes, it's cold to the touch. Let's hunt a place to bunk for the night, Allan. With our blankets, a bed in the soft hay ought to feel just prime." Nine of them burrowed into the big haymow, with all sorts of merry remarks, and a flow of boyish badinage. Finally they began to get settled in their various nooks and the talking died down until in the end no one said a single word, and already Bumpus and perhaps several others began to breathe heavily, thus betraying the fact that they had passed over the border of dreamland. Thad of course had more to think about than most of his mates, because, as the patrol leader, and head of the present expedition, he found problems to study out that did not present themselves to such happy-go-lucky fellows as Bumpus, Step Hen, Davy, and perhaps Giraffe. So Thad lay there for quite some time, thinking, and trying to lay out some plan of campaign to be followed in case the expected rain did strike them before they came up with the fugitive tramp. It was very comfortable, and the hay was sweet-smelling, so that even the fastidious Smithy had not been heard to utter the least complaint, but had burrowed with the rest. Possibly he may have swathed his face, as well as his body, in the folds of his blanket, in order to prevent any roving spider from carrying out the gypsy's evil prophecy; but if so no one knew it, since all of them but Allan and Thad had made separate burrows. The young scout master remembered that his thoughts became confused, and then he lost his grip on things. It seemed to him that his dreams must be wonderfully vivid, for as he suddenly struggled up to a sitting position he could fancy that he heard some one calling at the top of his voice. Then shrill screams in girlish tones added to the clamor. "What's that mean, Thad?" demanded Allan, as he clutched the arm of his chum, at the same time sitting up. "I don't know," replied Thad shortly. "There must be something wrong up at the farmhouse. The other fellows are stirring now, so let's crawl out of this in a big hurry, Allan!" Both scouts made all haste to escape from the tunnel under the hay, kicking their way to freedom. No sooner had they gained their feet than they started out of the barn, for the haymow was under the shelter of a roof. Only too well did Thad know what was the matter, when he burst from the door of the barn, and saw that the darkness of the night was split by a glare from up in the direction of the farmhouse on the rise. Through the bare branches of the trees he could see tongues of flames. "The house is on fire, Allan!" he shouted. "We must get all the boys out, and do what we can to fight the flames. Hi! everybody on deck--Giraffe, Step Hen, Davy, and the rest of you, hurry out here and lend a hand! You're wanted, and wanted badly into the bargain!" CHAPTER VI. SCOUTS TO THE RESCUE. Feeling sure that the rest of the scouts, as well as Hiram, the overgrown country boy who worked on the farm, would be along shortly, Thad and Allan seized upon a couple of buckets, filled them at the watering trough near by, and hastened toward the burning building. The farmer, partly dressed, was doing valiant work already, and his wife kept up a constant pounding of the pump, filling buckets as fast as the man of the house emptied them. When the two scouts got to work things began to look more hopeful, though with the flames making such rapid headway it promised to be a hard fight to win out. Thad wondered why the fire should have gained such a tremendous headway, but later on the mystery was explained, and he understood the reason. When kerosene is dashed around it offers splendid food for fire, once the flame is applied. Now came all of the other fellows, eager to lend a helping hand. The farmer had been neighborly and kind, and his folks had helped to make a pleasant night for their unexpected but nevertheless welcome guests, and on this account alone Thad and his chums felt that they must do all in their power to save the house. Then again they were scouts, and as such had cheerfully promised to always assist those in trouble, whether friends, strangers, or even enemies. They found all manner of vessels capable of holding more or less water. Bumpus even manipulated a footbath, although on one or two occasions he had to stumble as usual, and came very near being drowned in consequence, since he deluged himself from head to foot with the contents. When such a constant stream of water was being poured upon the fire it could not make much headway. "Keep her going!" yelped Giraffe, whose long legs allowed him to make more frequent trips back and forth than any of the others; "we've got her at a standstill now, and the next thing you know she'll cave under. More water this way! Everybody's doing it! Hi! Bumpus, don't upset that ocean over me; it's the fire that wants putting out, not me. Whee! look at that, would you; he smothered it with that deluge. Bully for you, Bumpus! Do it some more, boy! You're sure a brick!" They worked like beavers, every fellow acting as though the success of the undertaking depended wholly upon his individual efforts. When the good woman fell back, completely exhausted with her efforts, the two girls nobly responded to the call, and pumped away as only sturdy country lassies could, filling the buckets that came their way as speedily as possible. It was very lively while it lasted, and none of those who took part in that midnight battle with the devouring element would soon forget their exciting experience. The fire seemed to be confined to the room in which it had started, so that the damage would not be extended, which was one satisfaction at least. To the boys it was next door to a picnic. They just gloried in participating in such an exciting event as this, and some of them may even have felt a little disappointment because the battle with the devouring element promised to be of such short duration, though of course that did not mean they would have been glad to have seen further disaster overtake their friend the farmer. Thad and Allan would not allow anyone to relax their efforts in the slightest degree, even when it became positive that they were quickly putting out the last of the fire. Until every spark had been properly extinguished there must lie no stoppage to the good work. A fire is only put out when there is no longer any danger of its awakening to new life when one's back is turned. Finally the work was done, and they could rest themselves. The man had gone into the kitchen and started a blaze in the stove there, for the night air seemed chilly, and none of them was dressed any too warmly. "Well, this old tramp promises to make a new record along the line of excitement for our crowd, and that's a fact!" declared Step Hen, as he took a drink of cold water, for his recent exertions had "warmed him up inside," he remarked. "I should remark it did," added Giraffe; "and who can say what lies ahead of us yet? One thing follows another like a procession. But I'm glad we happened to be here at the right time, so we could help save the farmhouse. These people have been mighty kind to us, and it's nice to be able to pay 'em back." "Say, Thad, I hope now _we_ didn't have anything to do with that fire?" remarked Davy, who lowered his voice as he spoke, as though unwilling to have anyone outside of his comrades hear what he said. "Well, I reckon we had a heap to do with extinguishing the same, anyhow," Giraffe told him; "but what do you mean, Davy? Don't act so mysterious, but blurt it out." "Are you sure you didn't leave any fire where you cooked supper, Giraffe, that could have been scooped up by the rising wind, and carried to the house up here? That's what's bothering me." "Don't let it worry you a whit any longer then," Thad told him promptly; "because Allan and I made sure to examine the fireplace, and we found that Giraffe, like a true scout, had thrown water on the last spark. It was cold and dead. So you see, Davy, we couldn't have had anything to do with its starting." "Then what happened?" asked Smithy, who evidently did not know that he had a ridiculous long black smooch down one side of his face, or he would not have looked so well satisfied, because Smithy still cared a great deal for his personal appearance, and sometimes even brushed his hair on the sly when in camp. "We'll have to find that out from the farmer," said Thad. They looked in the kitchen where the owner of the house had last been seen, but he was not there. Just then they heard him calling them. "Come in here, boys!" he kept saying; and presently they located the voice as coming from the living room, where the fire had been confined, thanks to their energetic labors. As they pushed in there they saw that it was pretty much of a wreck; but as the farmer's wife had already told Thad they were fully insured, the result would be more of an inconvenience, and the loss of family treasures, than any great amount of pecuniary damage. The farmer was standing at an old desk that was part bookcase. It had somehow managed to escape the flames that came upon most of the contents of the sitting-room. "They got my little pile, all right," he started to say, as the scouts crowded into the damaged and blackened room, now several inches deep with water; "but I'm glad it wasn't very much. If this had happened three weeks ago I'd have stood to lose several thousand dollars, because I sold a patch of land, and had the cash overnight in this same desk, though I banked it next day." Thad was immediately deeply interested. He saw in these significant words of the farmer an explanation of the mystery as to how the fire could have started. "Do you mean to tell us that you have been robbed, sir?" he asked; and the old man nodded his head. "I woke up, and thought I heard the low sound of voices downstairs here," he went on to explain; "so I got out of bed, after waking Nancy, picked up my gun, and came down the stairs. They creak like all get-out, and must 'a' told the scamps somebody was coming. Just as I got to the door I saw two men by the desk here, that they had forced open; and I guess they'd copped my little roll of bills about that time. Well, I was struck dumb at the sight at first, and then I remembered my gun; but before I could swing it up to my shoulder one of them swept the lighted lamp from the table to the floor. "The flash that came blinded me, and I forgot all about the robbers in thinking about saving my house. Then Nancy she came down, and we got busy. All at once I remembered you boys in the barn, and Hiram, and I started to yellin' at the top of my voice, but pitchin' water all the while. That's how the fire started, you see; and we're sure beholdin' a heap to you boys for helpin' put it out as smart as we did. It looks tough, for a fact, but sho! it might 'a' been heaps worse." "But the dog--what d'ye reckon they could have done to him?" asked Giraffe. "It might be they pizened Toby," replied the farmer; "I wouldn't put it past that tough pair to do anything. But chances are the dog's off to the woods huntin' rabbits. He often runs away like that and stays all night long. If I tie him up he barks enough to set us crazy. I'll have to get rid of him, and find a better watchdog." "Well, things are getting warmer right along, ain't they?" Step Hen wanted to know. "A fire was bad enough, but when you find out that it was started by thieves, and that they actually robbed the house first, it gets more and more exciting. Now the Silver Fox Patrol has done something along lines like that before; and mebbe we might again, given half a fair chance." "I suppose the two men didn't wait to see what happened after they had knocked the lamp over, and the flames shot up?" remarked Allan, thoughtfully; and the farmer was quick to reply. "They cleared out in a big hurry, because I didn't see anything more of the pair," he admitted. "But then they got what they came after, and that satisfied the rascals. And I don't reckon there's a single chance in ten I'll ever recover that fifty dollars, barring twenty cents, that I got for the last two loads of hay I took into town. But then my house is left, and we'll get some insurance to pay for repairs, so I'm not complaining. There's only one thing that makes me mad." "What was that, Mr. Bailey?" asked Davy, deeply interested. "That I was so stunned at sight of them fellers robbin' my desk I forgot I had an old Civil War musket in my hands. I had ought to've let fly, and knocked one of the pizen critters silly. I'll never forgive myself for bein' so slow to act." Thad had his own ideas about that. Had the farmer fired that long-barreled musket at such close range he would possibly have killed one of the men; and whether such a tragedy would have been justified under the circumstances was and must remain an open question. If his life had been threatened of course the farmer would have done right to defend himself to the utmost; but Thad believed that had it been him he would have allowed the men to get some distance away before sending a load of shot at them, his object being to wound and not slay. It was certainly good, however, to find that Mr. Bailey took things so philosophically all around. Some men would have been bewailing their misfortune, and never once seeing how much they had to be thankful for. "Do you think you would know either or both of them again if you happened to set eyes on them, sir?" asked the patrol leader, with an object in view. "I saw them faces as plain as I do yours, my boy," responded the farmer, soberly, "and I'm dead sartin I'd know 'em again. Why--whatever am I thinkin' about, to be sure? Say, you boys ought to know that you've got nigh as much interest in findin' them tramps as I feel. You wonder why I say that, do you? I'll explain it to you in a jiffy. Listen then. One of the thieves had red hair, and he was wearin' an old faded blue army coat with red lining in it. That's why!" It seemed as though every one of those eight scouts drew a deep breath that had the sound of a sigh. They looked at one another, at first with wonder in their faces, and then Giraffe was heard to give vent to what he intended should be a joyous chuckle. The sound was contagious, for immediately broad smiles began to appear here and there, and there was a general hand-shaking as though the news were deemed important enough to make them congratulate each other. It was a fact calculated to make them feel that the long chase had not been useless, when they thus learned so suddenly that the man they hunted had been almost in their power half an hour before. CHAPTER VII. ON THE RIVER ROAD. "Well, wouldn't that give you a heart-ache, now?" remarked Giraffe, making a wry face, as he looked at his seven mates. "Just to think of it!" exclaimed Bumpus, "we were all sleeping sweetly like babes in the woods, out there in the hay, while our game passed us by. A healthy lot of scouts we seem like, don't we? When people hear of this they'll vote us a leather medal. Always on guard, hey? Never letting a single thing worth while slipping through our fingers? Oh! my stars, somebody fan me!" Thad laughed at the fat scout. "I wouldn't feel so bad if I were you, Bumpus," he remonstrated; "there's nothing on us that I can see. This happened to be an accident that we couldn't help. How were we to guess that the man we came after would drop in here and rob the farmer? The fortunes of war, Bumpus. Besides, it gives us a pointer. We know now that Wandering George isn't far ahead of us; and we're going to catch up with him before a great while." "That's the way to talk, Thad!" commented Step Hen. "We never give up when we get started on a game. Keeping everlastingly at it is what wins most of all. George was kind to leave his card behind him; and in the morning we'll start out fresh on the trail." It would appear from this that none of the others felt at all depressed because of the strange happening; and realizing this even Bumpus was soon looking satisfied again. The farmer declared he would not try to sleep any more that night, but as for the scouts they could see no reason why anyone else should follow his example, when that sweet hay called so loudly. The consequence was that before long there was an exodus to the barn, for since the small hours of the morning had come the air was decidedly cool, and none of them felt comfortable. Nothing more developed during the remainder of that night, and the first thing some of the sleepers knew they were hearing the bugle sounding the reveille. Bumpus had been aroused by Allan poking him in the ribs, and telling him it was sun-up; for somehow the two had bored into the hay together the second time. Giraffe attended to the fire, as usual, and as everybody wanted to get warm there was no lack of cooks. The work of the farm had started long before, and already the girls were coming in with full buckets of new milk; while the cackling of many hens announced that the biddies were giving an account of themselves. As the boys gathered around and started to partake of their breakfast the farmer and his family poured out of the house bearing all manner of additions to the menu, even to a couple of apple pies, which seems to be a standard early morning dish in the country along the Susquehanna, even as doughnuts are in New England. Of course the boys fared like kings, and would not soon forget that splendid breakfast. When they packed their kits ready to make a fresh start, the girls insisted on pressing various little additions to their larder upon them, so that what with the apples, cookies, and the like, some of the boys could hardly manage to strap up their haversacks. And there was Hiram looking so forlorn over their going that Thad took pity on the poor fellow. "I'm going to remember you, Hiram," he told the farmhand, as he squeezed his big hand warmly, "and after we get home I'll send you a bunch of reading matter in connection with this scout movement, as well as several cracking good books that have been written covering the activities of our Silver Fox Patrol." "Gosh! I hope yeou do that same!" ejaculated Hiram, brightening up; "'cause I'm jest bustin' to larn all about it. I'd give a heap if I ever hed a chanct to wear a suit like them be, an' camp out in the woods. I hearn thar be a troop o' scouts a-formin' over in Hicksville, an' by jinks I'm a-goin' to put in a application, as sure's my name's Hiram Spinks!" "I hope you do, Hiram," the patrol leader told him, "and if I can do anything at any time to help out, let me know. First of all I'm going to mail you an extra handbook or Boy Scout Manual I've got knocking around home; and if you're feeling a touch of the fever now, that's guaranteed to give it to you ten times worse." So they said good-by to the hospitable farmer and his family, none of whom would accept a single cent in return for what they had done for the scouts. Indeed, they vehemently declared they were heavily in the boys' debt on account of their having helped save the farmhouse after it had been set on fire by the action of the hobo thieves, surprised at their work of robbing the farmer's desk. Thad had been off somewhere while the rest were finishing their packing. When he came back Allan, who noticed the expression on the face of the patrol leader, guessed he must have met with a certain amount of success. Apparently he knew what the other had started out to find; at least his first remark made it look that way. "Well, was it there, Thad?" he observed. "As plain as print," came the immediate reply, accompanied with a smile of satisfaction, such as a fellow may assume when he is in a position to say "I told you so!" "That is, the track of a broken shoe which has the sole held in place by a rag bound about it, hobo fashion?" continued Allan. "Yes, and belonging to the right foot at that, just as we learned long ago was the case with Wandering George," Thad continued. "Where did you run across the trail?" questioned Allan. "I'll show you when we're leaving here," he was told. "It's so plain even a tenderfoot couldn't miss seeing the same. And when the road is reached you can follow it for some little distance." "Toward the river, Thad?" "Yes, in an easterly direction," answered the leader of the patrol; "and that just suits us right up to the notch, you know. But the boys are ready to start, so we'd better be hiking out." The last they saw of the farmer and his family the two girls were waving their sun-bonnets wildly, while the older people contented themselves with making use of their hands. This little visit of the scouts had made a very enjoyable break in the monotony of their lives, and would not be soon forgotten. As for Hiram, he had received permission to accompany the boys for a mile along the road; though Thad had solemnly promised the farmer to send him back in due time, for there were daily chores to be looked after that could not be neglected. While some of the others, notably Bumpus and Smithy and Davy, were paying attention to answering the fervent signals of the jolly country girls, Thad was showing Allan, Giraffe, Bob White and Step Hen the plain impression of the marked shoe belonging, as they very well knew, to the particular tramp whom they were so anxious to overtake. How Hiram did listen eagerly to every word that was uttered, and even got down on his hands and knees to scrutinize that impression. He had of course hunted at times, as every country boy does, and shot his quota of small game like rabbits, squirrels, quail and woodcock; yet knew next to nothing concerning the real delights of woodcraft. But the seed had taken root in Hiram's soul, and would sprout from that time on. The coming of these scouts had aroused an ambition within him, and he could never again be the same contented plodder that he had seemed to be in the past. Down the road the boys walked at a brisk pace, chatting and joking as they went on. Those in the van of course had the task of keeping in touch with the tracks and every once in a while they made sure that these could still be discovered in the rather soft soil alongside the road. When the mile had been passed and more Thad reminded Hiram of his promise, and in turn every scout pressed the big fellow's hard hand warmly. So they passed out of Hiram's life; but the result of his meeting these wide-awake scouts was destined to mark an epoch in the career of that country boy, a turning point in his destiny as it were. The day was another gloomy one. It seemed as though Nature might be frowning her worst, and giving all sorts of portentous signs concerning what was coming before long. If anything the damp feeling in the air had grown more pronounced than before, which would indicate to a weather prophet the approach of wet weather. It takes considerable to dampen the enthusiasm of lively scouts, however; and as the morning crept along they continued to make merry as they plodded on their way. It was about eleven o'clock when a shout from Giraffe in the front announced a discovery of some moment. Trust "Old Eagle Eye" for finding out things ahead of others; he was not gifted with that keenness of vision for nothing. "What is it, the river at last?" called Bumpus, between puffs, for the pace was fast enough to make the stout scout breathe hard. "That's what it is, as sure as you live!" exclaimed Step Hen. "And let me tell you, suh, she looks mighty fine to me," remarked Bob White, who was particularly fond of the water, and a good boatman as well as canoeist. "Whew! Strikes me the old Susquehanna must be on a tear already!" came from Bumpus, as he caught his first glimpse of the wide expanse of flowing water. "It is pretty high for a fact!" Smithy admitted; "I'm somewhat familiar with the river, because I visited here several summers; and I never saw so much water running down between its banks." The road they were following, upon drawing near the river, turned sharply to the south. After that the boys knew they must be within reaching distance of the water as long as they kept to that thoroughfare; though of course should they learn, through the tracks they followed, that the hobo wearing the old army coat had taken to a side path they would be compelled to do the same. Occasionally they came to an isolated house, and once passed through a small hamlet; but made sure to find the trail beyond, showing that Wandering George had safely navigated through the outpost of civilization, and not been locked up. In fact, Thad was of the opinion that the pair of nomads must have circled around the village on general principles. After having been discovered in the act of robbing the farmer's home bank they may have feared arrest; and while one hid in the thickets the other possibly ventured into the village in order to purchase supplies, principally strong drink at the tavern. No matter what their tactics may have been, the pair still held to the river road, and that was sufficient for the scouts who followed the trail. "What do you make of it, Thad?" asked Giraffe, after he had seen the leader and Allan closely examining a pretty fair footprint left by the tramp; "and are we a long ways behind right now?" "It isn't an easy thing to say," he was told, "because we haven't much to go by, you see, and have to figure it out on general principles; but we've concluded that this print is about two hours old; and that the men are taking it fairly easy as tramps walk." "Every once in so often they stop, and sit down on a log that looks inviting, as you see they did here," Allan added, pointing as he spoke. "We figure they must have invested some of the stolen money in whisky at that village tavern, and that every time they stop they indulge themselves in a good swig." "Just what they do, Allan!" announced Step Hen, who had been aimlessly prowling around on the border of the road back of the log where the tramps had rested; "see here what I've picked up. That flask must have held a full pint, and it's been drained to the last drop. More where that came from; and chances are before long we may run across our men sprawled out in the bushes in a drunken sleep." "Well, as most tramps can soak in any amount of bug juice without showing signs of it," Giraffe ventured, "you mustn't count too heavy on that same; though it'd be a bully good thing for us, as we could get back the Judge's blue overcoat without any row. The question is, ought we to arrest the hoboes on account of what they did up at Bailey's farm?" "We won't cross that river till we come to it, Giraffe," laughed Thad; but all the same some of the scouts felt positive their leader had his plan of campaign mapped out already, because that was his invariable rule, so as not to be taken unawares. Another half hour passed. Just ahead of them was a small cabin between the road and the river. A fenced-in patch showed where the occupants managed to have a little garden in season. "What ails that woman standing there and calling out, d'ye suppose?" remarked Step Hen, as they were passing the cottage. "She seems to be bothered some, if you can judge by the way she waves her hands, and keeps on beckoning," Giraffe went on to say, becoming interested. "She's facing out on the river, too, you notice. Now, I wouldn't be surprised if she's got a cub of a boy who's gone out further than he ought to on the swift current in some tub of a boat, and she's trying to make him come ashore. There, didn't you hear her yell to Johnny to come back at once? And here's where the bushes end, so we can see for ourselves." It turned out that Giraffe was correct, for there was a makeshift of a boat out on the current of the river, containing a boy who was clumsily trying to turn its head in the direction of the shore. The obstructions in the Susquehanna make it a very treacherous stream, with eddies and stealthy currents that take one unawares, and "Johnny" was making a sorry mess of his work, Thad saw at a glance. "He's apt to get upset if he doesn't take care!" exclaimed Bob White, who knew the signs all too well. The woman kept shouting and no doubt this distracted the boy more or less, causing him to lose his head. In fact he did just what he should never have done; for when the bow of his boat ran up on a partly submerged rock he let go the oars, picked one up, and rising to his feet stepped forward to push the craft off again. "Sit down!" shouted Thad, between his hands; but if the boy heard he gave no sign of obeying, his one thought being to push his oar against the obstruction, and get the boat moving free again. Then came a shriek from the poor mother. The current had got in its treacherous work, just as Thad and some of his chums had expected would be the case. "He's gone in, and the boat turned turtle!" cried Step Hen, aghast. "Help! oh! somebody save my poor Johnny, because he can't swim a stroke!" shrieked the woman, wringing her hands, and appealing to the detachment of scouts, of whose presence near the spot of the tragedy she had just become aware. CHAPTER VIII. USEFUL KNOWLEDGE. That was a time for rapid action, and not talk. No one knew this better than the leader of the Silver Fox Patrol. At the same time, if he wished to render assistance to the imperiled lad it was necessary that he give a few quick directions to his chums, so they could all work together toward that end. "Allan, the rest of you hurry along and get below! Giraffe, back me up, will you? I know what you can do in cold water. We've just _got_ to save that boy, and that's all there is to it. Come along, Giraffe." The tall scout never hesitated for even a single second. He understood that it would be necessary for both of them to plunge into that flood of water, cold from the melting snows further toward the source of the river; but Giraffe was known for his boldness, and a little thing like that could not frighten him. Why, on one occasion he had plunged into a burning woods, and performed prodigies of valor; what was an ice-water bath to him but a little episode? Both boys as they hurried toward the brink of the river commenced to shed their outer garments, having discarded other impedimenta like their haversacks the first thing. In this way Thad knew he would be "killing two birds with one stone," for they must be impeded with clinging clothes when swimming; and after they came out it was bound to feel very cold, so that these dry garments must come in handy. "Jump in here, Giraffe, and I'll drop down a little further!" he shouted, as the two of them came upon the river bank. A quick look out on the rolling current had shown him how affairs stood just then. He saw that the frantic boy was clinging to the overturned boat, which was swirling around in the eddies, and swinging downstream at quite a rapid rate. He lost his grip even as Thad looked, and the heart of the scout seemed to leap into his throat with dread. Then the boy somehow managed to regain his hold, but he seemed to be so excited and frightened that there was danger of his slipping away again at any second; and being weakened by exposure the chances of his once more recovering his slender hold could not be worth much. Thad did not waste a single second. He was hurrying along even when taking this look toward the scene of the catastrophe and figuring just where to jump into the water at the same time. In deciding this he had to take into consideration the length of time that might ensue before he could expect to push out to where the overturned boat was going to pass; also the strength of the current that was bringing the wreck down toward him. Although the water felt like ice when he started in Thad did not allow that fact to bother him a particle. He shot a glance upstream, and saw that already Giraffe had reached deep water so that he was compelled to swim. The sight of him buffeting the waves gave Thad considerable satisfaction; though he feared that the boy clinging to the slippery bottom of the boat might disappear before either of the intended rescuers could reach him. Meanwhile the other six scouts had started on a run down the road, it being the intention of Allan to have them where they could render assistance in getting the others ashore, because those in the water would likely be exhausted, even if all went well. Then Thad reached a "step-off" and plunging in over his head was compelled to swim for it, which he did right valiantly, constantly keeping tabs on the oncoming boat, and still hoping that the boy might maintain his hold until either Giraffe or himself could lend a helping hand. All at once he felt a chill that was not caused by the icy water, for the poor fellow had again slipped back into the churning water. But Thad and Giraffe were closing in on him, with the latter in a position to glimpse the still struggling lad ere he finally went down. With the crisis upon him Thad dived, while Giraffe started to tread water, and hold himself in readiness to help should his chum meet with any success. It seemed an interminable time to the lengthy scout before he saw Thad reappear. At first he feared the patrol leader must have missed connections with the drowning boy; and then he made the pleasing discovery to the contrary, for Thad was gripping Johnny tightly with one arm, as he swam with the other. Giraffe shot toward him as fast as he could go, and in another moment the two scouts were putting into practice something that all scouts learn as a part of their preparedness, when trying to rescue a comrade who has been seized with a cramp while swimming--holding the unconscious lad between them, with his head kept well above the water, they started toward the bank, swimming with sturdy and well-regulated strokes. When they drew near enough for one of the others who had waded in up to his waist to reach out a hand, it came easier; and in this way they bore the rescued boy ashore. Thad was already shivering with the cold, but he kept his wits about him, and gave such orders as he saw were necessary. Allan and several of the other scouts were directed to try and resuscitate the apparently drowned boy; while Bumpus and Smithy started as big a fire as they could manage, so that all of them might warm up. Meanwhile Thad and Giraffe jumped around, and slapped their arms furiously in the endeavor to get up a good circulation of blood. The poor woman came upon them at this unfortunate moment, while Allan kneeling over the wet form of her boy was kneading his chest after the most approved fashion known to life-savers; and a couple of the other fellows were working his arms back and forth above his head as though they gripped pump-handles. "Oh! he's dead, my boy Johnny is dead!" wailed the mother, starting to throw herself upon the group; when Bob White, although full of sympathy for her harrowed feelings, knew that to stop the proceedings just then might end what hope there existed for saving a life. Accordingly, he caught her in his arms, and insisted in restraining her, at the same time speaking words of hope and cheer. "You mustn't interfere with them, ma'am," he told her soothingly; "they've got the water out of his lungs, and are trying to start artificial breathing by pumping him that way. There's lots of hope he'll come out all right, because he wasn't under the water long. Why, I believe I saw his eyelid flutter right then. Yes, suh, it did the same again. It's a fact, and you're bringing him along handsomely, fellows. So you see, ma'am, you're not going to lose Johnny after all!" The woman knelt there, awed, and watched the slow recovery of her boy. After a little while he began to breathe naturally; then his eyes opened, and he even made an effort to struggle, possibly being still impressed with the horror of his recent peril. Before that time the fire had got to burning splendidly, and both boys who had been in the river crowded as close to the warmth as possible, feeling much better on account of it. Thad, too, could think again, and direct his chums what to do. One of them ran to the cabin and came back with a blanket, which was wrapped around the now recovered but shivering Johnny; after which Step Hen and Allan assisted the small boy to reach his home, with the rejoicing mother following at their heels, crying now, but with happiness. Allan told her just what to do in order that no ill effect, such as pneumonia, should follow the immersion, and she promised to keep him in bed, and give him warm liquid food until he was feeling himself again. When the two scouts turned to leave her the poor woman kissed them both, much to their confusion; for they felt that the thanks were due to Thad and Giraffe, if anybody, since they were the ones who had risked something in order to save the drowning boy. Of course this was going to detain them for perhaps an hour, because those who had been in the water wished to thoroughly dry their clothes, at least such as they had taken with them into the river. Both had been wise enough to tear off leggins and shoes before leaving the shore, as swimming would have been next to impossible otherwise; and this counted considerably in their favor now. While they sat around the blaze, waiting until Thad gave the signal for another start, the boys thought it wise to make their noonday meal, so they would not have to stop again. Of course the talk was pretty much all upon the subject of rescuing persons who were in danger of being drowned; and also of resuscitating those who had been pulled out of the water apparently far gone. Thad, as usual, did not let the chance slip to deliver a few telling remarks connected with a knowledge of certain kinds which all scouts are required to attain before they can become shining lights in the profession, or hope to rise to the position of second or first class scouts. "If there's one splendid thing this scout business has done for boys above another," he went on to say, as they sat around the fire, "I think it is the fact that every tenderfoot has to learn how to swim during his first season in camp. How many thousands of lives might have been saved in the past if all boys over eight years of age had been taught how to keep themselves afloat in the water. If the movement had never done a single thing more than that it would deserve to be reckoned the finest thing that ever happened for American youth." "Yes," Giraffe went on to add, "and think how many a fellow has been saved from drowning, just as little Johnny here was, first by being taken from the water, and then in having the spark of life coaxed back. You worked that as fine as anything I ever saw, Allan, and the rest of you. Thad and me felt so shivery cold I'm afraid we couldn't have done it alone by ourselves. A whole lot of the credit goes to the rest of you, and we want you to know that. It was a patrol rescue, and something the boys of the Silver Fox can be proud of always." That was just like Giraffe, who could be one of the most generous-hearted fellows ever known when he wanted to. That he felt considerable remorse because of his reckless way of sending poor Bumpus into that field with the angry mother cow had been patent to Thad early that morning, when he saw Giraffe asking Bumpus to lean on him, after the stout scout had mentioned the fact that he was feeling somewhat stiff following his unusual exertions of the previous day. "According to my notion," Step Hen broke in with, "no boy should ever be allowed to go out in a boat on the water unless he knows how to swim." "I agree with you there, Step Hen," the patrol leader added; "and yet how often you see boys taking the greatest kind of chances, when if an upset comes along they're as helpless as babies. That mother has learned a lesson; and chances are Johnny never goes in a boat again till he can swim like a fish." "But boys are not the only ones who take such chances," Allan argued; "why, in the days gone by when nearly all ships were sailing vessels, and not steamers, it wasn't a strange thing to find dozens of old jack tars who had spent their whole lives at sea, and yet never swam a stroke. It seems queer, and hard to believe, but I've heard men tell that who knew." "Things are going to be different after this, then," said Davy, "because every Boy Scout has got to learn how to swim, or he'll stay a tenderfoot all his days; and no one wants to do that, you know." "What happened to the boat; none of you thought to rescue that at the same time?" Smithy wanted to know. "Oh! it wasn't worth saving," Giraffe told him; "and after what happened, Johnny's mother would never want to see it again. We had our hands too full getting him to the bank to bother about that cranky old junk. It'll bring up somewhere below, like as not, or else float out on the Chesapeake Bay around Havre de Grace, where they used to have such great duck shooting years ago, because of the wild celery beds that grew there." Giraffe was fond of hunting, and knew considerable in connection with his favorite sport, which information he delighted to impart to his chums at divers times and on sundry occasions. Once upon a time he had been like most thoughtless boys, so intent on filling his gamebag, or catching a record number of fish, that slaughter counted little with him; but after joining the troop Giraffe had learned what a true sportsman should be, and since then was never known to inflict needless pain, or destroy game or game fish when they could not be used for food. These numerous useful things which scouts learn have the knack of curbing the half savage instinct that seems to repose within nearly all boys' breasts; and which they say must have descended to them from far-back ancestors. By the time lunch had been dispatched Thad and Giraffe declared they were as good as new again, since every particle of their clothes had been thoroughly dried. There was a general scrutiny on the part of all hands, so as to make sure nothing had been forgotten in the excitement. Thad had sent several of them back over the ground, to pick up every object thrown aside in that mad scramble, from guns and knapsacks to clothes and shoes. Outside of a little delay, which they expected would not matter much, they had not suffered in the least because of this sudden and unexpected call upon their services. And to have saved a human life was certainly worth ten times as much as they had done. Bumpus at a signal from the leader sounded his bugle, and once more the little detachment of khaki-clad boys started along the river road, headed southeast, and with a positive assurance that the man whom they sought, the hobo wearing the old blue army overcoat, was somewhere ahead of them. In this manner they tramped for several miles, constantly on the lookout for any signs of their quarry. Thad frequently searched for the marked footprint, and as often discovered it plainly marked in the yielding mud close to the road; so that they had no fear of overlapping the fugitive. It was about this time that Bumpus was heard grumbling to himself. "What's wrong now, Bumpus; want a little help on account of that stiff leg?" asked Giraffe, turning around. "'Taint that," returned the other quickly, as if scorning to show signs of fatigue when the others were capable of keeping up the pace. "Well, what are you grunting about, then, tell us?" demanded Step Hen, who was himself limping a little, because of a pebble that had managed to work into his shoe despite the protecting legging, and hurt his foot before he bothered getting it out. "Why, you see," began Bumpus naïvely, "it's started to rain at last, that's all!" CHAPTER IX. ANY PORT IN A STORM. "Hurrah for Bumpus, who's made a first discovery!" exclaimed Giraffe, pretending to show great enthusiasm by waving his campaign hat about his head. "Well, I don't see that it's anything to laugh at," Smithy was heard to remark, with a lugubrious expression on his face; "if it comes down on us while we're on the tramp, and without any sort of protection, we'll soon be all mussed up, and in a nice pickle. I'd be considerably better pleased to have Bumpus discover the sun peeping out at us before setting." "What can't be cured must be endured, you know, Smithy," Thad told the former dandy of the troop, who was every now and then showing traces of his old faults, though he had been cured of numerous shortcomings. "If it rains we'll have to get our rubber ponchos over our shoulders, and then look for a place to spend the night. Things are never so bad but what you'll find they could be worse." That indeed was the whole secret of Thad's success, and the cheerful spirit he invariably displayed when up against difficulties; and every boy who makes up his mind to look at his troubles in the same hopeful spirit will surely profit from such a course. Things are _never_ at their worst, though we may temporarily think so. The few drops that came down did not last and as the scouts continued to push along the river road they kept their eyes on the watch for some valley farm, where they might possibly find shelter against the coming storm. It began to look as though they must have struck a portion of the country where, for some unknown reason, farms were few and far between, which is not often the case along the picturesque Susquehanna, since most of the land is under some kind of cultivation. Thad even began to fear that as the evening was now close at hand they might be compelled to abandon their hope of finding a house, and use the little time remaining in building some sort of rude shelter. The idea did not appeal very strongly to him, because he knew that if a heavy downpour came upon them it might last for twenty-four hours; and such a primitive camp would prove a dismal refuge indeed, with no fire to cheer them, and dripping trees all around, not to speak of a rapidly rising river. On this account he was determined to keep pushing on until the darkness became too dense to allow further progress. When they found themselves up against such a snag as this it would be time to consider the last resort, which must consist of shelter under some outcropping rocks, or a rustic hangout made of branches and every other sort of thing available. The boys were not talking so much latterly. It seemed as though they might be feeling too tired for merriment, or else the increasing gravity of their situation began to impress them. One thing Thad regretted very much. This was the fact that after the rain had come and gone they could hardly expect to follow the man who wore the old blue army coat by means of the tracks he left behind him, for these would have been utterly obliterated. They must then depend on information given by the inmates of such houses as they came upon along the road. "It's sure commencing to get dark, Thad," grumbled Giraffe, after a while, as if to explain why he had stubbed his toe, when by rights all that clumsy business was supposed to be monopolized by poor Bumpus. "That's partly because we happen to be passing under a big patch of woods here on the right," the patrol leader explained; "which helps to shut out more or less of the light from the west. Over there across the river the sky is so gloomy you couldn't expect it to help out any." "But inside of half an hour at the most it'll be so black you can't see a hand before your face," Step Hen observed. "I suppose you mean we ought to be thinking of stopping," Thad returned, "and I'm of the same mind; but I hate to give up the hope of striking some farm, where we could get another chance to sleep in the haymow. But give me ten minutes more, boys, and if we fail to strike what we want I'll call a halt." "Whew! I've got a hunch we're going to run up against an experience before long that we won't forget in a hurry, either!" volunteered Davy. "Here, none of that croaking, Davy Jones!" cried Bob White. "We've all been through so much that it doesn't become any member of the Silver Fox Patrol to show the white feather, suh." "Nobody's thinking of doing that same, Bob White," retorted Davy; "I was only trying to figure out what sort of a night we had ahead of us. If it comes to knocking up against trouble, I reckon I'm as able to hold up my end of the log as the next one. My record will prove that." "We're all in the same boat, Davy," Step Hen told him, in order to "smooth his ruffled feathers," as he called it. "And I'll time you on that promise, Thad," remarked Allan, as he took out his little nickel watch, and held it close up to his face in order to see where the hands pointed, which action in itself proved the contention of Giraffe that the daylight was certainly growing quite dim. They continued to plod along, now and then some one making a remark, and all of them looking continually to the right, in hopes that they might discover a haven of refuge in the shape of some sort of house, they cared little how unpretentious it might be. Indeed, just then there was not one scout present but who would have hailed the appearance of even an old abandoned shanty having a leaky roof with delight; for with their ingenuity a worn-out roof could easily be made to shed rain; and a supply of firewood was to be gathered in a hurry. The formation of the country was not favorable in one respect, and they failed to run across anything in the shape of an outcropping ledge, under which they might find shelter. This had saved them from a ducking on more than one former occasion, as they well remembered; but fortune was not so kind to-day. Minute after minute dragged on. Once Allan even took out his watch, and examined its face, only to laugh. "Beats all how you get fooled when you're counting the minutes," he remarked. "You mean we haven't been walking that ten Thad allowed us?" asked Step Hen. "Just six to the dot, boys," the timekeeper told them. "Oh! dear, I thought it was closer on half an hour," sighed Bumpus, who was dragging his feet along as though each one weighed a ton. "Four whole minutes left! But Allan, mebbe that watch of yours has stopped! I had one that used to play tricks like that on me, 'specially in the mornings, when by rights I ought to have been out of bed. It was the most accommodating thing you ever saw; I'd wake up, take a look and see it stood at a quarter to seven, and then roll over for another little snooze. Then I'd look again after a while, and see it was still a quarter to seven, which allowed me to have another nap. And when my dad came up to ask me if I was sick, I'd tell him he'd have to get me a better watch than that if he expected me to rise promptly." "And did he?" asked Davy. Bumpus shrugged his fat shoulders as he replied: "I climb out of bed every morning now when a great big alarm clock rattles away close to my ear. Dad sets it there before he retires, and I can't chuck it out of the window, either. So you see watches go back on their best friends sometimes." "Well, mine is running like a steam engine right now," Allan remarked, "and the four minutes are nearly down to three. Keep a stiff upper lip, Bumpus, and the day's hike will soon be over, no matter what the night brings." That was the thing that bothered them all, for the night was setting in so gloomily that it filled their hearts with secret misgivings and forebodings. The lonesomeness of their surroundings had something to do with this feeling, perhaps, although these boys were used to camping out, and had indeed roughed it many times in far-distant regions, where wild beasts roamed, and made the night hideous with their tongues. At least nothing of that kind might be expected here along the peaceful Susquehanna. Their sufferings were apt to come mostly from the severity of the weather, and their unpreparedness to meet a storm such as now threatened. The three minutes had certainly dwindled to two, and might be even approaching the last figure to which their progress was limited, when suddenly Giraffe gave a shout. "We win, boys!" was the burden of his announcement; "because, as sure as you live, I glimpsed a light ahead there. Look, you can see it easy enough now. We're going to have a roof over our heads to-night, after all! What a lucky thing it was you said _ten_ minutes, Thad. Suppose, now, you'd just notched it off with five, why, we'd have missed connections, that's what!" "But hold on, Giraffe, don't you see that light's on the wrong side of the road," remonstrated Allan. "It ought to be on the right, but instead it lies close to the edge of the water. Now, no man would be silly enough to build his farmhouse on the river bank, where any spring rise might wash it away." "It must be a boat of some kind!" Thad now declared; "yes, I can begin to get a glimpse of the same through that thin screen of bushes." "Wow! looks like a houseboat to me, boys, or what out on the Ohio and the Mississippi they call a shanty boat, which is a cabin built on a monitor or float!" was what Step Hen announced. "I believe you're right there, Step Hen," Allan put in; "but no matter, any port in a storm; and when a crowd of scouts are hard pushed they can squeeze in small quarters. We'll fix it somehow with the owner of that craft to let us pile in with him till the clouds roll by." All sorts of loud remarks followed, as the party hastened their footsteps, some of the boys even laughing, for the improved prospects made Bumpus and Smithy temporarily forget their troubles. All of them quickly saw that the object of their attention was really a clumsy-looking houseboat. It seemed to be moored to the bank with a stout rope, and, judging from the fact that a light shone from a small window, it must be occupied. Laughing and jostling one another, the eight boys pushed on. It was not so dark as yet but what they could have been seen after passing the screen of leafless bushes, had any one chanced to look out of that window. Thad led the way aboard. No dog barked, nor did they hear any sort of a sound inside the cabin. "Give 'em a knock, Thad!" said Step Hen. This the patrol leader did, but there was no reply. Thad waited half a minute, and, hearing nothing, once more rapped his knuckles on the door. "All asleep, or else up the road somewhere; s'pose you open the door yourself, Thad!" suggested Giraffe impatiently. When he had knocked a third time, and received no reply, Thad proceeded to open the cabin door, after which the rest of the scouts were so eager to enter that he was actually pushed ahead of them into the place. They stared around in bewilderment, for while a small lamp was burning on a table screwed to the wall on hinges, and some supper was cooking on a small stove, there did not seem to be the first sign of any human presence. There was something so strange and uncanny about this that the scouts looked at one another uneasily. CHAPTER X. THE DESERTED SHANTY BOAT. "Nobody home, Thad!" remarked Giraffe presently. "It looks that way," admitted the patrol leader, for the light of the little lamp allowed them to see every part of the interior; and some of the scouts had even bent down to look under the table, and behind an old trunk, without result. "If he's stepped out to go on an errand down the road, where there may be some sort of a house, it looks queer to me that he'd leave his supper cooking on the stove here," and as Allan said this he pushed back a frying pan that seemed to contain fried potatoes so nearly done they would have started to burn in a few more minutes. "Gosh! don't this mystery beat everything!" Bumpus was heard to mutter; and since the stout scout seldom expressed himself forcibly it could easily be understood that he was now well worked up; at the same time he warmed his hands by the fire, and even stooped down to take a closer whiff of the cooking food which must have appealed irresistibly to a hungry scout, who was also reckoned a champion feeder. "He'd better be hurrying back, then," Step Hen interposed, "if he don't want to get his jacket wet, because she's started in to rain, boys, you hear!" Sure enough, they caught the increasing patter of descending drops on the roof of the cabin, showing that the long-delayed storm had broken bounds at last. "Woof! talk to me about luck, we've got it in big chunks," said Giraffe, grinning, as he relieved himself of his haversack, and immediately began to open the same, as though bent on considering their own supper. "How kind of the storm," said Smithy; "it held off until we had run upon this haven of refuge. I hope now the owner will allow us to stay with him over night, for it would break my heart to have to step out of this comfortable place into the nasty wet." "Don't worry, Smithy," asserted Giraffe; "it'd have to be a charge of dynamite that'd hoist me out of this. Possession is nine points of the law, they say; and we're here to stay, even if we have to pay three prices for accommodations. And I want to tell you that with that jolly fire so handy we'll be silly to delay getting our own supper ready." "Don't bother with what is on the stove," warned Thad; "only shove it back, for when the owner of the boat does come home he'll want it. Plenty of room for our purpose, isn't there, boys?" They assured him on this point, and then both Giraffe and Bumpus busied themselves. The contents of the various haversacks soon disclosed a quantity of eatables, and the cooking of supper was deemed a "snap" by those in charge, since they had the rare privilege of doing their work on a real stove, with plenty of wood handy. Let the rain beat upon the roof overhead, until it made such a racket they had at times to fairly shout in order to be heard--who cared, with a cabin to shield them from the fury of the storm? Thad hardly anticipated that the absent owner of the boat would return while the rain was coming down in such torrents, though if it relaxed its violence later on they might expect to see him. Some of the other boys did not have quite so much confidence, for whenever there was a sudden movement of the boat, as some gust of wind struck the upper end, the more nervous ones would hastily glance toward the door, as though half expecting to see it thrown open, and an angry boatman push in, demanding to know what they meant by taking possession during his absence. But supper was cooked and placed upon the table without any interruption of this sort taking place. There was not room for them all to gather around the table; indeed, they filled the small cabin pretty well, eight of them in space that was really intended for two or three; but that did not interfere with everyone getting his share of food, though he had to sit cross-legged like a Turk on the floor to devour it. All of them were in fairly high spirits now. The solving of the problem as to where they were to find shelter from the storm did considerable to lift them to this plane. Then again the enjoyment they found in satisfying their hunger with good things had its share, as well as the warmth of the cabin, which was certainly a feature worth considering. Supper done, and still no let-up to the downfall of rain, which was beating the liveliest kind of a tattoo upon the roof. Thad was glad to discover no signs of a leak anywhere, which spoke well for the tidiness of the owner. Giraffe, noticing how Thad looked up and around, must have guessed what the other was thinking about, to judge from the remark he made. "No use talking, Thad, the chap who owns this boat can't be that Irishman who when some one asked him why he didn't mend his leaky roof said that when the weather was dry he didn't think to bother with it; and when it rained why he couldn't mend it. This one is as tight as a drum. We're a lucky lot of scouts again; and I'm only sorry that the mysterious owner isn't here to enjoy the hospitality of the shanty boat." Once Thad walked over to the door, which he found could be secured inside with a bar. It also had a padlock on the outside, showing that it might be the habit of the owner when he left his home for a time to fasten it securely. "I'm glad that padlock wasn't in use when we struck here," remarked Allan, who had followed the leader over. "We'd have been compelled to break in, and that's a serious offense against the law, if you're caught, though we'd have left money to pay for our housing." Thad opened the door, and they looked out into the pitch darkness of the night, though neither of them essayed to step beyond the sill. The storm was now in full blast, and the river seemed to be rushing past the moored shanty boat with foam on the little waves formed by the sweeping wind. "Looks pretty ugly, doesn't it?" said Thad. "I never would have believed the Susquehanna could get on such a rampage as this," Allan remarked in turn. "I always had an idea it was a peaceful sort of river, with beautiful banks, and the canal running along in places parallel to the river; but I declare you'd think it was the big Mississippi right now, what we can see of it, from the way our light shines on the water." "It's on the boom, you know," Thad told him, "and there's an unusual amount of water in the channel; but from the way the rain's coming down it'll be a flood before twenty-four hours, if ever there was one along here." "Lucky we struck a boat then, instead of some shanty close to the bank; because in that case, Thad, we might have been washed away before morning, as the river kept on rising a foot an hour perhaps." Thad closed the door again. "Looks a whole lot better inside than out," he observed, "which makes me feel glad we're not cowering under a branch shelter, and taking a ducking. Even with the rubber blankets we couldn't expect to keep half way dry when it's pelting down as steady as that." "I've been trying to figure out what happened here," said Allan. "There was some man in this cabin, and he was getting supper when we gave that first shout. Now, it might be he looked out, and glimpsing a bunch of fellows in khaki suits and carrying guns, running this way, he thought we were soldiers. He may have had some good reason for not wanting to meet up with the State troops, and so cut and ran for it. That's the thing I've made my mind up to." "And according to my way of thinking you're close to the truth, Allan," he was told by the patrol leader. "I noticed that you dropped that bar in place, Thad, after you'd shut the door; what was the idea of doing that?" "Well, it doesn't seem to be just the right thing, fastening a man's own door against him," laughed the other; "but as we all want to get some sleep to-night, being tired, I thought it might be best to fix things so we'd have ample warning if the owner of the boat did turn up. Let him knock, and we'll be only too glad to open up; only we don't want him to walk in on us and catch us napping. There's no telling how unpleasant he might make it for us." This sound reasoning appealed favorably to Allan. "The window you see has got a stout iron bar across it," he went on to say; "and a fellow would have the time of his life trying to crawl through such a small space; so it's all right; we can lie down to sleep without worrying." They were in fact pretty well played out, having been up a good part of the previous night, it will be remembered, and the day's tramp had been anything but a picnic to certain members of the party who need not be mentioned by name. Accordingly, about an hour after they had finished supper there began to be a movement on foot looking to finding accommodations for spreading blankets on the hard floor of the cabin. Space was somewhat at a premium, since there were eight of the scouts. The owner of the shanty boat had some sort of contraption in the way of a cot which in the daytime could be fastened up against the wall, and in this manner avoid taking up a considerable amount of space, to be dropped when needed. None of the boys considered for a moment using that cot, all of them preferring to make sure of the protection of their own clean blankets on the floor. Bumpus, while very tired, was afraid that he might not get to sleep as easily as he would have liked, because of the way his mind was worked up. Giraffe, in talking about matters, had happened to suggest that possibly the man owning the boat may have been seized with a fit when he was stooping over to draw some water from the river in a bucket, and had fallen overboard; and the thought of such a terrible thing happening filled the mind of tender-hearted Bumpus, who never liked to see anyone suffer if he could help it. But although the roar of the storm and the dash of the waves against the side of the boat, causing it to rock from time to time, bothered some of the scouts in the beginning, they finally grew more accustomed to the chorus of sounds, and in the end all of them slept as only exhausted boys may. Thad had remained awake after the last of his chums yielded to the drowsy feeling that overcame them; but finally he, too, found forgetfulness in sleep. He was aroused by some one clutching him desperately, and realized that Giraffe, who chanced to have lain down alongside the leader, was calling his name wildly. All was darkness around them, for they had seen fit to put out the little lamp, wishing to save the oil as much as possible. The bellowing storm still held full sway without, and while there had been no thunder and lightning, as must have been the case had it happened in midsummer, the forces of Nature were fiercely contending, and combined to make a terrible noise. But Thad immediately became aware of the fact that there was a new motion to the shanty boat on which they had found such welcome refuge. It rocked violently, and pitched very much after the manner of a bucking broncho trying to unseat a rider. Thad could give a quick guess what this signified, though it chilled him to the very marrow to realize the new horror that had come upon them. The other boys were all aroused by now, even Bumpus, who usually had to be rolled violently before he would open his eyes; and their various exclamations of alarm began to be heard all around him in the gloom of the cabin interior. "What is it, Thad?" "My stars! just feel the old boat jumping, would you?" "I'm beginning to be seasick already!" complained Smithy. "Thad, what d'ye think, has she broken away from her moorings?" demanded Giraffe; and the anxious listeners felt a shock when they heard the patrol leader reply: "I'm afraid that's just what's happened, boys, and that we're adrift on the flood." CHAPTER XI. ADRIFT ON THE FLOOD. "What can we do, Thad?" cried Bumpus, as a lurch of the boat caused him to bang up against some of the others. "Hold on, don't smash me against the side of the cabin, you elephant!" roared Davy, who had been unfortunate enough to serve as a buffer for the stout scout. Thad struck a match, and somehow even the small glow thus afforded seemed to give the boys new cheer. "Thank goodness the tin lamp hasn't been knocked over and the glass broken!" said Step Hen, as he reached out, and just saved the article in question from slipping off the table. "Here, let me put this match to the wick," said Thad; "things won't seem quite so bad then as in the pitch dark." After that they fixed it so the precious tin lamp could not be spilled; and so long as the oil held out they meant to keep it burning. When the door was opened so that they could look out, it was a dreadful sight the scouts saw. All before them lay heaving water, that had a sickening motion to it, but did not seem to be rushing past as they had noticed it do before. "Why, the old river's standing still, I do declare!" cried the astonished Bumpus, as he thrust his head out of the open doorway to see. "It looks that way because we're moving along with it, Bumpus," Giraffe told him; ordinarily the tall scout would most likely have jeered scornfully at the innocent for suspecting such a thing, but now he seemed to feel that he owed Bumpus a debt on account of the trick he had played, which could only be paid by his being unusually kind. "Can we do anything, Thad?" demanded Step Hen. "Is there a push pole on board so some of us might start the old tub back to the bank again?" "There is one, but it seems to be broken, and wouldn't be worth a continental cent in all this flood," Thad told him. "Unless we feel desperate enough to jump over and try to swim for it, we'll have to stay aboard, and take our chances." "Oh! I hope now you won't decide to try that!" said Bumpus, whose failings were well known to his chums, and a lack of the knowledge pertaining to the art of swimming happened to be one of them. Indeed, when they looked at that terrible water all of the scouts shrank back, and not a single voice was raised in favor of the plan. There might be worse things even than finding themselves adrift on the flood in a houseboat. "Do you think that thick rope broke under the strain, Thad?" asked Allan presently, as they still stood there, looking out, not liking to close the door lest something terrible happen to the boat, and all of them be caught in the cabin to drown like rats in a trap. "That's what must have happened, Allan, though when I looked it over I thought it could stand any sort of strain. But it must have been part rotten in some part; and a rope's like a chain, you know, only as strong as its weakest link or strand. But no matter what the cause may have been, all we have to think of is the effect. It's too late to prevent the accident; and we'll hope the worst isn't going to happen to us now." "What d'ye mean by the worst, Thad?" asked Bumpus, almost piteously. "This river, you know, is full of rocks," explained the other. "In the summertime when the water's low they stick up everywhere; but in case of a flood most of them are under water, and act like snags to punch holes in boats that may be unlucky enough to be caught afloat. Then again there's always danger of being crowded up on a sliding shelf of rock, when the wind and the sweep of the current might upset us all!" "Gosh!" After that last exclamation Bumpus remained silent, but he certainly found plenty of food for thought in what he had heard Thad say. Every new lurch of the boat was apt to give him a fresh quiver of anxiety. He kept his eyes fixed on Thad, just as though he believed that if they were to be saved at all, it must inevitably be through the instrumentality of the patrol leader. It might readily be assumed that none of those eight scouts would ever forget that wild voyage down the flooded Susquehanna, in the inky darkness of that Spring night. The floating shanty boat kept performing all manner of remarkable gyrations under the influence of wind and waves. Sometimes one end would be upstream, and in a little while the craft would spin around so that the door had to be temporarily closed in order to keep the driving rain from deluging them. In the midst of this dreadful suspense they suddenly felt that their onward motion had ceased. At the same time they discovered the forward part of the boat to be rising. "We're ashore!" shouted Giraffe, looking ready to plunge out of the door and take any sort of a ducking rather than stay aboard, to risk death in the flood. "Hold on!" cried Thad, clutching him just in time to prevent any rashness; "you don't want to leap before you look. There's water on this side where the shore ought to be. I think the boat's only shoved up on a sunken rock! If you jumped now you'd find yourself in the river!" "Yes, and she's swinging around right now, let me tell you, Giraffe!" added Davy Jones; "look at the other side coming up, would you?" "Oh! I hope she don't turn turtle, that's all!" bellowed Bumpus; "keep the door open, Thad, and let me have a chance to get out if the worst comes, because I need more time than the rest of you do." Giraffe was seen to edge closer to the stout scout, as though he had made up his mind to give Bumpus, who knew so little about swimming, all possible assistance should the worst come to pass. "No danger this time," sang out Thad, "for there she slides off the rock, and our interrupted voyage is on again." True enough, the shanty boat began to move, rocked violently for a brief period, and then seemed to be floating once more along the rolling current on an even keel, greatly to the relief of Bumpus, who was holding his breath with the dreadful suspense. "How long do you suppose now we can keep sailing like this?" Step Hen asked. "If nothing happens to us until morning comes," replied Thad, "we'll find some way to get ashore, when we can see how to work." "Sure thing!" added Davy. "But I hope now we don't strike any old cataract or falls, where we'd be swept over a dam, and get wrecked. Seems to me I've heard of such things along the Susquehanna." His words must have brought a new spasm of alarm to the heart of Bumpus, for he clutched Thad's sleeve, as though imploring him to set that fear at rest. "If there are," the patrol leader told them, "it must be a good deal further upstream than where we are. While the Susquehanna isn't called a navigable river, except down near its mouth, where it empties into the bay, it's an open stream for a long distance. Don't bother thinking about mill-dams and that sort of thing. The worst terror we've got to face is the everlasting snags all around us. If one punched a hole in the lower part of the boat we'd be apt to sink." "Wish we had life preservers, then," remarked Bumpus; "I thought every boat was compelled to keep such things aboard." "They are, if they carry a certain number of passengers," Thad told him. "Yes," added Giraffe, as he reached up and took some small object from a shelf, where it had remained all this while, in spite of the movements of the boat, "and this craft was well provided, too, for you can see that this is an empty bottle, the mate to the one the tramps threw away. They all seem to patronize the same brand around this section, too, because it's as like that other flask as two peas in a pod." Thad looked at the emptied bottle, but made no remark. Had Giraffe been observing the patrol leader closely, however, instead of keeping his eyes fixed on what he was exhibiting, he might have wondered what the little flash of intelligence passing over Thad's face could mean, and whether the other had conceived a sudden thought of some kind. They must have entered upon a section of the river where the cross currents became stronger than ever, for the drifting shanty boat's progress became more erratic. Several times the boys found themselves flung in a heap by an unheralded stoppage of the boat, or an unusually wild movement sideways. "Say, this is getting tougher and tougher the further we go, and I must admit I don't fancy it for a cent!" grumbled Step Hen, after he had picked himself up for the third time and rubbed his knees as though they pained him. "The worst I ever met up with, suh!" declared Bob White, steadying himself by clutching hold of a hook that was fastened to the wall for some purpose or other. "Think of me," groaned Bumpus; "when I come down it's like a load of brick!" "Yes, that's what I say," added Davy; "'specially to the fellow underneath you, Bumpus. Why don't you sit down all the time, and save yourself the trouble of falling so much? You nearly crunched me last time." "Yes, and it don't hurt him to fall the same way it does me," Giraffe wanted the rest to know, "because he's padded all over like a football player." Instead of diminishing, the erratic gyrations of the whirling boat seemed to continually increase, if such a thing were possible. Even Thad became worried, for it was impossible to guess what would happen next. Then again that impenetrable blackness with which they were enveloped on all sides must be anything but reassuring to even the bravest heart. If they could only see out, and prepare for each new and surprising shock, it might not be quite so bad. Minutes dragged along until they seemed almost like hours to the scouts who, imprisoned in that small cabin, found themselves at the mercy and sport of the flood that was pouring down the Susquehanna. Why, sometimes it seemed to Bumpus he must be living in the time of old Noah, and that this was the ark of refuge, with the forty days of solid rain beating down upon it. Yes, and he could almost fancy that he had some of the animals that were taken in, two by two, around him, judging from the queer attitudes which Davy Jones was striking, for he was on all fours about half the time. Thad had figured out what they must do in case of a wreck. This was to stand by the boat as long as she remained afloat, and only strike out for the shore in case of a complete collapse. He knew the terrible risk all of them would run if they attempted to swim that swollen stream, without daylight to give them cheer, or show them their bearings; and it was the last thing he wanted to try. Perhaps nearly half an hour may have elapsed since the boat had struck that sloping shelf of hidden rock, when once again the same experience came upon them. This time they seemed to have been driven with such speed that the boat slid far up on the rock, and immediately careened toward the larboard. "We're going over this time, sure!" shouted Giraffe; and there was not one of his companions but whose mind was filled with the same fear; for it seemed as though nothing could prevent such a catastrophe from happening. CHAPTER XII. HEARTS COURAGEOUS. It was a time of terrible suspense as the boat tilted so far on one side that one or two of the boys slipped, and fell, as though they were straddling a bobsled, and on a steep down grade. Higher still reared the one side of the cabin, until it seemed as though the hearts of some of the boys were in their throats. "Get on the other side, everybody, quick!" Thad was shouting now, and the sound of his clarion voice thrilled them as nothing else could have done. It was not so easy to obey, such was the dreadful slope to the floor of the cabin; but Giraffe gave a helpful hand to struggling Bumpus, and on the other side Allan fastened a good grip on the stout one, so that between them both he was speedily landed where he would do the most good. Immediately the effect of this change of base began to make itself felt, for instead of continuing to rear up, that side of the boat settled slowly back. "She's slipping, and turning around!" cried Giraffe; "we're going to get off the old turtle-back rock, don't you forget it! Whoop!" As he gave that last yell the shanty boat did indeed settle on an even keel, and once more there was a buoyancy and motion to her. This told even Bumpus, who was not supposed to know a great deal about boats, that they were free from all entangling alliances, and once more racing madly down the river at the mercy of the flood. Such was the hysterical excitement under which all were laboring that regardless of what might still be awaiting them in the near future the boys began to yell, in order to relieve their pent-up feelings. They soon stopped that sort of thing, however, when their first exultation had passed, for, as Bumpus remarked, "it was just to begin over again, and perhaps get upset after all." "Better keep that till we're safe ashore," Giraffe went on to remark. "You know the old saying in pioneer days used to be that an Indian never ought to yell till he was in the woods; and a white man till he was out of the woods. So we'll keep our breath a while. It's all going to come out right, see if it ain't." Giraffe undoubtedly added these concluding reassuring words for the particular benefit of Bumpus, who was looking, as the tall scout privately informed Step Hen back of his hand, "just as limp as a dish rag, so to speak." "I hope so, Giraffe; I surely hope so," the fat scout told him. "Why, I believe I could face being burned up in a forest fire better than being drowned. It's always been an awful idea to me to float along on the water, and have the little fishes and turtles nibbling at you all the while. Thank you for saying we've still got a fighting chance, Giraffe. It was kind of you, and I won't forget it, either." When Giraffe looked up he saw Thad nodding his head toward him, and he knew the explanation of the encouraging smile on the patrol leader's face. It meant that Thad understood why he had taken the trouble to say what he did, and wished to encourage all such efforts to the limit, as being worthy of the best traditions of scoutcraft. "Giraffe, will you do me a favor?" asked Davy, after another period of alternate hope and fear had passed by. "To be sure I will, Davy, if it's in my power; only I hope you won't ask me to jump overboard, and try to tow the old tub ashore, or anything like that." "Just take a look at my head, please," suggested the other, bending forward as he spoke. "Well, I don't see that it's swelled any since the last time," remarked Giraffe; "and, besides, strikes me you haven't been doing any great stunts lately that'd be apt to make you have the big head. Whatever do you want me to do, Davy?" "Tell me if it's changed white," replied the other pleadingly, "because I reckon the scares we've had thrown into us this last half hour have sure been enough to turn any poor fellow's hair. Will they know me at home, if I'm ever lucky enough to get back there again; or can I expect to have the door shut in my face, and our old dog Tige chase me over the back fence?" "Oh! you haven't changed much," Giraffe assured him, "except that there's an anxious look stamped on your face like it'd never come off again. I'm surprised at you, Davy; why don't you grin and bear it like I do? This is only going to be another of our _experiences_, and before long you'll look back at it, and laugh at the whole business. Whee! there she rises again, fellows. Everybody _climb_!" They were becoming quite expert now with regard to executing what Giraffe called a "flank movement;" for even Bumpus was able to scramble up the sloping floor before anyone could take hold of his arms. Again they felt more or less concerned while the boat hung in a state of uncertainty, as though undecided whether to keep on turning until the upset came, or slide off again into deep water. When the latter came to pass all of them breathed easy again. "And to think," said Smithy, taking a full breath, "this sort of thing has got to continue for hours, before morning comes. Why, we'll be out of our minds, I'm afraid." "We're lucky to have any minds at all, to go out of," Giraffe told him. "Some fellows would be that way to start with--present company always excepted, you know." Giraffe was one of those kind of boys who would have his little fling at a joke, no matter what sort of a scrape he might be in. Such a buoyant nature helped to keep the spirits of his comrades up, and so far it was useful, at least. "What time is it, anyway?" demanded Step Hen. "Seems to me we've been banging around like this for a whole week or so." "Five o'clock!" announced Allan. "We ought to have daylight at seven, even on such a bad morning," remarked Thad, "which would mean about two more hours of it before we can make any sort of a move to get ashore." "Two whole hours!" sighed Bumpus, looking as though he feared he would be mashed into a mere pulp by that time. "Let's try and forget our troubles," remarked Giraffe; "suppose, now, Bumpus here could start one of his jolly songs, and we'd all come in heavy on the chorus. That'd be something worth while remembering in future days, when we wanted folks to know how scouts could face trouble bravely." "Ugh!" cried Bumpus, starting up, "that makes me think of stories I've read how the British crew on the battleship _Campertown_ lined up as she was sinking, and with the band playing went down in the ocean. Do you really think that's what's going to happen to us here, Giraffe; and is it a funeral dirge you want me to start?" "Not a bit of it, but the liveliest song you know, old fellow; so get busy, and it'll make us feel better all around," the tall scout assured him. Bumpus swallowed hard several times, as though not at all sure about his voice, and then he started in. At first there was a decided tremolo noticeable, but as he went on he gained assurance, and presently was doing nobly. When the proper time came for the chorus every one of them joined in, so that the volume of sound must have arisen well above the noise of the rushing waters and the wild blasts of the wind through the leafless trees ashore. Had anyone by chance been within hearing distance and caught the clamor of boyish voices that swelled forth from the cabin of that shanty boat, drifting down on the bosom of the mighty flood, they might well have been pardoned if they found themselves wondering whether some asylum had yielded up its inmates, the whole thing appeared so remarkable. Giraffe was right, and Thad, knowing it, had not attempted to raise a hand to prevent the carrying out of the singular compact. That song cheered them up wonderfully indeed; by the time it was ended even Bumpus felt quite sanguine that they were bound to pass through the fresh trial unscathed. He was ready to carry on the good work as long as his voice held out. So he started a second school song that was familiar to them, and being in better practice now, they all did more justice to the theme. It was interrupted by the surging boat striking a rock, so that the sudden jar tumbled them in a heap; but upon scrambling to their feet once more the singing was taken up again as though nothing had happened. Thad was wondering whether any damage could have been done when that last hard knock came against the timbers of the boat. He did not know what they could stand in the way of resistance. They might be old, and weather-beaten, ready to yield if harshly treated. And so, as his comrades sang on at a vociferous rate, Thad was trying to discover whether there were any signs of the boat foundering, which was apt to happen in case of a puncture below the water line. Of course he could not make absolutely sure, but so far as he was able to tell there did not seem to be anything wrong; the boat floated as buoyantly as before the collision. When all of the boys found themselves getting more or less hoarse from their strained singing they stopped; but Bumpus by this time felt so heartened that his next move was to clutch his beloved bugle, and proceed to run the gamut of everything he knew, from military calls to "'Way Down on the Suwanee River," "Old Black Joe," and a dozen other melodies that he could execute with considerable feeling and sweetness on the silver-tongued instrument. In this fashion possibly another half hour passed. When Smithy asked for the time, and they heard Allan say there was still a terribly long spell ahead of them, the scouts were at a loss to know just what to do in order to forget their troubles, and make the minutes seem to pass quickly. They were spared the necessity of inventing some way, for just then there came one of those sudden halts in the forward progress of the drifting shanty boat. "Another snag!" shouted Giraffe, as though the frequency of these mishaps was beginning to take their terror away. "But notice that this time we don't seem to tilt over to one side; and it feels firmer, too!" Step Hen wanted them to understand. "Then chances are we're stuck here for a while, till the river rises, and sets us free!" commented Davy. Allan and Thad exchanged significant looks. "Do you think there's anything in that, Thad, or can it be land?" asked the former, as he saw his chum start for the door, which was partly open at the time. "The rain seems to have let up some, anyway!" proclaimed Smithy, as though he did not want them to think he was behind the rest in noticing things worth while. When the two scouts reached the door and thrust their heads out, they saw the same old gloom there, "thick enough to cut with a knife," as Giraffe would have said. But Thad discovered something more. "Look up against the sky, Allan!" he cried joyously. "Trees, as sure as you live!" shouted the other, almost immediately. "What's that you say?" roared Giraffe, pushing alongside; "trees, is it, and us out in the middle of the flooded Susquehanna? How's that come, Thad? Is this an old island we've bumped against?" "I calculate that's just what it is, Giraffe," was the reply of the patrol leader; and at hearing this astonishing as well as pleasing news the rest of the inmates of the cabin broke out into a shout that under ordinary conditions might have been heard a full mile away. "Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah, and a tiger!" was what Giraffe called for and the cheers were given with a vim that took their breath away. CHAPTER XIII. THE ISLAND OF HOPE. "Give me the solid ground every time," Bumpus burst out with; and from the broad grin on his face, no longer pallid, it was easy to see that he meant what he said. "You need it!" Step Hen told him dryly, which of course was a little thrust at the heft of the stout scout. "When do we expect to go ashore, Thad, may I ask?" Smithy wanted to know. "The rain is stopping, as sure as anything, and that's one comfort," declared Davy, knowing the aversion felt by the particular member of the patrol, who belonged to the great Smith family, to getting his nice suit wet. "The best we can do," came the reply from the chief of the expedition, "is to get our duffel ready, and if there's any sign of the boat moving off, why we could disembark in a big hurry." "Granny governor! do you really think she _may_ take a sudden notion to start out again on another cruise?" asked Bumpus, looking anxious. "That's hard to say," he was told, "because it depends a whole lot on what the wind does. It's blowing great guns right now, but so long as it holds down-river way I think the shanty boat will stick here on this point. But there's a chance of it changing more into the northwest, and then nothing could hold the boat here." "But couldn't we tie her up somehow to one of those trees, you know?" demanded Smithy. "Yes, if we had the cable to do it with," Thad informed him. "But--there was a rope, seems to me?" continued Smithy. "Take a look at it, Allan, and let's hear what you think," said the leader. At that Allan darted outside, despising the scanty rain that was still coming down, though decreasing constantly. Hardly had half a minute elapsed before the scout was back inside again. "Well, what's doing?" asked Giraffe impatiently. "There's a piece of cable there, all right," came the reply; "I dragged it out of the water where it's been ever since we broke away up above. Seems to be a pretty hefty rope, too, even if it did give way under that terrific strain; but for all that, boys, it won't do." "You mean there isn't enough of it, don't you, Allan?" asked Thad, who apparently had foreseen just such an answer. "Lacks many feet of being worth while," replied the other; "so you see, Smithy, a rope's something we haven't got." "'A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse,' only in this case it's a bully old half-inch cable we want most of all," Giraffe asserted. "Well, I think we'd better take Thad's advice, and get our stuff together, so if it comes to a case of jump we'll be ready to skip out of this," Bumpus remarked; for he evidently dreaded another siege similar to the last, with the shanty boat whirling down the agitated river, subject to innumerable risks, such as kept one's heart jumping up toward his throat in a most uncomfortable way, to say the least. It did not take them long to do this, for besides their haversacks, blankets, guns, and the few cooking utensils they had with them, their possessions did not amount to much. "How about the stuff aboard the old boat--had we ought to commandeer that?" asked Giraffe, who did dislike to see anything in the shape of food get away from him, when it might just as well be saved. "I should think we had a right to grab what food there is. It don't amount to a great deal, and we'd be only too glad to pay for the same if ever we ran across the owner of the tub," ventured Bumpus, also having an eye to the future, and a strong dislike for the first gnawing of hunger. They all looked to Thad to decide that point. "Since the chances are the boat will either be wrecked on some of these ugly jagged rocks that lie in wait all along the course, or else fall into the hands of boys who may be watching the flood for driftwood and such stuff, it seems all right to me to take what we want." "The right of first discoverers!" remarked Smithy grandly. "There's a piece of breakfast bacon, suh, hanging up behind the stove," quickly announced Bob White, who apparently clung to the ways of his beloved South, where the ordinary salt pork is always called "bacon," and the smoked sides go under the name he mentioned. "And a package of grits as you call the fine hominy corn, in that box under the table, Bob, which ought to make you as happy as a king. What more could a fellow from Dixieland want more than hog and hominy?" Allan laughingly announced. They gathered the things wanted near the door, and every scout knew exactly what his identical share of the burden was going to be. This was done so that if there should be any need for a hurried desertion of the boat there might not ensue any disastrous confusion that would cost them dearly. "I reckon now the old cheese-box-on-a-raft would turn out too heavy for us to drag any further up on the shore, so even the wind couldn't take her off?" Step Hen chanced to remark, after they had finished their preparations for departure, and huddled near the door, taking frequent observations concerning the state of the weather outside. "I'm afraid so," Thad returned, "though we might give it a try when we do drop ashore, and see what we can do. These scows weigh tons, you know, and get logy in the bargain from being so long in the water. We'd need a block and tackle to manage it decently." "Well, it's a pity we didn't think to bring one along, then," commented innocent Smithy, at which remark the rest set up a yell. "I can see you staggering along with the whole outfit on your back, Smithy," he was told by Giraffe; "why, the blocks alone would faze you, not to mention the rope itself. If you've got a boat to carry it in, then it's all right to have the same along. But we started off light on this trip, you remember." "Like fun we did," grunted Bumpus; "that pack of mine weighs an awful lot; and then the old coffee pot keeps cracking my shins every time I trip. But of course," he hastened to add, as though he hoped they would not believe he was complaining, "we couldn't think of going without our refreshing Java for breakfasts. Life'd be pretty dreary to Giraffe, and a few of the rest of us, if we didn't have their favorite beverage mornings." "But look out there, fellows, and tell me if you don't think it's really getting some lighter," Step Hen besought them. "Well, you can see the trees a heap better than before," admitted Giraffe; "but that might come from our eyes getting more accustomed to looking into the darkness." "No, it's full time for day to break," they were assured by Allan, who had immediately turned toward the friendly little lamp so as to examine his watch. A general sigh as of relief followed this welcome announcement. That had been a terribly long night, and one those scouts were not apt to forget in a hurry. They may have been through considerable in the way of adventure in the past, but somehow that experience of being carried headlong downstream on the wild flood, with frequent alarms as the boat struck treacherous shoals and half-hidden rocks, made a deep impression on their minds, from the leader down to Bumpus. "Do you think it's going to clear up?" asked Smithy, who did not pretend to be a weather sharp, and always depended on some of his mates when in need of information along these lines. "I don't believe it's raining a single drop now," Davy informed them, after stepping outside on the deck, and holding up his face to learn the truth. "But it's just as gray overhead as ever," added Giraffe, who could be a pessimist when he chose, and always see the dark side of things. "I move we have a bite to eat while we're waiting for morning to come," suggested Allan; and from the way both Giraffe and Bumpus started eagerly up, as though they heartily approved of the idea, it was plain that both of them had been thinking along these same lines though not wishing to betray their inclinations, for fear of having the finger of scorn pointed at them. The suggestion seemed to meet with popular favor; at least it aroused no objections, for all of them realized that with such a deluge, dry wood was going to be a scarce commodity ashore for part of the ensuing day at least; and it was only policy for them to take advantage of the chance they had of obtaining a splendid cooking fire aboard the boat. The operation of preparing breakfast did not take them a great while, for long experience made them experts along these lines. And while they were doing this the darkness without gradually gave way to the gray dawn. While the immediate prospect ahead of them was far from cheerful, it seemed such a vast improvement over what they had recently faced that every one of the eight boys felt ready to joke and laugh as they partook of the meal. Step Hen was up to his old tricks again, and accusing his chums of hiding some of his possessions that afterward turned up in the very place he had put them. It was generally that way, for Step Hen _forgot_, which was his most cardinal sin. And even when he found that he had his bandanna tied around his neck, though tucked out of sight, after asking Giraffe if he had purloined the same, he indignantly wanted to know who had played that mean trick on him, so as to make him believe he had lost his most cherished possession. "Step Hen," said Giraffe gravely, "you make me think of one of those pearl divers that go down in the Indian Ocean for oysters. When a big shark waits for him to rise from the bottom what does the native do but stir up the sand, and make the water so roily that the man-eater just can't see him when he shoots to the surface." "Oh! so I'm a shark, am I?" demanded Step Hen indignantly. "No, you're the smart pearl diver," retorted Giraffe; "for when you find yourself caught in a hole, and that all the while you're wearing the lost hat or the bandanna, you accuse us of having put it there, so as to blind everybody's eyes." "Yes," added Allan, with a laugh, "Step Hen is like the thief being chased by a mob; and who yells out at the top of his voice, 'Stop, thief!' so everybody he meets will think he's the man who's been robbed; and in the confusion he gets off. You're the guilty one who poked that red rag under the collar of your flannel shirt, and the less you say about it the better." Whereupon Step Hen, finding himself routed, only grinned, and wisely held his peace, realizing that the boys were "on to him," as Giraffe put it. So breakfast was eaten, and at least they all felt in better trim to face what new troubles the day might bring in its train. Bumpus would never be happy so long as they remained aboard that clumsy craft. He haunted the deck, and kept watching the rushing river, as well as the way the furious wind blew. Whenever a gust bore down upon them that caused the boat to move he would hurry inside, and give Thad a look of mute appeal that was very forceful. It meant that Bumpus wanted the leader to give the word to disembark. Though the island presented but a dismal prospect for the castaways, anything was better than running the risk of being blown adrift again. And Bumpus did want to feel solid ground under his feet again more than words could say. Thad, however, did not mean to desert their comfortable quarters so easily, and had made up his mind to wait until the danger became more real and apparent. This must all depend upon the force and direction of the wind, which, however, all of them could see was steadily veering toward the northwest. CHAPTER XIV. STILL SURROUNDED BY PERILS. "We're lucky to be here and not out there on that water," Thad said, in the ear of the stout scout, as he came upon him standing in the lee of the cabin, and looking across the river, which seemed very wide at this point, though probably extremely shallow despite the flood. "I should say we were," admitted Bumpus, shaking his head. "Looks ugly, doesn't it, with the wind flaws rushing over the water every little way, and making a dark streak with each squall? But don't you think she's still rising, Thad?" "No doubt about it," he was told. "When I came out here a while ago it stood six inches below that black mark on the rock you can see there, and look what it is now." "Not more'n three," muttered Bumpus apprehensively; "but, Thad, you don't really think she's going to keep on rising, and that some time the whole island'll be covered, do you?" Seeing what had been worrying Bumpus, Thad did not do as was Giraffe's usual habit, add to his fears by portentous suggestions. On the contrary he sought to dissipate all such uneasy thoughts by plain common sense. "That could hardly happen, Bumpus," he told the other plainly; "if you use your eyes you'll see the land keeps on rising as it leaves the water, so that it stands to reason there's quite an elevation about the middle of the island. And as the rain has stopped, with signs of the clouds breaking over in the northwest, I figure that while the river may continue to rise all day, the increase will get less and less, so that by another morning it ought to be back in its regular banks again." "Well, I'm sure glad to hear you say that, Thad, because, you know, I'm not near as spry as Davy about climbing trees. He's a born monkey, if ever there was one, and likes nothing better than to hang by his toes from a limb fifty feet up. Now, I'd look nice doing that, wouldn't I? So what you tell me eases my mind a whole lot." "We ought to be feeling thankful we passed through all we did without any serious accident," Thad told him. "This flood may have caught a lot of people not prepared, along the low lands of the river, and I expect to see pig-pens and chicken coops sailing past here to-day." "Oh! and if we could only lasso some of those coops, why, we might find a few feathered songbirds inside the same, which would be a great addition to our menu while we're marooned on this island," Bumpus suggested gleefully. "But as we haven't any rope to use as a lariat," Thad told him, "I'm afraid that lovely scheme won't pan out very well. Still, I'm glad to see that you're awake to the necessity of invention. Thinking up things is going to do anyone lots of good, even if there's no practical result." "But what about the wind, Thad?" "Still shifting, and going to do the business for this old boat, sooner or later, if it keeps blowing as hard as it is now," the patrol leader replied. "I was thinking I'd like to be the first to set foot on the island; not that I'm afraid, I hope you'll believe, Thad; but just from a sort of sentimental reason, you know." "Well, chances are we'll all be doing it pretty soon, Bumpus; so if you really want to, go ahead," Thad told him, keeping a straight face while speaking, but at the same time much amused, for he knew that despite the solemn protest of his companion Bumpus was very uneasy. Ten minutes later and Giraffe called out: "Say, what d'ye think, fellows, we've been left in the lurch. Bumpus has deserted us, and is camped ashore right now, spread his blanket out on a log, and is sitting there like the king of the cannibal island. He must have felt the boat getting wobbly, and thought he'd make sure not to be in the last rush when she broke away." "I told him to go ashore," Thad informed them; "and I guess the rest of us would be wise to follow his example. So get your stuff and come on, the whole lot of you." "I just hate to leave all that nice dry kindling wood behind me," complained Giraffe, whose specialty was fires of any and all kinds, and who never failed to keep an eye out for a chance to have one started. "All right, then, there's nothing to hinder you from coming back after it," Thad told him. "Get Step Hen or Davy to lend a hand. If we have to stay on the island for twenty-four hours, more or less, we might as well have all the comforts going, and at that they won't swamp us." "I'll do that same as sure as you live," asserted the lengthy scout, pleased with the suggestion. So after they deposited their belongings, together with what they had appropriated from the owner's scanty stock of food, Giraffe spoke up. "Davy, Thad says you might go back with me and help land something we can make good use of, if the boat should be drifted away." "What! you don't want the old cracked stove, I hope?" ejaculated Davy, guessing that it must have something to do with cooking, or Giraffe would not be displaying so much eagerness about it. "What! me carry a stove on shore when I know a dozen ways to cook on a regular camp fire?" cried the tall scout derisively; "well, I should say nothing doing along that line. But we'll have trouble getting dry wood to start things with, and so Thad says we might as well throw all that lot on shore here." Davy was a reasonable fellow, and he saw the good sense of such a move at once; so he readily agreed to go aboard the abandoned shanty boat with Giraffe, and take possession of the fuel supply. As the wind carried more or less spray across the exposed place where the boys had landed, it was later on agreed that they would do well to go further ashore. The trees were bare, and there would be no drip, as might have been the case in summertime. "Makes me think of a gypsy caravan on the tramp!" Step Hen announced, after all of them were on the move, laden down with their various burdens, Giraffe even carrying a small package of extra-fine kindling, with which he meant to start his first fire, and Davy "toting" the old ax. "But that wind is something fierce when it comes with a rush and a roar," Smithy was saying, as he watched some of the trees swaying under the blast; "I hope now this isn't going to be a case of dodging one peril to hit another. You know there used to be a rock and a whirlpool that the old Grecian mariners dreaded, for if they missed being piled up on Scylla, they had to run the risk of being sucked into Charybdis. We call it 'jumping out of the frying pan into the fire.'" "Now, whatever are you thinking about, Smithy?" demanded Bumpus, who had been feeling so well satisfied lately that he disliked to hear any dark hints about new perils hovering over their heads. "We'll keep close by, Smithy, and be ready to grab you if the wind tries to carry you away any old time," Giraffe assured the other scout. "Oh! it isn't that, Giraffe; I was only wondering if one of those tall trees took a notion to topple over while we were walking underneath it, why, with all these bundles on our backs, we couldn't very well get out of the way in time." "Whee! that's so!" Bumpus admitted, as he began to turn his head from one side to the other in the endeavor to cover the ground, without thinking that the peril could only come from windward, if it existed at all. Now, while Thad hardly believed they had anything to fear from this source, he did not think it wise to take unnecessary chances; and even before Smithy voiced his sentiments the patrol leader was so shaping his course as to avoid every tree that had a suspicious look. "The one thing that keeps bothering me, outside of our limited stock of provisions, which is always a serious matter," Giraffe broke in at that moment, "is the fact that all our fine tracking work counts for nothing." "I reckon, suh, you mean that we're bound to lose the object of our chase?" remarked Bob White. "Why, yes, the hobo with the old blue army coat is going to get such a start on us, before we escape from this river trap, that we never will be able to run him down. I'm sorry as anything, too, because I was hoping another big scoop was headed our way. Now, we'll have to go home like so many dogs, with their tails between their legs." "Speak for yourself, Giraffe," declared Allan, "because none of the rest of us feel a bit that way. We've done the best we could, and no one is responsible when they run counter to a storm like the one we've struck." "Besides," added Thad, who did not like the way the tall scout talked, "nobody but the judge really knows a thing about our chase of that hobo who got the old army coat from Mrs. Whittaker; and if we fail to recover the same he isn't the one to give it away. So we can say we had a great hike, got caught in a flood, and let it go at that. But all the same I don't give up hopes of finding this Wandering George yet." "Which I'm glad to hear you say, suh," Bob White admitted. "There's nothing like a sticker in my estimation; and I can well remember plenty of times when holding out to the bitter end brought victory along." "Oh! we've all got a touch of that in our makeup, Bob," Giraffe told him; "even Bumpus here can be as obstinate as a mule when he chooses. Just yesterday I was trying to coax him to give me that fine new waterproof match safe he carries, and d'ye know he actually refused me three separate times." "Oh! yes," commented Bumpus, hearing this, "you make me think of the Irishman on the jury who, when they were discharged for failing to agree, upon being asked how it happened, said there were _eleven_ of the most pig-headed obstinate men on that jury he ever saw, and that try as hard as he could they refused to come around to his way of thinking. If the shoe fits, Giraffe, put it on." Giraffe laughed just as loud as any of them, for he could at least enjoy a joke that was aimed at himself, which was one of his best qualities. The ground did seem to rise more or less the further they got away from the northern end of the island, just as Thad had told Bumpus when the latter member of the marooned patrol was expressing his fears of being overwhelmed in the advancing flood. Now and then they had glimpses of the river, and somehow they felt an irresistible temptation to gaze out over the wind-swept water whenever the opportunity arose. "Just look at that squall coming across, would you?" ejaculated Bumpus; "why, it is scooping the water up, and throwing it around like mist. Ain't I glad we're on solid ground right now? And wait till it strikes the shore. Let me tell you it's a good thing this island's firmly anchored, or it'd be blown away. Hold tight to your hats, fellows, I warn you!" There was a sudden swoop, and a mighty roar, as the squall broke among the trees around them. When there came a startling crash the scouts huddled together and stared in the direction of the sound, being just in time to see one of the tallest trees come toppling over, with a roar that seemed to shake the ground beneath their very feet. CHAPTER XV. THE RETURN OF GIRAFFE. Standing there, gripping their hats as the fierce wind continued to sweep past, the scouts exchanged serious looks. The fall of that tree had given them a feeling of thankfulness that they were not under it at the time. "Oh! how that would have squashed us!" exclaimed Bumpus, when he could catch his breath. "Do you know," ventured Smithy, "I had my eye on that big chap, and was wondering whether he'd hold up against the next squall. So you see I wasn't so silly, after all, when I mentioned such a thing." "Nobody said you were, Smithy," admitted Giraffe; "but, Thad, how'd it do to stop near where that tree crashed down?" "Why do you pick out that place in particular?" queried Step Hen. "Oh! first of all they say lightning never strikes twice in the same place, and so there'd be no danger of another tree dropping on us. Then, again, don't you understand what a lot of chopping it'll save us, having all that good wood ready." "Guess you're right about that, Giraffe," returned Step Hen; "for it made an awful crash when it hit the ground, and must have busted in many parts. It certainly takes you to think up all kinds of kinks connected with fires and fuel supplies." "Well, somebody's got to do the thinking for the crowd, you know," returned the other, assuming an air of importance; "and when others shirk their duty it comes harder for us faithful members." The patrol leader thought so much of Giraffe's sensible suggestion that he gave the word for a halt; and so they selected a place that looked as though it would make a pretty decent camp. Here their burdens were only too willingly dropped. "We get a fair amount of shelter from the wind, you see," remarked Thad, as he looked around him. "But, Thad, it took that tree over like a shot," remonstrated Bumpus. "Yes, because it had a clear sweep at its top," he was told, "for these other trees are not nearly so tall as the one that went down. Then if you examine the stump you can see that it was rotten at the heart, though it didn't show outside to any extent. That's the way with lots of men who, as they say, can smile and smile again, and yet be villains." "When we go to write up this trip for our log book," Davy observed at this juncture, "I think it ought to go down as a sort of Robinson Crusoe story. Because right now we're wrecked on a desert island, with a limited amount of stuff along, and may be compelled to resort to all sorts of things for a living." "I wonder if there's any game over here to help out, if we have to stay a long time?" ventured Giraffe, the hunter instinct strong within him. "Course we couldn't expect to find wild goats, like Robinson did, but then there might be rabbits, and even squirrels and raccoons." "Ugh! I'd just like to see myself eating a part of a raccoon!" exclaimed the particular scout, lifting both hands to further indicate his disgust. "Well, you may have that pleasure, if we stay here long enough, Smithy," he was assured by Giraffe; "now, as for me, I'd as soon partake of a 'coon as I would a young pig. 'Possum I know is fine, and I reckon the other would go all right." "And I happen to have several fishhooks in my haversack that I forgot to remove after our last trip, when we went South with Thad; so you see we might pull in some fish if we got real hard pressed," and Bumpus smiled contentedly as he made this statement, for which he was applauded by Giraffe and Davy. "Speaking about Robinson Crusoe," said Thad, "our case runs along a good deal like his for other reasons than that we're stranded on an island. You know he hewed out a boat so big that he couldn't get it down to the water; and we've got one on our hands so heavy that all of us couldn't budge her an inch when we tried to drag the same further up on the shore." "Wonder if the case is going to keep on in parallel lines," mused Bumpus; "for you know how old Robinson found the footprints of savages on the sand one morning. What if we do here on our island?" "Oh! shucks! what would we care, so long as we're heavily armed, and eight of us all told, when poor old Crusoe was alone? I'd give something just to run across a footprint that wasn't made by one of us, and that's straight, fellows." No one doubted but what Giraffe meant every word, for his boldness had never been reckoned a questionable article. Indeed, on some occasions he had even shown bravery bordering on recklessness, so that the scout leader found it necessary to take him to task. Giraffe soon amused himself in taking stock of their available supply of food, and listing the same in his methodical way. He would soon know just how many meals they could count on before being compelled to hustle for further supplies. "Now, since we've never struck this island before, and ain't supposed to know a single thing about what sort of animals inhabit it, if any, I'm expecting to hang the eatables out of harm's way. That's why I fetched this leavings of the old cable along with me. I'll take time to unravel the kinks, and untwist the windings, so in the end I'll have quite a fine stout cord that's going to be mighty useful in a whole lot of ways." Giraffe was happy only when busily employed. At other times he was apt to seem restless, and much like a tiger pacing up and down in its cage. They were making themselves as comfortable as possible under the strange conditions that prevailed. All scouts are drilled in the art of observation, and constantly keeping their eyes on the alert in order to better their situation. So it was first one fellow who would decide to do a thing this way; and then another would go him one better, always with a spirit of healthy rivalry that was productive of results. "There's the sun!" announced Smithy suddenly, for he had seen it glint on the agitated water far out on the eastern side, where there was an opening in the brush through which it was possible to glimpse the river. "Welcome, stranger!" called out Giraffe, dramatically saluting; "we hope your stay with us may be long and happy." "It feels real good, too, after so much gloomy weather, and all that downpour," Bumpus declared, as he opened his coat to let the warm rays strike him more fully. Giraffe of course had his fire going; life would be shorn of much of its bright features if he were prevented from pursuing his favorite hobby. The old ax served to supply them with heavier fuel, which seemed to burn splendidly after being in part dried out. Seeing Thad beckoning, the tall scout stepped over beside him. "Do you want to do an errand for me, Giraffe?" asked the patrol leader. "Every time, if only you don't ask me to walk on the water to the shore, which is a little more than I can manage," replied the other promptly. "I'll tell you about an idea that struck me all of a sudden, as I was sitting on this log here," announced Thad. "I hardly know what put it in my mind to think of that shanty boat again. Perhaps it was our joshing about what Robinson Crusoe would be likely to do, if he found himself located like we are. But no matter, I suddenly remembered I had meant to examine that boat better, and then it happened that something put it out of my mind." "Examine the shanty boat better, do you mean, Thad?" "Yes. I remembered noticing what looked like a square consisting of plain cracks, on the floor of the cabin. The more I get to thinking of it, Giraffe, the stronger it strikes me that there may be some sort of trap door there. The boat must be hollow, that stands to reason, and if the water could be kept from getting in, such a place would be a good hiding-place." "Gee whiz! do you mean for extra grub supplies, or something else, Thad?" "I was thinking of something else," came the reply. "You remember how we found supper cooking on the stove when we broke into that boat cabin, yet never a solitary soul around? Well, supposing the man who was doing the cooking heard us when we let out those wild yells, and seeing soldiers coming down on him like wild cats, he just dodged below, _and stayed there_?" "You mean all night long, Thad?" "Yes, right up to the time we left the boat this morning," the patrol leader went on to say solemnly. "But could he stand it all that time?" asked Giraffe dubiously. "It may not have been the most comfortable thing going," admitted Thad; "but a fellow can stand for a whole lot when he just has to." "You mean he'd do it, rather than risk coming out, and being gobbled up by the militia, is that it, Thad?" "You've caught my idea, Giraffe." "But, Thad, just think how he must have suffered all the while we rocked in the cradle of the deep like we did?" ventured the other, shaking his head as though he could hardly bring himself to believe it possible. "It would take a good deal of grit to hold out, for a fact, but then he might be so much afraid of arrest that of two evils he chose the lesser," Thad continued. "And what do you want me to do?" queried the tall scout. "Just go to where we left the boat, and see if those cracks mean some sort of trap leading to the hold of the float. Be careful how you open it, because if the owner is hiding in there he may try to do something desperate. Perhaps you'd better take Step Hen along with you." "Guess not, unless you insist, Thad. I'll carry a gun, and with that I'll be equal to any refugee that ever walked on two legs." Giraffe liked nothing better than to be dispatched on a mission of this kind. He said nothing to any of the others, only picked up his gun, sang out to Bumpus not to let the fire die down for lack of fresh wood, and then walked away. Some of the rest looked after him curiously, and wondered what he was up to; but as Step Hen had seen him in consultation with Thad he told them it was none of their business, but that the tall scout had undoubtedly been sent off on an errand by the commander. Bumpus, feeling a certain sense of responsibility on account of having been especially designated as the guardian of the fire, took it upon himself to make certain that there was a plentiful supply of wood handy. It was a comical sight to see him swing the old ax, and hear him give a loud grunt every time he sent it home. But nevertheless he managed to keep things going, for he was very persistent, and hated to let any object escape him, once he had set his mind on accomplishing the same. It was perhaps fifteen minutes later that they heard a shout, and looking up discovered some one running toward them, waving his arms wildly. "There comes Giraffe, like hot cakes," announced Bumpus. "And he looks wild in the bargain," added Step Hen. "I wonder now has he run on any savages getting ready for a feast like the ones Robinson saw." "Oh! you're only fooling, I know, because savages couldn't be here along the Susquehanna!" exclaimed Bumpus; but nevertheless he began to show signs of fresh anxiety; and waited for the runner to come up, with a thousand questions in his manner. So Giraffe came along, slackening his pace as he drew near, for he was breathing hard, and casting occasional glances back of him, which latter action in itself was sufficient cause for Bumpus to believe he must have been chased by some one. "What is it, Giraffe?" he called out, even before the other had arrived. "Yes, tell us what ails you, and why you've been running so fast?" Step Hen went on to say, as they all crowded around the panting runner. CHAPTER XVI. WHAT DAVY HEARD. "You guessed right, Thad!" said Giraffe, looking toward the patrol leader. "About what?" demanded Step Hen. "Why, that it'd be dangerous for us to try and stick to the old bug of a shanty boat, with all that wind blowing," came the reply. "Has she gone, Giraffe?" demanded Thad quickly, and the other nodded eagerly. "Cleaned out, as sure as anything, and not a sign of her around, as far as I could see," he went on to explain. "Then it must have been the great big blast that set her adrift," Davy added, doing his best to explain the mystery. "It was enough to whip her off the shore, with the water rising all the while. Well, that settles it for us." "How does it, Davy?" pleaded Bumpus. "I mean we're Crusoes at last, and the last link binding us to our beloved home is swept away," the other continued, for the especial benefit of Bumpus, who was apt to take things too literally. "Enough of that, Davy," Thad broke in with; "you know we didn't take so much stock in that clumsy boat, after all. It's true we did talk about cutting some long setting-poles, and trying to make the shore when the water went down, but there will be other ways to reach the mainland when we're ready, never you fear. Tell us about it, Giraffe." "Why, I took my time about getting there, you see, because I knew there wasn't any need of hurrying, as we couldn't do a thing to-day. Besides, Thad, I wanted to look around a little on the way, and find out if there was any sort of game on _our_ little island. Well, there is, and I reckon, what with our guns and snares, we could keep ourselves from starving to death for a long while." "Good!" muttered Bumpus, as though that important statement removed a certain dreadful fear that may have been haunting him for quite some time. "Yes," continued the other scout glibly, "I saw two rabbits at different times, and a number of nut-crackers of the gray order, fine big chaps too, that would make a fine squirrel stew, let me tell you. They must have come out here at some time in the summer, when the water was awful low, and this island connected with the main shore on one side by an isthmus." "That's the explanation, I expect," assented Allan, who was always very much interested in all things concerning wild animal migration. "But about the boat, Giraffe?" reminded Thad. "Oh! yes, that's so. I started in to tell you how I found out she was gone from that point where we left her a while back, didn't I? Well, after I got to the place where you come right out of the woods and sight the point I began to rub my eyes, because I couldn't believe I was seeing straight, for there wasn't any boat on that shore at all, not the first sign of one. Of course I knew right away what had happened, and that it must have been the extra big squall coming out of the northwest that had driven her off." "Then you hurried back to bring us the news, didn't you?" continued Thad. "Say, I just _flew_, because I thought the sooner you knew about it the better. And so we're prisoners on the island now, without any kind of a boat to take us off. We may have to wade or swim after the tide goes down again." "I don't suppose you stopped to take a look, and see if there were any tracks around?" the patrol leader continued. "Tracks--what of, the keel of the shanty boat?" asked Giraffe. "Oh! the splash of the water would have washed all those out easy, so what was the use? We know she's gone, and that covers the whole bill. By now, what with that wind and current, if she hasn't been stove in on some rock, the shanty boat must be five or ten miles down the river, and booming along, all the while spinning around like a top. Whee! I'm tickled to death to know I'm not aboard her right now." "So say we all of us!" roared several of the scouts in unison, showing how they felt about the matter. "How about making a shelter?" asked Giraffe, his woodsman spirit aroused; which remark proved that he must have been pondering over these things while on the way to the upper end of the island and back. "We were talking that over while you were gone," said Thad, "and came to the conclusion that while we might try and put up some little cover good enough for one night, which would keep the dew off, even without the use of our ponchos, it would hardly pay us to go to any great trouble." "But what if we have to stay out here a long time?" continued Giraffe, whose whole manner told that he would not object in the least, as long as the eating was fairly good; and that the Easter vacation could be indefinitely prolonged so far as he was concerned. "Well, we don't intend to, and that's all there is to it," Step Hen assured him. "Of course we have to put in one night; but that ought to be all. The river will fall nearly as fast as it rose; and already Thad's thinking up some scheme that's going to take us ashore." "Any wings to it, Thad?" asked Giraffe laughingly; "or shall we make a balloon, and go flying over Cranford, to make the folks' eyes stick out of their heads with wondering what those frisky Silver Fox scouts will be doing next, to get themselves in the spotlight?" "Oh! I haven't had time enough yet to get to that," Thad told him; "just give me a chance to sleep over it first. But Step Hen is perfectly right when he says we haven't the least intention of being cooped up here many days. Besides, unless we do get a move on us pretty soon, we'll have to turn back home and get ready to go to school, instead of recovering the judge's treasured army coat for him." "School!" repeated Bumpus; "my goodness! is there really such a place? Why, seems to me it's been an _age_ since I recited a lesson. Just the thought of it makes me feel sad. But if we did have to camp out here for a couple of weeks we'd miss some hunky-dory good times in Cranford. The barn dance comes off next week, you know. And every one of us, I reckon, has promised to take somebody. Oh! we've just got to be home before then, Thad. Think what Sadie Bradley'd do if you gave her the mitten; and then how about Giraffe's roly-poly sister, Polly, Allan; are you ready to forsake her? Perish the thought; the boys of the Silver Fox Patrol never were quitters, were they?" Giraffe, whatever he may have thought about staying on the island as long as they could stand it, seeing that popular sentiment was against him, showed enough wisdom to quiet down. Possibly he may not have been one-half as bent on such a course himself as he made out; for Giraffe was notoriously shrewd, and fond of playing all manner of jokes. They lounged around, some of them engaged in accomplishing certain things, but in the main content to lie on their blankets, with a poncho underneath to keep the dampness off. This was on account of the fact that they had been cheated out of considerable sleep lately, and felt the need of it. Later on Thad commenced to make a bough shelter, with the assistance of several of the others. In summer time this is readily done, but when the leaves are off most of the trees it is not so easy a task. By selecting hemlock and other trees that would afford a dense covering they managed by degrees to build up quite a shelter, under which they might lie without running much risk of being wet by the dews. And after the recent heavy storm all of the weather prophets seemed fully agreed that the air had surely been cleared, so that another rain was not apt to come along for some time at least. Noon came and went. They cooked a warm meal, thus reducing the amount of provisions on hand; but the result was worth all the sacrifice, Giraffe and Bumpus declared, as they lay on the ground afterward, hardly able to move on account of the full dinner of which they had partaken. "Three more meals like that, and then the deluge!" said Giraffe; "but who cares for expenses? Gimme two cents' worth of gingersnaps, as the country boy said when he wanted the girls in the store to see what a high roller he could be. If our plans turn out O. K. we hope to be where we can buy a dinner for hard cash by that time. No need of worrying any; keep a doin' the smile-that-won't-come-off business. We belong to the Little Sunshine Club, don't we, boys?" Most of them were there in the bunch, and as usual all trying to talk at once. Davy alone sat off to one side, and seemed to be trying to shut out the chatter, while he wrote in his private log book an account of their recent adventures. "How did the grits go, Bob?" asked Bumpus, who, in order to please the Southern boy, had prepared a kettle of fine hominy, to which the other had certainly done full justice, if his three helpings counted for anything. "Simply immense, suh, and no mistake about it," came the hearty reply; "some of you wonder how it is every Southerner loves that good old dish, and I confess that I'm unable to supply the explanation. I only know it fo' a fact; and that somehow they all say it seems to bring befo' their minds' eye a picture of hanging moss, orange trees, cotton in the field, magnolias in bloom on the green trees, and all sorts of other things connected with the South they love." "I don't think there's a part of this Union one-half so fond of their section of the country as you Southerners are, Bob," Allan asserted. "I reckon you're about right, suh, when you say that. It's always been that way with us befo' the war and since. But Davy's beckoning to you, Thad." "Well, I declare, what do you think of that for pure nerve?" muttered Giraffe, as he saw the scout in question crooking his finger, and nodding to the patrol leader, as though asking him to come over; "if the mountain won't come to Mahomet, he has to go to the mountain. But whatever d'ye imagine ails Davy now? He don't look sick, and in need of medicine, because he ate nearly as big a dinner as--well, as Bumpus here did." "Speak for yourself, John Alden," retorted the stout boy scornfully. Thad understood that Davy wished to say something privately, and on this account he did not hesitate to get up and move over to where the other was sitting with his log book in his hand. He saw that Davy had a puzzled expression on his face, and from this judged he had run across some sort of enigma which he wanted the patrol leader to help him solve. As Thad was accustomed to this sort of thing, he did not think it strange, though naturally feeling some curiosity concerning the matter. "Want to see me, Davy?" he asked, as he carelessly dropped alongside the other. "Why, we're all here, ain't we, Thad, the whole patrol I mean?" Davy began. "Count noses, and you'll find there are just eight of us, which covers the bill," Thad told him. "While you-all were talking there did you hear anything queer?" continued Davy. "Not that could be noticed," Thad told him. "There were times when the boys made so much noise that it was hard for me to hear anything besides. Did you catch any suspicious sound, Davy?" The other immediately nodded, and went on to say, at the same time casting a quick look all around him: "Thad, I sure did. I was sitting here writing, and paying no attention to what the fellows were squabbling about, when all at once it came, as plain as anything, and right from over yonder," with which he pointed across the island. "Was it the bark of a dog, the mewing of a cat, the bray of a donkey, or the neighing of a horse, Davy?" asked Thad, smiling. "Nixey, not any of those, Thad," replied the other solemnly; "but as sure as I'm sitting here it sounded like a shout in a human voice!" CHAPTER XVII. LOOKING FOR SIGNS. "You mean you think you heard some one shouting, do you?" asked Thad, apparently unmoved, though truth to tell he considered this new information of considerable importance. "That's what I want you to understand, Thad." "Could you make out what was said?" continued the patrol leader, anxious to get at the kernel of the matter as soon as possible. "Well, no, I don't believe I did; but it just struck me it was a _yell_, like anybody would let out if something happened to give him a shock. I reckon that's what I'd be apt to do if a rattlesnake jumped at me, and I dodged back." "Well," continued Thad confidently, "there couldn't be any rattlesnake here on this island, I should think, and even if that was so, snakes never come out so early in the season. But Davy, do you think you could tell which direction the shout seemed to come from?" "Just where I pointed, over there to the east, which is the side of the island. Now, if there's somebody out here besides us, who could it be?" and Davy asked this question with the confidence the scouts had come to put in their leader, whom they apparently expected to know everything. "Oh! it might be some fisherman who had a hut here; or even a fugitive from justice, hiding from the officers. You know we've run across things like that. Once we even met up with a crazy man who had broken out of an asylum, and was living like a hermit in the woods. All that will come later on, when we find the proof that you haven't made a mistake." "But, Thad, I ought to know a shout given by human lungs, hadn't I?" pursued the puzzled Davy. "We all think that, Davy, but you know for yourself that a loon for instance can laugh so much like a man that you'd be ready to take your affidavit there was a fellow out on the lake trying to make you mad. You think you heard a shout; but it may have been one of a lot of things." "Of course anybody could be mistaken, Thad," the other went on to say; and it is an accepted fact that when your enemy begins to look over his shoulder he is getting ready to retreat. "You may have heard what you think, Davy; perhaps a boat was being swept past the island, and someone in it, seeing the smoke of our fire, called out for help; though I should think if that was the case he'd keep the ball rolling. Come, let's take a turn across to the shore, and see if anything is in sight down-river way." "All right, Thad; count on me to go along. No need of saying anything to the rest, is there?" Davy remarked, with eagerness stamped upon his face. "Not a bit," replied the other. When the others saw them moving off, very naturally they felt more or less curiosity to know what was in the wind. "Hello! there, what's up?" called out Giraffe. "Oh! we're just going over to take a look around, boys," replied Thad. "Don't get lost, and give us the bother of hunting you up, whatever you do," they heard Bumpus say; and the audacity of the thing struck Thad as so comical that he could be heard chuckling as he went on. As there had been no invitation on the part of the patrol leader to the others to come along, they realized that they were not wanted. "A case of two's company, three a crowd, I reckon, suh!" remarked Bob White, as he tossed a little more wood on the fire, which felt pretty cheerful, since the air was still cool after the storm. "Who cares?" said Bumpus, stretching himself out again at full length on his comfortable blanket. Meanwhile Thad and Davy were engaged in making their way through the brush, and heading for the shore on the eastern side of the island that stood in the middle of the flooded Susquehanna. They found it more difficult work than they had expected. The island could not have been used for any purpose, since under the trees it was a perfect snarl of bushes and creeping vines, some of the latter as thick as one's ankle. Unless the person who was pushing his way through this wilderness of growth kept constantly on the alert he was very apt to catch his foot in a snake-like vine, and measure his full length on the ground. Davy, indeed, uttered several little ejaculations when his hands came in contact with thorns growing on some of the bushes. "This isn't what it seemed cracked up to be, eh, Thad?" he muttered. "I guess there's a sample of everything that grows around this region right here on this island, and then some. And seems like I'm finding the same out one after the other. There, that stub of a branch tried to poke my left eye out, and did bring blood on my cheek. I don't see how you manage to get along without any accidents." "You're not as experienced as I am in passing through places like this, that's all, Davy. You move too quick, and don't use your eyes enough. If you think I can take the cake at it you ought to see an Indian work, and after that you'd say I wasn't in the same class. He'd like as not glide along like a snake; and try as hard as you pleased, you wouldn't hear so much as a twig break under his feet." "Then I'm pretty sure I'll never make a first-class scout," commented Davy, "for I seem to be too clumsy. There, I thought that stick would bear my weight; but it broke under me with a sharp snap that would have told the enemy somebody was trying to sneak up on the camp. I guess it must run in the blood, Thad, and I haven't got any of it in me. Yet I had an uncle who was said to be one of the greatest big game hunters that ever went out to South Africa after elephants and lions and all such things. They skipped me when it came to inheriting the instincts of a still-hunter." By degrees they forced their way through all these obstacles, and Davy seemed to improve as he went along, as Thad took occasion to tell him. "Anyhow, it'll be easy enough going back again!" Davy declared, "because we've left a fair trail behind us. I wouldn't be surprised now if some of the other fellows take advantage of that to cross over here, so's to get a squint of the river." "Well, here we are, and it looks as if we might get a fairly decent look down stream, Davy." "Yes, there's a little point sticking out here, thank goodness. Look at all the water going past, would you, Thad? This is a great flood, all right; and I hope it goes down a lot before we try to cross over to the mainland, to-morrow, or the day after. Do you think it's come to a stand yet?" "I guess you'll find it that way," returned the other; "and while we're here I mean to make a mark, so as to tell just before dark what's happening. But Davy, can you see anything like a boat down below?" Davy shook his head, for he had been earnestly gazing in that direction. "Not a single sign, Thad!" he declared, in a disappointed tone. "And as a boat couldn't have passed from sight in this short time, why, that proves there wasn't such a thing at all." "Looks that way," assented the patrol leader confidently. "And," continued Davy, "that if I did really hear a shout, which of course hasn't yet been proved for certain, then there's somebody on this island besides our crowd!" "We'll have to let it go at that," Thad told him. They looked about for a short time, and Thad arranged a stick at the edge of the river, that stood where the current would not displace it. By means of this he could tell whether the water rose or fell, since he had cut a groove in it to mark the present height of the flood. "There, that ought to do the business for us," Thad remarked, after he had finished his little job. "Do we go back to the camp now?" Davy wanted to know, as though a little fearful that the other might propose a trip around the island, which, on account of the dense thickets of brush, he would not altogether fancy, though not the kind of a scout to easily back down. "I reckon we might as well," the patrol leader told him; and with this encouragement Davy immediately started off. Thad used his eyes as he went, but could not say that he had managed to make any discovery that would throw the least light on the mystery of that strange noise his companion claimed to have heard. Of course, when they joined the others, everybody was curious to know what their little jaunt meant; so they had to tell all about it. "None of us heard a single thing," remarked Giraffe sturdily, as though that fact ought to settle it, and that Davy must have allowed his imagination to work overtime. "I should think you couldn't, what with all the row you kept up," Davy answered back sturdily. "All I want to say is this, that I heard something like a shout; and I'll keep on saying that forever, no matter how you laugh, and make fun." Of course they talked it over, and viewed the happening from all sides. Every fellow had some sort of explanation to make to cover the ground. A few of these followed the same track Thad had hewn when stating his ideas to Davy; and yet after exhausting the subject the boys were no nearer a solution of the mystery than when they started. Later on, just as Davy had suggested might be the case, several of them made up their minds they would like to take a look at the river, for Bumpus and Smithy started forth. "Just follow our trail!" sang out Davy after the pair, "and you won't have any trouble. But keep your eyes peeled every minute of the time if you don't want to get in trouble." "What from?" demanded Bumpus, halting in his departure. "Oh! all sorts of snares, in the shape of concealed vines that grab you by the ankles and throw you down; or branches that smack you square in the face, and nearly blind you. If you get in any hole and want help, just sing out, fellows." "Thanks, we will!" replied Bumpus scornfully, as though he did not anticipate such a thing happening; if Davy considered that he and Smithy were still greenhorns and must be treated as babes in the woods, he was very much mistaken, that was all. As Giraffe liked to say, "you never can tell," and stranger things than that can come about when boys are loose in the wilderness. Those left by the fire continued to sprawl around in favorite attitudes, and take their ease. The day had another hour or so left, and there was Giraffe overhauling the food supply, evidently making out the menu which he meant to serve up for the evening meal--trust Giraffe for taking care of such things. The sun was shining cheerily now, and that at least was some comfort to these castaway scouts. They expected that with the coming of another day they would be able to start a scheme looking to making a move to get away; and that thought gave them encouragement. It was at this moment there rang out a sudden cry that caused everyone to spring up and look startled. "It sounded like Smithy's voice!" exclaimed Thad, as he gained his feet. "Yes, that's what it did!" echoed Giraffe; "something must have happened after all! Mebbe they've gone and met up with trouble! Mebbe there _are_ some people on this island that don't like us being here! Thad, what shall we do?" Quick and energetic came the patrol leader's order. "Step Hen, stay here to guard the camp; the rest of you follow me!" Without wasting another second the five boys rushed away toward the spot where again and again they could hear Smithy's shrill voice calling for help! CHAPTER XVIII. MORE SERIOUS NEWS. "Help! hurry up!" That was what Smithy was calling, in agonized tones that thrilled everyone of the other scouts. They were rushing pell-mell along the trail which Davy and Thad had made in going to and coming from the river, and which the other pair had also followed when they went to take an observation. Now and then one of them would find a root or a vine, and take a header, but only to scramble erect again, and resume the furious forward rush. The river was close by, and at least Smithy had not lost his voice, for he still kept up his cries; though getting hoarse through the excitement, and the constant strain on his voice. Then those in the lead discovered their chum. He seemed to be lying flat on his chest at the very brink of the swift flowing river; and while one hand gripped an exposed root belonging to a tree, the other was stretched over the edge of the bank. "It's Bumpus!" gasped Giraffe; "and he's fallen in!" No one took the trouble to offer any objection to this explanation. Indeed, from their previous experience with Bumpus it seemed the most natural thing in the world to expect the clumsy scout to tumble overboard every chance he got. They could in fact look back to any number of similar accidents during the time the patrol had been taking these outings in the woods and on the waters. "Hold him tight, Smithy!" snapped Thad, trying to increase his pace, which was rendered a difficult thing to do because of the many obstacles that must be encountered and overcome. "Good boy, Smithy, keep a-going!" cried Davy, greatly excited. No doubt these cheery symptoms of coming help did much to encourage Smithy to maintain his frenzied clutch upon the one who was in the water; for he was still holding on when Thad arrived on the spot, accompanied by Giraffe, the best runner of them all. Down alongside Smithy they both dropped. Yes, there was poor old Bumpus in the flood, swimming with hands and legs, and spurting great volumes of the muddy water out of his mouth with each splurge. It chanced that it was quite deep there, and the river ran like a mill race; so that if Smithy had released his grip for a single instant the unlucky Bumpus must have been swept down-stream like a log, in spite of his strenuous efforts. When his clothes were soaked through, the stout member of the patrol was apt to weigh several hundred pounds; so it was small wonder that, unaided, Smithy could do next to nothing looking to his rescue--just hold on desperately, and shout for help. But when Thad and Giraffe took a grip it was a different matter. Altogether they started to drag the imperiled scout up out of his impromptu bath. "Yo-heave-o! Up you come, my boy! One more pull, Thad, and we've got him. Wow! what an elephant he is!" So saying, Giraffe bent again to the task, with the result that Bumpus was soon hauled over the edge of the crumbling bank, and dragged to a place of security. There he lay, sprawled out, gasping for breath, and shedding gallons of water from his soaked khaki suit. The boys gathered around, staring at him. Although they often poked considerable fun at Bumpus, it was of an innocent sort, for they were exceedingly fond of him. "Well, you sure look like a great big grampus hauled up on the beach!" remarked Giraffe, with pretended scorn, though to tell the truth in all probability he did not really know what a grampus was, only that it lived in the sea, and stood for something clumsy and large. "Next time you feel like taking a bath, Bumpus, don't be so greedy. You're some size, but the river's on a flood now, and too big for you!" said Davy; and turning to Thad he continued: "Like as not your stick will show that she jumped up a foot or more when Bumpus dropped in." "It's a bad time to get your feet crossed, suh, when you-all happen to be on a river bank!" Bob White hinted. "You're all away off; I didn't stumble, this time, anyhow, and I wasn't trying to take a bath either," spluttered the soaking Bumpus, as he sat up and started wiping his face with a very wet sleeve. "How about that, Smithy; what happened to him?" asked Thad. "The bank caved in under him, that's the truth," replied the other scout. "He was wanting to see just a little further down the river, when all at once he went in. I really couldn't tell you just how I happened to catch hold of him by the back of his coat, because I don't know myself; but I thought it my duty to call out, and try to get some help. You see, he was too heavy for me to lift. I almost broke my back trying, as it was." "I should think you would!" declared Giraffe; "and it's a lucky thing we heard you calling. Only for that what would you have done, Smithy?" "I was trying to think all the while," replied the other. "You see, I didn't dare let go my hold, for the current is terribly swift here. I had half an idea that if only I could work along the bank a little, it might shoal some, and then Bumpus would be able to get a footing. But I'm glad you came when you did, for I was rapidly becoming exhausted." Smithy generally spoke with great exactness, and used words that few of his comrades ever bothered with in their conversation; that was one thing connected with his previous condition that persisted in clinging to the former dandy of the patrol. "You did the right thing, and that's a fact!" commented Allan; "I don't believe there's a single fellow who could have raised Bumpus. But, Thad, he's beginning to shiver in this air; don't you think we ought to get him over to the fire?" "Sounds good t-to me; fire's what I w-want, and l-lots of it too!" stammered the stout scout, trying to get to his feet, in which effort he was ably assisted by willing hands. "As t-to that bank, how'd I k-k-know it was goin' to c-c-cave in on me, t-t-tell me that, will y-y-you?" They hurried him along as fast as he could be urged, and all the while he kept shedding little streams of water, as though he carried an almost inexhaustible supply. When finally the camp was reached, with the wondering Step Hen giggling over the comical sight Bumpus presented, they made the late swimmer disrobe, and hung his clothes around so that they would dry in the heat of the fire. Bumpus himself was wrapped in blankets until he looked like a swathed mummy, and told to just lie there. Under all this manipulation of course his chilled blood regained its normal temperature, and he declared he felt as snug as a "bug in a rug!" Even this excitement did not cause Giraffe to forget that he had business on his hands, and supper was taken in charge with the customary results; for they presently found themselves sitting down to a "bountiful repast," Davy called it, to the evident complete satisfaction of the eminent cook. By the time they were ready to roll up in their blankets and try to get some sleep, the clothes hanging from various bushes were thoroughly dry; so that Bumpus could don the same. This released all the extra blankets with which he had been swathed, which was a matter of vital importance to their various owners. The fire they expected to keep going more or less all through the night. Besides the comfort that it brought through the necessary heat, its bright glow did much to dissipate the gloom around them, and render their situation less cheerless. Giraffe insisted on keeping his gun close at his side, for he said there could be no telling whether they were safe there or not. If the island did happen to be the hiding-place of some desperate criminal, who might think to steal a march on them as they slept, he wanted to be ready to repel boarders. He even had Thad promise to give a certain signal should anything out of the way happen while they slept; just as though Thad would be awake all through the night, and know about the same. But the long hours of darkness dragged on, and there was no alarm. Some of the boys slept through the entire night without arousing once; but there were others who felt more of the weight of responsibility resting upon them, and who frequently sat up to look around, or else got upon their feet, in order to put more wood on the camp fire. Morning broke and found them apparently in just the same condition as when they had wrapped their blankets around them, and lay down with their feet toward the fire, hunter-fashion. Thad was the first up, and when Allan awoke it was to see the patrol leader returning over the trail that led to the river bank. It was easy to decide that the other must have been over to learn what his tally-stick had to tell about the condition of the flood. "How about it, Thad; falling, I hope?" Allan asked, as he stretched himself, after getting on his feet. "Yes, and rapidly into the bargain, just as we expected would be the case," came the reply. "That rain could not have extended all the way up to the sources of the river, you see; and it will run out in a big hurry." "Then we may be able to get across to the mainland before a great while?" queried Allan. "We'll talk about that while we're eating breakfast," Thad told him; "and as the sun is coming up I reckon we'd better waken the rest of the crowd. They've had a grand good sleep, I take it. Give Giraffe a push, Allan, will you, and roll Bumpus over a few times till he says he's awake; that's the regular program with him, you know." One by one the scouts sat up, and yawned, and stretched, as sleepy boys are apt to do when they have not been allowed to have their last nap out. Of course Davy did not forget how Thad had made a flood-tally over at the river, which fortunately Bumpus had not kicked away when he took his unexpected plunge with a portion of the crumbly bank. "I reckon, now, Thad, you've been over to see what's doing," he remarked, while Giraffe fixed his cooking fire, and set about beginning operations looking to having breakfast under way. "And if that's so tell us how she stands. Did it drop half a foot or more during the time we snoozed?" "More like three feet," replied the other; "and if Bumpus fell over in the same place again he'd find the water hardly up to his waist, with little current in place of that mill race of yesterday. Yes, things begin to look encouraging all around, boys!" "Like fun they do!" bawled out Giraffe just then, as he stood up, and turned a very red and angry face toward the rest of the scouts. "Why, what ails you now, Giraffe?" asked Smithy, who, generally calm and cold as an iceberg himself, frequently took the others to task when they showed signs of great excitement. "I'm as mad as a wet hen, I tell you, and I wish somebody'd kick me for not doing what I first meant to last night, ask Thad to set a watch!" exploded the tall scout, stamping on the ground, and grinding his teeth. Thad smelled a rat immediately. "Anything been taken, Giraffe?" he asked hastily. "Anything?" roared the other; "why, there isn't half enough left to give us a decent meal. I reckon I might be satisfied, but where the rest of you are going to come in beats me. Yes, this island is inhabited, all right, and they're a set of low-down thieves at that. You hear me talking, fellows!" CHAPTER XIX. THE TRAIL OF THE MARAUDER. When they heard the dreadful news the rest of the scouts looked almost frightened. It was bad enough to know that some evil intentioned man was on the island with them; but that he should have actually crept into their camp while they slept, and very nearly made a clean sweep of their already limited stock of provisions, seemed close to a tragedy. When you threaten to cut off their food supply it is hitting boys in their weakest place. There was an immediate start for the spot where they had placed their haversacks and the food on the preceding night. Thad, however, held them back. "Don't all rush so," he told them. "We want to look around, and see if we can find out anything. If everybody tramples the ground it'll be little use trying. Let Allan and Giraffe help me look first. We'll report anything we find." The advice sounded reasonable to the rest; so despite their eagerness to take a hand in the game they held back while the three scouts proceeded to examine the ground. It was not long before Allan made a discovery. "I think here's where he crawled along," he told Thad, who was close by; "you can see that something's dragged here, which must have been his knees. Yes, and there's where the toe of his shoe made a dent in the soil, with another and still another further on. And now he lay flat on his stomach. Perhaps one of us happened to move just then, and he was afraid of being seen." "You're right, Allan," remarked Thad, after taking a good look; "and to think it possible he was crouching here in the shadows when I got up and threw some wood on the fire. If I knew that I'd feel pretty sore." "Well, he went on again pretty soon, didn't he?" observed Giraffe, who was hovering close by, and keeping close watch on everything that was done. "Yes, that's what he did," resumed Allan, also starting on once more, following the tracks that looked so strange they would have sorely puzzled members of the patrol like Smithy and Bumpus, who were not noted as trackers; "and headed direct for the place where we stacked our things up." "It was a lucky thing none of us happened to leave our guns here with all the rest of the duffel," observed Giraffe exultantly, as though it gave him considerable satisfaction to find that he had not been quite as foolish as might have happened. "He finally got to our stuff," Allan went on, "and rising to his knees started to pick out what he wanted. I guess he must have been pretty hungry, because grub was what he seemed to be after. Not one of our haversacks is gone, you can see. He took that piece of bacon we fetched from the boat, the packages of crackers, and--yes, the cheese is lost in addition, also a can of corn and the coffee. Fact is, it looks as if we didn't have much left, outside this package of hominy, and the little tin box of tea you fetched along, Thad!" Giraffe gave vent to a hollow groan. "It's just dreadful, that's what!" he said, with a gulp, as though receiving the sad news that he had lost his best friend; "just think of grits and tea for our breakfast, and not another thing! The worst is yet to come, though, for we won't get _anything_ for dinner, you know! Why, I'll be all skin and bone if things keep on going from bad to worse like that." "Bob White won't think it's so tough, if he can have his grits," remarked Allan; "but breakfast to a New England boy stands for ham and eggs, flapjacks with maple syrup, and always coffee and cold pie." "Stop stretching out the agony, can't you?" said Giraffe, holding both hands to his ears as though trying to shut out the mention of such delightful dishes; "it's cruelty to animals to talk that way, Allan. But, Thad, what are we going to do about this same thing? Can't we take up the trail, and try to get our stuff back? After all, this old island is only of a certain size, and with eight of us in line we ought to comb it from top to bottom. I feel like Sheridan did when he met the Union troops running away in a panic from Cedar Creek, and yelled out: 'Turn the other way, boys, turn the other way! We'll lick 'em out of their boots yet! We've just got to get those camps back!' You see he was thinking of all the good stuff they'd lost with the camps. So are we." "Allan, suppose we look to see which way he went off, because it couldn't have been along the same line as his advance?" suggested the scout master. He knew considerable about these things himself, but trusted to Allan to learn facts that might even have eluded his observation. Allan had been in Maine and the Adirondacks a portion of his life, and picked up many clever ways from association with the guides that made him invaluable when it came to a question of woodcraft. "That's a good idea, Thad," was what the other said in reply; and already his sharp eyes had begun to look for signs. These were easily found, for the unseen thief had crawled away in the same fashion as he made his advance, though a bit more clumsily, which was doubtless owing to the fact of his being more heavily laden at the time. Step Hen, Bob White and the other three were of course watching the every movement of the experienced trackers with great interest. They took some little satisfaction in trying to guess just what each movement signified. Bumpus and Smithy of course would never have been able to figure these things out, but the other three had more practical knowledge and could hit closer to the mark. "There," Step Hen was saying eagerly; "they're taking stock of what's been hooked, and my stars! just look at the way Giraffe throws his hands up, will you? If that doesn't tell the story, then I'm away off in my guess. I just wager we've been cleaned out for keeps, and our little tummies will call in vain for their accustomed rations. I wonder how it feels to starve to death!" "Oh! quit talking that way, Step Hen," wailed Bumpus; "we ain't going to waste away like all that. Give Thad a chance to think up how to win out. Besides, didn't you hear Giraffe say there was lots of fat game on this island; yes, and fish in the river to boot. I'm not going to give up so easy; there's always _something_ to fall back on, if it gets to the worst." "Yes," added Step Hen maliciously, "that's what shipwrecked sailors have to do when they cast lots; and I'm glad now I wasn't built like a roly-poly pudding. It's too tempting when hard times come along." Bumpus, of course, understood that his chum was only joking, but nevertheless he drew a long breath, and remained very quiet for quite some time after that, as though busied with uneasy thoughts. "Now they're starting off again," remarked Davy, "and I guess it's to follow the trail of the thief away. I wonder if we could track him to where he hangs out, so as to make him hand over our property." "I allow, suh," Bob White broke in with, "that by the time we did that same there would be mighty little of our food left. He must have been pretty hungry to take the chances he did when he crawled into our camp, and with all these guns around in plain sight." "Let's keep along after the boys," suggested Step Hen, "and see what they run up against." The idea appealed to his companions, for they all started off, though maintaining the same relative distance from Thad and his backers, so as not to interfere with the work. Step Hen took occasion to bend down when he came upon a spot where the imprint of the unknown man's knee could be seen, and looked at it intently, though finally giving it up as a task beyond his ability. "Knees all make the same kind of dragging mark to me," he told the others, who had waited to hear his report, "and I can't tell one from another. If it was Bumpus here, now, who had done this trick in his sleep, I wouldn't be able to say for sure, though like as not he'd bear deeper'n this mark shows." "Well, since Bumpus wasn't outside of his blanket once all night long, you can't saddle this job on his poor shoulders. He's got enough to carry as it is, see?" and the stout boy put all the emphasis possible on that last word, as though he meant to make it decisive. "They seem to be getting close to the bushes now," Bob White observed. "And once he got in there mebbe the thief would rise to his feet to walk away," added Step Hen. "If Thad beckons you'll know he's settled it in his mind to follow the trail, and wants all of us who own guns to rally around him." "How about the rest; what will they be doing?" asked Smithy. "Tending camp, of course," replied the other. "Think now we know we've got a thief for a neighbor we want him to steal our blankets next? A nice pickle we'd be in without some way to keep warm nights. Remember, if you are left on guard, to defend the blankets with your very lives, both of you!" This sort of lurid talk of course thrilled Bumpus very much, for he had a habit of taking what the others said literally, and could not see the vein of humor apt to lie back of bombastic vaporings. He was rubbing his fat hands one over the other in a nervous way, and alternately watching what Step Hen did, and then how the others were coming on. They could see that Thad and his two fellow scouts were just back of the first fringe of bushes. They had possibly made some sort of discovery, because all of them seemed to be down on hands and knees, with their faces close to the earth, and apparently examining certain impressions. "I wonder what's up now?" ventured Davy. "They've run on something that's staggered the bunch, you can see easily enough," Step Hen went on to say excitedly; "and I'm trying to make up my mind whether after all it _was_ a man crawling along that made those queer marks. P'raps, now, some sort of big wild animal might have done it. We haven't seen a single footprint, you remember, to tell the story. I wish I knew what they've run across. Why don't they call us over, and let us in? It isn't just fair to keep us worrying like we are." Just as though Thad might have heard this complaint on the part of Step Hen, he turned toward them, and raising his hand beckoned. "There, boys, he wants us to come over!" exclaimed Davy, exultantly; "I thought it'd strike us pretty quick; Thad isn't the kind to forget his mates. And we'll soon be put wise to the facts." They hurried to join the other three, who still stood at the same place, ever and anon looking seriously down at the ground, as though hardly able to believe the evidence of their eyes. When Step Hen came running with the other four tagging at his heels, Thad held up his hand. "Hold on right there, boys!" he remarked; "we don't want you to cut in and rub it all away before you've had a chance to look for yourselves." Of course this caused them to turn their attention to the ground, and it was easy to see that the crawling thief had here risen to his full height, though possibly bending over more or less as he continued his retreat. "Then it was a man, after all!" was what Bumpus said; and there was a positive air of relief about his voice, as though he had taken Step Hen's hint seriously, and even fancied a terrible wild beast might be hovering near them. "Yes, but look closer, and see if you can recognize anything familiar about the marks?" advised Thad. Accordingly, all of them leaned over and looked. It was Step Hen who gave the first startled cry. "Oh! Thad, what does this mean?" he burst out with; "it's the same broken shoe, bound together with an old rag, that we saw when we looked for the marks of Wandering George, in the mud of the road; but how in the wide world could he get over here?" CHAPTER XX. SOLVING A MYSTERY. "What's that you say?" burst out Davy, looking as startled as though, to use the words of Giraffe, he "had seen his great grandfather's spook!" "Wandering George! Out here on our island, too!" gasped Bumpus, just as though they had a permanent right to the strip of land in the middle of the river--"our" island he called it. Of course all of them turned toward Thad, as usual, expecting him to give the answer to the question that puzzled them. The patrol leader laughed as he pointed down once more to that tell-tale track. "No going behind the returns, is there, boys?" he said. "Every one of you knows that footprint by heart, because we took the pains to study it. And the man whose old battered shoe is being held on with a rag we know is Wandering George. He is responsible for taking our provisions. Right now you can imagine how much he's enjoying that cheese and crackers we expected to last us out to-day." Giraffe groaned. "And that fine strip of bacon we lifted at the time we left the shanty-boat!" added Step Hen, with a dismal look toward Bob White, who raised his eyes as if in horror at the idea of such desecration. "It's easy to understand that the hobo's on the island, but how in the wide world could he get here without wings? That's what I want to know," Allan observed; which at least went to show that so far no one had been able to figure it out, for if anybody could, surely the Maine boy, who had followed many a difficult trail in his time, ought to be able to. "Mebbe he crossed over to the island when the water was low?" suggested Step Hen, but the idea was instantly scorned by Giraffe. "You forget that the river's been on the boom for some little while," he said loftily; "and we happen to know that George wasn't far ahead of us just yesterday. Now, you're wondering if I've got a theory of my own, and I'll tell you what I think. Somehow or other George must have been in a boat, and came that way. How do we know but what he was trying to cross over, and the current swept him down stream? Then, again, he might have been in some house or barn that was carried away by the flood, and managed to get ashore here." "Say, Thad, don't you remember what I told you last night, when the rest were making so much noise, and I was dead sure I heard a shout?" interrupted Davy, with considerable excitement. "Is that so?" demanded Giraffe; "well, that might have been the time he landed here, and discovering that we wore uniforms, he was afraid to break in, so like as not he just hung around and watched us, till he got a chance to sneak all our bully grub." "Thad, you haven't told us what _you_ think yet," remarked Smithy, who had been listening to all this excited talk, and hearing so many wonderful suggestions made that he was quite bewildered; "did this tramp fly over here; was he washed up on the island by the flood; or did he find himself castaway on some floating cabin, and manage to get ashore by good luck?" Thad must have been using his head to some advantage during this time, for he appeared to have made up his mind decisively. "To tell you the truth," he remarked, "I don't take any stock in either the flying scheme or the one that brings in a floating hencoop or cabin to account for Wandering George's being here. I feel pretty sure he came on board a boat." "Is that so, Thad?" Giraffe went on to remark; "what kind of a boat would you say it was, now?" "Oh! something in the shape of a shanty-boat!" continued the other. "You mean like the one that brought us here?" demanded Step Hen. "_The same one!_" Thad shot back, with an emphasis that staggered his hearers, since all sorts of exclamations burst from their lips. "Thad, do you really mean that?" "It wouldn't be like you to crack a joke, when we're all mixed up like this." "A passenger aboard _our_ boat, and none of us ever dream of it; well, I must say you've got me guessing, Thad. However could that be?" and Bumpus plucked at the sleeve of the patrol leader, as though thrilled through and through by the staggering announcement just made. "Well, you see, it's just dawned on me," Thad commenced to say, "and I haven't had much time to figure it out myself, but the more I think it over the stronger my belief grows. Look back a bit, and you'll remember that we found a light in the cabin when we boarded the boat." "Yes, that's so, Thad," assented Giraffe. "And supper cooking, too," added Bumpus. "With not a soul in sight, which we thought mighty queer," Step Hen went on to say, as his contribution. "And all the while we stayed there, up to the time the cable broke, there was never a sign of the man that owned the boat, either," Davy reminded them. "You remember," Thad continued, "that we figured out at first the owner of the boat must have seen us coming, and hid himself somewhere ashore, hoping we'd take a look about and pass on. We even guessed he must have some reason to fear arrest, and thought we were connected with the state militia. But after learning of Wandering George's being here on the island I've hatched up another idea, and I'll tell you just what it runs like." "Good for you, Thad; we're listening like everything," muttered Bumpus, at the elbow of the chief scout. "I've come to the conclusion," Thad began, "that the two tramps must have chased the owner of the shanty-boat away some time before we struck in. Now that I'm on the track I can remember there were certain signs of confusion aboard when we first entered; things seemed tossed around, as if someone had been looking in places for hidden valuables. That would be just what these two yeggmen were apt to do, you see. And while one began to cook some supper, the other may have started in to ransack the place." "Yes, and about that time they glimpsed us coming along; is that the way you figure it out, Thad?" asked Allan eagerly; for this explanation on the part of his chum appealed strongly to him. "Yes, they saw a bunch of fellows in khaki running toward the boat," pursued the scout master; "and as it was too late for them to make a safe getaway, they just lifted a trap in the floor of the cabin, and dropped into the hold of the boat." "Je-ru-sa-lem!" gasped Giraffe, "now, what d'ye think of that? All the time we were aboard the old boat George and his pal were hiding in the hold, and waiting for us to vacate the ranch! Thad, I honestly believe you've struck oil." "But," interposed Step Hen, who on this occasion seemed disposed to be the only doubter, "why wouldn't they have made some attempt to escape while we slept, before the flood got so bad that the boat broke away from her moorings?" "There must have been some reason," Thad told him; "and we may be able to give a stab at it, even if we never know the real truth. If you look back again, Step Hen, to how we were sprawled about on the floor of that little cabin, trying to get some sleep, and wrapped in our blankets, you'll likely remember that the eight of us managed to cover about all the limited space there was around." "Every foot of the floor, for a fact, Thad," Davy admitted; "and I even threatened to hang by my toes from a hook, and sleep like a bat does, only Giraffe told me all the blood would run to my head, because that was the only empty place in my makeup." "Well, somebody must have been lying on that trap door, and whenever the men below tried to raise it they understood there was nothing doing," Thad explained. "Yes, that carries it up to the time we broke loose, and started on our wild ride down the flood," Step Hen admitted; "but you'd think they'd have let us know about having passengers aboard. Whenever we bucked up against a rock, and the bally old tub threatened to turn upside-down, think how scared George and his pal must 'a' been. Whew! it was bad enough above-decks, let alone being shut down there, and not knowing what was happening." "Of course I can't tell you what they thought, and why they didn't try to communicate with us," Thad went on. "It might be they felt that if they had to choose between giving themselves up or staying down in the hold and taking their chances they'd prefer the last. But when we left the boat I honestly believe they were aboard still." "Yes, and they'd guess she had struck shore, from the steady way she hung there," Giraffe continued, taking up the story in his turn, "and of course they knew that we were clearing out. So, what did they do but follow suit, as soon as they thought the coast was clear." "How about it now. Step Hen; any more objections?" asked the patrol leader. "I guess I'm through, Thad," acknowledged the other slowly, as though still unable to fully grasp the strange thing; "you've made out a pretty strong case, and I don't glimpse a break in the chain. That's the way you always hammer it in. If that hobo is here, then chances are he did come along with us, even if we never smelled a rat." "In the excitement of getting away," Thad resumed, "I forgot I'd noticed cracks in the cabin floor that looked like a trap leading down into the hold of the boat. That was partly why I had Giraffe go back to where we left the shanty-boat. You remember he came and told us it had been driven off the point by that big squall." "I'm wondering what would have happened if you'd thought about the hold under the cabin before we ever quitted our old craft?" Giraffe remarked. "Oh! we'd have found what was down there, and with guns in our hands could have easily cowed the hoboes," Allan told him. "Fight or no fight, that's what we would have done!" declared Bumpus vigorously. "Listen to him, will you?" chuckled Step Hen; "isn't he just the fierce Cossack, though? I can see that tramp army wilting when they sighted Bumpus threatening to jump down on 'em. Who'd blame anybody for throwing up the sponge rather'n be mashed flat by such a hippo?" "Well," remarked Giraffe, as he rubbed his hands together in a satisfied fashion, "one thing sure, our old luck's still hanging on." "How do you make that out, Giraffe?" inquired Smithy. "We started on this hike with the idea of overtaking the tramp who was wearing the coat the judge's wife gave away by mistake, didn't we?" the lengthy scout demanded. "Well, stop and think for a minute, will you, what's happened to us? Here we are, marooned on an island, from which nobody can get away right at present unless he swims, and none of us feel like trying that in such cold water, do we? Did you ever know a hobo who would willingly take a bath? Well, put things together, and what do you get? Wandering George, coat and all let's hope, is shut up here on this strip of ground with us; and all we've got to do is to round him up to-day. Now, do you see, Smithy?" Somehow this plain way of putting the case appealed to every one of them; for immediately Bumpus was shaking hands with Step Hen, and as if to show their satisfaction over the way things were turning out some of the rest did likewise. "Course," said Giraffe, as he gave Davy's digits a squeeze that made the other fairly wince, "we can't say just how we'll corner the slippery rat, but there'll be a way, make up your mind to that, boys." CHAPTER XXI. AN EMPTY LARDER. "I'm only afraid it'll be too late, Giraffe," Bumpus was heard to remark, with a skeptical air. "Too late for what?" demanded the tall scout, who had dropped to his knees, and was starting to follow the trail left by Wandering George, after the latter had gained his feet, and moved away from the vicinity of the camp. "Why, there won't be a sign of our grub left by that time, you see; George; he'll be awful hungry, and it's surprising what a lot of stuff a regular hobo can put away when he tries." "And hoboes ain't the only ones, Bumpus," intimated Davy; "I'd match you and Giraffe here against the best of 'em. But let's hope we'll find a way to get off this island before night comes, and strike a farmhouse where they'll feed us like the Baileys did." "Oh! do you really think there's a chance of that happening to us, Davy?" exclaimed Bumpus, intentionally omitting to show any ill feeling on account of the little slur concerning his appetite. "I'd be willing to even go without my lunch in the middle of the day if I could believe we'd be sitting with our knees under a groaning table to-night. Seems like when you're beginning to face starvation every good thing you ever liked keeps popping up in your head." Giraffe at this juncture called out, and his manner indicated that he had made a discovery of some sort. "What is it, Giraffe?" asked Thad. "I just bet you he's found where George sat down and ate up every crumb of that grub," muttered Bumpus, whose mind seemed to be wholly concerned with the question of the lost supplies. "George was joined here by his pal, who must have been hanging out, waiting for him," Giraffe told them; and as he examined the tracks further he added; "and say, I reckon now that second fellow got hurt some way, while he was cooped up in the black hole under the cabin floor." "Now how do you make that out, Giraffe?" asked Davy. "Why, I can see that he limps like everything," the other went on to say, doubtless applying his knowledge of woodcraft to the case. "One foot drags every step he takes, and it didn't do that before, I happen to know. That's why George volunteered to do the cribbing all by himself, while the other waited." "That makes two to handle instead of one, doesn't it?" Allan remarked; and once more Bumpus groaned. "Two is a whole lot worse than one, to get away with things," he observed, with a piteous air of resignation, as though he was now perfectly satisfied they would none of them ever see the first sign of the stolen provisions again. "If there's a trail why can't we start in, and track the two hoboes down?" suggested Davy vigorously. They had followed Giraffe, so that all of them were just back of him at this time. The tall scout, however, shook his head in a disappointing way. "I'd like to try that the worst kind," he remarked, "but I reckon it's no go. You can hardly see the footprints here, and they get fainter as they go on. Besides, we'd make all manner of noise creeping through this scrub, and they'd be wise to our coming, so they could keep moving off. There's a better way to capture George than that, fellows." "Yes," added Thad, "we can comb the island from one end to the other. It can't be of any great size, you see; and by forming a line across at the top we could cover about every foot of it. In the end we'd corner the tramps, and make them surrender. We've got the whole day before us, and the sun promises to shine, too, so we can count on its being warmer." "The whole day," Bumpus remarked disconsolately, "that means twelve long hours, don't it? Well, I suppose I can stand the thing if the rest of you can; but it's really the most dreadful calamity that ever faced us. They say starving is an easy death, but it wouldn't be to me." No one was paying any attention to his complainings, so Bumpus stopped short in order to listen to what the others were saying. Possibly he told himself that the best way to forget his troubles was to get interested in what was going on. And it might be there still remained a shred of hope in his heart that if they made a quick job of the surround, and capture, perhaps they might retake enough of the purloined food to constitute a bare meal at noon. "First of all we've got to have our breakfast, such as it is," Thad observed. "Tea and grits--oh! my stars!" sighed Giraffe; whereupon Bob White turned upon him with the cutting remark: "You ought to be thankful for the grits, suh, believe me; it satisfies me, let me tell you. I wouldn't give a snap fo' all the tea in China or Japan; but grits make bone and muscle. You can do a day's work on a breakfast of the same. Only it takes a long time to cook properly, suh; and the sooner we get the pot started the better." "You attend to that, Bumpus, please," said Giraffe, "and be sure you get enough to satisfy the crowd, even if you have to use two kettles, and the whole package of hominy. I want to talk things over with Thad here." Bumpus hesitated for a minute. He hardly knew which he wanted to do most, stay there and listen, or return to the fire and begin operations looking to the cooking of that forlorn breakfast. Finally, as he received a message from the inner man that it was time some attention was paid to the fact that nature abhorred a vacuum he turned away and trotted toward the camp fire. Giraffe, together with Thad and Allan, tried to follow the trail of the two tramps further, but soon gave it up. After all, the several reasons why they should turn to the other way of rounding up the concealed men appealed strongly to them. Later on they returned to the camp, to sit around and wait for their breakfast to cook. Nobody looked very cheerful that morning. Somehow the fact that they were isolated there on that island with only one meal between them and dire hunger, loomed up like a great mountain before their mental vision. In the end they found that grits did satisfy their hunger remarkably well; and taking Giraffe's advice Bumpus had actually cooked the entire amount on hand, so there was plenty to go around three times. The tea was another matter, for they had neither sugar nor milk to go with it, and although each fellow managed to drink one cup, some of them made wry faces while disposing of the brewing. "Kind of warms you up inside," commented Davy, "and that's the only reason I try to get it down; but, oh! you coffee!" "Here, none of that, Davy," said Thad; "scouts have to make the best of a bad bargain, and never complain. We'd be feeling lots worse if it wasn't for this breakfast." "Well, suh, I'm quite satisfied, and feel as if I'd had the pick of the land," Bob White remarked stoutly. "Yes, but you like the stuff, and I never would eat it at home," complained Step Hen. "Time you began to know what good things are, then, suh," the Southern boy told him plainly. Even Bumpus admitted that he felt very good after they had emptied both kettles of the simple fare. For the time being he was able to put the dismal future out of his mind, and actually smile again. Thad had not told them as yet what plan he was arranging with regard to hunting down the tramps who were on the island with them, and of course most of the scouts were eager to know. Accordingly, after the meal was finished, they began to crowd around and give the scout master hints that they were waiting for him to arrange the details of that "combing" business he had spoken of. "It's going to be a simple matter," Thad remarked. "We'll go to the place where the shantyboat went aground, and make our start from there, gradually stretching out until we cover the island from shore to shore, and in that way pushing our quarry further along toward the lower end." "And," pursued Giraffe, following the plan in his mind, "as the hoboes will of course object to taking to the water, we'll corral the pair in the end." "Do you reckon they've got any sort of gun along, Thad?" asked Step Hen; though it was not timidity that caused him to ask the question, for as a rule he could be depended on to hold his own when it came to showing fight. "We don't know, of course, about that," he was told; "though it's often the case that these tramps carry such a thing, especially the dangerous stripe like this Wandering George seems to be." "He didn't pull any gun on the farmer, when Mr. Bailey caught him robbing his desk, you remember, Thad?" Davy mentioned. "No, but he upset the lamp, and then skipped out, leaving the inmates of the farmhouse to fight the fire, which was a cowardly thing to do," Bumpus observed. "I hadn't forgotten about the chances of them being armed when I spoke of forming a line across the island, and searching every foot of the same," Thad explained; "and the way we'll be safe in doing that I'll explain. Now, we ought to leave two fellows to look after the camp, with a gun between them. The rest can be divided up into three squads, each couple having one of the other guns. We'll manage to keep in touch with each other, as we work along, zigzag-like, and a signal will tell that the game has been started. Do you understand that?" "Plain enough, Thad," Giraffe told him, as he picked up his gun, and in this way signified that he was ready for the start. "Huh! but who's going to be left behind?" Bumpus wanted to know; his whole demeanor betraying the fact in advance that he could give a pretty good guess as to who _one_ of the unfortunates might prove to be. "I think it would be wiser for me to appoint you and Smithy to that post of honor," he was immediately informed by Thad; "and you want to understand it is just as important that you do your duty well here, as that we carry out our part of the game. A scout never asks why he's told to do a certain thing, when perhaps he'd like to be in another position. Whether he serves as the hub, the tire, or one of the spokes, he feels that he's an important part of the whole wheel, and without him nothing can be done. There's just as much honor in guarding the camp as in creeping through the tangle of vines and scrub bushes. And, Bumpus, I'm the one to judge who's best fitted for that sort of work." "Thad, I'm not saying a single word," expostulated the stout scout; "fact is, if you come right down to brass tacks, I'm satisfied to stay here, rather than scratch my way along, and p'raps break my nose tumbling. And I'm sure Smithy is built the same way. I hope you'll let me hold the gun you leave with us, which ought to be my own repeating Marlin, because it's already proved its worth. And, Thad, you remember I shot it with some success the time we were out there in the Rockies after big game." "That's only a fair bargain, Bumpus," he was told by the scout master; "and you can consider it a bargain. We'll look to hear a good report from you when we come back to camp again." "And with our prisoners in charge, too," added the confident Giraffe. Bumpus saw them depart with a gloomy look, as though he felt that all chances of winning new laurels had been snatched away when he was ordered to keep camp. CHAPTER XXII. DRAWING THE NET. Whenever Thad Brewster started to do anything he went about it in a thorough manner. He was no believer in halfway measures, which accounted for much of the success that had crowned his efforts in the past, as those who have read former books in this series must know. He arranged the beating party in such a way that Giraffe and Davy went together; Allan had Step Hen for a companion; while the Southern lad accompanied Thad himself. Having given the camp keepers a few last instructions, with regard to remaining on the alert, and listening for any signals such as members of the Silver Fox Patrol were in the habit of exchanging while in the woods and separated, Thad led the way toward the upper end of the island. They found no trouble in arriving there. The river had indeed fallen very much, and the flat rock upon which the nose of the shanty-boat had been driven by the fierce current was now away out of the water. Had the craft remained where it struck it would be high and dry ashore. The boys would not have been human had they not first of all looked yearningly toward the shore, between which and themselves rolled a wide stretch of water. Still, as the sun shone brightly, and the air was getting comfortably warm, the outlook did not seem anything like that which they had faced on the preceding morning. And, besides, they had just eaten a breakfast that at least satisfied their gnawing hunger, and that counted for considerable. Thad did not waste much time in looking around, but proceeded to business. He had already apportioned his followers, so that everyone knew who his mate was to be. "Allan, you and Step Hen take the right third; Giraffe, cover the left side with Davy; and we'll look after the middle," he told them, in his quiet yet positive way, that caused the words to sink in and be remembered. "And in case we run across George and his pal we're to give a yell; is that the game, Thad?" asked the lengthy scout. "Our old shout that we know so well, don't forget," he was told. "An ordinary whoop isn't enough, for somebody might let out that kind if only he tripped and felt himself falling. If you want me to come across, bark like a fox three times. In case you get no answer, repeat the signal; and if that doesn't fetch me, call out my name." "We're on, Thad; is that all?" Giraffe asked impatiently. "Go!" With that they were off, three pair of eager human hounds, bent on discovering the hiding-place of the tramps who had for so long been hovering just ahead of them like one of those strange lights in swampy marshes, a jack-o'-lantern they call it, that keeps eluding your grasp, now appearing here, and then vanishing, to crop up suddenly in another place. To begin with it seemed easy enough to move along. The scrub was not very dense at the upper end of the island, for some reason or other, but seemed to get heavier the further they advanced. Acting on the suggestions of Thad, each couple spread out a little more as they continued to push on, although remaining in touch with one another. In this way it was possible to cover more ground than by keeping close together. Giraffe was certainly in his element. He kept his gun-stock partly under his arm, and was ready to elevate the weapon at a second's warning; in fact, as he prowled along in this way the tall scout looked the picture of a hunter expecting feathered game to flush before him, which he must cover instantly, or expect it to place obstacles between, as a woodcock always will. Davy did not like to roam along entirely unarmed, and hence he had hunted up a club, which he gripped valorously. He kept just a little behind Giraffe, if an imaginary line were marked across the island from shore to shore. This was because he wished to allow the one who held the firearm a full sweep of territory in case he found occasion to shoot, or even threaten. Now and then Giraffe would speak to his companion, as a rule asking him to "kindly give a poke in that patch of bushes, where it looks like a man might find it easy to hide"; or "peek into that hole between the rocks, Davy--don't be afraid a bear'll come out at you, 'cause there ain't any such good luck waiting for us." By giving various signals the boys managed to maintain something like a straight line as they pushed on. They could see one another frequently, too, which enabled them to keep from forging ahead in any one place. "Listen to the crows cawing, will you?" Giraffe presently remarked, as though the noise of the flock might be sweet music to his ears, since it told of the life in the open which Giraffe dearly loved. "They're a noisy lot, ain't they?" remarked Davy; "whatever d'ye s'pose ails that bunch of crows, Giraffe? Would they scold that way if they just happened to see a pair of hoboes eating breakfast, d'ye think?" "Well, it might be they would," the other replied thoughtfully; "and come to think of it they're somewhere down below us, ain't they? Hunters often know when game is moving by the signs in the sky; for birds can see down, and they talk, you know, in a language of their own. I've often wished I could understand what crows said when they scolded so hard." Just there Davy began to move away from his partner again, as he tried to cover his share of the territory; so conversation died out temporarily between them. They had passed the place where the camp fire burned, with Bumpus and Smithy watching their movements eagerly. The thick brush now hid the camp from their sight, and what lay before them they could only guess. Once more Davy drew close to his mate, thrusting his club to the right and to the left, in the endeavor not to leave a stone unturned in clearing up the land. "Wherever do you think they've gone, Giraffe?" he asked, as though beginning to feel the strain of the suspense that hung over them, as they continued this strange hunt for the tramps. "It's my honest opinion," the other replied, "that we ain't going to see a sign of 'em till we get away down to the other end. And they didn't come through here, either, because we'd have run across some sign to tell us that." "Then how could they reach the lower end of the island?" demanded Davy quickly, thinking he had caught Giraffe in a hole. "Why, they made off to the beach after they got the stuff, and trailed down that way, which you can understand must have been the easiest, all things considered," the tall scout went on to explain. "I believe in applying that old principle, and figgering what you'd have done if it had been you. And anybody with horse sense'd know it was lots easier tramping on the shore, to this way of breaking through." "Still, Thad thought we ought to do it?" Davy remarked. "Thad was right, as he nearly always is," Giraffe pursued doggedly; "because this is the only way we can make dead sure. I've got a hunch that they built a fire and proceeded to cook a warm meal. Want to know what makes me think so? Well, we had an extra box of matches along, and that went with the rest of the things. George knew he needed it. Long before now they've had their fire, and it's all day with that grub of ours. We'll get it back when we surround the hoboes; but you won't know it." "What if they won't surrender when we ask 'em?" Davy wanted to know. "They'd better go slow about that same," he was immediately told, as Giraffe shook his head energetically; "we've got the law on our side, you see, after that pair breaking into the farmhouse the way they did, and showing themselves to be regular robbers as well as tramps, yeggmen they call that kind. If I pinked George, after seeing him threaten me, I couldn't be held responsible for the same. When a man is a fugitive from justice, and the long arm of the law is stretched out to grab him, he hasn't got any rights, you understand. Every man's hand is against him, and he's just got to take his medicine, that's all." Giraffe had a little smattering of legal knowledge, and he certainly did like to hear himself talk, given half a chance. Just then Davy seemed to be glad to learn certain facts, upon which he may have been a little hazy. "Didn't I hear you talking with Step Hen the last time you crossed over to his line; or no, it must have been Bob White, because he's with Thad in the middle track?" Giraffe asked, a short time later, as once more he and his partner came into touch. "Yes, it was Bob speaking to me," admitted the other, "and what d'ye think, he said he believed he had discovered a bee tree, and only wished we would be here long enough to get a chance at the honey." "Well, what next, I wonder?" ejaculated Giraffe, with the air of one who had received especially good news; "I always did say I liked honey about as well as anything that grew; but, then," he added, as though seized with a sudden depressing remembrance, "what good would all the wild honey going do a fellow when he hasn't got a cupful of flour to make a flapjack with, or a single cracker to eat with the nectar? Oh! rats! but this is tough!" "Anyhow," Davy continued, "Bob, he said the tree was a whopper for size, and the hive was away up in a dead limb that we couldn't well reach; so I guess that winds it up for us this trip. And as you say, Giraffe, what good would just plain honey do a starving crowd? Give me bread before you try to plaster me with honey. Still, it's queer how many things we keep finding on this same island, isn't it?" "There goes another rabbit right now, Davy; and I could have knocked him over as easy as you please, if I was hunting something to eat, instead of _men_! They always do say what strange things you do see when you haven't got a gun; and with us it runs the other way; for we've got a shooting-iron, but dassen't use the same for fear of alarming our human quarry." "You do manage to put things before a fellow the finest way ever, Giraffe," Davy told him; "and some of these days I expect to see you making a cracking good lawyer, or an auctioneer, or something that requires the gift of gab. But seems to me we've been poking like this for a long time now. How much further d'ye think the island runs?" "It's some longer'n I had any idea would be the case," admitted Giraffe; "but I reckon we're shallowing up now. The shore line looks to me like it's beginnin' to draw in closer, every time I make the beach. If that's so we ought to come together down at the lower end before a great while now." "Say, what if we do get there and never once sight George and his pal, Giraffe?" "Aw! don't be trying to get off conundrums on me, Davy; I never was much good guessing the answer," the tall scout went on to complain. "It don't seem like that could happen, because they're here on our island, and we sure haven't left a single place unsearched where a fox could hide. Don't borrow trouble, my son. We're bound to corral the pair down at the lower point; and they'll throw up their hands when they see us coming, six abreast, with guns leveled and all that." "I hope so, Giraffe; I hope it turns out that way; but I'm not feeling as sure as you are. Something seems to keep on telling me we're due for a big surprise, and I'm trying to shut my teeth, so as to be ready to meet it like a scout should always meet trouble." He had hardly said the last word when a large object jumped almost under Davy's feet, upsetting him completely. And as he fell over, nimbly turning a complete back-somersault, for Davy was as smart at such things as any circus performer, he managed to bawl out wildly: "Bear! Bear! why don't you shoot it, Giraffe?" CHAPTER XXIII. THE SMOKE CLEW. "Bear nothing!" exclaimed the scout who held the gun. He had instinctively elevated the weapon at the first sound of alarm from his ally; and had it been necessary Giraffe was in a position to have given a good account of himself, for he was known to be a somewhat clever shot. Just in time, however, he had managed to get a better view of the creature that Davy had stumbled upon, losing his balance in his excitement. "What was it, then, Giraffe, if not a bear? Don't tell me it was a dog," demanded the other, having righted himself after his somersault. "Didn't you hear him grunt as he ran away?" asked the lengthy one contemptuously; for he might have pressed the trigger of his gun only that just in time his ears had been greeted with the sound in question. "Grunt? Great Cæsar's ghost! was that a _hog_?" almost shrieked Davy. "Just what it was, a dun-colored hog, and a rousing big critter in the bargain, let me tell you, Davy. I saw him as plain as anything, and he ran back of us, you noticed, so we won't be apt to raise him again in a hurry." "But what'd an old grunter be doing out here, tell me, Giraffe?" "Shucks! how d'ye think I'd know?" returned the other. "Expect I'm up in the hog lingo just because I did say I always wanted to understand crow talk? Why, for all we know, that hog's been living here since last summer; or else he's another flood victim, and got washed up like we did. They're all doin' it, you know." "Well, well, who'd expect to run up against a porker?" Dave went on to say, as he sought to grasp the full significance of the adventure, having by now recovered from the shock the sudden surprise had given him. "And Giraffe, if a hog this time, what next will we run across? P'raps there might be chickens, and cows, and all sorts of things close by? Mebbe the old island's inhabited, after all." "One thing sure," Giraffe went on to say, in a satisfied tone, "this beats out Robinson Crusoe by a whole lot." "As how, Giraffe?" "Is there any comparison between hogs and goats when it comes to making a good dinner?" demanded the other. "Why, don't you see what this means to us, Davy? No use talking about going hungry as long as there's such noble hunting on this little patch of ground. Me to bag a prize hog, when the right time comes. Hams, and sweet little pork chops, and smoked shoulders--oh! we could live a week off that buster, believe me." He smacked his lips, as though the prospect gave him unlimited pleasure. Davy himself had known the time when the slaughter of a three-hundred pound hog afforded no occasion for showing more than passing interest; but that was when starvation did not stare him in the face. Circumstances alter cases; and he was almost as much excited over the outlook now as the always hungry Giraffe seemed to be. "How do we know that this place we've been calling an island isn't connected with the mainland?" was Davy's next suggestion. "How d'ye mean?" demanded his ally, as they started on once more. "Why, there might be some sort of a link, you see, a sort of isthmus, so to call it, along which the hog made his way, and where we could skip out of the trap; how about that, Giraffe?" "Nothing doing, Davy," came the scornful reply; "didn't we see that the river ran past on both sides like a mill race? Well, it wouldn't do that if the way was blocked by a strip of land, would it? Not much. We're marooned on a sure-enough island, and you can't get around that. Course we might run across a cow yet; same time we'll keep our eyes peeled for a breadfruit tree, and coffee bushes, and truck gardens. Nothing like being hopeful through it all." "Can hogs swim, Giraffe, do you happen to know?" "Well, you get me there," returned the other. "I never saw one doing the same; but seems to me I have heard of such a thing. They can do nearly anything, and so swimming may be on their list. I only hope the old chap don't take a notion to clear out of here before I get a crack at him, that's all." "I was only going to say that we might capture the old grunter, and hitch him to a log on which the whole lot of us perched, making him tow the same ashore." Of course Giraffe understood Davy was only joking when he said this, but he chose to pretend to take it seriously. "If you leave it to me to choose, Davy," he went on to say gravely, "I'd prefer to have those hams and the bacon, and take my chances of paddling ashore afterward. Besides, I don't believe we've got anything to make harness out of, so your great scheme would fall kind of flat. Give that bunch of bushes another whack with your club while you're about it, will you? We want to clear up things as we go along, so we'll know the job's been done gilt-edged." "Looks like that's an open place ahead, Giraffe," ventured Davy, after he had complied with the request, and found nothing. "Yes, it does seem that way, Davy, and p'r'aps now we'll have a chance to look around a bit when we strike it. I was just wondering whether the river could have been up over all this island any old time in the past, and here's the evidence of the same." He pointed to what looked like drift stuff caught in the crotch of a tree. It may have been lodged there years back, but anyone with observation could readily see that it had been carried to its present location by a moving current. "As true as anything, Giraffe, and there must have been three feet of water over the highest ground on the island then. Lucky the rain stopped when it did, or we might be perched in trees right at this minute." "That's what Thad was saying, when he told us it was never so bad but what it might be a whole lot worse. Think of the bunch of us being compelled to roost in trees day and night, till somebody came along in a motorboat and rescued us. Well, for one, I'm glad things didn't get quite that bad." As they drew closer to the open spot they could see the other scouts advancing on their right, and covering the ground. They exchanged signals, and in this way learned that nothing had thus far been seen of those for whom they were searching. Thad drew them together at this point. "From here on we'll be much closer," he told them all, "because it looks as though the end of the island must be just a little ways off, and it seems to come to a point like the upper end. Look over there, what do you call that?" and he pointed directly ahead as he spoke. "Smoke!" announced Old Eagle Eye instantly. Everyone was ready to confirm his announcement, after they had taken a look. "And as there couldn't be smoke without a fire, and no fire unless some human hand had started it," the scout master continued, in his logical way, "it looks as if we might be closing in on those we're hunting for, Wandering George and his pal." "Well, since they've had a fire that means the finish of our grub," commented Giraffe; "but then, it's only what we expected; and, Thad, there's a great big hog on this island--no, don't laugh, because I'm not referring to Bumpus now. I mean a real porker, a whopper of several hundred pounds weight. Davy stepped on him, and I could have knocked the beast over as easy as turning my hand. So we don't need to have any fear of being starved out, if it gets to the worst." "That sounds good to me, Giraffe, and I can see that you're not joking," Thad told him. "We heard some sort of a row over your way, but thought it was only one of you tripping over those creepers. A hog may not seem like very fine company, but that depends on conditions. Just now we'll be glad to know him, and to offer him the warmest seat close by our fire. Fact is, we'll take him as a companion, and let him be one of us. Now, let's make our line again, for we want to push down toward that fire below." "There's another patch of scrub ahead, before we get to the point of the island, and we might lose our game in that if we didn't keep the net drawn across, for a fact," admitted Allan, who of course recognized the wisdom shown by the leader in continuing the carrying out of his plan. Once more they separated, but this time it was not necessary to put much ground between them. When the line had formed all eyes were turned toward Thad. He waved his hat, which was the signal to begin the advance; so again each scout moved on as before, examining every possible cover for signs of the enemy. They had thus made a clean sweep of the island. Rabbits may have escaped them by hiding in crannies among the rocks; and squirrels could have remained aloft in their nests inside hollow limbs of trees, or secreted amidst the foliage of the evergreen hemlocks; but certainly no larger object had evaded them. As they continued to close in on the spot where the smoke arose, the scouts very naturally felt more or less the thrill of excitement. They knew full well what it meant, for many times in the past the same queer sensation had almost overpowered them. This chase had been in progress long enough now to have aroused their hunting instincts. That the old blue army coat should eventually be returned to the judge was to most of them a small affair, for they of course did not know the real reason why its recovery mattered to the former owner; but they had somehow set their hearts on accomplishing the object they had in view. And the more difficulty they met with in doing this, the stronger their desire grew. The trees became more sparse, so that before long they caught glimpses of the fire itself. It was not burning very briskly, though sending off considerable in the way of smoke, a fact that convinced the scouts these hoboes knew nothing concerning woodcraft, and the habits of Indians in making fires of certain kinds of dry fuel that hardly send up any smoke at all. Now the scouts, having finished their "combing" process, began to gather together for the final rush. They had reached the open ground, where no object half the size of a man could evade them, so they felt they need have no fear of either one of the hoboes passing by. "I see one of them lying there, like he might be asleep, Thad," whispered one of the scouts; and of course it could be taken for granted that it was Giraffe, of the eagle eye, who spoke. "The second fellow may be on the other side of the fire, back of the smoke," remarked Step Hen; but somehow neither Thad nor Allan could believe this, because the smoke was drifting that way, and they knew very well no one willingly places himself on the leeward side of a smudge like that, suffocating in its effect. The further they crept the more concerned did Thad and the Maine boy become. They could see the sleeping tramp by now, and it was with more or less uneasiness they realized the fact that he must be other than Wandering George. Besides, not the first sign of the blue army overcoat did they discover anywhere. While thus preparing to close in on the sleeping tramp, and give him a very unpleasant surprise, the scouts were feeling stunned over the mysterious disappearance of the man they had been following so far, and whom they felt sure must have been on that very island only a comparatively few hours before. Thad kept hoping that the second hobo would start up from some place when they made their presence known; and it was in this expectation that he finally swung his hat, which started his five companions on a hasty run toward the smoking fire. CHAPTER XXIV. THE CAPTURE. The scouts had been eagerly awaiting this motion with the hat on the part of the patrol leader. It acted on them about in the same way the bang of a starting pistol might with a string of nerve-strained sprinters, anxious to leap forward, with a prize in view to the first under the tape. Many times before had they found themselves in just this same position, with Thad deciding the start. Giraffe, the fastest in the bunch, was crouched in his accustomed attitude, looking somewhat like a big, wiry cat getting ready to spring; while Bob White, Step Hen, Allan and Davy Jones each had assumed an attitude best suited to his particular method of starting. At the same time all of them understood this was not going to be a race. They had been instructed to spread out a little, after the manner of an open fan, as they advanced. This was to give the tramp as little chance to escape as they possibly could. Well, the hat, after being poised for a few preliminary seconds in mid-air, was suddenly swung downward with a violent dip. That meant in the plainest of language "Go!" and every fellow made a forward move. Giraffe had been given one of the outer lines, since that meant he would have a little more ground to cover; and no one was better fitted for this than the lanky scout. Nature had built him for a runner from the ground up; he did not have a superfluous ounce of fat on him, but was all muscle, and, as Giraffe often proudly declared, his flesh was "as hard as nails." It was a pretty sight to see those five fellows in khaki begin to spread out in that systematic way, just as though each one might consider himself a part of a machine. Thad had purposely taken the center, so that he could keep an eye on every part of the field. It is always considered the best thing for a captain on a baseball club to be posted somewhere in the diamond, preferably on third base, as that gives him a chance to watch the game closely. It also allows him the opportunity of running in frequently and arguing with the umpire over disputed plays. So far nothing had happened to warn the dozing tramp of their coming. All of the boys had gotten under way without a single mishap in the line of a stumble, which would serve to warn their intended victim. He was still sprawled out alongside the warm fire, and doubtless enjoying himself in true hobo style, caring nothing as to what went wrong with the world, so long as he did not miss a meal. Thad would have been much better satisfied could he have glimpsed that badly wanted army coat somewhere around; but its absence, although to be regretted, must not interfere with the programme he had laid out. The distance from the shelter of the brush to the fire was not very great, and could have been covered speedily only for the desire on the part of the scouts to take the man by surprise. Step Hen spoiled this by an unfortunate stumble, which was rather singular, because as a rule he had proved sure-footed. It chanced, however, that Step Hen was watching the reclining figure by the fire so closely that he did not notice some obstruction lying in his path, so that the first thing he knew he caught his toe, and measured his full length on the ground. Of course that spoiled the surprise part of the game. Thad knew it instantly, as the tramp's head came up, and accordingly he uttered a quick command. "Rush him!" With that each scout jumped forward, eager to be the first to close in on the enemy. Those who had guns displayed them threateningly, while the others waved their clubs in a way that needed no explanation as to what use they expected to make of the same presently. If the actions of the invaders of the hobo camp were rapid the same could be said concerning the movements of the lone inmate. He must have realized the desperation of his position the very instant he sighted those advancing boys in khaki, with such a ferocious display of various weapons of defense and offense, for like a flash he scrambled to his feet. As it was hardly to be expected that the tramp had prepared himself against a surprise like this, the chances were he acted solely from impulse. Giraffe fully expected he would try and go around their outermost guards, and with memories of similar tactics employed on the gridiron he changed his course somewhat in order to cut off this flight. It was a mistake, for the fellow never once endeavored to flee. Instead of this he leaped over to a pile of rocks that chanced to lie close by, forming a species of pyramid. The boys saw him throw himself into the midst of this, even while they were rushing forward, though they could not anticipate what his scheme might be. Events are apt to happen with lightning-like rapidity under such conditions as these, and the first thing the boys knew there was a sharp report as of a pistol, and a puff of smoke burst from the pile of rocks that thrilled them to the core. "He's got a gun!" snapped Giraffe, looking to Thad to give the order to send back as good as they received. It was a time for quick thinking. The tramp was evidently a desperate sort of fellow, who, finding himself in danger of arrest, meant to stand out to the end. He may not have tried to injure any of them when he fired that shot, but all the same it gave the boys a chill, and several of them involuntarily ducked their heads, as if they fancied the hobo had picked them out for his target, and that they had heard the whiz of the lead past their ears. Thad sized up the situation in that speedy way of his. Occasions sometimes crop up that call for the promptest kind of action; and surely this looked like one of that kind. "Allan, keep on in the center, and I'll turn his flank!" he shouted. "Bend down, everybody, and get behind a rock if you can. We've just _got_ to land him, that's all there is about it!" Even while saying this the scout master was on the jump, and, passing Allan as well as Bob White, he sped toward the edge of the water, making a half circle. There was another sharp report from the rocks, but, although the boys held their breath while watching their leader run, they rejoiced to see that he gave no sign of having been injured by the tramp's firing. Every boy was keyed up to what Giraffe would call "top-notch" condition; doubtless hands quivered while they clutched gun or club, and hearts beat with the rapidity of so many trip-hammers. But to their credit it could be said that not one of them as much as looked back over their shoulders, to see if the way for retreat was open. That spoke well for their courage, at least. Thad reached the spot which he had set out to attain, and instantly whirled, to aim his gun toward the rock pile. It was just as he had anticipated, for the tramp, while sheltered on the one side, was fully exposed on that looking down the river. "Surrender, or it'll be the worse for you!" shouted Thad. "Jump him, boys!" roared Giraffe, utterly unable to keep back a second longer, while his nerves were quivering in that furious fashion. When Step Hen and the other four saw the impetuous right end start straight toward the rock pile, they gave a shout, and proceeded to imitate his example. Boys are a good deal like sheep in many ways, and when one takes a venture he is certain to be copied by others. From all sides they were thus closing in rapidly on the hobo who was at bay, and every fellow was giving vent to his excitement in shouts and screeches calculated to complete the collapse of the tramp's defiance. He knew when he had had enough. Serious though arrest might appear to him under the present conditions, it would be a dozen fold worse should he fire that weapon of his again, and succeed in injuring one of these brave lads. Besides, he must have been more or less influenced by the handy way they carried those guns. This being the case, the tramp at bay suddenly threw up both his hands, at the same time bawling: "Hey! don't shoot; I'm all in, gents; I surrender!" The furious shouts now ceased, since the object of their rush had apparently been accomplished. Thad, however, was too smart a leader to lose any advantage that fortune had placed in his hands. "Throw out that gun!" he called in his sternest voice; "and be quick about it, if you know what's good for you!" The man hastened to obey the order. No doubt he understood that his captors were only boys; but there may be circumstances where cubs are just as dangerous as full-grown men; and this is the case when they happen to be provided with firearms. "Come out here, and keep your hands up!" continued the patrol leader, who did not trust the fellow, and while speaking he kept his gun leveled so that it bore straight upon him. The hobo looked disgusted, as well he might at finding himself a victim to such humiliating conditions, with boys his captors. He scowled darkly as he left the partial shelter of the rocks, and advanced several paces toward the scouts. "That'll do," Thad told him; "now lie down on the sand on your face, and put your hands behind you. We've got to tie your wrists, you understand. Here, don't think to play any trick, because we won't stand for it! Down on your knees, and over you go!" Realizing that such a young chap was not to be trifled with, the tramp, muttering to himself, did as he was ordered. Lying there on his chest he pushed both hands behind his back, and crossed his wrists, just as though this might not be the first time he had run up against a similar situation. "Giraffe, you fix him up!" said the patrol leader, for the lengthy scout had a reputation as an expert in tying hard knots, and was never known to be without more or less stout cord on his person. It had come in handy many a time in the past, as Giraffe could explain if asked, and he produced his coil now with a satisfied grin that told how much he enjoyed his new job. After Giraffe had completed the fastening of the hobo's big wrists, there was not one chance in a thousand the fellow could free himself, even if he were a second Houdini, capable of slipping handcuffs from his person by doubling up his pliable hands. This done, Giraffe got up, and helped the man rise to his feet. "Behave yourself now, and we'll treat you white," he told him; "but just try to make trouble, and see what you get, that's all. But, Thad, where d'ye reckon his pal has disappeared to, that he ain't around here? We covered every foot of the island from the other end, and didn't scare him up. Half a loaf may be better than no bread, but we didn't come after this fellow at all. We want Wandering George, and we want him bad." Thad himself was bothered to tell how the second tramp had disappeared. If the ground had opened and swallowed him he could not have vanished more completely; and apparently there was only one source of information open to them. This was the prisoner, who stood there, listening to what they were saying, and trying hard to conceal a grin that would creep over his face in spite of him. That very cunning expression convinced Thad the man knew the important fact they wanted to find out, if only they could force him to speak. CHAPTER XXV. FORCED TO TELL. "Where's your partner?" asked Thad, turning suddenly on the prisoner. The tramp tried to look at him as if in surprise. Undoubtedly he was hugging the one hope to his heart that as long as his companion remained foot-free there might be a chance for his release. That idea of self-interest was undoubtedly the only thing that would account for his desire to remain mute. "My partner?" he went on to say, as though not understanding what was meant. "Yes, the man who was with you, Wandering George, the fellow who wore the blue army overcoat that was given to him by a lady in Cranford a few days ago?" "Oh! you mean him, does you?" the hobo replied, with a knowing nod; "that guy gimme the slip yesterday, and never divvied with me either. I'd like right well to set eyes on George myself, and that's no lie. I got a bone tuh pick with him." "You're telling what isn't true, now," said Thad severely. "We happen to know that you two came here in the hold of the shanty boat we were on. Last night George crept into our camp, and got away with nearly all our food stuff. There's a piece of the bacon right now, Giraffe, which ought to please you some. What have you got to say about that, Mr. Tramp?" "It was me sneaked your camp, kid; I was nigh starved out, and nawthin' couldn't keep me from takin' chances," the other boldly replied. "Tell that to the marines!" Giraffe blurted out. "Thad, you don't believe him, do you? We know better than that, don't we?" "The man who crept into our camp had a rag tied around his right foot to keep the torn sole of his shoe on," Thad went on to say positively, as though clinching matters beyond all question; "and we can see that both your shoes are fairly decent, so it couldn't have been you. Besides, there were two pairs of tracks making the trail. You waited for him back of the bushes, and both went off together. Now, you see how foolish it is trying to yarn out of it. Where is George?" The man looked into that flushed but determined face. He saw something in those steady eyes that convinced him the leader of these boys in khaki was not the one to be further trifled with. So he gave a nervous little laugh. "Well, you sure got me twisted up, and kinked tuh beat the band, kid," he said. "I got a pal, jest as you sez, an' his handle is George. But jest where he might be at this minit is more'n I c'n say." "But he's on the island, isn't he?" demanded Step Hen. "He shore is, 'less he's took a crazy notion to try an' swim over tuh the shore, which wouldn't be like cautious George a bit." "He was here with you, how long ago?" asked Allan; "you must have cooked breakfast this morning with that fire, and he sat right here, where I can see the mark of his broken shoe. Where did he go, and when?" "That's what we want to know!" added Giraffe sternly. The tramp saw that he was cornered. One by one his defenses had been beaten down. These energetic boys would not stand for any further holding back on his part; and unless he wished to invite rough treatment it was now up to him to tell all he knew. "Well, George was sittin' there, as you sez, younker, an' he takes a sudden notion that he wants tuh find out what the rest o' the folks of this island 'spected to do so's tuh get away. That bein' the case, he sez to me, sez he: 'I reckons I'll stroll up a ways, and take a look around. If there's anything doin' in the boat line we might want tuh cop it, and clear out.' And so he goes off, an' I ain't seen the first sign o' George since then." "How long ago might that have been?" asked Thad. "I been asleep nearly all the time since, so how could I tell?" came the reply. "By looking at the sun," the patrol leader told him; "you know how high it was when George went away. And hoboes never have any need of a watch." "'Cept to hock, and get cash on the same, kid," the man remarked, with a grin, at the same time casting a quick glance upward; "well, I reckon it might 'a' been all o' an hour back when George, he passed away." The boys looked at each other in some perplexity. Since they had certainly covered the whole island, they could not understand how it came they had missed the other tramp. He was a big fellow, and could not have hidden in any hole among the rocks that they had noticed. The mystery bothered them, from Thad down to Step Hen and Davy. "What if he did take a notion to try and swim for it?" suggested the latter, as Giraffe was scratching his head, and looking in a helpless fashion at Thad. "Not one chance in a thousand that way," replied the patrol leader; "I call myself a fairly good swimmer, but I'd hate to take the chances of that current, and the rocks under the surface. No, he must be on the island still." "But whereabouts, Thad; didn't we cover the ground, every foot of it, while we came down here?" pleaded Step Hen. "I wonder, now?" Thad was saying half aloud, as though a sudden inspiration had broken in upon him. "What is it, Thad?" begged Giraffe; "sounds like you've got an idea, all right. Let's hear it, won't you?" "There's only one way we could have missed him," replied the other; "and that would mean he hid in a tree." There arose a series of exclamations from the other scouts. "Well, what d'ye think of that, now?" cried Giraffe, apparently taken aback by the suggestion; "we kept our noses turned to the ground so much none of us ever bothered looking up, did we?" "But, Thad, the leaves ain't on the trees yet, so how could he hide from us? Do you mean he got behind a big limb, and lay there like a squirrel?" Davy demanded. "You forget there are some hemlocks on the island, and every one of us knows how easy it would be for a fellow to hide in their bushy tops any time of year," Thad told him. "What's the answer?" snapped Giraffe, always wanting action, and then more action. "We've got to go back again, and find him, that's all," said Thad, with a look of grim determination on his face. "How about this fellow?" remarked Allan. "Do we want to trot him along with us?" and he jerked his thumb at the prisoner as he said this. Thad considered for a short time. "That would be poor business, I'm thinking," he concluded. "We'd better leave him here until we want him again." "I've got more strong cord," Giraffe suggested; "and we could tie him to a tree, like the Injuns used to do with their captives." "Oh! there ain't any need tuh do that, boys," argued the hobo, who apparently did not fancy such an arrangement. "I'll set right here, and never move while you're gone, sure I will." "We'll make certain that you stay where we leave you," Thad told him. Giraffe only waited for the word, and immediately backed the tramp to a tree that seemed suited for the purpose. Then he wound the cord around as many times as it would go, and tied it in hard knots. As the hobo still had his hands fastened behind him, and could not begin to get at the knots with his teeth, it looked as though he would have to stay there until the scouts were pleased to release him. "Now what, Thad?" asked the energetic Giraffe, picking up his gun again. "Go back the same way we came," the other replied. "Covering the ground, you mean, only this time we'll look into every tree in the bargain; that's the programme, is it, Thad?" asked Step Hen. "Yes." Again the boys began to spread out, and in this manner was the captured tramp left behind. He realized that it was useless trying to influence them to change their minds, and so resigned himself to his fate. Giraffe had secured the remains of the strip of bacon, and was dangling this from his left hand as he went along. Apparently he did not mean to take any chances of it getting away from him again; and of course Bob White noted his action with a nod of appreciation. It was slow work now, because they had to investigate each likely tree that was approached. Some of these were of a type calculated to afford a refuge for anyone who wished to hide. Several times one of the boys, usually the spry Davy, was sent aloft to make sure the object of their search was not hiding there. Thad began to wonder if anything could have happened at their camp. He remembered that they had left the two weakest scouts on guard, and this worried him. Often as he pushed on, Thad had strained his hearing, dreading at the same time lest he catch sounds of serious import. But beyond the chatter of the crows that flew scolding ahead of them, and the scream of an early red-headed woodpecker tapping at a rotten tree trunk, there was no sound, unless he took into consideration the fretting of the water sweeping past outlying spurs of the island shore. They had passed nearly halfway when Giraffe beckoned to the leader, without saying a single word, upon which Thad of course hastened toward him. When the lanky scout pointed to the ground, Thad immediately turned his eyes in that quarter. He was not very much surprised at discovering the plain imprint of a shoe there in the soil. "George made it," said Giraffe solemnly, "because there's that old rag tied about his foot, as we've always found it. And, Thad, of course you notice that he was heading up country when he passed by here?" "Yes, that's certainly a fact, Giraffe." "Showing he came down out of his tree, and went on after we passed him. Davy was right when he said he believed he could see signs in that last hemlock as if some one had broken the bark with his heels. It was Wandering George, all right; and this time we've got him ahead of us. We'll not let him give us the slip again; and it'll be something of a joke to get a tramp at each end of the island. But what are you thinking about, Thad, to look so serious?" "I was wondering whether anything could have happened to our two chums, Giraffe." "Oh! you must mean Bumpus and Smithy!" ejaculated the lanky scout, with a quick intake of his breath, as though a thrill had passed over him at the same time; "but, Thad, they had a gun, you remember; and if they kept on the watch, as you told 'em, what could happen to hurt the boys?" "I don't know, only it bothers me," replied the other; "and if we can hurry on any faster now I'd like to do it." The word was passed along the line, and after that they tried to increase their speed, though trying not to neglect their work, if it could be avoided. As they drew closer to the region where the camp had been made, Thad was conscious of feeling a strange sensation in the region of his heart, which he could not wholly understand. Giraffe made out to wander close to him on occasion, and was at this time saying with more or less confidence: "Only a few minutes more, Thad, and we ought to raise the camp. Sure we'll find everything lovely, and the goose hanging high. George would know better than to bother two fellows, and one of the same handling a gun in the bargain. Course he sheered off, and gave them a wide berth when he saw that, Thad. It's going to come out all right, I tell you!" Nevertheless the patrol leader felt very anxious as they drew near the camp, and he tried to prepare himself for the worst. CHAPTER XXVI. THE KEEPERS OF THE CAMP. When Bumpus and Smithy saw their comrades pass away toward the north, leaving the camp in their full charge, they were immediately impressed with a sense of great responsibility. The stout scout in particular seemed to feel that it was a post of honor to which they had been assigned by the patrol leader. Of course this was partly due to what Thad had told him at the time he picked out the pair to remain behind and take care of their few possessions. "We've got to be faithful and wide awake, Smithy," Bumpus told his comrade; "for it'd be a terrible calamity if the boys came back here, tired and played out, only to find that the enemy had captured the camp in their absence. And let me tell you, that would reflect on you and me forever and a day afterward. You know that Thad expects every fellow to do his duty. So we'll keep on the watch every minute of the time till they come back again." Smithy appeared to be duly impressed with the gravity of the occasion. Bumpus of course made sure to carry the only weapon that had been left in their charge; but as it was his gun, and he knew more about handling it than Smithy did, it seemed only right that this should be so. But the other member of the home guard had seen some of the boys who went off arming themselves with stout cudgels, and he thought it wise to imitate their example, though at the same time seriously doubting his ability to make good use of the same, should an emergency arise. "Yes, what you say is true, Bumpus," he remarked seriously. "The motto of all good scouts is 'Be prepared,' and we must surely live up to it. While I sincerely hope nothing will happen to call for a defense of the camp, still I'm ready to assume my share of the burden in case of necessity." Now, Smithy always liked to use long words, and his manner was something like that of an important pedagogue; but the boys had learned that under all this surface veneering Smithy was true gold, and, as Giraffe said, "O. K." He had never been the one to indulge in rough-and-tumble "horse play" while in camp, like Giraffe, Step Hen and Davy, for instance; but on several occasions the others had seen his metal tested, and Smithy had come out with flying colors. His face might get white when danger impended, but he had the right kind of nerve, and would stand up for another, no matter what threatened. Smithy was exceedingly modest, and always apologizing for his lack of stamina; but Thad knew he was no coward under it all. The minutes passed slowly as the two boys sat there by the cheery fire. Naturally they kept listening eagerly, half expecting to hear some sudden wild clamor that would announce the discovery of the tramps, and a desperate effort on the part of their chums to make them prisoners. They remembered that these men were both big fellows, and undoubtedly more or less to be feared, especially when their passions were aroused. "Don't seem to be anything doing so far," Bumpus remarked, as he poked the fire, and immediately afterward raised his head, as well as his fat neck would allow, the better to listen intently. "And you'd think they'd had sufficient time to reach the upper end of the island, too?" Smithy went on to say reflectively. "Oh! well, the real drive only begins then, you see," Bumpus informed him, with rather an important air. "Thad said they meant to strike straight for the place where we landed, and then comb the ground as they came along. I don't just know what he meant by that same word, but it sounds good to me. When you comb a thing you get everything out, even the tangles; and if the tramps are hiding somewhere on the island they'll be found." "Trust Thad for that," assented Smithy, who had the greatest admiration for and confidence in the scout master. "What was that moved then?" exclaimed Bumpus, reaching out, and taking hold of his gun with hands that trembled more or less, though at the same time his teeth were grimly set, and his eyes shone with determination. "Sho!" he added, after a half minute of terrible suspense, "look at that, will you, only a sassy little striped chipmunk, after all, frisking around to see if we hadn't spilled some crumbs when we had our breakfast. But I'm afraid he'll be badly disappointed, because there ain't any crumbs when you've only had grits for your morning meal." After that they sat there for some little time with senses on the alert, waiting for some sign from the chums who had recently left them. "One thing sure," Bumpus finally remarked, showing what was constantly on his mind; "they've just got to pass by this way sooner or later. Course we'll see 'em then; and so don't be surprised if the brush begins to move over yonder, because it'll be one of our chums." "But wouldn't it be the proper caper for them to warn us before they show up?" asked Smithy. "They know you've got a gun, and that's always a dangerous toy for a boy to handle, according to my way of thinking. Why, you might imagine they were the tramps, and give them a shot before you saw they were our chums." "Listen!" said Bumpus, with a broad grin. There came from amidst the thick brush a peculiar sound that was supposed to resemble the barking of a fox. Of course both guards recognized it as the well-known signal with which members of the Silver Fox Patrol made their presence known to one another when in the forest, or in the darkness of night. "Answer him, Bumpus," exclaimed Smithy, "because you can do it better than I've ever been able to. There he goes again, and louder than before. It must be Giraffe, I should think. Let him know we hear him, Bumpus." Accordingly the stout boy did his very best to imitate the sharp little bark of a fox; it did not matter whether red, black or gray, so long as the sound carried out the idea intended. At that a head arose above a line of brush, and the smiling face of Giraffe was discovered. He made a motion with his hand to indicate that he and his five fellow scouts were headed south. "No signs of 'em so far, Giraffe?" asked Bumpus, in a cautious tone; and in answer the other shook his head in the negative, after which he once more dropped out of sight, and doubtless moved away on his mission. The pair by the fire now prepared for quite a long siege. They guessed that it would take the others quite some time to cover the balance of the island, although of course no one in the patrol knew as yet just what the dimensions of their strange prison might be. "Supposing they run across George and his companion, will they let us know of their good fortune?" Smithy asked, after a while, when nothing came to their ears save the sound of the running river and the cawing of the noisy crow band in the tree tops. "Why, yes," Bumpus told him, "Thad promised to send the news along if they were successful, and bagged both hoboes. I keep hoping every minute to get the call. You know, Smithy, lots of savage people have a way of sending news by sound, and by smoke, from one station to another. They say in Africa they can get word over hundreds of miles in less'n no time. I'm a great believer in that sort of wireless telegraphy." "Yes," remarked Smithy, with something approaching humor, at least as near as he ever was known to get to the joking stage, "I've noticed that, when you start to shouting for your supper, because you can make the greatest racket going. But all the same this thing of keeping camp while the rest of the boys are on the move is rather prosy, I think." "Why, Thad assured me that any kind of a fellow could just push through all that scramble of brush; but it takes a different sort to be trusted with the responsible task of guarding the home base. He begged me not to think it meant any reflection on our abilities, Smithy. Yes, he even called us the hub of the wheel, of which each of the others was only a spoke." That information rather bolstered up Smithy's drooping spirits for a little while; but the solemn stillness that surrounded them on all sides soon began to make him drowsy again. He had not secured his customary sleep latterly, and the warmth of the fire assisted in causing his eyes to become heavy. Bumpus noticed this. Several times he talked to his companion, with the sole idea of keeping Smithy on the alert; but in the end he found that it did not seem to avail to any extent, for the replies he received were inclined to be hazy, as if the brain of the other had begun to yield to that drowsy feeling. "Oh! well," Bumpus told himself, "what's the use bothering the poor tenderfoot? Smithy isn't used to this, even if he is a pretty good fellow. He's still mamma's darling boy more or less, and not accustomed to roughing it, like the rest of us. He'll learn in time, I reckon. Fortunately there's no danger of _me_ failing to stand the great test. Huh! I've been through the mill, I have, and proven my worth more'n once." All the same it seemed that despite his brave words Bumpus also felt his eyes growing heavy before long. Once he even aroused with a start, as his head fell forward with a lurch, giving him a little twinge in his neck. "Here, this won't do, Bumpus Hawtree!" he told himself severely; "you just get busy, and show what a loyal, faithful scout you are. Want Thad to drop in here, and find you sound asleep on your post, do you? Well, that would be a nice pickle, believe me. Smithy is only a poor tenderfoot at best, and not a seasoned veteran. He might be excused, but what would happen to you, tell me that?" The idea seemed so monstrous that Bumpus immediately scrambled to his feet, although his actions did not seem to interfere at all with the peaceful dreams of the sleeping scout. Smithy still sat there, with his head bowed down on his breast, and no doubt resting under the happy belief that he was once more safe at home, after all this trying flight along the flood-swept valley of the Susquehanna. Bumpus walked away. He thought he would feel more wide-awake if he gave that fire the cold shoulder, and exercised his benumbed limbs some. He took his gun, of course, for Bumpus had learned a certain degree of caution through his former experiences; and it turned out to be a most fortunate thing he had that sagacity. After walking about for a little while Bumpus settled down alongside a tree, and once more allowed himself to think of a number of events connected with the past, as well as his pleasant home, now so far away. He was aroused by what seemed to be the crackling of a twig. This startled him, because his scout training declared that such a sound must always be accounted exceedingly suggestive. Bumpus silently arose to his knees, and, gripping his gun tightly in his fat hands, looked all around him. A slight movement caught his attention. It was directly toward the fire that he looked, and what he saw thrilled him through and through. A man was actually creeping forward on hands and knees, stealing along with a manner suggestive of a cat. Bumpus did not need to note the fact that this party was wearing a blue army overcoat, now muddy, and rather forlorn-looking, to realize that it could be no other than the long-lost Wandering George, the tramp whom they had trailed all the way from far-distant Scranton. That he had some evil design in approaching the camp so secretly there could be no possible doubt. Smithy was still dozing there, and would fall an easy prey to the scheming tramp, unless some comrade came boldly to the rescue. So Bumpus drew in a long breath, clinched his teeth, and rising to his feet moved forward. CHAPTER XXVII. HEADED FOR HOME--CONCLUSION. "Just hold on there, George; you're under arrest!" Bumpus called out; and if his voice happened to be a trifle shaky, the fact did not seem to interfere with the clever way in which he swung that gun up, so as to cover the tramp. Smithy awoke, and was stunned at what he saw. He sat there, turning his head, to stare first at the figure clothed in the blue army coat, and then at his comrade, seen just topping the bushes, and looking so like he meant business. Smithy would long remember that fine sight. The hobo knew he was caught. Guns had a very persuasive way with George, and he had learned long ago to fight shy of all farmhouses where it was known the owner possessed firearms. "Don't shoot, young feller!" he immediately bellowed, with astonishing energy; "I ain't goin' ter try an' git away. Say, I was jest a-wantin' ter surrender, so's ter git off'n this island. I ain't never yet starved ter death, an' I don't wanter try the same. I'm a prisoner o' war, an' ye wouldn't be so mean's as ter pepper a harmless man, I hopes, Boy?" Bumpus proceeded to advance, all the while keeping that menacing gun leveled. He had had a previous experience in capturing a supposed-to-be desperate rascal, and felt that he must be cautious in how he handled matters. "Smithy, is there a piece of that rope handy?" he demanded; and the other scout after a hasty look around made an affirmative reply. "There certainly is, Bumpus, and it seems to be a good strong piece, too," he went on to say. "Please tell me what you want me to do with it. I know how to tie all sorts of perfectly splendid knots; if only the wretch won't seize hold of me, and make use of me as a shield. They're all so very treacherous, you know, Bumpus." "Sure, I understand that, Smithy," he was told, "but I'm up to a trick or two on my own hook. Here, you George, just drop down on your marrow bones--that means get on your knees." The tramp looked anything but happy, but when he hesitated Bumpus swung his gun up again, and it could be easily seen that he was ready for business. So George immediately dropped down on his knees, with his hands still raised in a really grotesque fashion above his head. "Now, I don't mean to ask you to say your prayers, because I reckon you never learned any," Bumpus proceeded briskly; "but continue the forward movement. In other words, fall flat on your face, and stretch out there, with your nose rooting in the ground. No back talk now, but do what you're told!" George did so. He evidently knew better than to refuse so modest a request, especially while threatened with a load of shot at close quarters. Then Bumpus advanced close up. "Smithy," he said, with a grand air, as became a conqueror, "use your rope, and tie his wrists behind his back. If there's enough left, give a turn around his ankles, will you, please? And whatever you do, let it be thorough. That's what scouts are taught to always be, you know." Under the immediate eye of Bumpus the tramp was triced up, after which the two boys dragged him behind a screen of bushes. Bumpus was in constant apprehension lest the second hobo appear on the scene, and managed to keep his eyes turned this way and that as the minutes passed on. It seemed as though the morning must be wearing away when finally the barking of a fox, so excellently done that it would have deceived an old hunter, announced the near presence of Allan and Thad, and likely the others besides. When they entered the camp they seemed to be laboring under some excitement; but Bumpus had warned Smithy not to give their secret away immediately. "Well, what luck did you have, boys?" asked the stout lad, as one and then another of the six filed past him to the vicinity of the fire. "We cornered one of the precious pair down at the extreme end of the island," acknowledged Giraffe; "but George gave us the slip somehow. We figured he must have hid in a hemlock top, and after we passed come on up here; and since we ran across his trail not far from camp some of us began to get cold feet for fear that you two might have been surprised and taken prisoner. We're all as glad as hops to see that was a false alarm, Bumpus and Smithy." "But have you seen anything of George?" asked Thad, who believed there was something decidedly odd about the way the features of the two guards were working, as though they might be doing everything in their power to conceal some secret. Of course Bumpus had by that time reached the limit of his endurance, especially since Smithy gave a big yell, unable to hold in any further. "Go and take a look back of the bushes there; that's the answer, boys!" Bumpus remarked, trying to look indifferent, though really trembling all over with the joyful excitement. There was an immediate rush in the quarter pointed out; and then shouts that might have easily been heard at the lower end of the island. "Well, what d'ye think of that, now?" Giraffe was saying, in his usual boisterous manner; "if they haven't gone and done it, capturing the long-lost George as nice as you please! Yes, and there's that old engineer's army coat, too; mebbe the judge won't be glad to get that keepsake back again!" Thad was especially well pleased. Of course this was partly on account of having finally accomplished the task that had been set before him, because he always felt satisfied when he could look back to duty well done. Besides, he fairly gloried in the fact that the two tenderfeet of the patrol, as they might still be called, had succeeded in covering themselves with honor in having captured the second desperate rascal. The first thing Thad did was to stand the tramp up, remove his bonds, and make him strip off the blue coat that had once kept the judge's son warm while serving Uncle Sam during our late war with Spain, after which he saw to it that George had his hands bound again. Two of the boys were dispatched along the shore, where the walking was better, to bring back the other prisoner. To another pair was given the task of setting up a pole on an elevated part of the island, bearing a white flag, which, if seen by anyone on the distant shore, might be the means of bringing a boat to the rescue of the marooned ones. Meanwhile Thad investigated, and found that apparently George had had no suspicion that there was anything sewed inside the red lining of the army coat given to him by Mrs. Whittaker. Feeling carefully along the sides, Thad discovered that at a certain place there seemed to be something nestled; and when he held the garment close to his ear he was able to catch a slight rustling sound when he bent it back and forth; so he concluded the paper must be safe. There was enough of the bacon and other things left, it happened, to give them a scanty feed at noon; and they had high hopes that before another night came the conditions would be vastly improved. This confidence proved well founded, for along about three o'clock Giraffe, who had set himself to be the lookout, came running into camp with the cheering news that two boats were coming from the shore, and that the period of their captivity on the island had reached its end. It turned out that those rowing the boats were men who had been sent out by the authorities to look for any families in distress because of the flood in the Susquehanna region. There was ample room aboard for the eight scouts, as well as their two prisoners; and in due time they landed on the bank, overjoyed to know that not only were they free once more, but that their principal object in making this long hike had been handsomely accomplished. Giraffe and Bumpus shook hands solemnly when the fact was mentioned that they had been invited to stay over at a neighboring farmhouse, where they could obtain a bountiful supper and sleep in the barn. That meant supreme happiness to the lengthy and the stout members of the patrol, the "fat and the lean of it," as Giraffe himself would say. Thad was careful to see that the two tramps were handed over to the authorities. All the evidence needed to convict them of the robbery of the Bailey home was discovered on their persons, for they had been tempted to take several little valuable bits of jewelry that fastened the crime on them when found in their pockets. He felt that they were well rid of the rascals when the two men were led away; nor did any of the scouts ever set eyes on Wandering George or his companion again. Since all of the patrol were exceedingly tired, it can safely be assumed that they slept soundly on that night. The hay was sweet; they had been given a bountiful supper, such as only farmers' wives know how to spread before guests; and Bumpus had done himself proud when called upon to entertain their host's family with a number of favorite songs, as well as by the dexterous use of his bugle, upon which he dearly loved to play, and with considerable effect. When another day dawned the boys were given a breakfast they would not soon forget, nor would the kind lady accept a single cent in payment for the same, declaring that she and her family had enjoyed having the scouts remain a night with them, and that they had learned a thousand things about their work such as they had long been wishing to know. The homeward march was begun; and as time was passing rapidly now, Thad thought it only right they should take advantage of the fact that a trolley covered a considerable number of miles between Cranford and the point they were at. None of them objected to this means of lightening their labors, for several among the scouts had complained that their feet were beginning to swell and pain them. By clever work they managed to arrive home that same evening, pleased with their last adventure. Its successful termination would long be a source of gratification to those who had participated in the chase after Wandering George and the blue army overcoat that the judge wanted to keep "in memory of his son." Thad could not wait for morning to come, but immediately after supper he took the coat, once more brushed clean, over his arm, and set out for the home of old Judge Whittaker. When he was ushered into the library, and the eminent jurist saw what he was carrying, he expressed himself pleased in no uncertain tones. As the good lady of the house happened to be out at a neighbor's just then, the judge did not hesitate to rip open the lining of the coat, and then triumphantly extract a thin paper, which he seemed to prize exceedingly. He declared that he was under great obligations to the scouts, and expressed an earnest desire to do something grand for the troop; but of course Thad was compelled to decline, assuring him they had enjoyed the little adventure greatly, and that at any rate the rules of their organization would prevent them from accepting any pay for such a service. Thad and his friends were looking forward to another outing in the woods during the coming summer, and expected to have a delightful time. None of them, however, so much as suspected what a strange turn of fortune would alter their plans, and allow some of the scouts to visit foreign lands while the greatest war in the history of the whole world was breaking out. What wonderful things happened to them abroad will be found recorded in the next volume of this series, published under the title of "The Boy Scouts on the Rhine; or Under Fire with the Allies." The Boy Allies (Registered in the United States Patent Office) With the Army By CLAIR W. HAYES Price, 40 Cents per Volume, Postpaid In this series we follow the fortunes of two American lads unable to leave Europe after war is declared. They meet the soldiers of the Allies, and decide to cast their lot with them. Their experiences and escapes are many, and furnish plenty of the good, healthy action that every boy loves. THE BOY ALLIES IN GREAT PERIL; or, With the Italian Army in the Alps. THE BOY ALLIES IN THE BALKAN CAMPAIGN; or, The Struggle to Save a Nation. THE BOY ALLIES AT LIEGE; or, Through Lines of Steel. THE BOY ALLIES ON THE FIRING LINE; or, Twelve Days Battle Along the Marne. THE BOY ALLIES WITH THE COSSACKS; or, A Wild Dash over the Carpathians. THE BOY ALLIES IN THE TRENCHES; or, Midst Shot and Shell Along the Aisne. The Boy Allies (Registered in the United States Patent Office) With the Battleships By ENSIGN ROBERT L. DRAKE Price, 40 Cents per Volume, Postpaid Frank Chadwick and Jack Templeton, young American lads, meet each other in an unusual way soon after the declaration of war. Circumstances place them on board the British cruiser "The Sylph" and from there on, they share adventures with the sailors of the Allies. Ensign Robert L. Drake, the author, is an experienced naval officer, and he describes admirably the many exciting adventures of the two boys. THE BOY ALLIES UNDER THE SEA; or, The Vanishing Submarine. THE BOY ALLIES IN THE BALTIC; or, Through Fields of Ice to Aid the Czar. THE BOY ALLIES ON THE NORTH SEA PATROL; or, Striking the First Blow at the German Fleet. THE BOY ALLIES UNDER TWO FLAGS; or, Sweeping the Enemy from the Seas. THE BOY ALLIES WITH THE FLYING SQUADRON; or, The Naval Raiders of the Great War. THE BOY ALLIES WITH THE TERROR OF THE SEAS; or, The Last Shot of Submarine D-16. The Boy Scouts Series By HERBERT CARTER Price, 40 Cents per Volume, Postpaid THE BOY SCOUTS ON WAR TRAILS IN BELGIUM; or, Caught Between the Hostile Armies. In this volume we follow the thrilling adventures of the boys in the midst of the exciting struggle abroad. THE BOY SCOUTS DOWN IN DIXIE; or, The Strange Secret of Alligator Swamp. Startling experiences awaited the comrades when they visited the Southland. But their knowledge of woodcraft enabled them to overcome all difficulties. THE BOY SCOUTS AT THE BATTLE OF SARATOGA. A story of Burgoyne's defeat in 1777. THE BOY SCOUTS' FIRST CAMP FIRE; or, Scouting with the Silver Fox Patrol. This book brims over with woods lore and the thrilling adventure that befell the Boy Scouts during their vacation in the wilderness. THE BOY SCOUTS IN THE BLUE RIDGE; or, Marooned Among the Moonshiners. This story tells of the strange and mysterious adventures that happened to the Patrol in their trip among the moonshiners of North Carolina. THE BOY SCOUTS ON THE TRAIL; or, Scouting through the Big Game Country. The story recites the adventures of the members of the Silver Fox Patrol with wild animals of the forest trails and the desperate men who had sought a refuge in this lonely country. THE BOY SCOUTS IN THE MAINE WOODS; or, The New Test for the Silver Fox Patrol. Thad and his chums have a wonderful experience when they are employed by the State of Maine to act as Fire Wardens. THE BOY SCOUTS THROUGH THE BIG TIMBER; or, The Search for the Lost Tenderfoot. A serious calamity threatens the Silver Fox Patrol. How apparent disaster is bravely met and overcome by Thad and his friends, forms the main theme of the story. THE BOY SCOUTS IN THE ROCKIES; or, The Secret of the Hidden Silver Mine. The boys' tour takes them into the wildest region of the great Rocky Mountains and here they meet with many strange adventures. THE BOY SCOUTS ON STURGEON ISLAND; or, Marooned Among the Game Fish Poachers. Thad Brewster and his comrades find themselves in the predicament that confronted old Robinson Crusoe; only it is on the Great Lakes that they are wrecked instead of the salty sea. THE BOY SCOUTS ALONG THE SUSQUEHANNA; or, The Silver Fox Patrol Caught in a Flood. The boys of the Silver Fox Patrol, after successfully braving a terrific flood, become entangled in a mystery that carries them through many exciting adventures. The Broncho Rider Boys Series By FRANK FOWLER Price, 40 Cents per Volume, Postpaid A series of stirring stories for boys, breathing the adventurous spirit that lives in the wide plains and lofty mountain ranges of the great West. These tales will delight every lad who loves to read of pleasing adventure in the open; yet at the same time the most careful parent need not hesitate to place them in the hands of the boy. THE BRONCHO RIDER BOYS WITH FUNSTON AT VERA CRUZ; or, Upholding the Honor of the Stars and Stripes. When trouble breaks out between this country and Mexico, the boys are eager to join the American troops under General Funston. Their attempts to reach Vera Cruz are fraught with danger, but after many difficulties, they manage to reach the trouble zone, where their real adventures begin. THE BRONCHO RIDER BOYS AT KEYSTONE RANCH; or, Three Chums of the Saddle and Lariat. In this story the reader makes the acquaintance of three devoted chums. The book begins in rapid action, and there is "something doing" up to the very time you lay it down. THE BRONCHO RIDER BOYS DOWN IN ARIZONA; or, A Struggle for the Great Copper Lode. The Broncho Rider Boys find themselves impelled to make a brave fight against heavy odds, in order to retain possession of a valuable mine that is claimed by some of their relatives. They meet with numerous strange and thrilling perils and every wideawake boy will be pleased to learn how the boys finally managed to outwit their enemies. THE BRONCHO RIDER BOYS ALONG THE BORDER; or, The Hidden Treasure of the Zuni Medicine Man. Once more the tried and true comrades of camp and trail are in the saddle. In the strangest possible way they are drawn into a series of exciting happenings among the Zuni Indians. Certainly no lad will lay this book down, save with regret. THE BRONCHO RIDER BOYS ON THE WYOMING TRAIL; or, A Mystery of the Prairie Stampede. The three prairie pards finally find a chance to visit the Wyoming ranch belonging to Adrian, but managed for him by an unscrupulous relative. Of course, they become entangled in a maze of adventurous doings while in the Northern cattle country. How the Broncho Rider Boys carried themselves through this nerve-testing period makes intensely interesting reading. THE BRONCHO RIDER BOYS WITH THE TEXAS RANGERS; or, The Smugglers of the Rio Grande. In this volume, the Broncho Rider Boys get mixed up in the Mexican troubles, and become acquainted with General Villa. In their efforts to prevent smuggling across the border, they naturally make many enemies, but finally succeed in their mission. The Boy Chums Series By WILMER M. ELY Price, 40 Cents per Volume, Postpaid In this series of remarkable stories are described the adventures of two boys in the great swamps of interior Florida, among the cays off the Florida coast, and through the Bahama Islands. These are real, live boys, and their experiences are worth following. THE BOY CHUMS IN MYSTERY LAND; or, Charlie West and Walter Hazard among the Mexicans. THE BOY CHUMS ON INDIAN RIVER; or, The Boy Partners of the Schooner "Orphan." THE BOY CHUMS ON HAUNTED ISLAND; or, Hunting for Pearls in the Bahama Islands. THE BOY CHUMS IN THE FOREST; or, Hunting for Plume Birds in the Florida Everglades. THE BOY CHUMS' PERILOUS CRUISE; or, Searching for Wreckage on the Florida Coast. THE BOY CHUMS IN THE GULF OF MEXICO; or, A Dangerous Cruise with the Greek Spongers. THE BOY CHUMS CRUISING IN FLORIDA WATERS; or, The Perils and Dangers of the Fishing Fleet. THE BOY CHUMS IN THE FLORIDA JUNGLE; or, Charlie West and Walter Hazard with the Seminole Indians. The Big Five Motorcycle Boys Series By RALPH MARLOW Price, 40 Cents per Volume, Postpaid It is doubtful whether a more entertaining lot of boys ever before appeared in a story than the "Big Five," who figure in the pages of these volumes. From cover to cover the reader will be thrilled and delighted with the accounts of their many adventures. THE BIG FIVE MOTORCYCLE BOYS ON THE BATTLE LINE; or, With the Allies in France. THE BIG FIVE MOTORCYCLE BOYS AT THE FRONT; or, Carrying Dispatches Through Belgium. THE BIG FIVE MOTORCYCLE BOYS UNDER FIRE; or, With the Allies in the War Zone. THE BIG FIVE MOTORCYCLE BOYS' SWIFT ROAD CHASE; or, Surprising the Bank Robbers. THE BIG FIVE MOTORCYCLE BOYS ON FLORIDA TRAILS; or, Adventures Among the Saw Palmetto Crackers. THE BIG FIVE MOTORCYCLE BOYS IN TENNESSEE WILDS; or, The Secret of Walnut Ridge. THE BIG FIVE MOTORCYCLE BOYS THROUGH BY WIRELESS; or, A Strange Message from the Air. Our Young Aeroplane Scouts Series (Registered in the United States Patent Office) By HORACE PORTER Price, 40 Cents per Volume, Postpaid A series of stories of two American boy aviators in the great European war zone. The fascinating life in midair is thrillingly described. The boys have many exciting adventures, and the narratives of their numerous escapes make up a series of wonderfully interesting stories. OUR YOUNG AEROPLANE SCOUTS IN ENGLAND; or, Twin Stars in the London Sky Patrol. OUR YOUNG AEROPLANE SCOUTS IN ITALY; or, Flying with the War Eagles of the Alps. OUR YOUNG AEROPLANE SCOUTS IN FRANCE AND BELGIUM; or, Saving the Fortunes of the Trouvilles. OUR YOUNG AEROPLANE SCOUTS IN GERMANY; or, Winning the Iron Cross. OUR YOUNG AEROPLANE SCOUTS IN RUSSIA; or, Lost on the Frozen Steppes. OUR YOUNG AEROPLANE SCOUTS IN TURKEY; or, Bringing the Light to Yusef. The Jack Lorimer Series 5 Volumes By WINN STANDISH Handsomely Bound In Cloth Full Library Size--Price 40 cents per Volume, postpaid CAPTAIN JACK LORIMER; or, The Young Athlete of Millvale High. Jack Lorimer is a fine example of the all-around American high-school boy. His fondness for clean, honest sport of all kinds will strike a chord of sympathy among athletic youths. JACK LORIMER'S CHAMPIONS; or, Sports on Land and Lake. There is a lively story woven in with the athletic achievements, which are all right, since the book has been O.K'd by Chadwick, the Nestor of American sporting journalism. JACK LORIMER'S HOLIDAYS; or, Millvale High in Camp. It would be well not to put this book into a boy's hands until the chores are finished, otherwise they might be neglected. JACK LORIMER'S SUBSTITUTE; or, The Acting Captain of the Team. On the sporting side, the book takes up football, wrestling, tobogganing. There is a good deal of fun in this book and plenty of action. JACK LORIMER, FRESHMAN; or, From Millvale High to Exmouth. Jack and some friends he makes crowd innumerable happenings into an exciting freshman year at one of the leading Eastern colleges. The book is typical of the American college boy's life, and there is a lively story, interwoven with feats on the gridiron, hockey, basketball and other clean, honest sports for which Jack Lorimer stands. The Navy Boys Series A series of excellent stories of adventure on sea and land, selected from the works of popular writers; each volume designed for boys' reading. Handsome Cloth Bindings PRICE, 60 CENTS PER VOLUME THE NAVY BOYS IN DEFENCE OF LIBERTY. A story of the burning of the British schooner Gaspee in 1772. By William P. Chipman. THE NAVY BOYS ON LONG ISLAND SOUND. A story of the Whale Boat Navy of 1776. By James Otis. THE NAVY BOYS AT THE SIEGE OF HAVANA. Being the experience of three boys serving under Israel Putnam in 1772. By James Otis. THE NAVY BOYS WITH GRANT AT VICKSBURG. A boy's story of the siege of Vicksburg. By James Otis. THE NAVY BOYS' CRUISE WITH PAUL JONES. A boy's story of a cruise with the Great Commodore in 1776. By James Otis. THE NAVY BOYS ON LAKE ONTARIO. The story of two boys and their adventures in the War of 1812. By James Otis. THE NAVY BOYS' CRUISE ON THE PICKERING. A boy's story of privateering in 1780. By James Otis. THE NAVY BOYS IN NEW YORK BAY. A story of three boys who took command of the schooner "The Laughing Mary," the first vessel of the American Navy. By James Otis. THE NAVY BOYS IN THE TRACK OF THE ENEMY. The story of a remarkable cruise with the Sloop of War "Providence" and the Frigate "Alfred." By William P. Chipman. THE NAVY BOYS' DARING CAPTURE. The story of how the navy boys helped to capture the British Cutter "Margaretta," in 1775. By William P. Chipman. THE NAVY BOYS' CRUISE TO THE BAHAMAS. The adventures of two Yankee Middies with the first cruise of an American Squadron in 1775. By William P. Chipman. THE NAVY BOYS' CRUISE WITH COLUMBUS. The adventures of two boys who sailed with the great Admiral in his discovery of America. By Frederick A. Ober. The Boy Spies Series These stories are based on important historical events, scenes wherein boys are prominent characters being selected. They are the romance of history, vigorously told, with careful fidelity to picturing the home life, and accurate in every particular. Handsome Cloth Bindings PRICE, 60 CENTS PER VOLUME THE BOY SPIES AT THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS. A story of the part they took in its defence. By William P. Chipman. THE BOY SPIES AT THE DEFENCE OF FORT HENRY. A boy's story of Wheeling Creek in 1777. By James Otis. THE BOY SPIES AT THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL. A story of two boys at the siege of Boston. By James Otis. THE BOY SPIES AT THE SIEGE OF DETROIT. A story of two Ohio boys in the War of 1812. By James Otis. THE BOY SPIES WITH LAFAYETTE. The story of how two boys joined the Continental Army. By James Otis. THE BOY SPIES ON CHESAPEAKE BAY. The story of two young spies under Commodore Barney. By James Otis. THE BOY SPIES WITH THE REGULATORS. The story of how the boys assisted the Carolina Patriots to drive the British from that State. By James Otis. THE BOY SPIES WITH THE SWAMP FOX. The story of General Marion and his young spies. By James Otis. THE BOY SPIES AT YORKTOWN. The story of how the spies helped General Lafayette in the Siege of Yorktown. By James Otis. THE BOY SPIES OF PHILADELPHIA. The story of how the young spies helped the Continental Army at Valley Forge. By James Otis. THE BOY SPIES OF FORT GRISWOLD. The story of the part they took in its brave defence. By William P. Chipman. THE BOY SPIES OF OLD NEW YORK. The story of how the young spies prevented the capture of General Washington. By James Otis. For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid of receipt of price by the publishers A. L. BURT COMPANY, 114-120 East 23d Street, New York. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious typographical errors were corrected without note. Non-standard spellings and dialect were left unchanged. A Table of Contents was added for the convenience of the reader. 
34304	----	IN MEMORY OF THE DEAD AT GALVESTON SEPT. 8TH 1900. The Complete Story of the Galveston Horror. Written by the Survivors. Incidents of the awful Tornado, Flood and Cyclone Disaster; Personal Experiences of Survivors; Horrible Looting of Dead Bodies and the Robbing of Empty Homes; Pestilence from so many Decaying Bodies Unburied; Barge Captains Compelled by Armed Men to Tow Dead Bodies to Sea; Millions of Dollars raised to aid the Suffering Survivors; President McKinley Orders Army Rations and Army Tents issued to Survivors and orders U. S. Troops to protect the People and Property; Tales of the Survivors from Galveston; Adrift all Night on Rafts; Acts of Valor; United States Soldiers Drowned; Great Heroism; Great Vandalism; Great Horror; A Second Johnstown Flood, but worse: Hundreds of Men, Women and Children Drowned; No way of Escape, only Death! Death! Everywhere! Edited by John Coulter, Formerly of the N. Y. Herald. Fully Illustrated with Photographs. UNITED PUBLISHERS OF AMERICA. Copyright, 1900, by E. E. Sprague. PREFACE. In presenting to the people of this country and the world a chronicle of the frightful visitation of hurricane and flood upon the beautiful and enterprising City of Galveston, which unparalleled calamity occurred on September 8, 1900, the Publishers wish to say that the utmost care has been taken to make the record of the catastrophe complete in every particular. No expense has been spared to obtain the facts; the illustrations contained in the work are from photographs taken by artists on the spot; the experiences of survivors were obtained from the victims themselves, their language being faithfully reported, while what they wrote is reproduced without a single change being made. The situation in the stricken City of Galveston is portrayed day by day exactly as it existed, and is not the product of imaginings of writers who put down what the conditions should have been; the storm has been followed from its inception, just south of the island of San Domingo, to Galveston, through Texas and then along its course until it disappeared in the broad Atlantic off the Eastern coast; the horrors of the gale, the cruel killing of thousands by the winds and waters, the wrecking of thousands of buildings and the drowning of helpless men, women and children, are all given in graphic and picturesque language. The fearful mutilation of the dead by the ghouls and vandals who afterward despoiled the corpses of their valuables and the swift vengeance which followed these unutterable crimes when the troops shot the vampires and harpies by the score, are told in the most vivid way; the disposal of the dead by casting their bodies into the sea, burying them hastily in the sands along the beach or cremating them by burning upon vast funeral pyres erected in the principal streets of the city are painted in the ghastly colors of truth; the wave of insanity which swept over the city and claimed hundreds who had escaped the perils of the deluge and the hurricane is set forth most graphically. What caused the mighty elemental disturbance, the possibilities of its recurrence and the danger which constantly hangs over other seacoast cities are given in detail; the pestilential conditions set up in Galveston by the catastrophe, the panic-stricken people flying from the scene of death and desolation, the horrible spectacle of hundreds of dead bodies floating in Galveston bay and the Gulf of Mexico, the generous response of the people of the United States to the appeal for help--these are pictured with minuteness. Nothing is wanting to make this work reliable and correct; it contains a full list of the identified dead, which is a feature no other publication has been able to do; in short, it is the story, well and accurately told, of a disaster which has not its like since the world began. The Publishers are confident this volume will meet the approval of the country. THE PUBLISHERS. TABLE OF CONTENTS. Preface 4 CHAPTER I. West Indian Hurricane Descends Upon Galveston, Causing Immense Losses of Life and Property--Catastrophe Unparalleled in the History of the World--A Night of Horrors and Suffering 33 CHAPTER II. Sad Scenes in All Parts of the Ruined City--Corpses Everywhere-- A Sombre, Solemn Sunday--People Apathetic, Dejected and Heartbroken 51 CHAPTER III. Crowds of Refugees at Houston--Fed and Housed in Tents--Regular Soldiers Drowned--Government Property Lost--Fears for Galveston's Future 64 CHAPTER IV. Thrilling Experiences of People During the Great Storm-- Eighty-five Persons Perish by Being Blown from a Train-- Adventures of Survivors at Galveston 89 CHAPTER V. Relief Sent from All Parts of the World as Soon as the True Situation of Affairs Was Made Known--Millions of Dollars Subscribed and Thousands of Carloads of Supplies Forwarded to the Desolated City 117 CHAPTER VI. Cremating Bodies by the Hundreds in the Streets of Galveston-- Negroes Faint While Handling the Decayed Corpses--How Some of Those Rescued Escaped with Their Lives 133 CHAPTER VII. Lives Lost and Property Damage Sustained Outside of Galveston-- One Thousand Victims and Millions of Value in Crops Swept Away--Estimates Made 149 CHAPTER VIII. Business Resumed at Galveston in a Small Way on the Sixth Day After the Catastrophe--"Galveston Shall Rise Again"--How the City Looked on Saturday, One Week After the Flood 159 CHAPTER IX. Galveston Nine Days After--Great Changes Apparent--Life in a Business Exhibited--Systematic Efforts to Obtain Names of the Dead 172 CHAPTER X. Magnitude of the Relief Necessary--Twenty Thousand Persons to Be Clothed and Fed--System of Relief Organization--How the Storm Effected Trade 180 CHAPTER XI. Insanity Follows Frightful Sufferings of the Poor Victims-- Five Hundred Demented Ones--Indifferent to the Loss of Relatives 188 CHAPTER XII. Serious Danger from Fire--Scarcity of Boats to Carry People to the Main Land--Laborers Imported into Galveston--Untold Sufferings on Bolivar Island--Experience of a Chicago Man 196 CHAPTER XIII. Two Women Tell How They Were Affected at Galveston--One Arrived After the Catastrophe, While the Other Was in the Storm from Beginning to End 206 CHAPTER XIV. Twenty Thousand People Fed Every Day at a Cost of $40,000-- Incidents at the Relief Stations--Applicants and Their Peculiarities--Great Mortality Among the Negroes 216 CHAPTER XV. Total Dead and Missing at Galveston and Vicinity 8,661--Five Million Dollars in Relief Necessary to Carry the Survivors Through the Fall and Winter to Spring 246 CHAPTER XVI. Galveston's Inhabitants Refuse to Heed the Lessons Taught by Their Experiences--Carelessness in Failing to Provide Against the Recurrence of Catastrophes 261 CHAPTER XVII. Galveston's Storm Flies Over the United States and Does Great Damage--Many Lives Lost--It Finally Disappears in the Atlantic Ocean 267 CHAPTER XVIII. The World Not So Heartless as Supposed--People Give Generously to Aid the Suffering--A Social Phenomenon--Value of the United States Weather Bureau 271 CHAPTER XIX. Galveston Island Directly in the Path of Storms, With No Way of Escape--What is the City's Future?--All Coast Cities in Danger--New York Will Be Flooded--Hurricane Foretold-- Galveston's Settlement--Storm Will Recur 281 CHAPTER XX. Comparisons Between the Galveston and Johnstown Disasters--The Latter Not So Horrible in Its Features--Frightful Plight of the Texas Victims 294 CHAPTER XXI. Great Calamities Caused by Flood and Gale During Past Century-- Millions of Lives Lost Through the Fury of the Elements 299 CHAPTER XXII. Overwhelming of Johnston, Pa., by the Waters from Conemaugh Lake--One of the Most Peculiar Happenings in History--Actual Number of Deaths Will Never Be Known--About Twenty-five Hundred Bodies Found 321 CHAPTER XXIII. Not More Than Half the Bodies of Victims Identified--Hundreds of Corpses of the Unknown and Nameless Cast Into the Sea-- Others Buried in the Sand and Cremated--List of Identifications 361 [Illustration: THE GALVESTON STORM RAGING] [Illustration: SISTERS OF MERCY FOUND TIED TO THE LITTLE CHILDREN WHOM THEY TRIED TO SAVE] [Illustration: BLOWN OUT INTO THE GULF] [Illustration: WHEN THE WATERS REACHED THE ORPHAN ASYLUM] [Illustration: A RACE WITH THE WIND AND TIDE AT GALVESTON] [Illustration: SOME WERE SAVED IN THE GALVESTON DISASTER BY FLOATING ON BOX CARS] [Illustration: VANDALS ROBBING THE DEAD] [Illustration: GATHERING THE KILLED AND INJURED AFTER THE STORM] [Illustration: DROWNING OF GALVESTON SUFFERERS BY THE TIDAL WAVE] [Illustration: DEATH ON THE GALVESTON SHORE AFTER THE STORM] [Illustration: THE STORM DEALING DEATH AND DESTRUCTION IN ITS PATH] [Illustration: FURY OF THE STORM AND DESPERATE PREDICAMENT OF RESIDENTS] [Illustration: AT DEATH'S DOOR IN THE GALVESTON STORM] [Illustration: SURVIVORS, NEARLY STARVED, RANSACKING A GROCERY STORE FOR FOOD] THE GALVESTON HORROR. CHAPTER I. West Indian Hurricane Descends Upon Galveston, Causing Immense Losses of Life and Property--Catastrophe Unparalleled in the History of the World--A Night of Horrors and Suffering. The frightful West Indian hurricane which descended upon the beautiful, prosperous and progressive, but ill-fated, city of Galveston, on Saturday, September 8, 1900, causing the loss of many thousands of lives and the destruction of millions of dollars' worth of property, and then ravaged Central and Western Texas, killing several hundred people and inflicting damage which cost millions to repair, has had no parallel in history. When the gale approached the island upon which Galveston it situated, it lashed the waves of the Gulf of Mexico into a tremendous fury, causing them to rise to all but mountain height, and then it was that, combining their forces, the wind and water pounced upon their prey. In the short space of four hours the entire site of the city was covered by angry waters, while the gale blew at the rate of one hundred miles an hour; business houses, public buildings, churches, residences, charitable institutions, and all other structures gave way before the pressure of the wind and the fierce onslaught of the raging flood, and those which did not crumble altogether were so injured, in the majority of cases, that they were torn down. Such a night of horror as the unfortunate inhabitants were compelled to pass has fallen to the lot of few since the records of history were first opened. In the early evening, when the water first began to invade Galveston Island, the people residing along the beach and near it fled in fear from their homes and sought the highest points in the city as places of refuge, taking nothing but the smaller articles in their houses with them. On and on crawled the flood, until darkness had set in, and then, as though possessed of a fiendish vindictiveness, hastened its speed and poured over the surface of the town, completely submerging it--covering the most elevated ground to a depth of five feet and the lower portions ten and twelve feet. The hurricane was equally malignant, if not more fiendish and cruel, and tore great buildings and beautiful homes to pieces with evident delight, scattering the debris far and wide; telegraph and telephone lines were thrown down, railway tracks and bridges--the latter connecting the island and city with the mainland--torn up, and the mighty, tangled mass of wires, bricks, sections of roofs, sidewalks, fences and other things hurled into the main thoroughfares and cross streets, rendering it impossible for pedestrians to make their way along for many days after the waters and gale had subsided. Forty thousand people--men, women and children--cowered in terror for eight long hours, the intense blackness of the night, the swishing and lapping of the waves, the demoniac howling and shrieking of the wind and the indescribable and awful crashing, tearing and rending as the houses, hundreds at a time, were wrecked and shattered, ever sounding in their ears. Often, too, the friendly shelter where families had taken refuge would be swept away, plunging scores and scores of helpless ones into the mad current which flowed through every street of the town, and fathers and mothers were compelled to undergo the agony of seeing their children drown, with no possibility of rescue; husbands lost their wives and wives their husbands, and the elements were only merciful when they destroyed an entire family at once. All during that fearful night of Saturday until the gray and gloomy dawn of Sunday broke upon the sorrow-stricken city, the entire population of Galveston stood face to face with grim death in its most horrible shapes; they could not hope for anything more than the vengeance of the hurricane, and as they realized that with every passing moment souls were being hurried into eternity, is it at all wonderful that, after the strain was over and all danger gone, reason should finally be unseated and men and women break into the unmeaning gayety of the maniac? Not one inhabitant of Galveston old enough to realize the situation had any idea other than that death was to be the fate of all before another day appeared, and when this long and weary suspense, to which was added the chill of the night and the growing pangs of hunger, was at last broken by the first gleams of the light of the Sabbath morn, the latter was not entirely welcome, for the face of the sun was hidden by morose and ugly clouds, from which dripped, at dreary intervals, cold and gusty showers. Thousands were swallowed up during the darkness and their bodies either mangled and mutilated by the wreckage which had been tossed everywhere, left to decompose in the slimy ooze deposited by the flood or forced to follow the waves in their sullen retirement to the waters of the gulf. Dejection and despondency succeeded fright; the majority of the business men of the city had suffered such losses that they were overcome by apathy; nearly all the homes of the people were in ruins; the streets were impassable, and the dead lay thickly on every side; all telegraph and telephone wires were down, and as miles and miles of railroad track had disappeared and the bridges carried away, there was absolutely no means of communication with the outer world, except by boat. The strange spectacle was then presented of the richest city of its size in the richest country in the world lying prostrate, helpless and hopeless, a prey to ghouls, vultures, harpies, thieves, thugs and outlaws of every sort; its people starving, and the putrid bodies of its dead breeding pestilence. SKETCH OF THE CITY OF GALVESTON. The City of Galveston is situated on the extreme east end of the Island of Galveston. It is six square miles in area, its present limits being the limits of the original corporation and the boundaries of the land purchased from the Republic of Texas by Colonel Menard in 1838 for the sum of $50,000. Colonel Menard associated with himself several others, who formed a town site company with a capital of $1,000,000. The City of Galveston was platted on April 20, 1838, and seven days later the lots were put on the market. The streets of Galveston are numbered from one to fifty-seven across the island from north to south, and the avenues are known by the letters of the alphabet, extending east and west lengthwise of the island. The founders of the city donated to the public every tenth block through the center of the city from east to west for public parks. They also gave three sites for public markets and set aside one entire block for a college, three blocks for a girls' seminary, and gave to every Christian denomination a valuable site for a church. The growth of the city in population was slow until after the war of the rebellion. It is a remarkable fact that for the population Galveston does double the amount of business of any city in America. The population in 1890 was 30,000, showing an increase of over 400 per cent in thirty years. At the time of the disaster the population was estimated at 40,000. Galveston has over two miles of completed wharfs along the bay front and others under construction, all of which are equipped with modern appliances. The Galveston Wharf Company, which owns practically all the wharfage, has expended millions during the last five years for improvements in the way of elevators and facilities for handling grain and cotton. During the cotton season, Sept. 1 to March 31 inclusive, large ocean-going craft line the wharves, often thirty or more steamers and as many large sailing vessels being accommodated at one time, besides the numerous smaller vessels and sailing craft doing a coastwise trade. Manufacturing is one of the chief supports of the city. In this branch of industry Galveston leads any city in the State of Texas by 50 per cent in number and more than 100 per cent in capital employed and product turned out. Of factories the city has 306, employing a capital aggregating $10,886,900, with an output of $12,000,000 a year. The jetty construction forms one of the chief features of its commercial advantages. The construction began in 1885, progressing slowly for five years, when the desire of the citizens for a first-class harbor led to the formation of a permanent committee, which succeeded in getting a bill through Congress authorizing an expenditure of $6,200,000 on the harbor. The bill provided that there should be two parallel stone jetties extending nearly six miles out into the gulf, one from the east point of Galveston Island, the other from the west point of Bolivar Peninsula. The jetties are fifty feet wide at the bottom and slope gradually to five feet above mean low tide, and are thirty-five feet wide at the top, with a railroad track running their entire length, which railroad is the property of the Federal Government. The immediate effect of early construction of the jetties was to remove the inner bar, which formerly had thirteen feet of water over it, and which now has over twenty-one feet of water. The principal business street of Galveston is the Strand, which is of made land 150 feet from the water of the bay, in the extreme northern end of the city. Besides being the principal port of Texas, Galveston is the financial center of the State, and some of the largest business houses in Texas have their offices in the Strand. Among the business houses on this street are the following: Sealy, Hutchins & Co., bankers; most modern banking building in Texas; four-story structure, in which is also located the office of the Mallory steamship line, and also the offices of Congressman R. B. Hawley, one of the Republican leaders in the State. H. Kempner, cotton broker; four-story brick building. First National Bank, J. Runge, President. Mr. Runge is also President of the Cotton Exchange, President of the Galveston Cotton mills, and President of the City Railway Company. W. L. Moody & Co., bankers and cotton factors; four-story brick. Mr. Moody is an intimate friend of W. J. Bryan and periodically entertains him at Lake Surprise, a duck hunting ground fifteen miles inland from Galveston; a famous hunting ground. General offices Gulf, Colorado and Santa Fe Railway and the Galveston, Henderson and Houston Railway, which is the gulf terminus of the International and Great Northern Railway. Adoue & Lobit, bankers; four-story brick. Island City Savings Bank and Gulf City Trust Company, M. Lasker, President; four-story brick. Texas Loan and Trust Company and Flint & Rogers, cotton factors; four-story brick building. Mensing Bros., wholesale grocers; four-story brick. Western Union Telegraph Company and Mexican Cable Company; four-story brick building. Galveston Dry Goods Company; four-story brick. Hullman, Owen & Co., wholesale grocers; four-story brick building. Wallace, Landis & Co., wholesale grocers; five-story brick. L. W. Levy & Co., wholesale liquor dealers; four-story brick. Schneider Bros., wholesale liquor dealers; four-story brick. Beers, Kennison & Co., general insurance agents in Texas for several large companies; four-story brick. Concisely put and with no waste of words, the following facts comprise the history of the unfortunate city: 1. It is the richest city of its size in the United States. 2. Is the largest and most extensively commercial city of Texas. 3. Is the gateway of an enormous trade, situated as it is between the great West granaries and Europe. 4. Lies two miles from the northeast corner of the Island of Galveston. 5. Is a port of entry and the principal seaport of the State. 6. Its harbor is the best, not only on the coast line of Texas, but also on the entire gulf coast from the mouth of the Mississippi to the Rio Grande. 7. Is the nearest and most accessible first-class seaport for the States of Texas, Kansas, New Mexico and Colorado, the Indian Territory and the Territory of Arizona and parts of the States and Territories adjoining those just mentioned. 8. Is to-day the gulf terminus of most of the great railway systems entering Texas. 9. Ranks third among the cotton ports of the United States. 10. Its port charges are as low as or lower than any other port in the United States. 11. Is the only seaport on the gulf coast west of the Mississippi into which a vessel drawing more than 10 feet of water can enter. 12. Has steamship lines to Liverpool, New York, New Orleans and the ports of Texas as far as the Mexican boundary. 13. Has harbor area of 24 feet depth and over 1,300 acres; of 30 feet depth and over 463 acres (the next largest harbor on the Texas coast has only 100 acres of 24 feet depth of water). 14. Has the lowest maximum temperature of any city in Texas. 15. Has the finest beach in America and is a famous summer and winter resort. 16. Has public free school system unexcelled in the United States. 17. Has never been visited by any epidemic disease since the yellow fever scourge of 1867. 18. Has forty miles of street railways in operation. 19. Has electric lights throughout the city (plant owned by city). 20. It has millions invested in docks, warehouses, grain elevators, flouring mills, marine ways, manufactories and mercantile houses. THE MOST PROMISING TOWN IN THE SOUTH. "Galveston was the most promising town in the South, so far as shipping is concerned," said Thomas B. Bryan, the founder of North Galveston, the day after the disaster occurred. "There has been persistent opposition to it on the part of a railroad that wished the transportation of cotton and other produce farther east, but finally the geographical position of Galveston triumphed. Even Collis P. Huntington, the railroad magnate, succumbed, and later he inaugurated improvements in Galveston on the most colossal scale, involving an expenditure of many millions of dollars. One of the last announcements Mr. Huntington made before his death was that Galveston would become the greatest shipping port in America if money could accomplish it. At the time I was in Galveston, a few weeks ago, there was an army of workmen employed by the Southern Pacific Railroad constructing great docks and wharves, which were to eclipse any on the globe. "Some conception of Galveston can be formed by supposing the business district of Chicago--say from Lake to Twenty-second street--were to extend out into the lake on a pier for a distance of three miles and at a height above the water varying from three to seven, and possibly, in some places, nine feet. My own observation of Galveston induced my taking hold of the nearest eligible elevated locality for residences, which is North Galveston, sixteen miles from the city proper. It has an elevation above the water of fifteen to twenty feet more than Galveston, and is free from inundation. No news has reached me from North Galveston, and, though damage may have been done by wind, I am confident none can be done by water or waves." HOW THE HURRICANE ORIGINATED. Storms which move with the velocity of that which swept Galveston and which are common to the southern and southeastern coasts of the United States invariably originate, according to Weather Forecaster H. J. Cox, of the United States Weather Bureau at Chicago, in "the doldrums," or that region in the ocean where calms abound. In this particular instance the place was south of the West Indies and north of the equator. The region of the doldrums varies in breadth from sixty to several hundred miles, and at different seasons shifts its extreme limits between 5 degrees south and 15 degrees north. It is always overhung by a belt of clouds which is gathered by opposing currents of the trade winds. "The storm which swept Galveston and the surrounding country, I should say, originated at a considerable distance south of the West Indies, in this belt of calms," said Forecaster Cox the Monday night following the catastrophe. "It was caused by two strong currents meeting at an angle, and this caused the whirling motion which finally spent its force on the coast of Texas. It is seldom that a storm originating in the doldrums moves so far inland as did this one, but it is not, however, unprecedented. The reason this storm reached so far as Galveston was that the northwesterly wind moved about twice as fast as it usually does before reaching land. Usually the force of these winds are spent on the coast of Florida and sometimes they reach as far north as North Carolina. When they strike the land at these points they are given a northeasterly direction. "This storm missed the eastern coast of the United States, and consequently was deflected to the west. Thunderstorms are prevailing in Kansas and all of the district just north of the course of the storm, which is the natural result after such commotion of the elements. The conditions of the land are such about Galveston that when the storm reached that far it had no possible means of escape, and hence the dire results. If there had been a chance for the wind to move further west along the coast it would in all probability have passed Galveston, giving the place no more than a severe shaking up. In this event the worst effect would in all probability have been felt on the eastern coast of Mexico." It was an absolute impossibility for anyone to form an idea of the extent and magnitude of the disaster within a week of its occurrence. The morning of Sunday, when the wind and the waves had subsided, the streets of the city were found clogged with debris of all sorts. The people of Galveston could not realize for several days what had happened. Four thousand houses had been entirely demolished and hardly a building in the city was fit for habitation. The people were apathetic; they wandered around the streets in an aimless sort of way, unable to do anything or make preparations to repair the great damage done. The Monday following the catastrophe, Galveston was practically in the hands of thieves, thugs, ghouls, vampires, and bandits, some of them women, who robbed the dead, mutilated the corpses which were lying everywhere, ransacked business houses and residences and created a reign of terror, which lasted until the officers in command of the force of regulars stationed at the beach barracks sent a company of men to patrol the streets. The governor of the state ordered out all the regiments of the National Guard and various associations of business men also supplied men, who assisted the soldiers in doing patrol duty in the city and suburbs. The depredations of the lawless element were of an inconceivably brutal character. Unprotected women, whether found upon the streets or in their houses, were subjected to outrage or assault and robbed of their clothing and jewelry. Pedestrians were held up on the public thoroughfare in broad daylight and compelled to give up all valuables in their possession. The bodies of the dead were despoiled of everything and in their haste to secure valuables the ghouls would mutilate the corpses, cutting off fingers to obtain the rings thereon and amputating the ears of the women to get the earrings worn therein. The majority of the thieves and vampires belonged in the city of Galveston and were reinforced by desperadoes from outside towns, like Houston, Austin, and New Orleans, who took advantage of the rush to the city immediately after the disaster, obtaining free transportation on the railroad and steamers upon a pretense that they were going to Galveston for the purpose of working with relief parties and the gangs assigned for burial of the dead. Their outrages became so flagrant and the people of the city became so terrified in consequence of their depredations that the city authorities unable to cope with them, most of the officers of the police department having been victims of the flood, that an appeal was made to the governor to send state troops and procure the preservation of order. Captain Rafferty, commanding Battery O of the First Regiment of Artillery, U. S. A., was also implored to lend his aid in putting down the lawless bands, and he accordingly sent all the men in his command who had not met death in the gale. There was some delay in getting the state troops to Galveston because so many miles of railroad had been washed away, the Adjutant General being compelled to notify some companies of militia by courier, but Captain Rafferty ordered his men on duty at once, with instructions to promptly shoot all persons found despoiling the dead. Most of the vampires were negroes, some of them, however, being white women, the latter being as savage and merciless in their treatment of the dead as the most abandoned of their male companions. The regulars were put on duty on Tuesday night and before morning had shot several of the thugs, who were executed on the spot when found in the act of robbery. In every instance the pockets of the harpies slain by the United States troops were found filled with jewelry and other valuables, and in some cases, notably that of one negro, fingers were found in their possession which had been cut from the hands of the dead, the vampires being in such a hurry that they could not wait to tear the rings off. On Wednesday evening the government troops came across a gang of fifty desperadoes, who were despoiling the bodies of the dead found enmeshed in the debris of a large apartment house. With commendable promptness the regulars put the ghouls under arrest and finding the proceeds of their robberies in their possession lined them up against a brick wall and without ceremony shot every one of them. In cases where the villains were not killed at the first fire, the sergeant administered coup de grace. Many of the thugs begged piteously for mercy, but no attention was paid to their feelings and they suffered the same stern fate as the rest. When the state troops arrived in the city they took the same severe measures and the result was that within forty-eight hours the city was as safe as it had ever been. The police arrested every suspicious character and the jail and cells at the police station were filled to overflowing. These people were deported as soon as possible and notified that if they returned they would be shot without warning. The temper of the citizens of Galveston was such that they would not temporize in any case with those who were neither criminals or inclined to work. Every able-bodied man in town was impressed for duty in relief and burial parties and whenever an individual refused to do the work required he was promptly shot. By Thursday morning all the men required had been obtained and relief and burial parties were filled to the quota deemed necessary and the work of disposing of the bodies of the dead, administering to the wants of the wounded and the clearing of the streets of the debris was proceeding satisfactorily. The dead lay in the streets and vacant places in hundreds and the heat of the sun began to have its natural effect. Decomposition set in and the stench became unbearable. At first an effort was made to identify the corpses, but it was soon found that work could not be proceeded with, as any delay imperilled the living. Fears entertained in regard to pestilence were speedily verified and the people of the city were taken ill by scores. It was difficult to obtain men to perform the duty of burying the bloated corpses of the victims of the catastrophe and consequently the city authorities ordered that the dead be loaded on barges, taken a few miles out to sea, weighted and thrown into the water. The ground had become so watersoaked that it was impossible to dig graves or trenches for the reception of the bodies, although in many instances people buried relatives and friends in their yards and the ground surrounding their residence. Along the beach hundreds of corpses were buried in the sand, but the majority of the burials were at sea. By Wednesday night 2,500 bodies had been cast into the water, while about 500 had been interred within the city limits. Precautions were taken, however, to mark the graves and when the ground had dried sufficiently the bodies were disinterred and taken to the various cemeteries where, after burial, suitable memorials were erected to mark their last resting place. No attempts were made at identification after Wednesday, lists being simply made of the number of victims. The graves of those buried in the sand were marked by headboards with the inscriptions, "White man, aged forty;" "White woman, aged twenty-five," and "male" or "female" child, as the case might be. So accustomed did the burial parties become to the handling of the dead that they treated the bodies as though they were merely carcasses of animals and not bodies of human beings and they were dumped into the trenches prepared for their reception without ceremony of any kind. The excavations were then filled up as hurriedly as possible, the sand being packed down tightly. This might have seemed inhuman, unfeeling, and brutal, but the exigencies of the situation demanded that the corpses be put out of the way as speedily as possible. Great difficulty was experienced in securing men to transport bodies to the wharves where the barges lay, and it was practically an impossibility to get anyone to touch the bodies of the negro victims, decomposition having set in earlier than in the cases of the whites, and had it not been that the members of the fire department volunteered their services the remains of the negroes would have remained unburied for a longer time than they were. Finally, however, patience ceased to be a virtue and orders were given the guards to shoot any man who refused to do his duty under the circumstances. The result of this was that the beginning of Wednesday there was less delay in the matter of disposing of the dead. However, in spite of the activity of the burial parties, the work of clearing the streets of corpses was a most tedious one. FORECAST OFFICIAL'S REPORT ON THE STORM. The forecast official of the United States Weather Bureau at Galveston made the following report, September 14, on the storm: "The local office of the United States weather bureau received the first message in regard to this storm at 4 p. m., September 4. It was then moving northward over Cuba. Each day thereafter until the West India hurricane struck Galveston bulletins were posted by the United States weather bureau officials giving the progressive movements of the disturbance. "September 6 the tropical storm had moved up over southern Florida, thence it changed its course and moved westward in the gulf and was central off the Louisiana coast the morning of the 7th, when northwest storm warnings were ordered up for Galveston. The morning of the 8th the storm had increased in energy and was still moving westward, and at 10:10 a. m. the northwest storm warnings were changed to northeast. Then was when the entire island was in apparent danger. The telephone at the United States weather bureau office was busy until the wires went down; many could not get the use of the telephone on account of the line being busy. People came to the office in droves inquiring about the weather. About the same time the following information was given to all alike: "'The tropical storm is now in the gulf, south or southwest of us; the winds will shift to the northeast-east and probably to the southeast by morning, increasing in energy. If you reside in low parts of the city, move to higher grounds.'" "Prepare for the worst, which is yet to come," were the only consoling words of the weather bureau officials at Galveston from morning until night of the 8th, when no information further could be given out. The local forecast official and one observer stayed at the office throughout the entire storm, although the building was wrecked. The forecast official and one observer were out taking tide observations about 4 a. m., September 9. Another observer left after he had sent the last telegram which could be gotten off, it being filed at Houston over the telephone wires about 4 p. m. of the 8th. Over half the city was covered with tide water by 3 p. m. One of the observers left for home at about 4 p. m., after he had done all he could, as telephone wires were then going down. The entire city was then covered with water from one to five feet deep. On his way home he saw hundreds of people and he informed all he could that the worst was still to come, and people who could not hear his voice on account of the distance he motioned them to go downtown. The lowest barometer by observation was 28.53 inches at 8:10 p. m., September 8, but the barometer went slightly lower than this, according to the barograph. The tide at about 8 p. m. stood from six to fifteen feet deep throughout the city, with the wind blowing slightly over a hundred miles an hour. The highest wind velocity by the anemometer was ninety-six miles from the northeast at 5:15 p. m., and the extreme velocity was a hundred miles an hour at about that time. The anemometer blew down at this time and the wind was still higher later, when it shifted to the east and southeast, when the observer estimated that it blew a gale of between 110 and 120 miles. There was an apparent tidal wave of from four to six feet about 8 p. m., when the wind shifted to the east and southeast, that carried off many houses which had stood the tide up to that time. The observer believed from the records he managed to save that the hurricane moved inland near Galveston, going up the Brazos Valley. The warnings of the United States Weather Bureau were the means of thousands of lives being saved through the hurricane. It was so severe, however, that it was impossible to prepare for such destruction. The observer of the United States Weather Bureau at Galveston, to relieve apprehension, stated on September 14 that the barometer had gone up to about the normal, and there were no indications of another storm following. CHAPTER II. Sad Scenes in All Parts of the Ruined City--Corpses Everywhere--A Sombre, Solemn Sunday--People Apathetic, Dejected and Heartbroken. The surviving people of Galveston did not awaken from sleep on Sunday morning, for they had not slept the night before. For many weary hours they had stood face to face with death, and knew that thousands had yielded up their lives and that millions of dollars worth of property had been destroyed. There was not a building in Galveston which was not either entirely destroyed or damaged, and the people of the city lived in the valley of the shadow of death, helpless and hopeless, deprived of all hope and ambition--merely waiting for the appearance of the official death roll. Confusion and chaos reigned everywhere; death and desolation were on all sides; wreck and ruin were the only things visible wherever the eye might rest; and with business entirely suspended and no other occupation than the search for and burial of the dead it was strange that the thoroughfares and residence streets were not filled with insane victims of the hurricane's frightful visit. For days the people of Galveston knew there was danger ahead; they were warned repeatedly, but they laughed at all fears, business went on as usual, and when the blow came it found the city unprepared and without safeguards. Owing to the stupefaction following the awful catastrophe, the people were in no condition, either physical or mental, to provide for themselves, and therefore depended upon the outside world for food and clothing. The inhabitants of Galveston needed immediate relief, but how they were to get it was a mystery, for Galveston was not yet in touch with the outside world by rail or sea. The city was sorely stricken, and appealed to the country at large to send food, clothing and water. The waterworks were in ruins and the cisterns all blown away, so that the lack of water was one of the most serious of the troubles. Never did a storm work more cruelly. All the electric light and telegraph poles were prostrated and the streets were littered with timbers, slate, glass and every conceivable character of debris. There was hardly a habitable house in the entire city, and nearly every business house was either wrecked entirely or badly damaged. On Monday there were deaths from hunger and exposure, and the list swelled rapidly. People were living as best they could--in the ruins of their homes, in hotels, in schoolhouses, in railway stations, in churches, in the streets by the side of their beloved dead. So great was the desolation one could not imagine a more sorrowful place. Street cars were not running; no trains could reach the town; only sad-eyed men and women walked about the streets; the dead and wounded monopolized the attention of those capable of doing anything whatever, and the city was at the mercy of thieves and ruffians. All the fine churches were in ruins. From Tremont to P street, thence to the beach, not a vestige of a residence was to be seen. In the business section of the city the water was from three to ten feet deep in stores, and stocks of all kinds, including foodstuffs, were total losses. It was a common spectacle--that of inhabitants of the fated city wandering around in a forsaken and forlorn way, indifferent to everything around them and paying no attention to inquiries of friends and relatives. God forbid that such scenes are enacted again in this country. It was thought the vengeance of the fates had been visited in its most appalling shape upon the place which had unwittingly incurred its wrath. It was fortunate after all, however, that those compelled to endure such trials were temporarily deprived of their understanding; were so stunned that they could not appreciate the enormity of the punishment. The first loss of life reported was at Rietter's saloon, in the Strand, where three of the most prominent citizens of the town--Stanley G. Spencer, Charles Kellner and Richard Lord--lost their lives and many others were maimed and imprisoned. These three were sitting at a table on the first floor Saturday night, making light of the danger, when the roof suddenly caved in and came down with a crash, killing them. Those in the lower part of the building escaped with their lives in a miraculous manner, as the falling roof and flooring caught on the bar, enabling the people standing near it to crawl under the debris. It required several hours of hard work to get them out. The negro waiter who was sent for a doctor was drowned at Strand and Twenty-first streets, his body being found a short time afterward. Fully 700 people were congregated at the city hall, most of them more or less injured in various ways. One man from Lucas Terrace reported the loss of fifty lives in the building from which he escaped. He himself was severely injured about the head. Passing along Tremont street, out as far as Avenue P, climbing over the piles of lumber which had once been residences, four bodies were observed in one yard and seven in one room in another place, while as many as sixty corpses were seen lying singly and in groups in the space of one block. A majority of the drowned, however, were under the ruined houses. The body of Miss Sarah Summers was found near her home, corner of Tremont street and Avenue F, her lips smiling, but her features set in death, her hands grasping her diamonds tightly. The remains of her sister, Mrs. Claude Fordtran, were never found. The report from St. Mary's Infirmary showed that only eight persons escaped from that hospital. The number of patients and nurses was one hundred. Rosenberg Schoolhouse, chosen as a place of refuge by the people of that locality, collapsed. Few of those who had taken refuge there escaped--how many cannot be told, and will never be known. Never before had the Sabbath sun risen upon such a sight, and as though unable to endure it, the god of the day soon veiled his face behind dull and leaden clouds, and refused to shine. Surely it was enough to draw tears even from inanimate things. At the Union Depot Baggagemaster Harding picked up the lifeless form of a baby girl within a few feet of the station. Its parents were among the lost. The station building was selected as a place of refuge by hundreds of people, and although all the windows and a portion of the south wall at the top were blown in, and the occupants expected every moment to be their last, escape was impossible, for about the building the water was fully twelve feet deep. A couple of small shanties were floating about, but there was no means of making a raft or getting a boat. Every available building in the city was used as a hospital. As for the dead, they were being put away anywhere. In one large grocery store on Tremont street all the space that could be cleared was occupied by the wounded. It was nothing strange to see the dead and crippled everywhere, and the living were so fascinated by the dead they could hardly be dragged away from the spots where the corpses were piled. There were dead by the score, by the hundreds and by the thousands. It was a city of the dead; a vast battlefield, the slain being victims of flood and gale. The dead were at rest, but the living had to suffer, for no aid was at hand. In the business portion of the town the damage could not be even approximately estimated. The wholesale houses along the Strand had about seven feet of water on their ground floors, and all window panes and glass protectors of all kinds were demolished. On Mechanic street the water was almost as deep as on the Strand. All provisions in the wholesale groceries and goods on the lower floors were saturated and rendered valueless. In clearing away the ruins of the Catholic Orphans' Home heartrending evidence of the heroism and love of the Sisters was discovered. Bodies of the little folks were found which indicated by their position that heroic measures were taken to keep them together so that all might be saved. The Sisters had tied them together in bunches of eight and then tied the cords around their own waists. In this way they probably hoped to quiet the children's fears and lead them to safety. The storm struck the Home with such terrific force that the structure fell, carrying the inmates with it and burying them under tons of debris. Two crowds of children, tied and attached to Sisters, have been found. In one heap the children were piled on the Sisters, and the arms of one little girl were clasped around a Sister's neck. In the wreck of the Home over ninety children and Sisters were killed. It was first believed that they had been washed out to sea, but the discovery of the little groups in the ruins indicates that all were killed and buried under the wreckage. Sunday and Monday were days of the greatest suffering, although the population had hardly sufficiently recovered from the shock of the mighty calamity to realize that they were hungry and cold. On Monday all relief trains sent from other cities toward Galveston were forced to turn back, the tracks being washed away. On Tuesday Mayor Jones of Galveston sent out the following appeal to the country: "It is my opinion, based on personal information, that 5,000 people have lost their lives here. Approximately one-third of the residence portion of the city has been swept away. There are several thousand people who are homeless and destitute--how many there is no way of finding out. Arrangements are now being made to have the women and children sent to Houston and other places, but the means of transportation are limited. Thousands are still to be cared for here. We appeal to you for immediate aid. "WALTER J. JONES, "Mayor of Galveston." Some relief had been sent in, the railroad to Texas City, six miles away, having been repaired, boats taking the supplies from that point into Galveston. Food and women's clothing were the things most needed just then. While the men could get along with the clothes they had on and what they had secured since Sunday, the women suffered considerably, and there was much sickness among them in consequence. It was noticeable, however, that the women of the city had, by their example, been instrumental in reviving the drooping spirits of the men. There was a better feeling prevalent Tuesday among the inhabitants, as news had been received that within a few days the acute distress would be over, except in the matter of shelter. Every house standing was damp and unhealthy, and some of the wounded were not getting along as well as hoped. Many of the injured had been sent out of town to Texas City, Houston and other places, but hundreds still remained. It would have endangered their lives to move them. Tuesday night ninety negro looters were shot in their tracks by citizen guards. One of them was searched and $700 found, together with four diamond rings and two water-soaked gold watches. The finger of a white woman with a gold band around it was clutched in his hands. In the afternoon, at the suggestion of Colonel Hawley, a mounted squad of nineteen men, under Adjutant Brokridge, was detailed by Major Faylings to search a house where negro looters were known to have secreted plunder. "Shoot them in their tracks, boys! We want no prisoners," said the Major. The plunderers changed their location before the arrival of the detachment, however, and the raiders came back empty-handed. Twenty cases of looting were reported between 3 and 6 in the evening. At 6 o'clock a report reached Major Faylings that twenty negroes were robbing a house at Nineteenth and Beach streets. "Plant them," commanded the young Major, as a half dozen citizen soldiers, led by a corporal, mustered before him for orders. "I want every one of those twenty negroes, dead or alive," said the Major. The squad left on the double quick. Half an hour later they reported ten of the plunderers killed. The following order was posted on the streets at noon of Tuesday: "To the Public: The city of Galveston being under martial law, and all good citizens being now enrolled in some branch of the public service, it becomes necessary, to preserve the peace, that all arms in this city be placed in the hands of the military. All good citizens are forbidden to carry arms, except by written permission from the Mayor or Chief of Police or the Major commanding. All good citizens are hereby commanded to deliver all arms and ammunition to the city and take Major Faylings' receipt. "WALTER C. JONES, Mayor." WHAT A RELIEF PARTY SAW SUNDAY MORNING. Starting as soon as the water began to recede Sunday morning, a relief party began the work of rescuing the wounded and dying from the ruins of their homes. The scenes presented were almost beyond description. Screaming women, bruised and bleeding, some of them bearing the lifeless forms of children in their arms; men, broken-hearted and sobbing, bewailing the loss of their wives and children; streets filled with floating rubbish, among which there were many bodies of the victims of the storm, constituted part of the awful picture. In every direction, as far as the eye could reach, the scene of desolation and destruction continued. It was certainly enough to cause the stoutest heart to quail and grow sick, and yet the searchers well knew they could not unveil one-hundredth part of the misery the destructive elements had brought about. They knew, also, that the full import and heaviness of the blow could not be realized for days to come. Although those in the relief party were prepared to see the natural evidences following upon the heels of the mighty storm, they did not anticipate such frightful revelations. It was a butchery, without precedent; a gathering of victims that was so ghastly as to be beyond the power of any man to picture. As the party went on the members met others who made reports of things that had come under their notice. There were fifty killed or drowned in one section of town; one hundred in another; five hundred in another. The list grew larger with each report. It was a matter of wonder, and increasing wonder too, that a single soul escaped to tell the tale. No one seemed entirely sane, for there was madness in the very air. All moved in an atmosphere of gloom; it was difficult to move and breathe with so much death on all sides. Yet no one could keep his eyes off of those horrible, fascinating corpses. They riveted the gaze. Life and death were often so closely intermingled they could not be told apart. It was the apotheosis of the frightful. Those who had escaped the hurricane and flood were searching for missing dear ones in such a listless way as to irresistibly convey the idea that they did not care whether they found them or not. It was the languor of hopelessness and despair. Some of those who had lost their all were even merry, but it was the glee of insanity. As Sunday morning dawned the streets were lined with people, half-clad, crippled in every conceivable manner, hobbling as best they could to where they could receive attention of physicians for themselves and summon aid for friends and relatives who could not move. Police Officer John Bowie, who had recently been awarded a prize as the most popular officer in the city, was in a pitiable condition; the toes on both of his feet were broken, two ribs caved in, and his head badly bruised, but his own condition, he said, was nothing. "My house, with wife and children, is in the gulf. I have not a thing on earth for which to live." The houses of all prominent citizens which escaped destruction were turned into hospitals, as were also the leading hotels. There was scarcely one of the houses left standing which did not contain one or more of the dead as well as many injured. The rain began to pour down in torrents and the party went back down Tremont street toward the city. The misery of the poor people, all mangled and hurt, pressing to the city for medical attention, was greatly augmented by this rain. Stopping at a small grocery store to avoid the rain, the party found it packed with injured. The provisions in the store had been ruined and there was nothing for the numerous customers who came hungry and tired. The place was a hospital, no longer a store. Further down the street a restaurant, which had been submerged by water, was serving out soggy crackers and cheese to the hungry crowd. That was all that was left. The food was soaked full of water, and the people who were fortunate enough to get those sandwiches were hungry and made no complaint. It was hard to determine what section of the city suffered the greatest damage and loss of life. Information from both the extreme eastern and extreme western portions of the city was difficult to obtain at that time. In fact, it was nearly impossible, but the reports received indicated that those two sections had suffered the same fate as the rest of the city and to a greater degree. Thus the relief party wended its way through streets which, but a few hours before, were teeming with life. Now they were the thoroughfares of death. It did not seem as if they could ever resound to the throb of quickened vitality again. It seemed as though it would take years to even remove the wreckage. As to rebuilding, it appeared as the work of ages. Annihilation was everywhere. GALVESTON PEOPLE REFUSED TO HEED THE WARNING--DISASTER WAS PREDICTED. As marked out on the charts of the United States Weather Bureau at Washington the storm which struck Galveston had a peculiar course. It was first definitely located south by east of San Domingo, and the last day of August the center of the disturbance was approximately at a point fixed at 14 degrees north latitude and 68 degrees west longitude. From there it made a course almost due northeast, passing through Kingston, Jamaica, and if it had continued on this same line it would have struck Galveston just the same, but somewhat earlier than it did. The storm apparently was headed for Galveston all the time, but on Tuesday of last week, when almost due south of Cienfuegos, Cuba, it changed its course so as to go almost due north, across the Island of Cuba, through the toe of the Florida peninsula, and up the coast to the vicinity of Tampa. Here the storm made another sharp turn to the westward and headed again almost straight for Galveston. It was this sharp turn to the westward which could not be anticipated, so the Weather Bureau sent out its hurricane signals both for the Atlantic and the gulf coast, well understanding that the prediction as to one of these coasts would certainly fail. As soon as the storm turned westward from below Tampa the Weather Bureau knew the Atlantic coast was safe, and turned its attention toward the gulf. The people of Galveston had abundant warning of the coming of the hurricane, but, of course, could not anticipate the destructive energy it would gain on the way across the Gulf of Mexico. The Weather Bureau was informed that the first sign of the disturbance was noticed on Aug. 30 near the Windward Islands. On Aug. 31 it still was in the same neighborhood. The storm did not develop any hurricane features during its slow passage through the Caribbean Sea and across Cuba, but was accompanied by tremendous rains. During the first twelve hours of Sept. 3, in Santiago, Cuba, 10.50 inches rain fell and 2.80 inches fell in the next twelve. On Sept. 4 the rainfall during twelve hours in Santiago was 4.44 inches, or a total fall in thirty-six hours of 17.20 inches. There were some high winds in Cuba the night of Sept. 4. By the morning of the 6th the storm center was a short distance northwest of Key West, Fla., and the high winds had commenced over Southern Florida, forty-eight miles an hour from the east being reported from Jupiter and forty miles from the northeast from Key West. During the 6th barometric conditions over the eastern portion of the United States so far changed as to prevent the movement of the storm along the Atlantic coast, and it, therefore, continued northwest over the Gulf of Mexico. On the morning of the 7th it apparently was central south of the Louisiana coast, about longitude 89, latitude 28. At this time storm signals were ordered up on the North Texas coast, and during the day were extended along the entire coast. On the morning of the 8th the storm was nearing the Texas coast and was apparently central at about latitude 28, longitude 94. Galveston's disastrous storm was predicted with startling accuracy by the weather prophet, Prof. Andrew Jackson DeVoe. In the "Ladies' Birthday Almanac," issued from Chattanooga, Tenn., in January, 1900, Prof. DeVoe forecasts the weather for the following month of September as follows: "This will be a hot dry month over the Northern States, but plenty of rain over the Atlantic coast States. First and second days hot and sultry. Third and fourth heavy storms over the extreme Northwestern States, causing thunderstorms over the Missouri Valley and showery, rainy weather over the whole country from 5th to 8th. "On the 9th a great cyclone will form over the Gulf of Mexico and move up the Atlantic coast, causing very heavy rains from Florida to Maine from 10th to 12th." CHAPTER III. Crowds of Refugees at Houston--Fed and Housed in Tents--Regular Soldiers Drowned--Government Property Lost--Fears for Galveston's Future. Houston was the great rendezvous for supplies sent to Galveston, and they poured in there by the carload, beginning with Tuesday. The response to the appeal for aid by the people of Galveston, on the part of the United States, and, in fact, every country in the world, was prompt and generous. That relief was an absolute necessity was made apparent from the appearance of the refugees who began to flock into Houston as soon as the boats began to run to Galveston after the catastrophe. In addition to these, thousands of strangers arrived also, and the Houston authorities were at a loss as to what to do with them. Some of these visitors were from points far distant, who had relatives in the storm-stricken district, and had come to learn the worst regarding them; others there were who had come to volunteer their services in the relief work, but the greatest number consisted of curious sight-seers, almost frantic in their efforts to get to the stricken city and feed their eyes on the sickening, repulsive and disease-breeding scenes. In addition there were hundreds of the sufferers themselves, who had been brought out of their misery to be cared for here. The question of caring for these crowds came up at a mass meeting of the Houston general relief committee held Monday. Every incoming train brought scores more of people, and immediate action was necessary. It was decided finally to pitch tents in Emancipation Park, and there as many of the strangers as possible were cared for. The hotels could not accommodate one-tenth of them. First attention, naturally, was given the survivors of the storm. Mayor Brashear sent word to Mayor Jones of Galveston that all persons, no matter who they were, rich or poor, ill or well, should be sent to Houston as soon as possible. They would be well provided for, he said. The urgency of his message for the depopulation of Galveston, he explained, was that until sanitation could be restored in the wrecked city everybody possible should be sent away. It was estimated that nearly 1,000 of the unfortunate survivors were sent to Houston on Tuesday from Galveston in response to Mayor Brashear's request. Every building in Houston at all habitable was opened to them, and all the seriously ill comfortably housed. The others were made as comfortable as possible, but it was not only food and clothing that was wanted; the only relief some of them sought could not be furnished. They were grieving for lost ones left behind--fathers, mothers, sisters, wives and children. Nearly everybody had some relative missing, but few of them were certain whether they were dead or alive. All, however, were satisfied that they were dead. Men, bareheaded and barefooted, with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes; women and children with tattered clothing and bruised arms and faces, and mere infants with bare feet bruised and swollen, were among the crowds seen on the streets of Houston. Women of wealth and refinement, with hatless heads and gowns of rich material torn into shreds, were among the refugees. At times a man and his wife, and sometimes with one or two children, could be seen together, but such sights were infrequent, for nearly all who went to Houston had suffered the loss of one or more of their loved ones. But with all this suffering there was a marvelous amount of heroism shown. A week before most of these people had happy homes and their families were around them. The Tuesday following the disaster they were homeless, penniless and with nothing to look forward to. Yet there was scarcely any whimpering or complaining. They walked about the streets as if in a trance; they accepted the assistance offered them with heartfelt thanks, and apparently were greatly relieved at being away from the scenes of sorrow and woe at home. They were all made to feel at home in Houston, that they were welcome and that everything in the power of the people of Houston would be done for their comfort and welfare, and yet they seemed not to understand half that was said to them. John J. Moody, a member of the committee sent from Houston to take charge of the relief station at Texas City, reported to the Mayor of Houston on Tuesday as follows: "To the Mayor--Sir: On arriving at Lamarque this morning I was informed that the largest number of bodies was along the coast of Texas City. Fifty-six were buried yesterday and to-day within less than two miles, extending opposite this place and toward Virginia City. It is yet six miles farther to Virginia City, and the bodies are thicker where we are now than where they have been buried. A citizen inspecting in the opposite direction reports dead bodies thick for twenty miles. "The residents of this place have lost all--not a habitable building left, and they have been too busy disposing of the dead to look after personal affairs. Those who have anything left are giving it to the others, and yet there is real suffering. I have given away nearly all the bread I brought for our own use to hungry children. "A number of helpless women and beggared children were landed here from Galveston this afternoon and no place to go and not a bite to eat. To-morrow others are expected from the same place. Every ten feet along the wreck-lined coast tells of acts of vandalism; not a trunk, valise or tool chest but what has been rifled. We buried a woman this afternoon whose finger bore the mark of a recently removed ring." The United States government furnished several thousand tents for the Houston camp, which was under the supervision of the United States Marine Hospital authorities. TWENTY-EIGHT REGULARS DROWNED. General McKibbin, who was sent to Galveston by the War Department to investigate the conditions prevailing there, made the following official report on Wednesday, September 12: "Houston, Texas, September 12, 1900.--Adjutant-General, Washington.--Arrived at Galveston at 6 p. m., having been ferried across bay in a yawl boat. It is impossible to adequately describe the condition existing. The storm began about 9 a. m. Saturday and continued with constantly increasing violence until after midnight. The island was inundated; the height of the tide was from eleven to thirteen feet. The wind was a cyclone. With few exceptions, every building in the city is injured. Hundreds are entirely destroyed. "All the fortifications except the rapid-fire battery at San Jacinto are practically destroyed. At San Jacinto every building except the quarantine station has been swept away. Battery O, First Artillery, United States Army, lost twenty-eight men. The officers and their families were all saved. Three members of the hospital corps lost. Names will be sent as soon as possible. Loss of life on the island is possibly more than 1,000. All bridges are gone, waterworks destroyed and all telegraph lines are down. "Colonel Roberts was in the city and made every effort to get telegrams through. City under control of committee of citizens and perfectly quiet. "Every article of equipment or property pertaining to Battery O was lost. Not a record of any kind is left. The men saved had nothing but the clothing on their persons. Nearly all are without shoes or clothing other than their shirts and trousers. Clothing necessary has been purchased and temporary arrangements made for food and shelter. There are probably 5,000 citizens homeless and absolutely destitute, who must be clothed, sheltered and fed. Have ordered 20,000 rations and tents for 1,000 people from Sam Houston. Have wired Commissary-General to ship 30,000 rations by express. Lieutenant Perry will make his way back to Houston and send this telegram. "McKIBBIN." CONDITION OF THE GOVERNMENT WORKS. Captain Charles S. Riche, U. S. A., corps of engineers, when seen after he had completed a tour of inspection of the government works around Galveston, made the following statement: "The jetties are sunk nearly to mean low tide level, but not seriously breached. The channel is as good as before, perhaps better, twenty-five feet certainly. "Fort Crockett, fifteen-pounder implacements, concrete all right, standing on filling; water underneath. Battery for eight mortars about like preceding, and mortars and carriages on hand unmounted and in good shape. Shore line at Fort Crockett has moved back about 600 feet. At Fort San Jacinto the battery for eight twelve-inch mortars is badly wrecked, and magazines reported fallen in. The mortars are reported safe. No piling was under this battery. Some of the sand parapet is left. The battery for two ten-inch guns badly wrecked. Both gun platforms are down and guns leaning. The battery for two 4.7-inch rapid-fire guns, concrete standing upon piling, both guns apparently all right. The battery for two fifteen-pounder guns, concrete apparently all right, standing on piling. "Fort Travis, Bolivar Point--Battery for three fifteen-pounder guns, concrete intact, standing on piling. East gun down. Western gun probably all right. The shore line has moved back about 1,000 feet on the line of the rear of these batteries." Under the engineers' corps are the fortifications, built at a considerable expense; also the harbor improvements, upon which more than $8,000,000 had been expended. FEARED THE CITY WAS BEYOND REPAIR. "I fear Galveston is destroyed beyond its ability to recover," is the manner in which Quartermaster Baxter concluded his report, made September 12, to the War Department at Washington. He recommended the continuance of his office only long enough to recover the office safes and close up accounts, and declared all government works were wrecked so restoration was impossible. This gloomy prophecy for the city's future was reflected in an official report to Governor Sayers, of Texas, by ex-State Treasurer Wortham, who spent a day at Galveston, investigating the situation. His statement claimed that 75 per cent of the city was demolished and gives little hope for rebuilding. Mr. Wortham, who acted as aid to Adjutant-General Scurry, Texas National Guard, during the inquiry, said in his report: "The situation at Galveston beggars description. I am convinced that the city is practically wrecked for all time to come. "Fully 75 per cent of the business of the town is irreparably wrecked, and the same per cent of damage is to be found in the residence district. Along the wharf front great ocean steamers have bodily bumped themselves on the big piers and lie there, great masses of iron and wood, that even fire cannot totally destroy. The great warehouses along the water front are smashed in on one side, unroofed and gutted throughout their length, their contents either piled in heaps on the wharves or along the streets. Small tugs and sailboats have jammed themselves half into the buildings, where they were landed by the incoming waves, and left by the receding waters. Houses are packed and jammed in great confusing masses in all of the streets. "Great piles of human bodies, dead animals, rotting vegetation, household furniture, and fragments of the houses themselves are piled in confused heaps right in the main streets of the city. Along the gulf front human bodies are floating around like cordwood. Intermingled with them are to be found the carcasses of horses, chickens, dogs, and rotting vegetable matter. Above all arises the foulest stench that ever emanated from any cesspool, absolutely sickening in its intensity and most dangerous to health in its effects. "Along the Strand adjacent to the gulf front, where are located all the big wholesale warehouses and stores, the situation is even worse. Great stores of fresh vegetation have been invaded by the incoming waters, and are now turned into garbage piles of most befouling odors. The gulf waters while on the land played at will with everything, smashing in doors of stores, depositing bodies of humans where they pleased, and then receded, leaving the wreckage to tell its own tale of how the work had been done. As a result, the great warehouses are tombs, wherein are to be found the dead bodies of human beings and carcasses, almost defying the efforts of relief parties. "In the pile of debris along the street, in the water, and scattered throughout the residence portion of the city, are to be found masses of wreckage, and in these great piles are to be found more human bodies and household furniture of every description. "Handsome pictures are seen lying alongside of the ice-cream freezers and resting beside the nude figure of some man or woman. These great masses of debris are not confined to any one particular section of the city. "The waters of the gulf and the winds spared no one who was exposed. Whirling houses around in its grasp, the wind piled their shattered frames high in confusing masses and dumped their contents on top. "Men and women were thrown around like so many logs of wood and left to rot in the withering sun. "I believe that with the best exertions of the men it will require weeks to secure some semblance of physical order in the city, and it is doubtful even then if all the debris will be disposed of. "I never saw such a wreck in my life. From the gulf front to the center of the island, from the ocean back, the storm wave left death and destruction in its wake. "There is hardly a family on the island whose household is not short a member or more, and in some instances entire families have been washed away or killed. Hundreds who escaped from the waves did so only to become victims of a worse death by being crushed by falling buildings. "Down in the business portion of the city the foundations of great buildings have given way, carrying towering structures to their ruin. These ruins, falling across the streets, formed barricades on which gathered all the floating debris and many human bodies. Many of these bodies were stripped of their clothing by the force of the water and the wind, and there was nothing to protect them from the scorching sun, the millions of flies, and the rapid invasion of decomposition that set in. "Many of the bodies have decayed so rapidly that they could not be handled for burial. "Some of the most conservative men on the island place the loss of human beings at not less than 7,500 and possibly 10,000, while others say it will not exceed 5,000." COAST CITIES NOT PROPERLY CONSTRUCTED. Chief Willis L. Moore, of the United States Weather Bureau at Washington, being asked his opinion of the idea of rebuilding Galveston on some other site, replied as follows: "Weather Bureau, U. S., Washington, D. C., September 13, 1900. "I should not advise the abandonment of the city of Galveston. It is true that tropical hurricanes sometimes move westward across the gulf and strike the Texas coast, but such movement is infrequent. Within the last thirty years no storm of like severity has touched any part of the coast of the United States. There are many points on both the Atlantic and gulf coasts, some of them occupied by cities the size of Galveston, that are equally exposed to the force of both wind and water, should a hurricane move in from the ocean or gulf and obtain the proper position relative to them. It would not be advisable to abandon these towns and cities merely because there is a remote probability that at some future time a hurricane may be the cause of great loss of life and property. "We have just passed through a summer that for sustained high temperature has no parallel within the last thirty years. Records of low temperature, torrential rains, and other meteorological phenomena that have stood for twenty and thirty years are not infrequently broken. There does not appear to be, so far as we know, any law governing the occurrence or recurrence of storms. The vortex of a hurricane is comparatively narrow, at most not more than twenty or thirty miles in width. It is only within the vortex that such a great calamity as has befallen Galveston can occur. "It would seem that, rather than abandon the city, means should be adopted at Galveston and other similarly exposed cities on the Atlantic and gulf coasts to erect buildings only on heavy stone foundations that should have solid interiors of masonry to a height of ten feet above mean sea level. Rigid building regulations should allow no other structures erected for habitations in the future in any city located at sea level and that is exposed to the direct sweep of the sea. "But Galveston should take heart, as the chances are that not once in a thousand years would she be so terribly stricken, and high, solid foundations would doubtless make her impregnable to loss of life by all future storms. "WILLIS L. MOORE, "Chief U. S. Weather Bureau." COURAGE OF GALVESTON'S BUSINESS MEN. The courage of Galveston's business men under the distressing conditions was shown by the utterances of Mr. Eustace Taylor, one of the best-known residents of that city, a cotton buyer known to the trade in all parts of the country. Mr. Taylor was asked on Thursday succeeding the flood for an opinion as to the future of Galveston. "I think," he said, "that what we have done here for the four days which have passed since the storm has been wonderful. It will take us two weeks before we can ascertain the actual commercial loss. But we are going to straighten out everything. We are going to stay here and work it out. We will have a temporary wharf within thirty days, and with that we can resume business and handle the traffic through Galveston. "I think that within thirty or forty days business will be carried on in no less volume than before. I am going to stand right up to Galveston. "If it costs me the last cent, I will stand up for Galveston. With our temporary wharf we shall put from 1,000 to 2,000 men at work loading vessels while we are waiting for the railroads to restore bridges and terminals on the island. We shall bring business by barges from Virginia Point and load in midstream. In this way we shall not only resume our commercial relations, but we shall be able to put the labor of the city at work. "This port holds the advantage over every other port of this country for accommodating 10,000,000 producers, and will accommodate millions of tons, and in inviting these millions, as we have, to continue their business through this port we must in our construction do it on the same lines employed by the communities of Boston, New York, Buffalo and Chicago, the stability of which was plainly illustrated in some structures recently erected in our community. "The port is all right. The ever-alert engineers in charge of the harbor here have already taken their soundings. The fullest depth of water remains. The jetties, with slight repair, are intact, and because of these conditions, which exist nowhere else for the territory and people it serves, the restoration will be more rapid than may be thought, and the flow of commerce will be as great, and for the courage and fortitude and foresight to look beyond the unhappy events of to-day, as prosperous and secure as in any part of our prosperous country." ELEVATORS AND GRAIN NOT BADLY DAMAGED. J. C. Stewart, a well-known grain elevator builder, arrived at Galveston on Thursday, in response to a telegram from General Manager M. E. Bailey, of the Galveston Wharf Company. He at once made an inspection of the grain elevators and their contents, and then said not 2 per cent of the elevators had been damaged. The spouts were intact, and elevator "A" would be ready to deliver grain to ships the following Sunday. The wheat in elevator "A" was loaded into vessels just as rapidly as they arrived at the elevator to take it. As soon as the elevator was emptied of its grain the wheat from elevator "Q" was transferred to it and loaded into ships. Very little of the wheat in elevator "B" had been injured, but the conveyors were swept away, and it was necessary to transfer the grain to elevator "A" in order to get it to the ships. Mr. Bailey put a large force of men to work clearing up each of the wharves, and the company was ready for new business all along the line within eight days. BURNING BODIES BY THE HUNDREDS. Pestilence could only be avoided here by cremation. That was the order of the day. Human corpses, dead animals and all debris were therefore to be submitted to the flames. On Thursday upwards of 400 bodies, mostly women and children, were cremated, and the work went rapidly on. They were gathered in heaps of twenty and forty bodies, saturated with kerosene and the torch applied. CONFLICT OF AUTHORITY BREEDS TROUBLE. A conflict of authority, due to a misunderstanding, precipitated a temporary disorganization of the policing of the city of Galveston on Thursday. When General Scurry, Adjutant-General of the Texas National Guard, arrived at Galveston on Tuesday night, with about 200 militia, from Houston, he at once conferred with the Chief of Police as to the plans for guarding property, protecting the lives of citizens and preserving law and order. An order was then issued by the Chief of Police to the effect that the soldiers should arrest all persons found carrying arms, unless they showed a written order, signed by the Chief of Police or Mayor of the city, giving them permission to go armed. Sheriff Thomas had, meantime, appointed and sworn in 150 special deputy sheriffs. These deputies were supplied with a ribboned badge of authority, but were not given any written or printed commission. Acting under the order issued by the Chief of Police, Major Hunt McCaleb, of Galveston, who was appointed as aide to General Scurry, issued an order to the militia to arrest all persons carrying arms without the proper authority. The result was that about fifty citizens wearing deputy sheriff badges were taken into custody by the soldiers and taken to police headquarters. The soldiers had no way of knowing by what authority the men were acting with these badges, and would listen to no excuses. General Scurry and Sheriff Thomas, hearing of the wholesale arrests, called at police headquarters and consulted with Acting Chief Amundsen. The latter referred General Scurry to Mayor Jones. Then General Scurry and Sheriff Thomas held a conference at the City Hall. These two officers soon arrived at an understanding, and an agreement was decided upon to the effect that all persons deputized as deputy sheriffs and all persons appointed as special officers should be permitted to carry arms and pass in and out of the guard lines. General Scurry suggested that the deputy sheriffs and special police--and the regular police, for that matter--guard the city during the daytime and that the militia take charge of the city at night. General Scurry was acting for and by authority granted by Mayor Jones, and promptly said he was there to work in harmony with the city and county authorities, and that there would be no conflict. When General Scurry and Sheriff Thomas called upon the Mayor, the Mayor said that he knew that if the Adjutant-General, the Chief of Police and the Sheriff would get together they could take care of the police work. It was known that people were coming to Galveston by the score; that many of them had no business there, and that the city had enough to do to watch the lawless element of Galveston, without being burdened with the care of outsiders. All deputy sheriffs wearing the badge issued by the Sheriff carried arms thereafter and made arrests, and were not interfered with in any way by the military guards. INADEQUATE TRANSPORTATION PREVENTS SUPPLIES FROM REACHING THE FAMINE-STRICKEN PEOPLE. On Thursday, September 13, train load after train load of provisions, clothing, disinfectants and medicines were lined up at Texas City, six miles from Galveston, all sent to the suffering survivors of the storm-swept city. Across the bay were thousands of people, friends of the dead and living, waiting for news of the missing ones and an opportunity to help, but only a meager amount of relief had at that time reached the stricken town. Two telegraph wires had been put up and partial communication restored to let the outside world know that conditions there were far more horrible than was at first supposed. That was about all. It was not that which was needed; it was a more practicable connection with the mainland. True, more boats had been pressed into service to carry succor to the suffering and the suffering to succor, but they were few and small, and although working diligently night and day the service was inadequate in the extreme. And the people were still suffering--the sick dying for want of medicine and care; the well growing desperate and in many cases gradually losing their reason. While there were many who could not be provided for because the necessary articles for them could not be carried in, there were hundreds who were being benefited. Those supplies which had arrived had been of great assistance, but they were far from ample to provide for even a small percentage of the sufferers, estimated at 30,000. Even the rich were hungry. An effort was being made on the part of the authorities to provide for those in the greatest need, but this was found to be difficult work, so many were there in sad condition. A rigid system of issuing supplies was established, and the regular soldiers and a number of citizens were sworn in as policemen. These attended to the issuing of rations as soon as the boats arrived. Every effort was put forth to reach the dying first, but all sorts of obstacles were encountered, because many of them were so badly maimed and wounded that they were unable to apply to the relief committees, and the latter were so burdened by the great number of direct applications that they were unable to send out messengers. The situation grew worse every minute; everything was needed for man and beast--disinfectants, prepared foods, hay, grain, and especially water and ice. Scores more of people died that day as a result of inattention and many more were on the verge of dissolution, for at best it was to be many days before a train could be run into the city, and the only hope was the arrival of more boats to transport the goods. The relief committee held a meeting and decided that armed men were needed to assist in burying the dead and clear the wreckage, and arrangements were made to fill this demand. There were plenty of volunteers for this work but an insufficiency of arms. The proposition of trying to pay for work was rejected by the committee, and it was decided to go ahead impressing men into service, issuing orders for rations only to those who worked or were unable to work. Word was received that refugees would be carried from the city to Houston free of charge. An effort was made to induce all who are able to leave to go, because the danger of pestilence was frightfully apparent. There was any number willing to depart, and each outgoing boat, after having unloaded its provisions, was filled with people. The safety of the living was a paramount consideration, and the action of the railroads in offering to carry refugees free of charge greatly relieved the situation. The workers had their hands full in any event, and the nurses and physicians also, for neglect, although unavoidable, often resulted in the death of many. It was estimated $2,500,000 would be needed for the relief work. The banks of Galveston subscribed $10,000, but personal losses of the citizens of Galveston had been so large that very few were able to subscribe anything. The confiscation of all foodstuffs held by wholesale grocers and others was decided upon early in the day by the relief committee. Starvation would inevitably ensue unless the supply was dealt out with great care. All kerosene oil was gone, and the gas works and electric lights were destroyed. The committee asked for a shipload of kerosene oil, a shipload of drinking water and tons of disinfectants, such as lime and formaldehyde, for immediate use, and money and food next. Not a tallow candle could be bought for gold, or light of any kind procured. No baker was making bread, and milk was remembered as a past luxury only. What was there to do with? Everything was gone in the way of ovens and utensils. It was absolutely necessary to let the outside world know the true state of things. The city was unable to help itself. In fact, a great part of the mighty, noble state of Texas was prostrate. Even the country at large was paralyzed at the sense of the magnitude of the disaster, and was for the time being powerless to do anything. The entire world was thrilled with alarm, it being instinctively felt that the worst had not yet been made known. Twenty-five thousand people had to be clothed and fed for many weeks, and many thousands supplied with household goods as well. Much money was required to make their residences even fit to live in. During the first few days after the disaster it was almost beyond possibility to make any estimate of the amount of money necessary to even temporarily relieve the sufferings of the unfortunate people. As a means of enlightenment, Major R. G. Lowe, business manager of the Galveston News, was asked to send out a statement to the Associated Press, for dissemination throughout the globe, and he accordingly dispatched the following to Colonel Charles S. Diehl, General Manager of the Associated Press at the headquarters in Chicago: "Galveston, Texas, Sept. 12.--Charles S. Diehl, General Manager the Associated Press, Chicago: A summary of the conditions prevailing at Galveston is more than human intellect can master. Briefly stated, the damage to property is anywhere between $15,000,000 and $20,000,000. The loss of life cannot be computed. No lists could be kept and all is simply guesswork. Those thrown out to sea and buried on the ground wherever found will reach the horrible total of at least 3,000 souls. "My estimate of the loss on the island of the City of Galveston and the immediate surrounding district is between 4,000 and 5,000 deaths. I do not make this statement in fright or excitement. The whole story will never be told, because it cannot be told. The necessities of those living are total. Not a single individual escaped property loss. The property on the island is wrecked; fully one-half totally swept out of existence. What our needs are can be computed by the world at large by the statement herewith submitted much better than I could possibly summarize them. The help must be immediate. "R. G. LOWE, "Manager Galveston News." Thursday evening at the Tremont Hotel, in Galveston, occurred a wedding that was not attended with music and flowers and a gathering of merrymaking friends and relatives. On the contrary, it was peculiarly sad. Mrs. Brice Roberts expected some day to marry Earnest Mayo; the storm which desolated so many homes deprived her of almost everything on earth--father, mother, sister and brother. She was left destitute. Her sweetheart, too, was a sufferer. He lost much of his possessions in Dickinson, but he stepped bravely forward and took his sweetheart to his home. Galveston began, September 14, to emerge from the valley of the shadow of death into which she had been plunged for nearly a week, and on that day, for the first time, actual progress was made toward clearing up the city. The bodies of those killed and drowned in the storm had for the most part been disposed of. A large number was found when the debris was removed from wrecked buildings, but on that date there were no corpses to be seen save those occasionally cast up by the sea. As far as sight, at least, was concerned, the city was cleared of its dead. They had been burned, thrown into the water, buried--anything to get them quickly out of sight. The chief danger of pestilence was due almost entirely to the large number of unburied cattle lying upon the island, whose decomposing carcasses polluted the air to an almost unbearable extent. This, however, was not in the city proper, but was a condition prevailing on the outskirts of Galveston. One great trouble heretofore had been the inability to organize gangs of laborers for the purpose of clearing the streets. THE SAD SITUATION FOUR DAYS AFTER THE CATASTROPHE. The situation in the stricken city on Wednesday, September 12, was horrible indeed. Men, women and children were dying for want of food and scores went insane from the terrible strain to which they had been subjected. In his appeal to the country for aid, issued on Tuesday, September 11, Mayor Walter J. Jones said fully 5,000 people had lost their lives during the hurricane, this estimate being based upon personal information. Captain Charles Clarke, a vessel-owner of Galveston, and a reliable man, said the death list would be even greater than that, and he was backed in his opinion by several other conservative men who had no desire to exaggerate the losses, but felt that they are justified in letting the country know the full extent of the disaster in order that the necessary relief might be supplied. It was the general opinion that to hide any of the facts would be criminal. Captain Clarke was not a sensationalist, but he well knew that the truth was what the people of the United States wanted at that time. If the people of the country at large felt they were being deceived in anything they would be apt to close their pocketbooks and refuse to give anything. If told the truth they would respond to the appeal for aid generously. When relief finally began to pour in it was remarkable how soon the women of the city plucked up courage, and went to work with the men. They had suffered frightfully, but they refused to give up hope. Many called upon the mayor and offered their services as nurses. Others prepared bandages for the wounded and aided the physicians in procuring medicines for the sick. They went among the men who were engaged in burying and otherwise disposing of the dead and cheered them with bright faces and soothing words. They were everywhere, and their presence was as rays of sunshine after the black clouds of the storm. A regular fleet of steamers and barges was plying between Galveston and Texas City, only six miles distant, and which had railway communication with all parts of the United States. As the railroad line to Texas City had been repaired, trains were sent in there as close together as possible, but this did not prevent many hundreds in Galveston from dying of starvation and lack of medical attendance. A CITY OFFICIAL'S VERSION OF THE REIGN OF TERROR A leading city official of Galveston gave the following version of the Reign of Terror, as the regime of the thugs and ghouls was called: "Galveston suffered in every conceivable way since the catastrophe of Saturday. Hurricane and flood came first; then famine, and then vandalism. Scores of reckless criminals flocked to the city by the first boats that landed there, and were unchecked in their work of robbery of the helpless dead Monday and Tuesday. "Wednesday, however, Captain Rafferty, commanding the regulars at the beach barracks, sent seventy men of an artillery company there to do guard duty in the streets, and, being ordered to promptly shoot all those found looting, carried out their instructions to the letter. "Over 100 ghouls were shot Wednesday afternoon and evening, and no mercy was shown vandals. If they were not killed at the first volley the troops--regulars of the United States army and those of the Texas National Guard--saw that the coup de grace was administered. "Most of the robbers were negroes, and when executed were found loaded with spoil--jewelry wrenched from the bodies of women, money and watches and silverware and other articles taken from residences and business houses. "Not only had these fiends robbed the dead, but they mutilated the bodies as well, in many instances fingers and ears of dead women being amputated in order to secure the jewelry. Some of the business organizations of the city also furnished guards to assist in patroling the streets, and fully 1,000 men are now on duty. Wednesday evening the regulars shot forty-nine ghouls after they had been tried by court-martial, having found them in possession of large quantities of plunder. The vandals begged for mercy, but none was shown them and they were speedily put out of the way. The bandits, as a rule, obtained transportation to the city by representing themselves as having been engaged to do relief work and to aid in burying the dead. Shortly after the first bunch of thieves was executed another party of twenty was shot. The outlaws were afterward put out of the way by twos and threes, it being their habit to travel in gangs and never alone. In every instance the pockets of these bandits were found filled with plunder. More than 2,000 bodies had been thrown into the sea up to Wednesday night, this having been decided upon by the authorities as the only way of preventing a visitation of pestilence, which, they felt, should not be added to the horrors the city had already experienced. Tuesday evening, shortly before darkness set in, three barges, containing 700 bodies, were sent out to sea, the corpses being thrown into the water after being heavily weighted to prevent the possibility of their afterwards coming to the surface. As there were few volunteers for this ghastly work, troops and police officers were sent out to impress men for the service, but while these unwilling laborers, after being filled with liquor, agreed to handle the bodies of white men, women and children, nothing could induce them to touch the negro dead. Finally city firemen came forward and attended to the disposal of the corpses of the colored victims. These were badly decomposed, and it was absolutely necessary to get them out of the way to prevent infection. No attempt had been made so far to gather up the dead at night because the gas and electric light plants were so badly damaged that they could furnish no illumination whatever. By Thursday night, however, some of the arc lights were ready for use. Since Wednesday morning no efforts at identification were made by the searchers after the dead, it being imperative that the bodies be disposed of as soon as possible. While the barges containing the bodies were on their way out to sea lists were made, but that was the only care taken in regard to the victims, many of whom were among the most prominent people of the city. Of the hundreds buried at Virginia Point and other places along the coast not 10 per cent were identified, the stakes at the heads of the hastily dug graves simply being marked, "White woman, aged 30," "White man, aged 45," or "Male" or "Female child." Ninety-six bodies were buried at Texas City, all but eight of which floated to that place from Galveston. Some were identified, but the great majority were not. State troops were stationed at Texas City and Virginia Point to prevent those who could not give a satisfactory account of themselves from boarding boats bound for Galveston. In burying the dead along the shore of the gulf no coffins were used, the supply being exhausted. There was no time to knock even an ordinary pine box together. Cases were known where people have buried their dead in their yards. As soon as possible the work of cremating the bodies of the dead began. Vast funeral pyres were erected and the corpses placed thereon, the incineration being under the supervision of the fire department. Matters had come to such a pass that even the casting of bodies into the sea was not only dangerous to those who handled them, but there was the utmost danger in carrying the decomposed, putrefying masses of human flesh through the streets to the barges on the beach. The cemeteries were not fit for burial purposes, and no attempt whatever was made to reach them until the ground was thoroughly dried out. Then the bodies of those buried in private grounds, yards and in the sands along the beach, not only on Galveston Island, but at Virginia Point and Texas City, were removed to the public places of interment, where suitable memorials were set up to mark their last resting places. It might have been deemed unfeeling and even brutal, but the fact was that the bodies of the unidentified victims received small consideration, being handled roughly by the workmen, and thrown into the temporary graves along the beach as though they were animals and not the remains of human beings. No prayers were uttered save in isolated instances, and the poor mangled bodies were consigned to the trench as hurriedly as possible. The burying parties had no time for sentiment, and so accustomed had the workers in the "dead gangs," as they were named, become to their grewsome task that they even laughed and joked when laying away the corpses. Special attention was given the wounded. Physicians were on duty all the time, some of them not having been to bed since Friday night longer than an hour at a time. Victims not badly hurt were put aside for those suffering and actually requiring the services of surgeons. There were thousands of them. There were few in Galveston who did not bear the marks of wounds of some sort. CHAPTER IV. Thrilling Experiences of People During the Great Storm--Eighty-five Persons Perish by Being Blown from a Train--Adventures of Survivors at Galveston. The experiences and adventures of those who were in the great and disastrous storm and escaped only after undergoing frightful anxiety, make interesting reading. Those who emerged in safety from the fearful vortex were unusually fortunate, when it is considered that possibly 8,000 persons in Galveston lost their lives and hundreds fell victims to the fury of the hurricane in the territory adjacent to the ill-fated city. Hon. John H. Poe, member of the Louisiana State Board of Education, and residing at Lake Charles, La., was present when eighty-five passengers on the Gulf & Interstate train which left Beaumont early Saturday morning from Bolivar Point lost their lives. Mr. Poe was one of the passengers on this train and fortunately, together with a few others, sought safety in the lighthouse at Bolivar Point and was saved. The train reached Bolivar about noon and all preparations were made to run the train on the ferryboat preparatory to crossing the bay. But the wind blew so swiftly that the ferry could not make a landing and the conductor of the train, after allowing it to stand on the tracks for a few minutes, started to back it back toward Beaumont. The wind increased so rapidly, coming in from the open sea, that soon the water had reached a level with the bottom of the seats within the cars. It was then that some of the passengers sought safety in the nearby lighthouse, but in spite of all efforts eighty-five passengers were blown away or drowned. The train was entirely wrecked. Some of the killed were from New Orleans, as the train made direct connections with the Southern Pacific train which left New Orleans Friday night. Those who were saved had to spend over fifty hours in the dismal lighthouse on almost no rations. The experience was one they will remember as one of the most terrible of their whole lives. COMMERCIAL TRAVELER'S EXPERIENCE IN GALVESTON. A graphic description of one man's experience was given by a commercial traveler--William Van Eaton. He reached Galveston Saturday morning. His narrative is especially interesting, because it shows with what suddenness the storm assumed a dangerous character. "There was high wind and rain," said he, "but so little was thought of it, however, that myself and some acquaintances started down to the beach. The water came up so rapidly that we turned and hurried toward the Tremont Hotel. Before we reached it we had to wade in water waist deep. "Within a few minutes," he went on to say, "women and children began to flock to the hotel for refuge. All were panic-stricken. I saw two women, one with a child, trying to get to the hotel. They were drowned not 300 yards from us." Mr. Van Eaton was one of the first to cross from Galveston to the mainland after the storm subsided. He paid $15 to a boatman to make the crossing. When he reached the point he found an engine and a caboose chained together, with the water several feet deep around them. While he waited in the caboose for the water to go down the bodies of two men and a boy floated against it, and the trainmen tied them to one end of the car. Mr. Van Eaton counted fourteen bodies that had drifted in from the bay, all showing that they had been dashed against wreckage. ONLY ONE OUT OF FIFTY PEOPLE SAVED. Patrick Joyce, a railroad man, who passed through the storm at Galveston in 1872, suffered such hardships in that city Saturday morning that he was convinced that the storm at that time was only a "mild little blow" in comparison. He was one of the refugees picked up at Lamarque. "It began raining in Galveston early Saturday morning," he said. "About 9 o'clock work was discontinued by the company, and I left for home. I got there about 11 o'clock and found about three feet of water in the yard. It began to get worse and worse, the water getting higher and the wind stronger, until it was almost as bad as the gulf itself with its raging torrents. Finally the house was taken off its foundation and demolished. "There were nine families in the house, which was a large two-story frame, and of the fifty people residing there myself and niece were the only ones who could get away. I managed to find a raft of driftwood or wreckage and got on it, going with the tide. I had not got far before I was struck with some wreckage and my niece knocked out of my arms. I could not save her, and had to see her drown. "I was carried on and on with the tide, sometimes on a raft, and again I was thrown from it by coming in contact with some pieces of timber, parts of houses, logs, cisterns and other things which were floating around in the gulf and bay. Many and many a knock I got on my head and body, until I was black and blue all over. The wind was blowing at a terrific rate of speed and the waves were away up. "I drifted and swam all night, not knowing where I was going or in what direction. About 3 o'clock in the morning I began to feel the hard ground, and then I knew I was on the mainland. I wandered around until I came to a house, and there a person gave me some clothes. I had lost most of mine soon after I started, and only wore a coat. "I was in the water about seven hours, and this sensation, together with the feeling of all these bruises I have on my head and body, is not a pleasant one. I managed to save my own life through the hardest kind of a struggle, but I thought more than once I was done for, and I lost all I had in this world--relatives who were dear to me, home and all." HEROISM OF A HOTEL-KEEPER IN SAVING LIVES. James Black, a well-known merchant at Morgan's Point, saved nine lives during the storm. The story of his heroism was told by W. S. Wall of Houston, Tex., who has a summer home at Morgan's Point. "My wife was taking supper at the Black Hotel," said Mr. Wall, "when Mr. Black rushed into the dining-room and called upon all to fly for their lives. The tidal wave was on them in an instant, and almost before they could leave the hotel to go to a higher point where the Vincent residence stood, some five or six blocks away, the rushing waters were all about them more than three feet deep. "Mr. Black, struggling against the elements, bore my wife in safety to the Vincent home, miraculously escaping being crushed by a heavy log which the rushing waters carried along the pathway of escape. Returning immediately to the hotel, Mr. Black in like manner brought safely to the Vincent home his aged father and mother, Mr. and Mrs. James Black, Sr. His next act of heroism was to rescue Mrs. Rushmore, her two daughters, two grandchildren and another woman whose name I cannot recall. The Vincent home withstood the storm, but the Black Hotel was wrecked. "Louis Braquet, manager of the Black Hotel, was engulfed in the waves and gave up his life in the successful rescue of his wife and a colored servant girl." SPENT A MOST THRILLING NIGHT. F. T. Woodward, who was a passenger on the first train to arrive at Dallas, Tex., from Houston, the Monday night succeeding the catastrophe, spent a thrilling Saturday night in the Grand Central station in the latter city. One hundred and fifty other persons shared his memorable experiences. "The depot, standing as it does isolated and alone," said Mr. Woodward, "was exposed to the full force of the hurricane, and the first strong gust at 8 o'clock was followed by a sound of shattering glass. Several of the windows of the general offices overhead had given away under the almost irresistible pressure. This was the beginning of seven hours of mortal dread. "The storm continued to rage with unabated fury and the roar of the wind was accompanied by the sound of crashing glass, as one after another of the many windows was torn from its fastenings and shattered against the brick walls of the building or upon the sidewalk below. Women clasped their children in their arms, as though they expected to be torn asunder the next moment. Men began to scan the pillars and partition walls supporting the floor above and to take up such positions as seemed to be most conducive to safety in the event the huge building was razed by the storm. "The crashing of glass was soon followed by a sound of ripping and tearing. Section after section of the tin roof was rolled up like sheets of parchment and hurled hundreds of feet away. To add to the terror and confusion, the electric lights suddenly went out and the building was left in darkness, except where the trainmen with their lanterns stood. "Then many moved toward the main entrance of the building, with the evident intention of seeking other quarters, but they were checked at the door by the blinding sheet of water which was being driven by the wind with mighty force, and which lay between them and any place of refuge. They appeared to hesitate between a choice of being drenched by water and possibly struck by a flying section of roof and of remaining in the depot until the end. "The question was soon settled. Even as they looked the roof of the Grand Central Hotel was torn off, many of its inmates rushing into the street. Almost simultaneously a wail went up from the people in the Lawlor Hotel as the big skylight on top was torn loose and fell crashing down the shaft, causing pandemonium. This seemed to satisfy those in the depot that no haven of safety could be found, and they determined to make the best of the situation. "Just then, above the roar of the wind, the crashing of glass and the flapping and pounding and tearing of tin, a new sound was heard. It was that of falling brick. Every one stood crouched, prepared to leap to either side as the occasion might require. Every one realized the gravity of the situation, but, there was no shrieking, no fainting. Every woman stood the ordeal with such fortitude as to lend courage to even the faintest-hearted man. Even the babies were mute and clung to their mothers' necks in breathless despair. "Nearer and nearer came that awful rumbling. A shower of brick and mortar fell in the rear of the women's waiting-room. Nothing remained of the tin-covered awning. Few if any doubted that the end had come and that in another moment all would be buried beneath the ruins. "Suddenly the sound ceased. The brick had fallen and the lower story of the building remained intact. It was soon learned that the entire wall stood unbroken and that the fall of brick and mortar was but the collapse of several large chimneys surmounting the top of the building. "As soon as this became known the effect upon the awe-stricken mass was electrical. Men lighted cigars, women cheered and laughed, and, though more chimneys fell, more glass was shivered and the loosened tin on the roof continued to pound furiously until nearly 3 o'clock in the morning, there was no more panic, and all felt that the building would withstand the fury of the storm. And it did." HOW HE GOT INTO AND OUT OF GALVESTON. A. V. Kellogg, civil engineer in the employ of the Houston and Texas Central Railroad, with headquarters at Houston, told an interesting story of how he got into and out of Galveston during and after the great storm, and of his observations in the stricken city. He went to Galveston Saturday morning, over the Galveston, Houston and Henderson Road, arriving a few hours after the storm began. "When we crossed the bridge over Galveston Bay, going into Galveston," said Mr. Kellogg, "the water had reached an elevation equal to the bottom caps of the pile bents, or two feet below the level of the track. After crossing the bridge and reaching a point some two miles beyond, we were stopped by reason of a washout of the track ahead, and were compelled to wait one hour for a relief train to come over the Galveston, Houston and Henderson track. During this period of one hour the water rose a foot and a half, running over the rails of the track. "The relief train signaled us to return half a mile to higher ground, where the passengers were transferred, the train crew leaving with the passengers and going on the relief train. The water had reached an elevation of eight or ten inches above the Galveston, Houston and Henderson track, and was flowing in a westward direction at a terrific speed. The train crew was compelled to wade ahead of the engine and dislodge driftwood from the track. "At 1:15 we arrived at the Santa Fe Union Depot. At that period of the day the wind was increasing and had then reached a velocity of about thirty-five miles an hour. "After arriving at Galveston I immediately went to the Tremont Hotel, where I remained the balance of the day and during the night. At 5:30 the water had begun to creep into the rotunda of the hotel, and by 8 o'clock it was twenty-six inches above the floor of the hotel, or about six and one-half feet above the street level. "The front windows of the hotel were blown out, the roof was torn off and the skylights over the rotunda fell crashing on the floor below. The refugees began to come into the hotel between 5:30 and 8 o'clock, until at least 800 or 1,000 persons had sought safety there. The floors were strewn with people all during the night. "Manager George Korst did everything in his power to help the sufferers from the effects of the storm and to give them shelter. When the wind was blowing from the northeast it was at a velocity of about forty-five miles an hour, but at 8 o'clock it had reached the climax, the speed then being fully 100 miles. The vibration of the hotel was not unlike that of a box car in motion. I tried to sleep that night, but there was so much noise and confusion from the crashing of buildings that I could not get any rest. "I arose early Sunday morning. The sights in the streets were simply appalling. The water on Tremont street had lowered some eight feet from the high-water mark, leaving the pavement clear for two blocks north and seven blocks south of the Tremont Hotel. The streets were full of debris, the wires were all down and the buildings were in a very much damaged condition. Every building in the business district was damaged to some extent, with but one or two exceptions, noticeably the Levy Building and Union Depot, both of which remain intact and went through the storm without a scratch. "The refugees came pouring into the heart of the city, many of them having but little clothing, and scores were almost naked. They were homeless and without food or drink, and many had lost their all and were really in destitute circumstances. "Mayor Jones issued a call for a mass meeting, which was held Sunday morning at 9 o'clock, and was attended by a large number of prominent citizens. Steps were taken to furnish provisions and relieve the suffering of the refugees and bury the dead. "A conservative estimate of the number of people killed or drowned is from 1,500 to 3,000. "Early in the morning it was learned that the water supply had been cut off from some unknown reason. I presume that it was caused by the English ship which was blown up against the bridges, cutting the pipes. At all events the city was without water, and something had to be done by the citizens of Houston to relieve the situation. People who had depended on cisterns, of course, had their resources swept away, and there were but few large reservoirs to be found in the business district. "The scene on the docks was a terrible one. The small working fleet and the larger schooners were washed up over the docks and railroad tracks in frightful confusion. The Mallory docks were demolished. The elevators were torn in shreds. Three ocean liners were anchored off the docks and seemed to be in good condition. The damage to the shipping interests is something immense, the Huntington improvements being entirely swept away. "I tried to get out of the town as quick as I could, and succeeded in securing passage on the first sloop which sailed, the Annie K., Captain Willoughby. We sailed from the Twenty-second slip at 11 o'clock, with seven people aboard. When we got outside of the harbor we found a terrible gale blowing and the sea running very high. Under three reefs and the peak down, we set our course for North Galveston. "As we passed Pelican Flats we could see the English steamer anchored off over toward where the railroad bridge should be, and came to the conclusion that she had evidently broken the water mains and cut the supply off from the city. Another ocean liner could be seen off the shore of Texas City, in what would seem to have been about two feet of water in a normal tide. "We passed within a few hundred yards of where the Half-Moon Lighthouse once stood, but could see no evidence of the lighthouse, it being completely washed away. "The waters of the bay were strewn with hundreds of carcasses of dead animals. We had a very hazardous passage, running against a five-mile tide, but managed to reach North Galveston at 1:35 o'clock. "At North Galveston we found that a tidal wave had crossed the peninsula, carrying destruction in its path. The factory building and the opera-house were completely blown down and other buildings destroyed. While there were no deaths reported at North Galveston, there were many hardships endured during the battle with the elements." NEWSPAPER MAN'S GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF THE FLOOD. "It was one of the most awful tragedies of modern times which has visited Galveston. The city is in ruins and the dead will number probably 1,000." So says Richard Spillane, a well-known Galveston newspaper man, the first of his profession to come from the stricken city after the hurricane, and who arrived at Houston, after a perilous trip. He continued: "I am just from the city, having been commissioned by the Mayor and Citizens' Committee to get in touch with the outside world and appeal for help. Houston was the nearest point at which working telegraph instruments could be found, the wires, as well as nearly all the buildings, between here and the Gulf of Mexico being wrecked. "When I left Galveston, shortly before noon yesterday, the people were organizing for the prompt burial of the dead, the distribution of food and all necessary work after a period of disaster. "The wreck of Galveston was brought about by a tempest so terrible that no words can adequately describe its intensity, and by a flood which turned the city into a raging sea. The Weather Bureau records show that the wind attained a velocity of eighty-four miles an hour, when the measuring instruments blew away, so it is impossible to tell what was the maximum. "The storm began at 2 o'clock Saturday morning. Previous to that a great storm had been raging in the gulf, and the tide was very high. The wind at first came from the north and was in direct opposition to the force from the gulf. While the storm in the gulf piled the water upon the beach side of the city, the north wind piled the water from the bay onto the bay part of the city. "About noon it became evident that the city was going to be visited with disaster. Hundreds of residences along the beach front were hurriedly abandoned, the families fleeing to dwellings in higher portions of the city. Every home was opened to the refugees, black or white. The winds were rising constantly, and it rained in torrents. The wind was so fierce that the rain cut like a knife. "By 5 o'clock the waters of the gulf and bay met, and by dark the entire city was submerged. The flooding of the electric light plant and the gas plants left the city in darkness. To go upon the streets was to court death. The wind was then at cyclonic velocity. Roofs, cisterns, portions of buildings, telegraph poles and walls were falling, and the noise of the wind and the crashing of the buildings were terrifying in the extreme. "The wind and waters rose steadily from dark until 1:45 o'clock Sunday morning. During all this time the people of Galveston were like rats in traps. The highest portion of the city was four to five feet under water, while in the great majority of cases the streets were submerged to a depth of ten feet. To leave a house was to drown. To remain was to court death in the wreckage. Such a night of agony has seldom been equaled. "Without apparent reason, the waters suddenly began to subside at 1:45 a. m. Within twenty minutes they had gone down two feet, and before daylight the streets were practically freed of the flood waters. In the meantime the wind had veered to the southeast. "Very few if any buildings escaped injury. There is hardly a habitable dry house in the city. When the people who had escaped death went out at daylight to view the work of the tempest and the floods they saw the most horrible sights imaginable. "In the three blocks from Avenue N to Avenue P, in Tremont street, I saw eight bodies. Four corpses were in one yard. The whole of the business front for three blocks in from the gulf was stripped of every vestige of habitation, the dwellings, the great bathing establishments, the Olympia and every structure having been either carried out to sea or its ruins piled in a pyramid far into the town, according to the vagaries of the tempest. "The first hurried glance over the city showed that the largest structures, supposed to be the most substantially built, suffered the greatest. The Orphans' Home, Twenty-first street and Avenue M, fell like a house of cards. How many dead children and refugees are in the ruins could not be ascertained. "Of the sick in St. Mary's Infirmary, together with the attendants, only eight are understood to have been saved. "The Old Woman's Home, on Rosenberg avenue, collapsed, and the Rosenberg Schoolhouse is a mass of wreckage. The Ball High School is but an empty shell, crushed and broken. Every church in the city, with possibly one or two exceptions, is in ruins. "At the forts nearly all the soldiers are reported dead, they having been in temporary quarters, which gave them no protection against the tempest or the flood. "The bay front from end to end is in ruins. Nothing but piling and the wreck of great warehouses remains. The elevators lost all their superworks and their stocks are damaged by water. "The life-saving station at Fort Point was carried away, the crew being swept across the bay fourteen miles to Texas City. I saw Captain Haines yesterday and he told me that his wife and one of his crew were drowned. "The shore at Texas City contains enough wreckage to rebuild a city. Eight persons who were swept across the bay during the storm were picked up there alive. Five corpses were also picked up. In addition to the living and the dead which the storm cast up at Texas City, caskets and coffins from one of the cemeteries at Galveston were fished out of the water there. "The cotton mills, the bagging factory, the gas works, the electric light works and nearly all the industrial establishments of the city are either wrecked or crippled. The flood left a slime about one inch deep over the whole city, and unless fast progress is made in burying corpses and carcasses of animals there is danger of pestilence. "Some of the stories of the escapes are miraculous. William Nisbett, a cotton man, was buried in the ruins of the Cotton Exchange saloon, and when dug out in the morning had no further injury than a few bruised fingers. "Dr. S. O. Young, secretary of the Cotton Exchange, was knocked senseless when his house collapsed, but was revived by the water and carried ten blocks by the hurricane. "A woman who had just given birth to a child was carried from her home to a house a block distant, the men who were carrying her having to hold her high above their heads, as the water was five feet deep when she was moved. "Many stories were current of houses falling and inmates escaping. Clarence N. Ousley, editor of the Galveston Evening Tribune, had his family and the families of two neighbors in his house when the lower half crumbled and the upper part slipped down into the water. Not one in the house was hurt. "Of the Lavine family, six out of seven are reported dead. Of the Burnett family only one is known to have been saved. The family of Stanley G. Spencer, who met death in the Cotton Exchange saloon, is reported to be dead. "The Mistrot House, in the west end, was turned into a hospital. All of the regular hospitals of the city were unavailable. "Of the new Southern Pacific works little remains but the piling. Half a million feet of lumber was carried away, and Engineer Boschke says, as far as the company is concerned, it might as well start over again. "Eight ocean steamers were torn from their moorings and stranded in the bay. The Kendall Castle was carried over the flats from the Thirty-third street wharf to Texas City and lies in the wreckage of the Inman pier. The Norwegian steamer Gyller is stranded between Texas City and Virginia Point. An ocean liner was swirled around through the West Bay, crashed through the bay bridges and is now lying in a few feet of water near the wreckage of the railroad bridges. The steamship Taunton was carried across Pelican Point and is stranded about ten miles up toward East Bay. The Mallory steamer Alamo was torn from her wharf and dashed upon Pelican flats and the bow of the British steamer Red Cross, which had previously been hurled there. The stern of the Alamo is stove in and the bow of the Red Cross is crushed. "Down the channel to the jetties two other ocean steamships lie grounded. Some schooners, barges and smaller craft are strewn bottom side up along the slips of the piers. The tug Louise of the Houston Direct Navigation Company is also a wreck. "It will take a week to tabulate the dead and the missing and to get anything near an approximate idea of the monetary loss. It is safe to assume that one-half of the property of the city is wiped out and that one-half of the residents have to face absolute poverty. "At Texas City three of the residents were drowned. One man stepped into a well by a mischance and his corpse was found there. Two other men ventured along the bay front during the height of the storm and were killed. There are but few buildings at Texas City that do not tell the story of the storm. The hotel is a complete ruin. "For ten miles inland from the shore it is a common sight to see small craft, such as steam launches, schooners and oyster sloops. The life boat of the life-saving station was carried half a mile inland, while a vessel that was anchored in Moses Bayou lies high and dry five miles up from Lamarque." WENT THROUGH THE STORM OF 1875. "The great storm which has just devastated Galveston reminds me of the terrible equinoctial storm that swept over that city in September, 1875," said Dr. Henry Stanhope Bunting of room 500, 57 Washington street, Chicago. "At that time I was a resident of Galveston, and my experience was similar to that of many others who escaped. The loss of life and property was great. "The situation of Galveston exposes the city to the waves whenever there is a severe windstorm. The island is thirty miles long and quite narrow. It is really only a great sand bar, rising four to five feet above the surface of the gulf. At their highest point the sand banks are not more than ten feet above the normal surface of the water. "The city is built at the northern end of the island at the entrance to Galveston Bay. The opening to the bay between the end of the island and the mainland gives the water a free sweep over the jetties when a heavy wind is blowing. In this way waves running several feet high pour immense volumes of water into the bay, causing its waters to rise many feet and flood the lowlands. In the rush of the waters back toward the gulf the narrow channel entrance to the bay is not a sufficient outlet and the flood sweeps into the city. "It is seldom that the equinoctial storms are so severe that the back flow of the water inundates the island. In very heavy storms, however, as in the latest hurricane, the great waves might sweep across the island from the gulf and add to the work of destruction in rushing back to the gulf from the bay. "The houses have no cellars. They are built on pillars of brick several feet above the ground. When the water is high it washes up to the first floor and sometimes drives the occupants of the building to the second story. "When the storm struck in 1875 we were at a house near the water's edge five miles down the island from Galveston. The waves lifted the house off its brick pillars and dropped it in the water and sand tilted at an angle of 45 degrees. With other families we took refuge at a house on much higher ground, but even there we were driven to the second story." AWFUL EXPERIENCES DURING THE FLOOD. FIFTY-TWO FAMILIES MEET DEATH IN ONE HUGE BUILDING--RESCUERS' LOVED ONES PERISH. John Davis, having apartments in a huge flat building, whose wife was killed, and for whose body he was searching in the debris of the structure, said there were fifty-two families there when the house collapsed, and he was the only survivor. Policemen Joseph Bird and John Rowan rescued about 100 people Saturday from the fury of the storm. They returned to the police station only when the high water floated the patrol wagon and threatened to drown their team. They had no idea that the waters of the gulf had invaded the western portion of the city where they lived until they returned to the police station. They started immediately for their homes, but their families had been swept away. Policeman Bird lost his wife and five children and Rowan his wife and three children. Many refugees were picked up at Hitchcock and taken to the Jacquard Hotel, where they were given every possible attention. Many of these refugees were suffering from injuries and had been in the water for some time. Most of these persons had floated in on drift and rafts, and one of the party came ashore on a piano. One hundred ammunition boxes from Camp Hawley were found near Hitchcock, and a pile-driver from Huntington wharf was driven inland to within a few hundred yards of the town. The prairie was covered with drift of all kinds, dead cattle, water craft of all sizes, buggies, wagons and such like. Searching parties found dozens of bodies in Hall's Bayou and buried them. SEES FAMILY SWEPT AWAY. One of the refugees who arrived at Houston on the first relief train from Texas City, just out of Galveston, and who had a sad experience in the hurricane, was S. W. Clinton, an engineer at the fertilizing plant at the Galveston stock yards. Mr. Clinton's family consisted of his wife and six children. When his house was washed away he managed to get two of his little boys safely to a raft, and with them he drifted helplessly about. His raft collided with wreckage of every description and was split in two and he was forced to witness the drowning of his sons, being unable to help them in any way. Mr. Clinton says parts of the city are seething masses of water. ESCAPED, BUT LOST HIS WIFE. Mr. Jennings, a slater, who resided at Thirty-eighth street and Avenue M 1/2, Galveston, got to the mainland in about the same manner as Clinton. After losing his wife, he set out, and by swimming and drifting around reached the mainland. William Smith, a boy about 18 years old, whose home is in West Texas, had a narrow escape. Young Smith was blown off the docks and came ashore in the driftwood. Despite the difficulty he experienced in keeping afloat he held out to the end and reached the shore safe and sound. A. L. Forbes, a United States postal clerk, whose car was attached to a train which passed through the territory not far from Galveston on Sunday, said that at Oyster Creek the train crew and passengers heard cries coming out of a mass of debris. Several persons answered the cries and found a negro woman fastened under a roof. They pulled her out and she informed her rescuers there were others under the roof. A further search resulted in the finding of nine dead bodies, all colored persons. When the train arrived at Angleton, the jail, all the churches and a number of houses had been blown down. A GENUINE HELL UPON EARTH. Joseph Johnson, a prominent citizen of Austin, Tex., who was among the list of missing, arrived at home Wednesday evening, direct from Galveston, and was received with joy by his family. Mr. Johnson went to Galveston on Friday, the day before the disaster, and was there during all the terrible storm and until Tuesday night, where he aided in the work of rescue and saw some sorrowing sights. He said many of the survivors got through the flood almost by miracle. He saw young men who were black-haired on Saturday come out of the ordeal with hair turned completely white on Sunday. "It would take 5,000 men one year," he says, "to clear the streets and town of Galveston, so complete is the ruin. The biggest liar in America could not do justice to the existing condition of affairs there. I was in the Tremont Hotel during the storm. The building was thronged with refugees; women were praying throughout the night, and above the roar of the wind could be heard crash of buildings and splash of the waves against the building. We expected the hotel to go down any minute. At daylight Sunday morning I and four others started out to view the ruins. We passed eight bodies within a block, and when we reached the beach, where the waters were still running high, we stayed some time, and while there about one body per minute passed us, floating with the tide. Homes that were formerly elegant are a mass of wreckage. "When I left the city the stench from decaying human bodies was simply terrible and almost unbearable. It is with difficulty that they can be handled at all, and the only ones who can now do the work are negroes. The sight is sickening. It is impossible to make any effort at identification, except to keep a record of the jewels and valuables taken from them. All pretense at holding inquests was abandoned yesterday. The bodies are piled on drays and hauled to the wharf, where they are lowered into the water. They are piled one on the other like so many animals, it being impossible to give them any attention. The bodies of poor and rich alike are treated in this manner. Hundreds of men and women who are seeking friends or relatives who are among the missing surround the places where the bodies are handled, and their cries of distress are almost unbearable. "There was not a living animal on the island so far as I could see. Thousands of head of cattle and horses were drowned and killed. No cats or dogs survived the storm and not a bird is to be seen. No one can make anything like a reliable estimate of the number of deaths. I had to walk for twelve miles from the place where I landed on the mainland before I got out of the wreckage. The water swept the coast for a distance of twenty miles inland, and dead bodies are to be seen all over this territory. I passed a large number on my walk to get a train. The stench in this storm-swept part of the mainland is awful. It is estimated that over 5,000 head of cattle were drowned by the gulf waters in that section." STRANGE DEATH OF A WEALTHY ENGLISHMAN. One of the most pathetic stories of suffering in Galveston was brought to light Friday morning when the Southern Pacific train arrived at New Orleans from Houston. Among the passengers were Mrs. Mary Quayle of Liverpool, England, and Mr. Jonathan Hale of Gloversville, N. Y. Mrs. Quayle came from New York to Galveston, arriving there on the Thursday before the storm, accompanied by her husband, Edward Quayle, a tabulater on the Liverpool Cotton Exchange. Mrs. Quayle and her husband took apartments in the Lucas Terrace, a fashionable place in the eastern end of Galveston Island. All day Saturday, the day of the storm, her husband was not feeling well and remained in his room most of the time, lying down on a couch. When the storm became very bad after 8 o'clock he arose and went to the window to look out in the darkness, hoping to see, by an occasional flash of lightning, whether or not there was danger of destruction, as was greatly feared. Suddenly there came an unusually violent fit of wind and the window out of which Mr. Quayle was peering was literally sucked out as if by a mighty air-pump, and he was taken along with it. Mrs. Quayle, so far as she was able to explain, instead of being drawn along in the direction of the storm, was thrown in the opposite direction against the door of her room. When she came to her senses she found she was not severely hurt, and began to call for her husband. There was no reply, and in her fright she fairly shrieked out his name. Mr. Hale, who occupied the adjoining room, came to her assistance and cared for her until dawn of Sunday morning. Then they went out together and searched the adjacent portion of the city for her missing husband. But not a trace of him was to be found. The search was kept up until Monday night, by which time all the wounded had been cared for in the best possible way and all the unburied dead had become putrid. Then Mr. Hale brought Mrs. Quayle via Houston to New Orleans and they immediately took the through Louisville & Nashville train for New York. Mr. Quayle had on his person some very valuable jewelry and quite a large sum of money at the time he disappeared. Luckily, however, Mrs. Quayle had enough money on her to pay her way back to England. She was completely overcome by fright and although having not yet reached the middle age, had all the appearance of being a frail, decrepit old woman, so terrible had been her recent and trying ordeal. She was compelled to remain in her berth while traveling. UNNERVED BY WHAT HE SAW. Michael B. Hancock, 3452 Dearborn street, Chicago, unnerved by the scenes of horror he witnessed among the ruins of Galveston on Tuesday, hastened to leave the stricken city, and arrived in Chicago Thursday afternoon. Sights of the dead bodies constantly before him, and, according to his statements, he had been practically without sleep since he first set foot on the island. Hancock, who is a Pullman car porter, had a run from Chicago to Austin, Tex., but when he reached the end of his trip Monday he heard of the disaster at Galveston and decided to go with a relief party leaving Austin that night. The relief train was able to proceed only as far as Houston, and from there the goods were transported to the coast and put aboard a small excursion steamer. Hancock was accompanied by his conductor, Frank Alphons. Although they were with the relief party, they were stopped several times by the pickets at the steamer landings. After much difficulty they gained a view of the city and the dead. While in the midst of their sightseeing they were accosted by United States soldiers and commanded to assist in the recovery and burning of the dead bodies. Feigning to acquiesce, they managed to draw away from the soldiers, and then made a run for the beach. A small boat carried them to the mainland, and they made a forced march of twelve miles before they were able to obtain a vehicle to take them to Houston. Reaching Houston late at night, they started at once for Austin and the north. Alphons stopped at St. Louis and Hancock came straight through. When seen at his residence Thursday night Hancock said: "The sights in the wrecked city of Galveston were the most horrible that I have ever witnessed. Dead bodies were everywhere. Part of the city had been blotted out. For a distance of two miles along the bay houses had been washed away and only the foundations left. The water had not yet entirely receded, and where business blocks and fine residences had once stood were simply holes marking the foundations. These were filled with floating debris and bodies of the drowned. "The sight was ghastly in the extreme, as the working parties would arrive at one of these holes and start to drag the bodies of the dead from the pools of dirty water. Every one was expected to work at recovering the dead, and the soldiers corralled Alphons and me and told us that we would have to assist in the work. At that time we were standing watching a party of five men working under a guard. They were lassoing the bodies and pulling them out on the higher places, and then piling them on boards preparatory to burning them. [Illustration: WRECK OF SHOE STORE, MARKET STREET, GALVESTON.] [Illustration: SOUTH SIDE POWER HOUSE, COMPLETE WRECK.] [Illustration: WHERE TWELVE MEN AND WOMEN WERE MIRACULOUSLY SAVED.] [Illustration: Y. M. C. A. BUILDING. SHOWING COMPLETE WRECK OF SURROUNDING BUILDINGS.] [Illustration: VIEW OF WRECKAGE ONE-HALF MILE FROM BEACH] [Illustration: APPEARANCE OF AVENUE K SCHOOL BUILDING.] [Illustration: THE WORK OF THE STORM IN GALVESTON.] [Illustration: REMOVAL OF THE BODIES OF STORM VICTIMS.] "Just as some of the regulars were guarding us a terrible outcry arose from the men engaged in the rescue work. Running quickly to the scene of trouble, we saw one of the workers was in the grasp of one of the soldiers. Another soldier was covering him with his rifle. The man, a Mexican, dressed in shabby clothes and wearing a drooping sombrero, was standing sullenly eying the crowd, with one hand in his pocket. His captor grasped his arm suddenly and dragged his hand from the pocket, and five mutilated fingers which he had hacked from corpses dropped to the ground. Each had one or more rings on it. "With the sight of these evidences of crime before then the workers seemed to go mad, and with cries of 'Lynch him!' 'Burn him!' made for the unfortunate wretch. Before that he had been standing stolid and unmoved, but the approaching danger shook his courage, and he sunk to the ground pleading for mercy. But there was no mercy for the monster, and the men were only prevented from killing him then and there by the interference of the soldiers. "'Leave him to us,' said the corporal in charge of the party as he ranged his men around the prisoner. 'We will attend to his case,' and with that he had the Mexican marched over and placed against a post not more than fifteen feet from the bodies he had mutilated. Selecting four soldiers as a firing party, he lined them up ten feet from the doomed man, and with the word 'Fire!' four bullets pierced the ghoul's body and he fell dead. Such was a measure of the speedy justice which is being meted out to vandals in Galveston. Besides this case, I heard of several more where the guilty men were given the benefit of a short court-martial, then sentenced to death and shot. "I told Alphons that I did not want any of that kind of work, and that I never could stand the notion of handling the bodies, and suggested that we escape. He agreed with me, and we gradually edged away from the soldiers and finally made a run and reached the beach. Here we hired a small boy to row us to the mainland, and from there we had to walk twelve miles before we could get a rig to take us back to Houston. "It will be a long time before I will want to return to Galveston, or before I can forget the terrible scenes witnessed there. Since I left there I have been seeing the dead bodies all day, lying stark and stiff, with looks of terror on their faces, as though they had realized that a sure death was before them, and at night I have dreamed of having to help handle them. I tell you such things wear on a man, and I will bless the time when I can forget that I was ever in Galveston. "The ruins show that the tidal wave must have struck the city broadside, as the buildings are washed away in almost a straight line back from the shore. The wave swept away buildings as far as twelve blocks inland for a space of nearly two miles. This ruined part comprised all the best part of the city. All the city buildings and the entire business portion of the city were swept away, and nothing remains to mark the spots where business blocks stood except half-submerged foundations filled with boards and dead bodies. "The inhabitants who were rendered homeless and were not able to leave the city are now living in tents furnished by the United States government. Several distributing stations had been established and forces of men were busy issuing food and clothing to the unfortunate people. There appeared to be no lack of provisions, but water is scarce and there is no ice. While we were there the heat was almost unendurable, and the stench from the bodies made the task of the relief party anything but pleasant. Water has to be hauled for several miles. The electric-light plant was destroyed and the city is without light, but the moon has shone brightly, and the work of finding the bodies has been carried on day and night. "Conservative estimates of the number drowned made by persons familiar with the city place the loss of life at 5,000. No one knows just how many were killed, and it will be difficult for an accurate statement to be ever made, as the authorities are making no attempt at identifying the dead, but are bending all their efforts toward getting the city cleaned up in order to prevent a pestilence. At first relatives of those killed were allowed to accompany the searching parties, but this was found to be too slow a method, and now the pickets are instructed to prevent any one not connected with relief parties from entering the city. "For the first two days the bodies were carried out to sea in steamers and dumped overboard, but now the officials are piling up the slain in heaps with boards and pieces of timber among them, and, after saturating the pile with oil, set fire to them. "It hardly seems probable that they will rebuild Galveston, at least not on its present location. The city stood but little above the sea level, and the soil is sandy, which accounts for the complete destruction of most of the buildings even to the foundations. "Many refugees came north with us, and all seemed to be in a hurry to leave the scene of desolation. They acted as though dazed, and many were unable to talk intelligently regarding their escape. All along the line we were besieged with questions regarding the safety of different people, but of course were unable to give our questioners any reliable information. "Smaller towns through Texas that were struck by the hurricane had buildings blown down and a few casualties resulting. However, Galveston was the only city to suffer from the tidal wave, and that accounts for the large loss of life. Most of the dead in Galveston were drowned, and but few were killed by falling timbers. In Houston several buildings were blown down and about ten persons killed." CHAPTER V. Relief Sent from All Parts of the World as Soon as the True Situation of Affairs was Made Known--Millions of Dollars Subscribed and Thousands of Carloads of Supplies Forwarded to the Desolated City. Mayor Jones, of Galveston, issued his appeal to the United States for help on the 11th inst., and the response was prompt and liberal. The Mayor was not afraid the people of the United States and the world would call him sensational, for no one was better qualified to judge of the situation than he. He had spent almost every hour after the flood in working for the good of the city and had accomplished wonders. He organized the citizens, giving of his own money, induced others--more unwilling than he--to open their hearts and pocketbooks, and, in fact, took no rest for days after the calamity. As he had been around the city several times before the appeal was issued, he knew the condition of things thoroughly. Therefore, the general public had confidence in what he said: The same day the General Relief Committee of Galveston issued the following: "Galveston, Tex., Sept. 11.--To the Public of America: "A conservative estimate of the loss of life is that it will reach 3,000; at least 5,000 families are shelterless and wholly destitute. The entire remainder of the population is suffering in greater or less degree. "Not a single church, school or charitable institution, of which Galveston had so many, is left intact. Not a building escaped damage and half the whole number were entirely obliterated. "There is immediate need for food, clothing and household goods of all kinds. If near by cities will open asylums for women and children the situation will be greatly relieved. "Coast cities should send us water as well as provisions, including kerosene oil, gasoline and candles. "W. C. JONES, "Mayor. "M. LASKER, "President Island City Savings Bank. "J. D. SKINNER, "President Cotton Exchange. "C. H. McMASTER, "For Chamber of Commerce. "R. G. LOWE, "Manager Galveston News. "CLARENCE OWSLEY, "Manager Galveston Tribune. "Members of the Galveston Local Relief Committee." The Secretary of the Treasury at Washington received a joint telegram from Postmaster Griffen and Special Deputy Collector Rosenthal, at Galveston. This described the destruction caused by the storm and said: "Thousands homeless and destitute. Five hundred sheltered in custom house, which is practically roofless. Old custom house roofless and windows blown out. Need tents and 30,000 rations. Citizens' relief committee doing all in their power, but stock of undamaged provisions exhausted. With all the people housed, need extra force six men to keep building in sanitary condition. Relief urgently requested." The Secretary sent the government revenue cutter Onondaga from Norfolk to Mobile, Ala., to carry supplies to Galveston. The day the appeal was made Acting Secretary of War Meiklejohn at Washington authorized the chartering of a special train from St. Louis to carry Quartermasters' and commissary supplies to the relief of the destitute at Galveston. Orders were also issued by the War Department for the immediate shipment to Galveston of 855 tents and 50,000 rations. These stores and supplies were divided between St. Louis and San Antonio. September 12 Governor Sayers issued the following statement: "Austin, Tex., Sept. 12.--Conditions at Galveston are fully as bad as reported. Communication, however, has been re-established between the island and the mainland, and hereafter transportation of supplies will be less difficult. "The work of clearing the city is progressing fairly well, and Adjutant-General Scurry, under direction of the mayor, is patrolling the city for the purpose of preventing depredations. "The most conservative estimate as to the number of deaths places them at 2,000. "Contributions from citizens of this state, and also from other states, are coming in rapidly and liberally, and it is confidently expected that within the next ten days the work of restoration by the people of Galveston will have begun in good earnest and with energy and success. "Of course, the destruction of property has been very great, not less than $10,000,000, but it is hoped and believed that even this great loss will be overcome through the energy and self-reliance of the people. "JOSEPH D. SAYERS, Governor." On the same day the Galveston General Relief Committee sent out this statement of the condition of affairs: "We are receiving numerous telegrams of condolence and offers of assistance. Near-by cities are supplying and will supply sufficient food, clothing, etc., for immediate needs. Cities farther away can serve us best by sending money. Checks should be made payable to John Sealy, Chairman of the Finance Committee. All supplies should come to W. A. McVitie, Chairman Relief Committee. "We have 25,000 people to clothe and feed for many weeks and to furnish with household goods. Most of these are homeless, and the others will require money to make their wrecked residences habitable. From this the world may understand how much money we will need. This committee will from time to time report our needs with more particularity. We refer to dispatch of this date of Major R. G. Lowe, which the committee fully endorses. All communicants will please accept this answer in lieu of direct response and be assured of the heartfelt gratitude of the entire population. "W. C. JONES, Mayor. "M. LASKER, "J. D. SKINNER, "C. H. McMASTER, "R. G. LOWE, "CLARENCE OWSLEY." Colonel Amos. S. Kimball, Assistant Quartermaster General, stationed at New York, was informed by army contractors on Tuesday, the day the appeal was sent out, that Miss Helen Gould had purchased 50,000 army rations for the Galveston sufferers. The rations were started from the Pennsylvania railroad station in Jersey City at 3 p. m. the same day. Miss Gould went directly to the contractors who supply the army with provisions and ordered rations identical with those furnished for soldiers, consisting of bacon, canned meats, beans, hard bread, and coffee. Chicago sent $25,000 to the Governor of Texas; Andrew Carnegie gave $20,000 in cash; Sir Thomas Lipton cabled from London to his manager at New York to send $1,000 at once, which was done; Davenport, Ia., sent $1,600 immediately; Philadelphia wired Governor Sayers $5,000 without delay; the American Steel Hoop Company, American Tin Plate Company and American Sheet Steel Company gave $10,000 each, and the Southern Pacific Railway Company, $5,000; Chicago started a trainload of supplies southward, as also did the State of California; the railroads hauling the cars free of charge; several newspapers in Chicago, New York and Kansas City either gave money or started relief trains with doctors, nurses and medical supplies, with orders to beat the best record time to Galveston; Cincinnati began with $1,000 and subscribed that amount daily for many days; Cleveland, O., telegraphed $2,500, and then made it $15,000; 30,000 rations and 900 United States army tents were sent from St. Louis from the office of the United States Quartermaster; the mayor of Colorado Springs, Colo., was told by the citizens to send $2,000 at once and he did so; nearly all the theatres of the United States gave benefits; the State of Kansas, having $500 left in its Indian Famine Relief Fund, sent that; people of the State of Texas sent $15,000 to the Governor at Austin; Houston, Tex., raised $2,000 in cash; the Governors of nearly all the States issued proclamations calling upon their people to subscribe to the relief fund, the mayors of most of the cities doing the same--the consequence being that Governor Sayers had about $250,000 in hand in cash that very (Tuesday) night, with several hundreds of thousands more in sight and within call. By Thursday he had $900,000 in hand and on Saturday had $1,500,000, in addition to which were several thousand cars loaded with supplies of all sorts--provisions, medicines, disinfectants, fruits, clothing, wines for the sick, tents, bandages, stoves, oil--everything that could possibly be needed. It was estimated that fully $2,500,000 would be necessary to carry the sufferers through the fall and winter and into the following spring, for thousands of them were ill and unable to provide in any way for themselves. There were fully 50,000 men, women and children in Galveston and Central and Southern Texas who were dependent upon charity. On Friday night Governor Sayers decided upon two important plans of action. The first was that he would allow all food and clothing shipped from the east and west to be concentrated in Galveston for the use of that city and that he would also grant that city the use of 30,000 laborers for a period of thirty days, the same to be paid $1.50 per man per day for that time out of the relief fund. In addition thereto all requests for money from the Galveston Relief Committee were to be granted. His second decision was that he personally would look after the needs of the 30,000 destitute along the gulf coast on the mainland, provide them with flour and bacon and keep them going until they get on their feet again. Chairman Sealy of the Galveston committee was to keep track of the Galveston situation while the Governor looked out for the outside points. That night a local committee from Galveston was sent to Houston and Virginia Point to take charge of the receiving and distribution of supplies that arrived there for the Galveston people. A serious matter confronting the authorities not only at the coast points, but in the cities near Galveston, was the rapid gathering of toughs, gamblers and rough characters generally, which after the flood were forced to leave Galveston island as they would not work. Others drifted into the mainland opposite Galveston and on to the neighboring towns by the hundreds in the hope of pickpocketing and the like among the crowds. All this gathering of disorderly characters made the peace officers rather uneasy as to the future. The police and troops in Galveston and the special officers on the mainland were constantly on the alert to keep down trouble and prevent all possible thieving and they did not get the upper hand of this element until they had shot a score or more. These fellows would steal the provisions and supplies sent by the generous people from the outside, and whenever caught were shot without delay. The following was sent out from Galveston on Saturday, Sept. 15, which showed how serious the situation was: "Galveston, Texas, Sept. 14.--Hon. Joseph D. Sayers, Governor: After the fullest possible investigation here we feel justified in saying to you and through you to the American people that no such disaster has ever overtaken any community or section in the history of our country. The loss of life is appalling and can never be accurately determined. It is estimated at 5,000 to 8,000 people. "There is not a home in Galveston that has not been injured, while thousands have been destroyed. The property loss represents accumulations of sixty years and more millions than can be safely stated. Under these conditions, with ten thousand people homeless and destitute, with the entire population under a stress and strain difficult to realize, we appeal directly in the hour of our great emergency to the sympathy and aid of mankind. "WALTER JONES, "Mayor. "R. B. HAWLEY, Congressman. "McKIBBIN, "Commander Department of Texas." General McKibbin, when he looked over the city three days before, had wired the War Department at Washington that perhaps 1,000 people had perished. He was a conservative man, as army officers usually are, and when he signed a statement saying probably 8,000 persons had lost their lives his signature carried weight with it. Not only did the people of the United States sympathize deeply with the Texas sufferers, but those of other nations as well. President Loubet, of France, sent the following kind message to President McKinley at Washington: "Rambouillet Presidence, Sept. 12.--To His Excellency, the President of the United States of America: "The news of the disaster which has just devastated the State of Texas has deeply moved me. The sentiments of traditional friendship which unite the two republics can leave no doubt in your mind concerning the very sincere share that the President, the government of the republic, and the whole nation take in the calamity that has proved such a cruel ordeal for so many families in the United States. "It is natural that France should participate in the sadness, as well as in the joy, of the American people. I take it to heart to tender to your excellency our most heartfelt condolences, and to send to the families of the victims the expression of our afflicted sympathy. "EMILE LOUBET." President McKinley sent this answer the next day: "Executive Mansion, Washington, D. C., Sept. 13.--His Excellency, Emile Loubet, President of the French Republic, Rambouillet, France: "I hasten to express, in the name of the thousands who have suffered by the disaster in Texas, as well as in behalf of the whole American people, heartfelt thanks for your touching message of sympathy and condolence. "WILLIAM McKINLEY." SCHOOL CHILDREN GAVE THEIR PENNIES. Even the school children of the country helped the sufferers with their pennies. Miss Ethel Donelson, a pupil at the Grant School, Chicago, wrote a letter to a Chicago daily paper suggesting that the school children give some of their pennies to the victims of the great hurricane. The idea was carried out and several thousand dollars was raised in this way in Chicago. The plan was adopted also in several other cities. When the suggestion was first made United States Postoffice Inspector Walter S. Mayor wrote as follows: "I was reared in Galveston; lived there from my infancy until appointed to the government service nineteen years ago, and my mother and brother still live there. "When Chicago had its great fire in 1871 the people of Galveston sent a generous subscription, and with it was one made up by the boys of the school I attended. Our teacher, E. E. Crawford, gave us a holiday for the purpose, and the fifty-odd boys organized themselves into a number of soliciting committees. I was on the committee with Charles Fowler, now one of Galveston's leading business men, and we two succeeded in collecting $8. In all, for our day's work we got together $200, which was turned into the general fund raised by the Citizens' Committee. "In the twenty-nine years that have followed since then Chicago has pulled itself out of the ashes and risen to a high place among the world cities. Many forces have been brought to bear to accomplish this great end, but possibly the most potent one was the helping hand of the neighbor when help was needed. Among those who helped with their little mite may the school children of Galveston now be remembered. "I most heartily second Miss Donelson's suggestion that the school children of Chicago be given an opportunity to aid their little brothers and sisters in Galveston, many of whom are naked and orphaned by the terrible disaster that has come to them. "WALTER S. MAYER, "Postoffice Inspector." On Thursday, Sept. 13, American residents and visitors in Paris, France, together with Frenchmen whose sympathies were aroused by the storm disaster in Texas, contributed 50,000 francs in twenty minutes for the relief of the sufferers. The Americans held a meeting in the Chamber of Commerce, which was largely attended. United States Ambassador Porter was a leader among those who proposed to organize for the work of aiding in the relief. The Americans perfected an organization and elected General Porter President, George Munroe, the banker, Treasurer, and Francis Kimball Secretary. The subscription list was then opened and the 50,000 francs raised. The Mayor of Galveston was informed by cable of the result. The same day P. P. W. Houston, Member of Parliament for the West Toxteth division of Liverpool, England, and head of the Houston Line of steamers, cabled £1,000 to Galveston for the relief of the sufferers. Members of the American colony in Berlin, Germany, held a meeting Sunday, September 16, at the United States Embassy and raised $5,000. Americans in London subscribed $10,000 and many London theatres gave benefits. The Marquis of Salisbury, Premier of England, the Emperor William of Germany, the Emperor of Austria, the King of Italy, the Czar of Russia--in fact, nearly all the heads of state in the world cabled condolences, and the legislative bodies of foreign nations then in session passed resolutions of sympathy. By Saturday New York had raised $174,000; Chicago, $91,000, together with many carloads of supplies which were sent as special trains, and the following cities had contributed the amounts named: St. Louis $61,300 Boston 32,140 Philadelphia 29,358 New Orleans 26,000 Cincinnati 7,314 Cleveland 9,358 Colorado Springs 7,100 Minneapolis 13,430 Denver 12,180 Pittsburg 26,123 Kansas City 15,321 Portland, Oregon 1,000 Peoria, Ill. 1,800 Memphis 8,426 San Francisco 16,000 Louisville 12,585 Baltimore 12,138 Milwaukee 13,431 Springfield, Ill. 2,314 St. Paul 6,904 Topeka, Kan. 5,110 Charleston, S. C. 6,008 Los Angeles 5,400 Detroit 4,936 Indianapolis 3,800 Helena, Mont. 3,400 Johnstown, Pa. 3,000 As stated before, the total for the four and a half days ensuing from the time the appeal was issued--$1,500,000 was contributed, while an additional $1,000,000 was not long in following. Both Chicago and New York increased their subscriptions largely. In no case did the railroads charge for carrying the cars over their lines. THEIR PENALTIES WERE REMITTED. Navigation and other laws were set at naught by the United States authorities in order to help the Galveston and other flood sufferers. On Friday, September 14, the following telegram was referred to General Spaulding by President McKinley: "Galveston, Tex., Sept. 12, 1900.--To President of the United States: In consequence of calamity and fear of sickness numerous people wish to leave the city. All our rail communication is cut off. The revenue cutter of this district is disabled and no American steamer immediately available. We therefore respectfully request you to instruct the proper authorities to allow British steamers Caledonia and Whitehall and any other foreign vessels now here, but compelled to proceed to New Orleans for cargo, to carry passengers from Galveston to New Orleans. "W. C. JONES, Mayor, "CLARENCE OUSLEY, "J. D. SKINNER, "C. H. McMASTER, "R. G. LOWE, "Committee." General Spaulding at once sent the following telegram: "W. C. Jones, Mayor, Galveston, Tex.: Replying to your telegram of the 12th inst. addressed to President: If British steamships Caledonia, Whitehall, or other foreign vessels now in your port carry passengers in distress from Galveston to New Orleans or other American ports during present conditions this department will consider favorably applications for remission of penalties which may be incurred under the law. Advise masters. "O. L. SPAULDING, Acting Secretary." On Friday night Governor Sayers stated that the work of relieving the flood sufferers was making excellent progress. He said: "Most generous contributions are coming in from all parts of the country sufficiently large to relieve the immediate wants as to food and clothing, and in the meantime the people of Galveston are recovering themselves, and I have no hesitancy in expressing the firm conviction that a strong reaction from an almost mortal blow to the city has already set in, and that in a short while the city will be in a condition to resume its normal and progressive position in commercial life. After a full conference to-day with an authorized committee from Galveston, I am more than convinced that the people there will be able, with the assistance already given, to handle the situation successfully." HOW GALVESTON'S BUSINESS MEN WERE HELPED ALONG. As a rule there is no sentiment in business, but the retail merchants of Galveston whose business and fortunes were swept away were not forgotten in the hour of need by the wholesale houses of Chicago, which announced just after the disaster that stocks of goods would be shipped promptly and willingly, any time and terms being accorded to the business of the gulf city. The regular way of determining credits was ignored, as was the credit man also. His cold judgment was not asked for, but instead sympathy and compassion for the unfortunate position of the merchants of the stricken city determined largely the stand the wholesalers announced they would take. In doing this the houses of Chicago had the precedent established by the outside world in its treatment of them in the days following the great Chicago fire. Chicago men said they will do as they were done by, and the Galveston merchant had but to ask for the help he needed. Many Chicago houses wrote their Galveston customers at once advising them that they could have credit, time, and terms to suit themselves. This favor was also given to all business men who had lost all but names and prestige, whether they had been customers or not. Firms that never had had any business with Galveston or Texas firms stated that they stood ready to ship goods on the same terms. No business man in the damaged district, they said, whose misfortunes were due to the catastrophe could come to Chicago for supplies and go away without them even if he had not a dollar's worth of assets in the world, as long as he could show a former good business standing and repute. "We will take any and all risks," said one after another of the representatives of Chicago wholesale houses. "In the present emergency credits cannot be measured by the regular business standards. Humanity must dictate the terms on which the merchants of Galveston who have bought from us, or who may want to buy from us, are to have goods and supplies." Firm after firm of the wholesale district, whether or not they now have trade in the afflicted territory, made the same statement. "We already have written to 200 former customers who are scattered along the coast, asking them how they came out of the disaster and offering them any terms of settlement their losses may warrant," said the credit man of one of the largest houses in the West, on the Friday following the flood. "We will view the facts in their cases not from a business but from a sympathetic standpoint." "We are making our former customers time, terms and credits of their own asking," said the Vice-President of a great wholesale dry goods house. "We will make the same terms to new customers who have been good business men." "We have advised former customers that their orders will be filled promptly for complete stocks," said the manager of a music and musical instrument house. "We have told them to make their own time and terms. We charge no interest." "We are looking at the men of Galveston and not at their present assets," said the managing partner of a wholesale clothing house having a large Texas trade. "We have sent word to fifty of our customers in Galveston to draw on us for new stocks without asking them if they have saved a penny from the catastrophe," said the President of one of the largest cigar and tobacco concerns in the city. "The conditions are so distressing as to shame a Chicagoan asking what any Galveston business man has to-day," said the manager of a grocery house. "We have never reached into Texas after trade, but shall do so immediately. Any business man wanting our goods can have them on his own terms." "Our customers in Galveston can send in their orders for new stocks and have them filled as quickly as if they forwarded double prices," said a furnishing goods wholesaler. "We are not asking them what their assets are." CHAPTER VI. Cremating Bodies by the Hundred in the Streets of Galveston--Negroes Faint While Handling the Decomposed Corpses--How Some of Those Rescued Escaped with Their Lives. Fully 1,500 bodies were cremated at Galveston after it became apparent that the time necessary to bury them or cast them into the sea could not be taken, owing to their advanced state of decomposition. Many of the negroes who handled the bodies fell from fright and nausea. White volunteers took their places and the work went on. The volunteers bandaged their mouths and noses with cotton cloths saturated with disinfectants and were relieved by other volunteers every hour. Fires could not be started every place where bodies were found. The usual plan was to collect all bodies within two blocks in one spot and then build the funeral pyre. On the remains of many women were valuable rings and jewelry, but the men did not attempt to remove the jewelry. It was burned with the owners. Officers Mass and Woodward reported that their two gangs burned 100 bodies, the majority women and children. The percentage of deaths among children was frightful. Sheriff Thomas and his negroes burned forty bodies on the beach near Tremont street. Catholic priests in charge of gangs reported 120 bodies burned. The sanitary experts pushed the work of burning the dead. No other disposition was considered. People who had lost relatives and friends made no objection and looked on the plan with favor. Disinfectants were used as never before in the world. The smell of the charnel house was driven away and the whole city was filled with the fumes of carbolic acid and lime in solution. This is general order No. 9, issued by Brigadier General Thomas Scurry, commanding the city forces: "Guards, foreman of gangs, and working parties or others acting under the authorities of this department will use diligence toward preventing any hardships on private individuals or impressing men for service. The conditions, however, are so critical, and it is so necessary that sanitary precautions be taken to preserve the lives and health of the people of this stricken city, that individual interests must give way to the general good of all. If it is found feasible to secure volunteers, general impressment will be avoided, but, the medical fraternity being a unit in the opinion that further delay or procrastination will bring pestilence to finish the dire work of the hurricane, the interests of no individual, firm, or corporation will for one instant be spared to secure volunteers for work, but, failing this, every able-bodied man is to be put to work to clear the wreckage, burn the hundreds of bodies under it, and save, if possible, the lives of those who yet remain. I trust this position may be thoroughly appreciated and understood, so that all people will govern themselves accordingly." BOY FLOATS MILES ON A TRUNK. The miracles of Galveston were many. Some of them will not be received with full credit by readers. In the infirmary at Houston was a boy whose name is Rutter. He was found on Monday morning lying behind a trunk on the land near the town of Hitchcock, which is twenty miles to the northward of Galveston. The boy was only 12 years old. His story was that his father, mother, and two children remained in the house. There was a crash. The house went to pieces. The boy said he caught hold of a trunk when he found himself in the water and floated off with it. He was sure the others were drowned. He had no idea of where it took him, but when daylight came he was across the bay and out upon the still partially submerged mainland. ESCAPED IN BATHING SUITS. The wife of Manager Bergman of the Houston Opera House saw more of the storm than fell to the lot of most women who live to tell of it. She had been spending the heated term at a Rosenberg avenue cottage only a short distance from the beach. On Saturday morning the water had risen there three feet. Putting on a bathing suit, Mrs. Bergman went to the Olympia to talk over the long distance telephone with her husband in Houston. This was about 10 a. m. At the Olympia she had to wade waist deep in the water. At 2 o'clock Mrs. Bergman became alarmed, and with her sister she left the summer cottage and started toward the more thickly settled part of the city. Neighbors laughed at the fear of the women. Out of a family of fifteen in the next house only three were saved. Mrs. Bergman and her sister waded and swam alternately several blocks until they reached the higher streets. Then they hired a negro with a dray and told him to take them to the telephone exchange. Within two blocks from where the start was made in this way the mule got into deep water and was drowned. The women reached the telephone building, but when the firemen began to bring in the dead bodies they left and went to Balton's livery stable. This was only 600 yards away, but Mrs. Bergman says it was the hardest part of the trip, with the air full of flying bits of glass, slate, and wood. In the stable they remained until morning. When the sun had risen the water had so far receded that they went out to the site of their cottage. A hitching post was all that served to locate the place. No houses were left standing for many blocks around. A dead baby lay in the yard. The two women returned down-town. Passing a store with plate glass windows and doors blown out, they went in and helped themselves to the black cloth from which they made the gowns they still wore when they reached Houston three days later. During the storm they wore their bathing suits. STRANGE INCIDENTS OF THE FLOOD. Many instances of devotion of husband to wife, of wife to husband, of child to parent and parent to child could be mentioned. One poor woman with her child and her father was cast out into the raging waters. They were separated. Both were in drift and both believed they went out in the gulf and returned. The mother was finally cast upon the drift and there she was pounded by the waves and debris until she was pulled into a house against which the drift had lodged, and during all that frightful ride she held to her eight months' old boy and when she was on the drift pile she lay upon the infant and covered it with her body that it might escape the blows of the planks. She came out of the ordeal cut and maimed, but the infant had not a scratch. STATUES ON ALTAR NOT HARMED. St. Joseph's Catholic Church presents a strange contrast, with the roof and rear wall back of the altar being carried away. The wall collapsed, but the altar was not damaged and the frail lifesize statues of St. Joseph and the Virgin on the altar were not harmed or moved. When their home went to pieces the members of the Stubbs family--husband, wife, and two children--climbed upon the roof of a house floating by. They felt tolerably secure. Without warning the roof parted in two pieces. Mr. and Mrs. Stubbs were separated. Each had a child. The parts of the raft went different ways in the darkness. One of the children fell off and disappeared. Not until some time Sunday was the family reunited. Even the child was saved, having caught a table and clung to it until it reached a place of safety. Another man took his wife from one house to another by swimming until he had occupied three. Each fell in its turn and then he took to the waves and they were separated and each, as the persons above mentioned, believed they were carried to sea. After three hours in the water he heard her call and finally rescued her. THREW $10,000 WORTH OF DIAMONDS INTO THE WATER. Edward Zeigler, Thomas Farley and Alexander McCarthy arrived at Mobile, Ala., Thursday evening from Galveston. They left Galveston that morning on the tug Robinson with 130 other refugees and were taken to Houston. Until they arrived at New Orleans they were clad in undergarments and were coatless. They escaped at 10:30 on Sunday morning from a house on the exposed beach by clinging to a log and floating to high ground. Zeigler was struck by floating wreckage, but was assisted by his companions to safety. An old negress, who gave the sleeping men warning, was drowned. Zeigler was naked and the other men were in their night garments when they reached the crowd gathered near the Tremont house, but their appearance was similar to that of hundreds, many women being rescued for whom clothing had to be at once obtained. At noon Sunday they had sufficient space to move around with comfort, although filled with anxiety and penned in on all sides by the rapidly rising water. Four hours later the few thoroughfares above water were congested with crowds of hysterical women, crying children and frantic men. The separation of families produced pathetic scenes when mothers mourned their offspring and men lamented the loss of all dear to them. There was no confusion, only a clinging closer together without discrimination of class or sex as the waters advanced foot by foot. At dark the misery deepened and the women occupied the hotel and approaches, the highest point in the city, and the water continuing to advance, buildings and stores were thrown wide open to provide refuge in the upper stories. The men gave the better positions to the women. As midnight approached conditions became worse; several women became demented and one woman, a member of the demi-monde, threw $10,000 worth of diamonds into the flood. In the hotel the women kissed each other and said good-by. They prayed and sang hymns in turn. With each announcement that the waters were rising many men and women gave up to the terrible mental strain and fainted. The survivors paid a high tribute to the bravery in the face of death of the women of Galveston, and stated that, although abject melancholy had fallen over all, that the spirit of fortitude displayed by the women nerved the men. The horrors of that night were equaled on the succeeding days as the water receded. DARED EVERYTHING FOR WIFE AND SON. Of all the heroism and dogged tenacity of purpose noted in connection with the Galveston storm none was greater than that of W. L. Love of Houston. Mr. Love was a compositor on the Houston Post, and his wife and little son were visiting Mrs. Love's mother in Galveston when the storm struck the city. Early Sunday morning when the first news of the Galveston disaster began to drift in, Mr. Love announced to the foreman of the composing-room, under whom he was working, that he intended starting immediately for Galveston. He went to one of the depots and fortunately found a train leaving toward Galveston. He boarded it, but the train was forced to stop eight miles before it reached Galveston Bay. He walked eight miles, arriving at the bay in about two hours. There was no boat in sight, not even a skiff or canoe. He found a large cypress railroad-tie near the water's edge and, procuring a coal hook from a locomotive that had blown from the track, he got astride the tie after having placed it in the water, and set out on a difficult and perilous journey across the three miles of salt water. Thus he labored for six trying hours, the sun beating down on him and with his body half submerged in the brine of the bay. At last the goal was reached and he pulled himself out of the water and stepped on the once fair island. After having passed on his way more than a hundred decaying bodies of the storm victims, the heroic young man set about finding his wife and little boy. This he did after a lengthy search. His wife had lost her mother, father, brothers and sisters, numbering eight in all. The little boy had been utterly stripped of his clothing by the wind and both he and his mother had an experience that rarely comes to a mother and son. PITIFUL TALES OF SOME OF THE SURVIVORS. The story of Thomas Klee was indeed most pitiful. Klee lived near Eleventh and N streets. When the storm burst he was alone in his home with his two infant children. He seized one under each arm and rushed from the frail structure in time to cheat death among the falling timbers of his home. Once in the open, with his babies under his arms, he was swept into the bay among hundreds of others. He held to his precious burden and by skillful maneuvering managed to get close to a tree which was sweeping along with the tide. He saw a haven in the branches of the tree and raised his two-year-old daughter to place her in the branches. As he did so the little one was torn from his arm and carried away to her death. The awful blow stunned but did not render him senseless. Klee retained his hold on the other child, aged four years, and was whirled along among the dying and dead victims of the storm's fury, hoping to effect a landing somewhere. An hour in the water brought the desired end. He was thrown ashore, with wreckage and corpses, and, stumbling to a footing, lifted his son to a level with his face. The boy was dead. Klee remembered nothing until Thursday night, when he was put ashore in Texas City. He had a slight recollection of helping to bury dead, clear away debris and obey the command of soldiers. His brain, however, did not execute its functions until Friday morning. George Boyer's experience was a sad one. He was thrown into the rushing waters, and while being carried with frightful velocity down the bay saw the dead face of his wife in the branches of a tree. The woman had been wedged firmly between two branches. Margaret Lees' life was saved at the expense of her brother's. The woman was in her Twelfth street home when the hurricane struck. Her brother seized her and guided her to St. Mary's University, a short distance away. He returned to search for his son, and was killed by a falling house. HORRIBLE CONDITION OF THE CITY AFTER THE FLOOD. I. J. Jones, sent to Galveston by Governor Sayers, of Texas, the day after the storm to investigate the condition of the Texas State quarantine there, reported to the Governor at Austin on September 14, said, among other things, in his report: "The sanitary condition of the city is very bad. Large quantities of lime have been ordered to the place, but I doubt if any one will be found to unload it from the vessels and attend its systematic distribution when it arrives. The stench is almost unbearable. It arises from piles of debris containing the carcasses of human beings and animals. These carcasses are being burned whenever it can be done with safety, but little of the wreckage can be destroyed. There is no water protection, and should a fire break out the destruction of the city would soon be complete. When searching parties come across a human body it is taken into an open space and wreckage piled over it. This is set on fire and the body slowly consumed. The odor of the burning bodies is horrible. "The chairman of the finance relief committee at Galveston wanted me to make the announcement that the city wants all the skilled mechanics and contractors with their tools that can be brought to Galveston. There is some repair work now going on, but it is impossible to find men who will work at that kind of business. Those now in Galveston not engaged in the relief work have their own private business to look after and mechanics are not to be had. All mechanics will be paid regular wages and will be given employment by private parties who desire to get their wrecked homes in a habitable condition as rapidly as possible. There are many houses which have only the roof gone. These residences are finely furnished, and it is desired that the necessary repairs be made quickly. "The relief work is fairly well organized. Nothing has been accomplished except the distribution of food among the needy. About one-half of the city is totally wrecked and many people are living in houses that are badly wrecked. The destitute are being removed from the city as rapidly as possible. It will take three or four days yet before all who want to go have been removed from the island and city. A remarkably large number of horses survived the storm, but there is no feed for them and many of them will soon die of starvation. "I am thoroughly satisfied after spending two days in Galveston that the estimate of 5,000 dead is too conservative. It will exceed that number. Nobody can ever estimate or will ever know within 1,000 of how many lives were lost. In the city the dead bodies are being got rid of in whatever manner possible. They are burying the dead found on mainland. At one place 250 were found and buried on Wednesday. There must be hundreds of dead bodies back on the prairies that have not been found. It is impracticable to make a search. Bodies have been found as far back as seven miles from the mainland shore. It would take an army to search that territory on the mainland. "The waters of the gulf and bay are still full of dead bodies and they are being constantly cast upon the beach. On my trip to and from the quarantine I passed a procession of bodies going seaward. I counted fourteen of them on my trip in from the station, and this procession is kept up day and night. The captain of a ship who had just reached quarantine informed me that he began to meet floating bodies fifty miles from port. "As an illustration of how high the water got in the gulf, a vessel which was in port tried to get into the open sea when the storm came on. It got out some distance and had to put back. It was dark and all the landmarks had been obliterated. The course of the vessel could not be determined and she was being furiously driven in toward the island by the wind. Before her course could be established she had actually run over the top of the north jetty. As the vessel draws twenty-five feet of water, some idea can be obtained as to the height of the water in the gulf." THRILLING EXPERIENCE OF A DALLAS GIRL. One of the most thrilling descriptions of personal experience with the fearful flood ever written was that of Miss Maud Hall, of Dallas, Tex., who was spending her school vacation with friends at Galveston. She wrote an account of her adventures to her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Emory Hall: "Dear Papa and Mamma: I suppose before this you will have received my telegram and know I am safe. This has been a terrible experience. I hope I will be spared any more such. I am just a nervous wreck--fever blisters over my mouth, eyes with hollows under them, and shaking all over. When I close my eyes I can't see anything but piles of naked dead and wild-eyed men and women. I suppose I had better begin at the beginning, but I don't know if I can write with any sense. Saturday at about 11 o'clock it began raining, and the wind rose a little. Sidney Spann and two young lady boarders could not get home to dinner. After the dinner the men left and we sat around in dressing sacks watching the storm. All at once Birdie Duff (Mrs. Spann's married daughter) said: 'Look at the water in the street; it must be the gulf.' "There was water from curb to curb. It rose rapidly as we watched it, and Mrs. Spann sent us all to dress. It rose to the sidewalk, and the men began to come home. The wind and rain rose to a furious whirlwind and all the time the water crept higher and higher. We all crowded into the hall of the house--a big, two-story one--and it rocked like a cradle. About 6 o'clock the roof was gone, all the blinds torn off, and all the windows blown in. Glass was flying in all directions and the water had risen to a level with the gallery. "Then the men told us we would have to leave and go to a house across the street at the end of the block, a big one. Mrs. Spann was wild about her daughter Sidney, who had not been home, and the telephone wires were down. The men told us we must not wear heavy skirts, and could only take a few things in a little bundle. I took my watch and ticket and what money I had and pinned them in my corset; took off everything from my waist down but an underskirt and my linen skirt; no shoes and stockings. I put what clothes I could find in my trunk and locked it. Tell mamma the last thing I put in was her gray skirt, for I thought it might be injured. "It took two men to each woman to get her across the street and down to the end of the block. Trees thicker than any in our yard were whirled down the street; pine logs, boxes and driftwood of all sorts swept past, and the water looked like a whirlpool. Birdie and I went across on the second trip. The wind and rain cut like a knife and the water was icy cold. It was like going down into the grave, and I was never so near death, unless it was once before, since I have been here. I came near drowning with another girl. It was dark by this time, and the men put their arms around us and down into the water we went. Birdie was crying about her baby that she had to leave behind until the next trip, and I was begging Mr. Mitchell and the other man not to turn me loose. "Mrs. Spann came last. The water was over her chin. It was up to my shoulders when I went over. One man brought a bundle of clothing, such as he could find for us to put on, wrapped up in his mackintosh. He had to swim over. I spent the night, such a horrible one, wet from shoulder to my waist and from my knees down, and barefoot. Nobody had any shoes and stockings. Mrs. Spann did not have anything but a thin lawn dress and blanket wrapped around her from her waist down. Nellie had a lawn wrapper and blanket, and Fannie had a skirt and winter jacket. Mr. Mitchell had a pair of trousers and a light shirt and was barefooted. The house was packed with people just like us. "The house had a basement and was of stone. The windows were blown out, and it rocked from top to bottom, and the water came into the first floor. Of course no one slept. About 3 o'clock in the morning the wind had changed and blew the water back to the gulf, and as we stood at the windows watching it fall we saw two men and two girls wading the street and heard Sidney calling for her mother. She and the young lady with her spent the night crowded into an office with nine men in total darkness, sitting on boxes, with their feet up off the floor. It was an immense brick building four stories high. They were on the second floor. The roof and one story was blown away and the water came up to the second floor. It was down toward the wharf. "As soon as we could we waded home. Such a home! The water had risen three feet in the house and the roof being gone the rain poured in. I had not a dry rag but a dirty skirt which was hanging in the wardrobe and an underskirt with it. My trunk had floated and everything in it was stained except the gray skirt. We had not had anything to eat since noon the day before, and we lived on whisky. Every time the men would see us they would poke a bottle of whisky at us, and make us drink some. All we had all day Sunday was crackers at 50 cents a small box and whisky. "We were all so weak we knew we could not get any more, so Miss Decker and I went down about 10 o'clock. It was awful. Dead animals everywhere, and the streets filled with fallen telegraph poles and brick stores blown over. Hundreds of women and children and men sitting on steps crying for lost ones, and half of them, nearly, injured. Wild-eyed, ghastly-looking men hurried by and told of whole families killed. "I could not stand any more and made them bring me home, and fell on the bed with hysterics. They poured whisky down me, but the only effect it had was to make my head ache worse. I had about got straightened out when a girl and a woman came to the house--relatives of Mrs. Spann--who had lost their mother and friends and house, and all they had. They had hysterics, and everybody cried, and I had another spell. All day wagon after wagon passed filled with dead--most of them without a thing on them--and men with stretchers with dead bodies with just a sheet thrown over them, some of them little children. "We waited, every minute expecting to have the two bodies brought here. But they had not been found up to now, and all hope is lost. There is a little boy in the house that spent the night in the water clinging to a log, and his father and mother and four sisters were drowned. He is all alone. Last night Mr. Mitchell took Miss Decker and I to another boarding house to find a dry bed. We slept on a folding bed, with nothing under us but a rug and sheet, and I had to borrow something dry to sleep in. The husband of the lady who lost her mother has just come from Houston. He walked and swam all the way. He is nearly wild, and she is just screaming. I cannot write any more. Am coming home soon as I can." SAVED AS BY A MIRACLE. The Stubbs family, consisting of father, mother and two children, was in its home when it collapsed. They found refuge on a floating roof. This parted and father and one child were swept in one direction, while the mother and the other child drifted in another. One of the children was washed off, but Sunday evening all four were reunited. Mrs. P. Watkins became a raving maniac as the result of her experiences. With her two children and her mother she was drifting on a roof, when her mother and one child were swept away. Mrs. Watkins mistakes attendants in the hospital for her lost relatives and clutches wildly for them. Harry Steele, a cotton man, and his wife sought safety in three successive houses which were demolished. They eventually climbed on a floating door and were saved. W. R. Jones, with fifteen other men, finding the building they were in about to fall, made their way to the water tower and, clapping hands, encircled the standpipe to keep from being washed or blown away. Mrs. Chapman Bailey, wife of the southern manager of the Galveston Wharf Company, and Miss Blanche Kennedy floated in the waters ten to twenty feet deep all night and day by catching wreckage. Finally they got into a wooden bath tub and were driven into the gulf overnight. The incoming tide drove them back to Galveston and they were rescued the next day. They were fearfully bruised. All their relatives were drowned. A pathetic incident in the search for the dead occurred Friday. A squad of men discovered in a wrecked building five bodies. Among these bodies was one which a member of the burial party recognized as his own brother. The bodies were all in an advanced state of decomposition. They were removed and a funeral pyre was built, at which the brother assisted and, with Spartan-like firmness, stood by and saw the bodies of the dead reduced to ashes. On Monday a brakeman of the Galveston, Houston and Northern left Virginia Point and started to walk toward Texas City. He found a little child, which he picked up and carried for miles. On his way he discovered the bodies of nine women. These he covered with grass to protect them from the vultures until some arrangements could be made for their interment. CHAPTER VII. Lives Lost and Property Damage Sustained Outside of Galveston--One Thousand Victims and Millions of Value in Crops Swept Away--Estimates Made. Galveston's property loss by the hurricane was hardly less than $20,000,000; outside of that city, in Houston and other points in Central and Southern Texas, together with the agricultural and stock-raising districts, the property damage was nearly half that amount, or in the neighborhood of $10,000,000. Probably seventy-five villages and towns were swept by the storm, and in most of these places there was loss of life. It was reliably estimated from reports received at Austin, the capital city of Texas, from these places that the loss of life, exclusive of the death list of Galveston Island and City of Galveston, would aggregate 1,000 people. In many towns the percentage of killed or drowned exceeded that in the City of Galveston. Several towns were swept completely out of existence. The scene of desolation in the devastated district was terrible to witness. The storm was over 200 miles wide and extended as far inland as Temple, a distance of over 200 miles from the gulf. The cotton crop in the lower counties was completely ruined. The same was true of the rice crop. The distress was keenly felt by the planters and small farmers throughout the storm-swept region. In Houston the damage was not figured at over $400,000; at Alvin, $200,000, the town being virtually destroyed and 6,000 people in that section deprived not only of shelter and food for the time being but all prospect for crops in the year to come. On the 15th of September, R. W. King sent out the following statement and appeal from Houston after a thorough investigation of the situation in and around Alvin: "I arrived in Alvin from Dallas and was astonished and bewildered by the sight of devastation on every side. Ninety-five per cent of the houses in this vicinity are in ruins, leaving 6,000 people without adequate shelter and destitute of the necessaries of life, and with no means whatever to procure them. Everything in the way of crops is destroyed, and unless there is speedy relief there will be exceedingly great suffering. "The people need and must have assistance. Need money to rebuild their homes and buy stock and implements. They need food--flour, bacon, corn. They must have seeds for their gardens so as to be able to do something for themselves very soon. Clothing is badly needed. Hundreds of women and children are without a change and are already suffering. Some better idea may be had of the distress when it is known that box cars are being improvised as houses and hay as bedding. Only fourteen houses in the Town of Alvin are standing, and they are badly damaged." The damage at Hitchcock was not less than $100,000, but the news from there was disheartening. A bulletin from a reliable source, dated September 15, said: "Country districts are strewn with corpses. The prairies around Hitchcock are dotted with the bodies of the dead. Scores are unburied, as the bodies are too badly decomposed to handle and the water too deep to admit of burial. "A pestilence is feared from the decomposing animal matter lying everywhere. The stench is something awful. Disinfecting material is badly needed." Other outside losses were: Property. Richmond $ 75,000 Fort Bend County 300,000 Wharton 30,000 Wharton County 100,000 Colorado County 250,000 Angleton 75,000 Velasco 50,000 Other points, Brazoria County 80,000 Sabine 50,000 Paton 10,000 Rollover 10,000 Winnie 10,000 Belleville 5,000 Hempstead 25,000 Brookshire 35,000 Waller County 100,000 Arcola 5,000 Sartartia 50,000 Dickinson 30,000 Texas City 150,000 Columbia 10,000 Sandy Point 10,000 Near Brazoria (convicts killed) 35,000 Other points 100,000 Damage to railroads outside of Galveston, $500,000. Damage to telegraph and telephone wires outside of Galveston, $50,000. Damage to cotton crop, estimated on average crop of counties affected, 50,000 bales, at $60 a bale, $3,000,000. Damage to stock was great, thousands of horses and cattle having perished during the storm. In Brazoria and other counties of that section there was hardly a plantation building left standing. All fences were also gone and the devastation was complete. Many large and expensive sugar refineries were wrecked. The negro cabins were blown down and many negroes killed. On one plantation, a short distance from the ill-fated Town of Angleton, three families of negroes were killed. The villages of Needville and Basley in Fort Bend county were completely destroyed. Over twenty people were killed, most of the bodies having been recovered. Every house in that part of the country was destroyed and there was great suffering among the homeless people. There was much destitution among the people of Richmond in the same county. Richmond was one of the most prosperous towns in south Texas. It was wholly destroyed and the homeless ones were without shelter. Their food supplies were provided by their more fortunate neighbors until other assistance could be had. The State authorities heard from the Sartaria plantation, where several hundred State convicts were employed. Every building on the plantation was blown down and the loss to property aggregated $35,000. Fifteen convicts were caught under the timbers of a falling building and all killed. Over a score of others were injured. In addition to the loss on buildings the entire cane crop was destroyed on this as well as other plantations in that section. Seven people were killed in the Town of Angleton, which was almost completely destroyed. In the neighborhood of Angleton five more persons were killed and their bodies have been recovered. The loss of life in that immediate section far exceeded the estimates given in the earlier reports. The search for victims of the flood at Seabrook resulted in fifty bodies being recovered. Seabrook was a favorite summer resort with many Texas people, and its hotels were filled with guests. Many were out on pleasure jaunts when the storm came upon them. There were many guests in the private houses which were swept away. The casualties at Texas City were five. Velasco, situated near the mouth of the Brazos river, asked for help. Over one-half of the town was destroyed and eleven people lost their lives. Reports from the adjacent country showed that many negroes were killed. Eleven negro convicts employed on a plantation in Matagorda county were killed by the collapse of a building in which they had sought refuge from the storm. The Town of Matagorda, situated on the coast, was in the brunt of the storm. Several people were killed in the Towns of Caney and Elliott, in the same county. The new buildings on the Clemmons convict farm, owned and operated by the State, were destroyed and several convicts injured. The crops were also ruined. Over fifty negroes were killed in Wharton county, ten being killed on one plantation near the Town of Wharton. Bay City suffered a loss of nearly all of its buildings and three were killed there. There were many homeless people in Missouri City, every house in the town but two being destroyed. The destitute people were living out of doors and camping on the wet ground. Outside of the cities of Galveston and Houston, the greatest suffering was between Houston and East Lake, inland, and on the coast to the Brazos river. There was no damage at Corpus Christi, Rockport, or in that immediate section of the coast. People in immediate need of relief were those of the Colorado and Brazos river bottoms. The planters in that section had everything swept away last year, and the flood this year devastated their crops, leaving the tenants in a state bordering on starvation. An enormous acreage was planted in rice and the crop was ready for harvesting when the furious winds laid everything low. At Wharton, Sugarland, Quintana, Waller, Prairie View and many other smaller places barely a house was left standing. Many of the farm hands had been brought into that section to assist at cotton picking and other farming. The people were huddled in small cabins when the first signs of a storm began brewing. But few escaped. Their clothing and everything was gone. They were absolutely devoid of even the necessities with which to sustain life. To begin over again the owners of plantations had to rebuild houses, purchase new machinery and new draft animals. The loss of horses and mules in the stricken district was a severe blow. Live stock interests were also greatly harmed. In the opinion of railway men several years must elapse before the farming districts can be restored to their former conditions. The advanced prices of building material was a hard blow for the smaller farmers, who in most instances were owners of farms. Appeals for relief were received from everywhere in the storm center. The season had given promise of producing the best harvest in the previous fifteen years. Five Houston people were drowned at Morgan's Point--Mrs. C. H. Lucy and her two children, Haven McIlhenny and the five-year-old son of David Rice. Mr. Michael McIlhenny was rescued alive, exhausted and in a state of terrible nervousness. McIlhenny said the water came up so rapidly that he and his family sought safety upon the roof. He had Haven in his arms and the other children were strapped together. A heavy piece of timber struck Haven, killing him. McIlhenny then took up young Rice, and while he had him in his arms he was twice washed off the roof and in this way young Rice was drowned. Mrs. Lucy's oldest child was next killed by a piece of timber and the younger one was drowned, and next Mrs. Lucy was washed off and drowned, thus leaving Mr. and Mrs. McIlhenny the only occupants on the roof. Finally the roof blew off the house and as it fell into the water it was broken in twain, Mrs. McIlhenny remaining on one half and McIlhenny on the other. The portion of the roof to which Mrs. McIlhenny clung turned over and this was the last seen of her. McIlhenny held to his side of the roof so distracted in mind as to care little where or how it drifted. He finally landed about 2 p. m. Sunday. At Surfside, a summer resort opposite Quintana, there were seventy-five persons in the hotel. The water was about it, and the danger was from the heavy logs floating from above. Only a few men worked in the village, so a number of women went into the water to their waists and assisted in keeping the logs away from the hotel, and no one was lost. At Belleville every house in the place was damaged, and several were demolished, including two churches. One girl was killed near there. Not a house was left at Patterson in a habitable condition. Two boarding cars were blown out on the main line and whirled along by the wind sixteen miles to Sandy Point, where they collided with a number of other boarding cars, killing two and injuring thirteen occupants. A dead child, the destruction of all houses except one and the destitution of some fifty families is the record of the work of the hurricane at Arcadia. From fifty other towns came reports that buildings were wrecked or demolished. Most of them reported several dead and injured. J. D. Dillon, commercial agent of the Santa Fe Railway Company, made a trip over the line of his road from Hitchcock to Virginia Point on foot, September 13, and gave a graphic account of his journey, which was made under many difficulties. "Twelve miles of track and bridges are gone south of Hitchcock," said he. "I walked, waded and swam from Hitchcock to Virginia Point, and nothing could be seen in all of that country but death and desolation. The prairies are covered with water, and I do not think I exaggerate when I say that not less than 5,000 horses and cattle are to be seen along the line of the tracks south of Hitchcock. "The little towns along the railway are all swept away, and the sight is the most terrible that I have ever witnessed. When I reached a point about two miles north of Virginia Point I saw some bodies floating on the prairie, and from that point until Virginia Point was reached dead bodies could be seen from the railroad track, floating about the prairie. "At Virginia Point nothing is left. About 100 cars of loaded merchandise that reached Virginia Point on the International and Great Northern and the Missouri, Kansas and Texas on the night of the storm are scattered over the prairie, and their contents will no doubt prove a total loss." On Friday, September 14, from early morning until far into the afternoon Governor Sayers was in conference with relief committees from various points along the storm-swept coast. Among the first committees to arrive was one from Galveston. These men consulted at length with the Governor, and as a result of this conference it was decided that the State Adjutant General, General Scurry, should be left in command of the city, which was to be considered under military rule, and that he was to have the exclusive control not only of the patrolling of the city, but of the sanitary forces engaged in cleaning the city. It was decided also that instead of looking to the laboring people of Galveston for work in the emergency an importation of outside laborers to the number of 2,000 should be made to conduct the sanitary work while the people of Galveston were given an opportunity of looking after their own losses and rebuilding their own property without giving any time to the city at large. It was believed that with the work of these 2,000 outside laborers it would require about four weeks to clean the city of debris, and in the meantime the citizens could be working on their own property and repairing damage there. Another relief committee from Velasco reported that 2,000 persons were in destitute circumstances, without food, clothing, or homes. Crops had been totally destroyed, all farming implements were washed away, and the people had nothing at hand with which to work the fields. A relief committee from the Columbia precinct reported 2,500 destitute. Other sections sent in committees during the day, and as a result of all Governor Sayers ordered posthaste shipments of supplies. The text of the message of sympathy received by President McKinley from the Emperor of Germany was as follows: "Stettin, Sept. 13, 1900.--President of the United States of America, Washington:--I wish to convey to your excellency the expression of my deep-felt sympathy with the misfortune that has befallen the town and harbor of Galveston and many other ports of the coast, and I mourn with you and the people of the United States over the terrible loss of life and property caused by the hurricane, but the magnitude of the disaster is equaled by the indomitable spirit of the citizens of the new world, who, in their long and continued struggle with the adverse forces of nature, have proved themselves to be victorious. "I sincerely hope that Galveston will rise again to new prosperity. "WILLIAM, I. R." The President replied: "Executive Mansion, September 14, 1900.--His Imperial and Royal Majesty Wilhelm II., Stettin, Germany:--Your majesty's message of condolence and sympathy is very grateful to the American government and people, and in their name, as well as on behalf of the many thousands who have suffered bereavement and irreparable loss in the Galveston disaster, I thank you most earnestly. "WILLIAM McKINLEY." CHAPTER VIII. Business Resumed at Galveston in a Small Way on the Sixth Day after the Catastrophe--"Galveston Shall Rise Again"--How the City Looked On Saturday, One Week after the Flood. By the time Friday--practically the sixth day after the flood, although the waters did not subside nor the wind go down until about 2 o'clock on Sunday morning--had arrived many of the business men of the stricken city had recovered their courage and two or three banks and a few business houses were opened, although most of the streets were still choked with debris and practically impassable. On every corner was this sign: CLEAN UP. Some women even ventured out shopping, picking their way over great masses of wreckage. Tremont street was by that time opened from the bay to the beach, and Mechanic street, the Strand and Winnie and Church streets were being rapidly cleared. However, the stench from the putrefying bodies of the victims of the calamity still in the ruins of scores and hundreds of buildings was all but unbearable. "GALVESTON SHALL RISE AGAIN." "Galveston must rise again," said the Galveston News in an editorial on Thursday. "At the first meeting of Galveston citizens Sunday afternoon after the great hurricane, for the purpose of bringing order out of chaos, the only sentiment expressed," the editorial says, "was that Galveston had received an awful blow. The loss of life and property is appalling--so great that it required several days to form anything like a correct estimate. With sad and aching hearts, but with resolute faces, the sentiment of the meeting was that out of the awful chaos of wrecked homes and wrecked business, Galveston must rise again. "The sentiment was not that of bury the dead and give up the ship; but, rather, bury the dead, succor the needy, appeal for aid from a charitable world, and then start resolutely to work to mend the broken chains. In many cases the work of upbuilding must begin over. In other cases the destruction is only partial. "The sentiment was, Galveston will, Galveston must, survive, and fulfill her glorious destiny. Galveston shall rise again. * * * "If we have lost all else, we still have life and the future, and it is toward the future that we must devote the energies of our lives. We can never forget what we have suffered; we cannot forget the thousands of our friends and loved ones who found in the angry billows that destroyed them a final resting place. But tears and grief must not make us forget our present duties. The blight and ruin which have destroyed Galveston are not beyond repair; we must not for a moment think Galveston is to be abandoned because of one disaster, however horrible that disaster has been. "It is a time for courage of the highest order. It is a time when men and women show the stuff that is in them, and we can make no loftier acknowledgment of the material sympathy which the world is extending to us than to answer back that after we shall have buried our dead, relieved the sufferings of the sick and destitute, we will bravely undertake the vast work of restoration and recuperation which lies before us in a manner which shall convince the world that we have spirit to overcome misfortune and rebuild our homes. In this way we shall prove ourselves worthy of the boundless tenderness which is being showered upon us in the hour of desolation and sorrow." This sentiment voiced the feeling of the people of the prostrate city pretty accurately, for they had begun to look around them and make plans for rebuilding, although it was many days after that before the streets were cleaned and the ground was dry enough to begin work. THE SITUATION A WEEK AFTERWARDS. A newspaper correspondent who had unusual facilities for getting at the true state of affairs summed up the situation on Saturday, September 15, just a week after the awful visitation, as follows: "The first week of Galveston's suffering has passed away, and the extent of the disaster which wind and flood brought to the city seems greater than it did even when the blow had just been struck. "That 5,000 or more of the 40,000 men, women and children who made up the population of the city seven days ago are dead is almost certain. And the money value of the damage to the property of the citizens is so great that no one can attempt to estimate it within $5,000,000 of the real amount. "In one thing the effects of the flood are irreparable. Water now covers 5,300,000 square feet of ground that was formerly a part of the city, but which now can never be reclaimed from the gulf. "A strip of land three miles long and from 350 to 400 feet wide along the south side of the city, where the finest residences stood, is now covered by the waves even at low tide. The Beach Hotel now has its foundations in the gulf, although before the hurricane it had a fine beach 400 feet wide in front of it. This land is gone forever. "Like men stunned and dazed, the survivors of the flood have worked and struggled to bury their dead and to make the city habitable for the living, but it may be doubted whether they even yet realize to the full extent what they have lost, or guess the suffering that is in store for them when their moments of leisure come and they begin to miss their friends and loved ones who are dead. "It is certain now that, however much Galveston has suffered, the city will be rebuilt and be the scene of as great a business as before. But few of the men of the city can pay any attention yet to the work that is necessary for this restoration. To-day they are busy with the roughest work of cleaning the city, of clearing away the debris, of burying the bodies which still are being discovered under ruins each day and of providing for their simplest necessities. "The woman who a few days ago was the mistress of a splendid mansion, with every want provided for, may now be seen half-clad making her way through the streets in search of a little food, and esteeming herself fortunate if her family is still intact to gather in the wreckage of the former home. The man who a few days ago was the owner of a great business and the master of many servants may to-day be seen working in the trying tasks of removing wreckage and hauling away to burial the decayed and unrecognizable bodies of the dead, under the direction of armed soldiers and deputy sheriffs, who are there to see that the work is not slighted. "And around every one is ruin. The broken and shattered houses, the scattered articles of furniture, above all the burning funeral pyres on which the bodies of many of the dead are being consumed, make the city a place of horror even to those whose personal wants are best provided for. "The peril from the wind and waves was followed for those who survived by a peril of hunger and a peril of disease. There came also a peril to life and property from the great horde of robbers and inhuman outlaws who were attracted by the helpless condition of the city to seek their prey. "The splendid response of the country to Galveston's appeal for help has removed all danger of further suffering from hunger, and the prompt action of Governor Sayers, through Adjutant General Scurry, and of Mayor Jones and the citizens' relief committee have re-established order and made the horrible scenes of the stripping of corpses and the assaults on persons no longer possible. The city is still under martial law, and it will remain so, nominally at least, until normal conditions otherwise have been restored. "The danger of pestilence is still great, however, and indeed the fear that other thousands may fall victims to a scourge of disease is gaining in strength and leading to an exodus of all the women and children and of many of the men of the city, who are crowding the boats to get away to the mainland. "Added to the danger from the thousands of decomposing bodies both of men and of beasts, which still lie under ruined houses and along the gulf shore, is the danger from the unflushed sewers and closets in the city. Until yesterday it was practically impossible to flush the sewers in any part of the city on account of the lack of water, and although the condition is now much better there is much of evil still. "Fevers and other diseases which may be bred under these conditions will not show themselves for ten days or longer, at the earliest. Some of the physicians in the city have issued statements to-day calculated to calm the apprehensions of the citizens in this matter. Among them is Dr. W. H. Blount, state health officer, who says that there is no great danger. He refers to the cyclone of 1867, which covered the city with slimy mud, and instead of breeding disease served practically to put an end to the yellow fever then prevalent. "The work of clearing away the debris in the streets has been carried on with a fair degree of vigor, and it is expected that it will be pushed much faster from now on. The 2,000 laborers whom it has been decided to bring in from outside the city for the work will be able to take up the task without having to worry about the safety of the remnants of their own property which they may have left unprotected. "The most important need is, however, for money to pay the men. Adjutant General Scurry said to-day: 'I have not a dollar to pay the men who are working in the streets all day long. I am not able to say to a single one of these men, "You shall be paid for your work." I have not the money to make good the promise and I hope and believe that the country will relieve the situation. "'We must have this city cleaned up at any cost, and with the greatest speed possible. If it is not done with all haste, and at the same time done well, there may be a pestilence, and if it once breaks out here it will not be Galveston alone that will suffer. Such things spread, and it is not only for the sake of this city, but for others outside of this place that I urge that above all things we want money. "'The nation has been most kind in its response to the appeal of Galveston, and from what I hear, food and disinfectants sufficient for temporary purposes at least, are here or on the way. The country does not understand, it cannot understand, unless it visit Galveston, the awful destitution prevailing here. Of all the poor people here, not one has anything. A majority of them could not furnish a single room in which to commence housekeeping even though they had the money to rebuild the room. "'These people have absolutely nothing except what is given them by the relief committee. They are in a condition of absolute want, they lack everything, and save for the splendid generosity of the nation they would be utterly without hope.' "The gangs of men in the streets are still finding every now and then badly decomposed bodies. Few of these relics of human life can be recognized, and many of them are naked and without anything about them which would lead to identification. They are disposed of as rapidly as possible, but the work is very offensive and the men engaged in it cannot endure it steadily for any great length of time. "'Pull them out of the water as soon as seen and throw them into the flames as soon as taken from the water,' is the order, and it is effectually carried out. "The best work in this direction was done along the shore line of the gulf on the south side of the city. During the day bodies were found at frequent intervals, and just at sunset seven were found in the ruins of one house. It is expected that more will be found to-morrow, as the work gang that to-day found seven bodies will clear up the debris where it is known that fifteen people were killed. "The soldiers from Dallas and Houston who have been here providing for order and helping in the work of cleaning up the city have become exhausted and it has been necessary to relieve them. The Craddock Light Infantry of Terrell arrived to-day to take up the work. "The exodus to Houston and other neighboring cities is still going on. The sailboats across the bay are crowded to their fullest capacity, and they make as many round trips each day as they can." NOTHING LIKE IT IN THE HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES. "No calamity in the history of the United States approaches the horror of Galveston." Such was the declaration of Col. Walter Hudnall of the United States treasury department, Saturday, after filing a secret report to the government in which he outlined the damage sustained by the government and made confidential suggestions concerning the advisability of continuing the expenditures that have been made there annually. "Galveston needs no more physicians or nurses," he continued. "Those who would rush to the aid of the stricken island should send quicklime, chloride of lime, carbolic acid and other disinfectants and stay away themselves. To-day Galveston is a gigantic funeral pyre. From the wreckage ascend numerous pillars of smoke and the air is filled with the sickening odor of burning human flesh. But above all, making one forget even the presence of the uncounted dead, is the stench of decaying coffee, rice and other vegetable products that lie swelling with the heat and putrefying. Powerful chemicals and disinfectants are required to prevent what this is sure to produce--disease. "In the face of these conditions Galveston is burying her dead, burning her wreckage, attempting to restore order and bring about a resumption of business. "No words of complaint are heard. The woe which has come upon the island city is too great for tears and the afflictions of individuals in the loss of dear ones is entirely forgotten in the heroic fight that is being made for self-preservation for the community. Women of wealth steal through the streets without clothing, save for a bit of torn and grimy cloth wrapped about them. Men of means are in the same sorry plight and go about their grewsome task of cleaning up in so stolid a manner that it is obvious that Galveston has not awakened to the full horror of the situation. There has not been time to think. "It is not uncommon to hear worn and haggard men refer to the loss of their families and their all with so little evidence of concern that it would attract wonder were not the senses of the visitor numbed by the terror of the situation. It is the reaction that is feared most by those who are leading the effort to make the city habitable. When this work is completed and there is time to think a heartrending wail of woe will go up from the twenty-odd thousand mourning survivors and gloomy desperation is expected to succeed the energy that is now manifested. "The spirit of the people is aptly illustrated by Capt. John Delaney, chief customs inspector of the port. Delaney, 60 years of age, lost his entire family, wife, son and daughters. The bodies of the son and daughters were recovered, but no trace of Mrs. Delaney has been found. Whether her body was cast into the sea from one of the dread funeral barges or buried may never be known. Terrible as was the blow, Delaney was at his post the day following the disaster, attired in a pair of overalls, all that he managed to save. Yesterday a butcher, fortunate in saving a portion of two suits, loaned Delaney a pair of trousers. Clad in them he boarded a big German tramp steamer that arrived in port, inspected her and sent her back to New Orleans, as she was unable to discharge her cargo at Galveston." In his report to Washington Col. Hudnall placed the loss of life at from 6,500 to 8,000 and ridiculed the idea that any person could estimate the property loss at that time. He predicted that it would be impossible to estimate within $10,000,000 of the correct figures. His estimate was based upon what was said to be better information than that of any other visitor in Galveston, as he had made a thorough canvass of the city on horseback, visiting every locality where it was possible to travel, instructions from the treasury department being to thoroughly investigate in every detail. No one else had made such a canvass. Vice-President and General Manager Trice of the International and Great Northern railroad, after looking over the situation in Galveston, said the railroad losses would aggregate $5,000,000 or $6,000,000 in that city alone. At Galveston their wharves, warehouses, depots and tracks were ruined. The costly bridges which connected the island with the mainland were in ruins and must be entirely rebuilt. The International and Great Northern and Santa Fe had considerable track washed out, while the Galveston, Houston and Northern suffered heavily. All track between Seabrooke and Virginia Point, with all of the bridges, was washed away, and Section Foreman Scanlan and all his crew at Nadeau had been lost. HOW THE INSURANCE COMPANIES FARED. Naturally the question of insurance carried on the lives and property of people of Galveston was one much discussed after the first feeling of horror occasioned by the catastrophe had worn away, and the fact was developed that while the life insurance companies were somewhat badly hit--although in not so great a degree as would naturally be supposed when the heavy death list was taken into consideration--very little property insurance was carried by the business men and property owners of the desolated city. Although the loss of life was over 5,000, a large proportion of the victims was composed of women and children, a class which rarely if ever carries insurance; again, the majority of the men drowned and crushed were residents of the poorer districts of the town, the wealthier men having abandoned their homes at the first alarm and fled to the elevated places. These victims were caught in their houses, together with their families, and husbands, wives and children died together. As a matter of fact, the men who work for a living at trades and in the various branches of employment where skilled labor is not demanded, do not carry life insurance as a general thing, except in benevolent or fraternal societies of which they may be members, and this is the main reason why the "straight" life insurance companies, as they are called, did not suffer more than they did. One of the most prominent insurance managers in the United States said three days after the catastrophe: "Life insurance companies will feel the blow of the Galveston storm. How much insurance was carried by the victims of the storm is not known, but it must have been great in the aggregate. The large proportion of women and children among the dead will lighten the burden, as they do not often carry insurance. "The rule requiring the body of the insured to be identified will have to be waived, because of the number of bodies buried at sea and otherwise without identification. Unless the rigor of this rule is relaxed by the insurers litigation will be boundless. "Practically no property insurance was carried at Galveston." Galveston and Houston representatives of the largest eastern insurance companies when seen concurred in the opinion that the insurance policies against storm losses carried by Galvestonians would not aggregate $10,000. They said there was absolutely no demand for such insurance at Galveston. The head of one of the leading insurance firms in Galveston which represented many large eastern companies said: "We did not carry a dollar of storm insurance at Galveston, and while my information on that point is limited, I feel sure the storm insurance was very small. We never had a request for storm insurance policies. If there had been any demand at Galveston for insurance of this kind we would have heard of it. "We held $50,000 storm insurance on two big oil mills at Houston and our loss will probably be $40,000 to $50,000 on these two structures. We held $25,000 storm insurance at Port Arthur and about $1,200 at Alvin. The insurance situation at Galveston is very quiet. There was no loss by fire, and I think the insurance against storms was trivial." More than 4,000 houses were destroyed; millions of dollars' worth of property in dry goods, grocery and other business houses--wholesale and retail--was ruined; there was hardly a house in the city which did not suffer damage, the total property losses aggregating about $20,000,000; and yet, living in a section where storms were liable to occur at any time, little or no insurance was carried. The first message by wire was sent out of Galveston Thursday at 4:16 p. m. over the wire of the Western Union Company. The company laid a cable across the channel, and through it they transmitted the message. The cable was brought from Chicago on a passenger train. The Postal Telegraph Company had several wires in good working order by Saturday night, as also had the Western Union Company. The Mexican Cable Company secured both ends of its cable and established communication from Galveston with the outside world via the City of Mexico Friday evening. CHAPTER IX. Galveston Nine Days After--Great Changes Apparent--Life in a Business Exhibited--Systematic Efforts to Obtain Names of the Dead. Monday, September 17, Galveston presented a far different appearance than the Monday previous. Street cars were in operation in the business part of the city and the electric line and water service had been partly resumed. The progress made under the circumstances was little short of remarkable. It must not be understood by any means that the remaining portion of the city had been put in anything like its normal condition, but so very great a change had been wrought, so much order and system prevailed where formerly chaos reigned, that Galveston and the people who had been giving her such noble assistance had good reason to be satisfied with what had been accomplished in the face of such fearful odds. According to statements made by General Scurry, Mayor Jones, Alderman Perry and others, there was equally good reason to believe that the progress of the work from that time on would be even more satisfactory. On that morning the board of health began a systematic effort to obtain the names of the dead, so that the information could be used for legal purposes and for life insurance settlements. An agent was stationed at the headquarters of the Central Relief Committee to receive and file sworn statements in lieu of coroner's certificates. Persons who had left the city but were in possession of information concerning the dead were notified to send sworn statements to Mr. Doherty. The steady stream of refugees from Galveston was kept up. There was not a departing train from across the bay which was not packed to its platforms. Refugees continued to leave for many days thereafter. No sadder sight could be imagined than the picture presented by a boat load of refugees, when the ropes were cast off and the craft swung out into the bay and away from the desolate city. There was not a face that was not turned toward the ruin. There was not an eye that was not moistened by tears. So great had been the rush to leave behind the scene of the storm that the Lawrence, the boat which connected with trains at Texas City, had not left her wharf a single day without denying passage to a portion of those who wanted to get away. The partings at the waterside were pitiful. Husbands came to the gangplank and kissed their weeping wives good-by, turning back to the hard work of reconstruction which confronted them, with breaking hearts. Scores of women, overcome at the last moment, were cared for by strange hands, while those who loved them, bound to Galveston by necessity, could do no more than watch from afar and pray. Instead of waiting until Galveston was reached to begin work, steps were taken to care for refugees at the bay terminal of the Galveston, Houston and Henderson Road, and during Saturday night and Sunday hundreds of hungry refugees were fed, while numbers of sick and wounded were cared for. There was plenty of work on hand for ten times the force of laborers employed. The area which had not yet been touched embraced four and a half miles of frontage on the beach and bay. There were enough provisions on hand ahead to feed everybody in Galveston for a week. There was a great deal of trouble in properly distributing supplies, the rush at the depots being as great as at any time since they were opened. It was indeed a mercy that the weather since the storm had been clear and dry. Had it rained a single day the suffering would have been terrible, for there was not a whole roof in Galveston. There were about 200 soldiers in Galveston doing guard and police duty. The camp on the wharf, between the Galveston Red Snapper Company and the foot of Tremont street had been put into shape and the soldiers comfortably housed. There were five militia commands--the Dallas rough riders, Captain Ormonde Paget, with forty-five men; the Houston Light Guards, Captain George McCormick, with forty-five men; the Galveston Sharpshooters, Captain A. Bunschell, with thirty-five men; Battery D of Houston, Captain G. A. Adams, with fifteen men, and Troop A. Houston Cavalry, commanded by Lieutenant Breedlove, with twenty men. The fact that no money was available to pay the men who were engaged in cleaning the streets was a great detriment to preparing the way not only for rebuilding the city but in the efforts to prevent the spread of plague and pestilence. General Scurry, general in charge of the operations at Galveston, made the following statement on Sunday, September 16: "I have not a dollar to pay the men who are working in the streets all day long. I am not able to say to a single one of them 'You'll be paid for your work.' I have not the money to make good the promise. I hope and believe that the country will understand the situation. We must have this city cleaned up at any cost and with the greatest speed possible. If it is not done with all haste, and at the same time done well, there may be a pestilence, and if it breaks out here it will not be Galveston alone that will suffer. "Such things spread, and it is not only for the sake of this city, but for others outside that I urge that above all things we want money. The nation has been most kind in its response to appeals from Galveston. From what I hear food and disinfectants sufficient for temporary purposes at least are here or on the way. The country does not understand. It cannot understand unless it could visit Galveston, the situation prevailing here. "SCURRY, "Adjutant-General State of Texas." As to the probability of a pestilence, General Chambers McKibbin, U. S. A., commanding the Military Department of Texas, said: "I am personally in favor of burning as much rubbish as possible, and of burning it as quickly as permissible. I do not predict a pestilence, but I think the things are coming to that point where a pestilence may be possible unless prompt measures are taken, and there is nothing so effective as fire. Burn everything and burn it at once." All the churches in Galveston either being wrecked or ruined, with but one or two exceptions, divine services on Sunday, September 16, were in most cases suspended. Mass was celebrated at St. Mary's cathedral in the morning and was largely attended. Father Kirwin preached an eloquent and feeling sermon, in which he spoke of the awful calamity that had befallen the people. After expressing sympathy with the afflicted and distressed he advised all to go to work in burying the dead. The next day a census of the Catholic population was begun to ascertain the number of widows and orphans caused by the storm and the exact number of Catholics who perished. Bishop Gallagher, who had been active in his efforts to mitigate suffering at Galveston, received a telegram from Archbishop Corrigan of New York, stating the diocese of that city would see that all Catholic orphan children sent to his care were kindly provided for. Houston was the center of relief distribution, and also the key to Galveston. It was practically the only way in or out for weeks. Hundreds of refugees passed through every day. Houston was well filled with them, but the larger number went right through to points farther north. Free transportation was furnished to any point in Texas, provided they had relatives who would take care of them. Many of the refugees arrived at Houston scantily clothed and in a pitiful condition. "Vast as the work is, all are being provided for," said Edward Watkins, Chairman of the transportation division of the Relief Committee. "We have not let anybody go through uncared for." Mere curiosity was at a discount here. People who had urgent business in Galveston found it hard to get permits to go there, and those who were simply curious could not get there at all. Camera fiends were absolutely barred. One man was shot for taking a picture of a nude woman on the beach, and three newspaper men who were taking views of the ruins were rounded up, their cameras smashed and themselves forced to go to work gathering up decomposed corpses. Even Houston was in a similar state of martial law. Guards surrounded the depot of the International & Great Northern, the only road running south, and would not even allow curious crowds to gather to see the refugees come in. This was in enforcement of a proclamation issued by Mayor Brashear, copies of which, printed on large red cards, were posted conspicuously all over the city. The catastrophe all but paralyzed shipping business in the storm-visited section. At Fort Worth all purchasing stopped. Cotton was just beginning to move, but it had to go by way of New Orleans, the additional freights eating up the apparent profit of the 1 cent a pound advance in price. Had the storm struck a few weeks later the loss would have been greatly increased, as the cotton would then have been upon the wharves. Heavy financial losers were the fraternal societies. One known as the United Moderns, with headquarters at Denver, lost 100 out of a lodge of 500. Policies ranged from $1,000 to $2,000. INSURANCE MATTERS CREATE A BIG BOTHER. One hundred and fifty odd million dollars represented the value of the life insurance policies carried by the old-line companies in the state of Texas at the time of the flood. It was estimated that $4,000,000 represented the life risks carried in Galveston by the regular companies, and that over $2,000,000 was carried by assessment and fraternal organizations. Insurance men said it was probable that of the persons killed in the recent disaster 900 were men, and that, according to statistics, half of them had life policies of an average value of $2,000. On this basis $900,000 approximated the losses to be met in Galveston by the life insurance companies. Eighteen old-line companies and a great many assessment and fraternal companies divided the losses, and no reputable organization was crippled thereby. Accurate figures of the losses were not made, but the above figures represented the calculations hastily made by George T. Dexter, superintendent of the domestic agencies of the Mutual Life Insurance Company of New York. In regard to this Mr. Dexter said: "The most striking feature of the insurance situation at Galveston is the difficulty that will arise when the adjustment of claims is taken up. Hundreds of bodies have been buried without identification, hundreds more have been taken out into the gulf and many have been cremated. Whole families have been destroyed in many instances, and insurance papers have suffered in the general destruction of property. This state of affairs will make it difficult for the beneficiaries to establish their claims and will enable the organizations so disposed to escape payment. I have no doubt the level premium companies will adjust claims, in a large measure, on circumstantial evidence. "Our agency property at San Antonio was destroyed, and we have no accurate reports of our Texas losses, so it is impossible to give other than general estimates of what they may be. The class of people insuring in the regular companies are in general surrounded by conditions that render them better risks in the event of such a calamity as this, but if my information is correct the better portion of the residence district suffered most, and we may hear of heavy losses. I think we carried between $300,000 and $400,000 insurance in Galveston. The insurance business in that part of the south has been exceptionally good of late because of the cotton values." H. H. Knowles, southern manager of the Equitable Life of New York, said: "We have two $100,000 risks in Galveston, and we are hoping that they are not among the lost. Our reports from Texas are not in, but I should think that our company will be fortunate if it gets off with less than a loss of $100,000. I believe that the assessment and fraternal insurance concerns will have the most losses because of the fact that in such a disaster the loss of life is greater among the poorer classes." The accident insurance companies had heavy losses to meet. CHAPTER X. Magnitude of the Relief Necessary--Twenty Thousand Persons to be Clothed and Fed--System of Relief Organization--How the Storm Affected Trade. The situation at Galveston on Saturday night, just a week after the calamity, was thus described by a competent authority who arrived in the city the day after the flood: "It must be possible by this time to give some idea of the magnitude which relief must assume. There were 38,000 persons in the city when the census was taken a few weeks ago. After the storm 32,000 remained. This latter statement is made after careful inquiry from the best sources of information. About 3,000 have left the island, most of them women and children, to go to friends temporarily. "Of the 29,000 remaining how many must be helped and how long? "The question is a hard one. The men who knew most of the situation, who have labored day and night since Sunday, hesitate to answer. "Mr. McVittie, the executive head of the relief work, said it was possible there were 3,500 persons in the city who did not require any assistance whatever. Mr. Lowe of the Galveston News, a most careful and conservative man, said he believed fully two-thirds of the surviving and remaining population were dependent to-day. Others familiar with the situation were asked for their opinions, and they estimated variously the number that must be helped temporarily at from two-thirds to three-fourths. "The conclusion is forced that there are to-day in Galveston 20,000 persons who must be fed and clothed. The proportion of those who were in fair circumstances and lost all is astonishing. Relief cannot be limited to those who formed the poor class before the storm. "An intelligent man left Galveston to-day, taking his wife and children to relatives. He said: 'A week ago I had a good home and a business which paid me between $400 and $500 a month. To-day I have nothing. My house was swept away and my business is gone. I see no way of re-establishing it in the near future.' "This man had a real estate and house-renting agency. "At the military headquarters, one of the principal officials doing temporary service for the city, said: 'Before the storm I had a good home and good income. I felt rich. My house is gone and my business. The fact is I don't even own the clothes I stand before you in. I borrowed them.' "Now these are not exceptional cases. They are fairly typical. Men who worked for salaries, who rented or owned good houses and considered themselves fairly well provided for, as the world goes, are to-day, by thousands, not only penniless, but without food, without clothes, and without employment. "There must be fed and clothed these 20,000 until they can work out their temporal salvation. And then something ought to be done to help the worthy get on their feet and make a fresh start. Some people will leave Galveston. It is plain, however, that nothing like the number expected will go. Galveston is still home to the great majority. It was a city of fine local pride. It was one of the most beautiful of American cities, and with its surrounding of gulf and bay was a pleasant place to live in, even in summer. Those who can stay and live here will do so. "If the country responds to the needs in anything like the measure given to Johnstown, Chicago, Charleston and other stricken cities and sections, Galveston as a community will not only be restored but will enter upon a greater future than was expected before the storm. "This seems rather an extraordinary thing to say. It has been the experience, wherefore it is expected here. Since Tuesday there has been no doubt of Galveston's restoration. If in the future this city celebrates a flood anniversary the day upon which the community's courage was reborn ought to be remembered. "From a central organization the relief work has been divided by wards. A depot and a subcommittee were established in each ward of the city. 'They who will not work should not eat' was the principle adopted when the organization was perfected. Few idle mouths are now being fed in Galveston. There are fatherless, and there are widows, and there are sick who must have charity. "But the able-bodied are working in parties under the direction of bosses. They are paid in food and clothing. In this way the relief committee is, within the first week, meeting the needs of the survivors and at the same time gradually clearing the streets and burning the ruins and refuse. "A single report made by a ward committeeman to Mr. McVittie will serve to show on what scale this plan is being carried out. 'In my ward,' said the committeeman, 'I have 600 men employed and I am feeding 3,700 persons.' "The system of the Galveston relief organization is admirable. Perhaps never before was economy practiced so rigidly in the distribution of the nation's largess. 'Our aim,' Mr. McVittie said, 'is to distribute no money at this time, but to employ with relief funds all of the labor in the clearing of the city and the cremation of the dead until we have removed to that extent the ravages of the storm. "'We employ all who can work and we give food and clothing as remuneration. We scrutinize most carefully applications for charity and grant none if the applicant is able to render service. We adopted this plan in the beginning and we are going to continue it. Most of our people responded to the rule and went to work. To those who were unwilling to work we applied the authority of martial law. "'All Galveston is now at work and the contributions which we are receiving from the sympathizing nation are going to pay for the most urgent work the storm imposed on us.' "Six days have wrought surprising changes in conditions at Galveston. Each day has been a chapter in itself. Sunday was paralysis. On Monday came the beginning of realization. Tuesday might be called the crisis period. And the crisis was passed safely. What has been accomplished since the turning point on Tuesday is amazing. It is almost as incredible as some of the effects of this visitation are without precedent. "On Sunday the people did little but go about dazed and bewildered, gathering a few hundred of the bodies which were in their way. On Monday the born leaders who are usually not discovered in a community until some great emergency arises began to forge in front. They were not men from one rank in point of wealth or intelligence. They came from all classes. For example there was Hughes, the 'longshoreman. "Bodies which lay exposed in the streets and which were necessary to remove somewhere lest they be stepped on were carried into a temporary morgue until 500 lay in rows on the floor. Then a problem in mortality, such as no other American community ever faced, was presented. Pestilence, which stalked forth by Monday, seemed about to take possession of what the storm had left. Immediate disposition of those bodies was absolutely necessary to save the living. Then it was that Lowe and McVittie and Sealy and the others, who by common impulse had come together to deal with the problem, found Hughes. "The 'longshoreman took up the most grewsome task ever seen away from a battlefield. He had to have helpers. Some volunteered, others were pressed into the service at the point of the bayonet. Whisky by the bucketful was carried to these men and they were drenched with it. The stimulant was kept at hand and applied continuously. Only in this way was it possible for the stoutest-hearted to work in such surroundings. Under the direction of Hughes these hundreds of bodies already collected and others brought from the central part of the city--those which were quickest found--were loaded on to an ocean barge and taken far off into the gulf to be cast into the sea." HOW THE STORM AFFECTED TRADE. The following trade statement, issued from New York on Saturday, September 15, showed the effect of the great storm in commercial circles: "The tropical storm that devastated the gulf coast, almost wiping out the city of Galveston and doing damage in other parts of the country, caused reduction in the volume of business at the South, and railroads in the gulf region have probably not shown their maximum losses of earnings as yet, but even after such a catastrophe a recuperative power is shown. "From many quarters of the West and Southeast a better distribution of merchandise is reported in jobbing and retail circles. The weather has continued favorable for the maturing corn crop, with cutting progressing and the crop generally beyond danger, but damage to cotton by the storm is still an unknown quantity. Prices of staple commodities are higher for the week, hoisted by the sharp rise in cotton, but in manufactured products there is little change, though steady increases of business at the current level is satisfactory. "Cotton closed last week at the highest price in ten years, and a large short interest was awaiting reaction. Instead, there came news of the disaster in Texas and sensational reports that 1,000,000 bales had been destroyed. At the New York Exchange trading was far in excess of all previous records, and prices rose by bounds. Subsequently there were less exaggerated reports from the South, but the market failed to respond and middling uplands advanced 11 cents. "The rise in the raw material caused sharp advances in cotton goods. In one week standard brown sheetings rose from 5.67 to 6 cents, wide bleached sheetings from 20 to 21 cents, standard brown drills from 5.67 to 5.87, and staple ginghams from 5 to 5.50 cents. Buyers who have been delaying for weeks are anxious to secure liberal supplies, both instant and distant." TWO APPEALS WHICH BROUGHT MUCH MONEY. Two appeals for aid which brought in much money were the following, the first one being by the G. A. R. and Women's Relief Corps, Department of Texas: "The appalling calamity that has befallen Galveston and the coast country has smitten hundreds of our comrades in the city, villages and on farms. In many instances, portions of whole families are lost; in a hundred others, houses are wrecked, live stock killed and crops destroyed. "George B. McClellan Post of this city is doing what it can, but its efforts are all inadequate. Systematic organized assistance alone can avert distress, and we therefore appeal to the members of this department in behalf of these comrades. They had made their last stand and effort to secure for themselves and families homes on the coast country of Texas. Their all is involved. Far along in the evening of their life they cannot recuperate. "If there was time to make another crop they have nothing with which to make it. Unless we help them they must abandon their homes, their all. If the principles of our order--fraternity, charity and loyalty--are of any avail, it is time to show it. Fraternity means organization--charity means everything and is the 'greatest of all.' Loyalty means standing by our comrades as well as the flag. They were our brothers in arms, they are our kindred in adversity. "We confidently expect every post, every member of every corps to contribute something. Remittances and supplies from the G. A. R. should be made to Colonel E. G. Rust, assistant quartermaster general, and from the Women's Relief Corps to Mrs. Mina Metcalf, both of Houston, Texas. "CHARLES B. PECK, "Department Commander. "ANNETTE VAN HORN, "Department Commander." The other was by President Michaux of the Travelers' Protective Association, addressed to the members of the organization throughout the United States: "Whereas, A great calamity has befallen the city of Galveston, thousands of dead, dying and wounded to be cared for by our united and benevolent people; and "Whereas, Numbers of traveling men are reported seriously wounded; therefore, to care for immediate wants, I deem it necessary to call on the traveling men to contribute as much as in their power to help, aid and assist our stricken companions. "Our association is able and will take care of all its unfortunate members, and I appeal to you in the name of charity and love to assist us in caring for them not so fortunate. Remit what you can afford by postoffice, express money order to James E. Ludlow, San Antonio, Texas. Secretaries of all local T. P. A. posts will receive and remit your subscriptions. I trust that this appeal to the traveling men will be met by a quick response. Sincerely and fraternally, "D. W. MICHAUX, President. "Texas T. P. A. of America, Houston, Texas." CHAPTER XI. Insanity Follows Frightful Sufferings of the Poor Victims--Five Hundred Demented Ones--Indifferent to the Loss of Relatives. Hundreds of people became insane during the week succeeding the flood. They had bravely borne the loss of relatives, the hunger and fatigue, had apparently been unmindful of the horrors of the catastrophe, and had, as a rule, given no indications of mental aberration while the disaster was on, but when the danger was passed and relief from the great strain came, the overburdened mind gave way. J. A. Fernandez, a prominent citizen of Galveston, who was connected with the relief work, told of many cases which came under his observation. The second Sunday following the storm, September 16, he said, in recounting his experiences: "There are at least 500 persons there whose minds have become unbalanced, and some have lost every vestige of their mental faculties, there being some raving maniacs among them; one of whom came under my personal observation. His name is Charles Thompson, a gardener. He occupied a room above me at the hotel, and during the night he kept raving and pacing the floor and kept calling on God to witness his action, continually invoking the mercy of the Deity. He has lost his family and home, and by a miracle saved himself. "As soon as he was out of personal danger on that awful night he commenced rescuing women and children and saved seventy people, according to a gentleman who knew the circumstances. He then lost his mind. He created so much excitement at the hotel that two policemen were detailed to capture him. He heard them approaching and leaped out of a three-story window to an adjoining building. His fall was somewhat broken, but his body struck a bay window in my room. He was badly injured, but continued his mad flight. He baffled his pursuers and escaped. This occurred at 5 o'clock this morning. This is only one illustration of the conditions that prevail there. "A man whose wife was drowned in the flood had been searching in vain for her remains for several days, and yesterday located the body in the water near Thirty-third street and Avenue G. Soldiers had also seen the body, and they took it in charge. He protested and rushed to take possession of the body. The soldiers were stern and had to discharge their duty, and the husband, practically demented, was bound while the body was thrown in the flames and soon burned to a crisp. The man made frantic efforts to get away from the soldiers, but to no avail. "In the course of my rounds I saw a family of six half-naked, and they appeared crazy, and would look into the face of every stranger with a vacant stare that was pitiable in the extreme. They were hurrying in the direction of the places where provisions were being distributed. They had lost their homes, and had only the clothing on their backs. There were thousands in a similar condition." I. Thompson, a young man who was very active in saving life during the night of the storm, became insane because of the awful scenes he witnessed. Thompson's friends first noticed his condition when he told them that one of the persons he rescued had deposited $10,000 in one of the Galveston banks to his credit and that he was going to live in luxury the rest of his life. Thompson retired to his room on the third floor of the Washington hotel Saturday night seemingly sane. Soon afterward he became violent. The person engaged to watch him was compelled to leave the room for a short time, and when he returned found Thompson had wrenched the shutters off his window and leaped out upon an awning and thence to the street. He was seen running toward the bay, and in all probability threw himself in and was drowned. Another case was that of a young woman who was caught in the storm, and with two other women and about fifty men and boys found refuge in an office. As the storm gradually subsided the young woman started for her home quite reassured. She found a wild waste of waters sweeping over the site of her home. Among the first victims carried into the temporary morgue were the young woman's mother, brother and two children. These were quickly followed by her brother's wife and her two sisters. The shock overthrew the girl's reason, and she became a nervous wreck, without a relative in the world. STORM REFUGEES PRECIPITATE A PANIC IN A CONVENT. The Ursuline convent and academy, in charge of the Sisters of St. Angelo, proved a haven of refuge for nearly 1,000 homeless and storm-driven unfortunates. No one was refused admittance to the sheltering institution. Negroes and whites were taken in without question and the asylum was thrown open to all who sought its protecting wings. In the midst of the storm the hundreds or more negroes grew wild and shouted and sang in true camp-meeting style until the nerves of the other refugees were shattered and a panic seemed imminent. It was then that Mother Superioress Joseph rang the chancel bell and caused a hush of the pandemonium. When quiet had been restored the mother addressed the negroes and told them that it was no time nor place for such scenes; that if they wanted to pray they should do so from their hearts, and the Creator of all things would hear their offerings above the roar of the hurricane, which raged with increased fury as she spoke to the awe-stricken assemblage. The negroes listened attentively and when the mother told them that all those who wished to be baptized and resign themselves to God could do so nearly every one asked that the sacrament be administered. The panic had been precipitated by the falling of the north wall of that section of the building in which the negroes had sought refuge. Order and silent prayer were brought about by the nun's determination and presence of mind. Families that had been separated by the conflict of elements were united by the waters of the gulf tossing them into this haven of refuge. Heart-moving scenes were presented by these unions as the half-dead, mangled and bruised unfortunates were rescued and dragged from the waters by the more fortunate members of their families. The academy was to have opened for the fall session on Tuesday and forty-two boarding scholars from all parts of the State had arrived at the convent, preparatory to resuming their studies on that date. The community of nuns comprised forty sisters, and they, too, were there administering cheer and mercy to the sufferers, many of whom were more dead than alive when brought into the shelter. Within this religious home and in the cells of the nuns four babies came into this world during that dark night. Mother Joseph, in speaking of the incidents of the night within the convent walls, said that she believed it was the first time in the history of the world that a baby had been born in the nuns' cell of a convent. They were christened, for no one expected to live to see the light of day, and it was voted that these babes should not leave the world they had just entered without baptism, and, regardless of the religious belief of the parents, the little ones were baptized. WASHED UP IN A TRUNK. Mrs. William Henry Haldeman was one of the mothers and whose new-born babe was christened William Henry. The experiences of this mother were horrible. Only a chapter was learned by a reporter, as told by Mother Joseph. Mrs. Haldeman was thrown on the mercies of the storm when her home went down and was swept away. The family had separated when they started to abandon their home to the greed of the storm. When Mrs. Haldeman was carried away on the roof of the wrecked cottage she lost all trace of the other members of the family, but never lost faith and courage. The roof struck some obstruction and the next instant Mrs. Haldeman was hurled from her improvised raft and landed in a trunk which was rocked on the waves. Cramped up in the trunk, the poor woman, suffering agonies, was protected to a limited extent and was afforded some warmth. On went the trunk, tossed high on the sea, bumping against driftwood until the crude bark was hurled against the Ursuline convent walls and was pulled into the building. The little babe was born a few hours later, and while the good sisters and some of the women in the building were attending to the mother and child another chapter in this family's history was being enacted just without the convent walls. In a tree in the convent yard a young man, a brother of Mrs. Haldeman, battled with the wind and waters while clinging fast to the limb of the tree which swayed and bowed to the wind. He knew not where he was. He could but merely discern the outlines of the academy building. While not knowing his chance of life or death he heard the plaintive cry of a child near by. Reaching out with one hand he caught the dress of a little tot, who, child-like, cried out, "Me swimming." The child had run the mill race buoyed by the force of the storm and had not had time to realize her peril. The young man in the tree was Mrs. Haldeman's brother, and the child which had come to him on the waves was Mrs. Haldeman's little girl. A few minutes afterward a rescuing party was sent out from the convent in response to cries for help and found the young man and his niece and brought him to the sheltering institution. The reunion of at least a part of the family followed a few minutes later. Dr. Truhart, chairman of the organization of physicians for the relief of the wounded and sick, states that there is absolutely no further necessity for trained nurses and physicians. SAVED AS BY A MIRACLE. Destitute save for a few personal effects carried in a small valise, and with nerves shattered by a week of horror, Mr. and Mrs. C. A. Prutsman, with their two daughters, 12 and 6 years old, reached Chicago Sunday morning, September 16, from the flood-swept district of Texas. "Yes, we were fortunate," said Mrs. Prutsman, as she leaned wearily back in a rocking chair and tenderly contemplated the two children at her side. "It seems to me just like an awful dream, and when I think of the hundreds and hundreds of children who were killed right before our very eyes, I feel as though I always ought to be satisfied no matter what comes." Mr. Prutsman said: "The reports from Galveston are not half as appalling as the situation really is. We left the fated city Wednesday afternoon, going by boat to Texas City, and by rail to Houston. The condition of Galveston at that time, while showing an improvement, was awful, and never shall I forget the terrible scenes that met our eyes as the boat on which we left steamed out of the harbor. There were bodies on all sides of us. In some places they were piled six and seven deep, and the stench was horrible. "I resided with my family at 718 Nineteenth street. This is fourteen blocks away from the beach, yet my house was swept away at 5 p. m. Saturday, and with it went everything we had in the world. Fifteen minutes before I took my wife and children to the courthouse and we were saved, along with about 1,000 others who sought refuge there. When we went through the streets the water was up to our arms and we carried the children on our heads. "I assisted for several days in the work of rescue. In one pile of debris we found a woman who seemed to have escaped the flood, but who was injured and pinned down so she could not escape. A guard came along, and, after failing to rescue her, deliberately shot her to end her misery. "The streets present a grewsome appearance. Every available wagon and vehicle in the city is being used to transport the dead, and it is no uncommon thing to see a load of bodies ten deep. The stench in the city is nauseating. Since the flood the only water that could be used for drinking purposes was in cisterns, and it has become tainted with the slime and filth that covers the city until it is little better than no water at all. "Since the city was placed under martial law conditions have been much better and there is little lawlessness. The soldiers have shown no quarter and have orders to shoot on sight. This has had a wonderful effect on the disreputable characters who have flocked into the city. "Everybody who remains in Galveston is made to work, and the punishment for a refusal is about the same as that meted out to ghouls. I saw four colored men shot in one day. There were confined in the hold of a steamer in the harbor six colored men who were found by the soldiers with a flour sack almost filled with fingers and ears on which were jewels. These men probably have been publicly executed before this time. "In the work of rescue we found whole families tied together with ropes, and in several instances mothers had their babes clasped in their arms. "Scores of unfortunates straggle into Houston every day and their condition is pitiable. Several have lost their reason. The citizens of Houston are doing all in their power to meet the demands of the sufferers, and every available building in the city has been converted into a hospital. When we arrived in Houston we scarcely had clothes enough to cover us and the citizens fitted us out and started us north. The fear of fever or some awful plague drove us from Galveston. "Already speculators are flocking into the city, and there is some activity among them over tax-title real estate. In several instances whole families were wiped out of existence, and the opportunities in this line seem to be great." CHAPTER XII. Serious Danger from Fire--Scarcity of Boats to Carry People to the Mainland--Laborers Imported into Galveston--Untold Sufferings on Bolivar Island--Experience of a Chicago Man. One of the serious dangers which Galveston faced for many days was fire. Not a drop of rain had fallen during the two weeks succeeding the hurricane, and the hot winds and blistering suns made the wrecked houses and buildings so much tinder, piled mountain high in every direction. In nearly all parts of the city the fire hydrants were buried fifty feet, in some places a hundred feet deep under the wreckage, and as yet the water supply at best was only of the most meager kind. Galveston's fire department was small and badly crippled and would have been utterly powerless to stay the flames should they once start. There was no relief nearer than Houston, and that was hours away. In view of all the then existing conditions it was no wonder that the cry was: "Get the women and children to the mainland; anywhere off the island," nor was it a wonder that with one small boat carrying only 300 passengers and making only two trips a day people fairly fought to be taken aboard. All during Sunday, September 16, fears were entertained by the authorities that even this service would be cut off and Galveston left without any means of getting to the mainland owing to the trouble with the owner of the boat. The sanitary conditions did not improve to any great extent. Dr. Trueheart, chairman of the committee in charge of caring for the sick and injured, was proceeding with dispatch. More physicians were needed, and he requested that about thirty outside physicians come to Galveston and work for at least a month, and, if needed, longer. The city's electric light service was completely destroyed and the city electrician said it would be sixty days before the business portion of the city could be lighted. A glorious and modern Galveston to be rebuilt in place of the old one, was the cry raised by the citizens, but it seemed a task beyond human power to ever remove the wreckage of the old city. The total number of people fed in the ten wards Saturday was 16,144. Sunday the number increased slightly. No accurate statement of the amount of supplies could be obtained as they were put in the general stock as soon as received. GALVESTON SCARED BY A FIRE. Galveston received another scare Sunday night, the 16th, when it became rumored that Houston, where all the relief trains were side-tracked, was burning with its precious supplies of food and clothing. The scare grew out of a $400,000 fire in Houston, which destroyed the Merchants and Planters' oil mill, the largest in the world. The fire broke out at noon, but was not observable until nightfall, when the glow in the sky could be seen for a great distance. Galveston was reassured by telegraph that a second southern Texas calamity was out of the question and that the relief supplies were safe. One feature of the efforts to relieve the people of Galveston was the delay in getting supplies to the island city. Trainload after trainload was in Houston, which would have assisted materially in the work of relief, but on account of the limited transportation facilities they could not be hurried there. There was but one track and it was of light rails and was used only for terminal business. Even if the supplies were at Texas City they could not be moved fast, as there were not enough boats of light draft at Galveston. Buffalo bayou could be used from Houston, but it was impossible to get the boats for the purpose. LABORERS IMPORTED INTO GALVESTON. The general committee of public safety at Galveston decided, on September 17, to import laborers. This action was taken with the consent of the local unions. Skilled mechanics had been busy burying the dead without pay, but were relieved of this work and replaced by imported unskilled labor. According to Dr. William W. Meloy of Chicago, who has investigated the health situation, there was no fever in Galveston September 17. "The water supply has been adequate," he said, "and is not liable to contamination. Nervous prostration, hysteria and mild dementia occur among the wealthy class, due to shock, exhaustion and grief. Among the poorer classes the use of spoiled food during the earlier part of the week has led to intestinal troubles. Several cases of heat prostration have occurred among the workmen. The danger from the unburied dead is mostly to the people who handle them." Major Frank M. Spencer arrived at Galveston on September 16 with $50,000 cash from Governor Sayers, to be expended in hastening the disposal of the debris and the burial of bodies. Major Spencer arrived too late to bank the money and for twenty-four hours it rested in the safe of the Tremont House, guarded by soldiers. Galveston passed the first Sunday following the disaster burying the dead and clearing away debris. General Scurry's order that all men able to work should labor to the limit of their strength was carried out to the letter. "We're thankful," said Mayor Jones on Monday, when told of the arrival of the Chicago relief train at Houston. "You can't make that statement too strong to the people of Chicago. We are thankful and thankful again. Chicago people are among the staunchest friends in the world in times like these. Yes, we'll build Galveston up again, and, like Chicago, we'll make it a better city than it was. We shall never forget the kindness of the people of Chicago in coming so generously to our relief, and we all thank them from the bottom of our hearts." A HELP IN GETTING RELIEF SUPPLIES TO THE NEEDY. Arrangements were completed by the Santa Fe road September 17 whereby it established a barge line to Galveston from Virginia Point. This helped somewhat in getting relief supplies from the mainland. Clara Barton, head of the Red Cross league, arrived at Galveston that day. Captain W. A. Hutchins, superintendent of the Galveston life-saving station, returned from a trip along the island and reported that he saw a great many bodies. He said the life-saving crew at San Luis had taken from the beach 181 bodies and buried them at different points along the island. UNTOLD SUFFERINGS OF A FAMILY ON BOLIVAR ISLAND. After suffering untold privations for over a week on Bolivar peninsula, an isolated neck of land extending into Galveston bay a few miles from the east end of Galveston island, the Rev. L. P. Davis, wife and five young children reached Houston September 17 famished, penniless and nearly naked, but overcome with amazement and joy at their miraculous delivery from what seemed to them certain death. Wind and water wrecked their home, annihilated their neighbors and destroyed every particle of food for miles around, yet they passed through the terrible days and nights raising their voices above the shriek of the wind in singing hymns and in prayer. And through it all not one member of the family was injured to the extent of even a scratch. When the hurricane struck the Rev. Mr. Davis' home at Patton beach the water rose so fast that it was pouring into the windows before the members of the family realized their danger. Rushing out Mr. Davis hitched his team and placing his wife and children into a wagon started for a place of safety. Before they had left his yard another family of refugees drove up to ask assistance, only to be upset by the waves before his very eyes. With difficulty the party was saved from drowning, and when safe in the Davis wagon were half floated, half drawn by the team to a grove. With clotheslines Mr. Davis lashed his 12 and 14 year old boys in a tree. One younger child he secured with the chain of his wagon, and lifting his wife into another tree he climbed beside her. While the hurricane raged above and a sea of water dashed wildly below, Mrs. Davis clung to her 6-month-old babe with one arm, while with the other she held fast to her precarious haven of refuge. The minister held a baby of 18 months in the same manner, and while the little one cried for food he prayed. In other trees the family he had rescued from drowning found a precarious footing. When the night had passed and the water receded, wreckage, dead animals and the corpses of parishioners surrounded the devoted party. There was nothing to eat, and, nearly dead with exhaustion, the preacher and his little flock set out on foot to seek assistance. They were too weak to continue far and sank down on the plain, while Mr. Davis pushed on alone. Five miles away a farmhouse was found, partially intact, and securing a team Davis returned for his half-dead party. For two days they remained at the home of the hospitable farmer and then set out afoot to find a hamlet or make their way over the desert-like peninsula to Bolivar Point. In the heat of the burning sun they plodded on along the water front, subsisting upon a steer which they killed and devoured raw, until finally they came upon an abandoned and overturned sailboat high on the beach. With a united effort they succeeded in launching the boat and with improvised distress signals displayed managed to sail to Galveston. There, because of red tape, they were unable to secure clothing, although they were given a little food and transportation to Houston. Clad in an old pair of trousers, a tattered shirt and torn shoes, with his family in even worse plight, the circuit rider of the Patton Beach, Johnston's Bethel, Bolivar Point and High Island Methodist churches rode into Houston, dirty, weak and half-starved. Here the family were sent to a hospital and cared for. They were sent to Dickinson, Tex., where they had relatives, who aided them until the Methodist church came to their relief. Bolivar reported that up to September 16, 220 bodies had been found and buried and many were still lying on the sands. Assistance was needed. It was a fact generally commented upon and merely emphasized by the clergyman's experience, that while succor was being rushed to Galveston other sufferers were neglected. The relief trains en route from Houston to Galveston traversed a storm-swept section where famishing and nearly naked survivors sat on the wrecks of their homes and hungrily watched tons of provisions whirling past them while there was little prospect of aid reaching them. MAN HAD HIS BROKEN NECK SET. One of the most difficult operations known to medical history, and a rarity, was performed by Drs. Johnson, Lucas and Ryon Monday morning, September 17, at a hospital in Houston. F. H. Wigzell, of Alvin, a suburban town not far from Galveston, was blown half a mile in his house and suffered dislocation of the cervical vertebræ. His head fell forward on his chest and he had no power to raise it. It was a plain case of broken neck and the physicians operated successfully. They placed the neck in a plaster cast and the man will live for years to come. MOST TERRIBLE WEEK OF HIS LIFE. L. F. Menage of Chicago, who returned from Galveston the Friday night succeeding the disaster, reached the Tremont Hotel, Galveston, the Friday evening before the terrible storm began. He said it had been the most terrible week in his experience; the most awful two days a man could imagine were the Sunday and Monday succeeding the hurricane. "One man would ask another how his family had come out," said Mr. Menage, "and the answer would be indifferent and hard--almost offish: 'Oh, all gone.' 'All gone' was the phrase on all sides. "The night before the disaster, when I reached the hotel, it was blowing rather hard, and the clerk said we were in for a storm, and I asked him if his roof was firmly fixed, and he said, 'Well, it won't be quite as bad as that,' but by the next night at the same time there was three feet of water in the rotunda and the skylight had fallen in and the servants' annex had been blown to pieces, and the place was crowded with refugees who arrived from all points of the city in boats. Saturday night there was little sleep, yet no one realized the extent of the disaster. "On Sunday morning one could walk on the higher streets, so quickly had the water gone down. I took a walk along the beach, and the place was one great litter of overturned houses, debris of all kinds and corpses. I met one woman who burst into tears at sight of a small rocker, her property mixed in among the wreckage. She had lost all her family in the flood. "People were for the most part bereft of their senses from the horror, and a single funeral would have seemed more terrible--more solemn--than a pile of cremated bodies. "The tales of looting are only too true, and as I passed northward in a sailboat on Tuesday I heard the shots ring out which told some ghoul was paying the penalty. Galveston will rise again on the old site, and without as much difficulty as is at present anticipated. Most of the people will, however, try and live on the mainland. At least 5,000 persons perished." THE FLOOD HORRORS DROVE THEM CRAZY. Three-fourths of the people who applied for relief were mentally dull. The physicians said with proper care most of them might be cured. A young girl was brought into the general relief station in Galveston on Friday night. The relief corps found her huddled up in an empty freight car, laughing and singing to amuse herself. The doctors said food and care were all she needed to restore her to reason. It was over a week after the flood before those from the outside really began to find out what the awful calamity was to the people in the desolated city. The first shock was wearing off, the long lists of dead and missing were getting to be an old story, and the sick and suffering were crawling into places of refuge. Some of them had been sleeping on the open prairies ever since the storm, most of them, in fact, men with broken arms and legs, sick women and ailing children. They would crawl out of the wreck of their homes and lie down on the bare ground to die. Relief parties found such as these every day and brought them into the hospitals as fast as possible. One relief party found 5,000 people in the vicinity of Galveston homeless, helpless, hopeless and tearless. It was a sight to cause a stone statue to weep. Monday, September 17, a man rode up to a hospital at Houston, and told the doctors he had just come from the Brazos bottoms. Said he: "The folks there are starving. There is not a pound of flour left and the children are crying for milk. There are so many sick people there that we don't know what to do. Can you send some one down?" The physician in charge said he would go at once. The man on horseback leaned over his saddle and tried to speak. Something in his face frightened me. I called to two doctors. They ran out and caught him. He was in a dead faint. When we had brought him to he laughed sheepishly. "I don't know what's the matter with me," he said. "Ain't never been taken this way before." The doctors looked at each other and smiled, but the nurses' eyes were full of tears. The man had not tasted food for thirty-six hours, and he had ridden fifty miles in the broiling Texas sun. More troops were called for on September 17 by Governor Sayers of Texas to relieve those on duty at Galveston who were worn out by their hard work. The response was prompt and hearty. CHAPTER XIII. Two Women Tell How They Were Affected at Galveston--One Arrived After the Catastrophe, While the Other Was in the Storm from Beginning to End. A woman--a newspaper correspondent, and the first of the fair sex from the outside to gain admittance to the Sealed City of Galveston--wrote a description of what she saw and heard there. She arrived in Galveston on Friday, and although she was on a relief train carrying doctors, nurses and medical supplies, she had hard work to get past the file of soldiers at the wharf, but she at last succeeded. Said she: "The engineer who brought our train down from Houston spent the night before groping around in the wrecks on the beach looking for his wife and three children. He found them, dug a rude grave in the sand and set up a little board marked with his name. "The man in front of me on the car had floated all Monday night with his wife and mother on a part of the roof of his little home. He told me that he kissed his wife good-by at midnight and told her that he could not hold on any longer; but he did hold on, dazed and half-conscious, until the day broke and showed him that he was alone on his piece of driftwood. He did not even know when the woman that he loved had died. "Every man on the train--there were no women there--had lost some one that he loved in the terrible disaster, and was going across the bay to try and find some trace of his family." As the train neared Texas City, near Galveston, a great flame leaped up, and she said to one of four men near her, "What a terrible fire! Some of the large buildings must be burning." She then went on to say: "A man who was passing on the deck behind my chair heard me. He stopped, put his hand on the bulwark and turned down and looked into my face, his face like the face of a dead man; but he laughed. "'Buildings!' he said. 'Don't you know what is burning over there? It is my wife and children--such little children! Why, the tallest was not as high as this'--he laid his hand on the bulwark--'and the little one was just learning to talk. "'She called my name the other day, and now they are burning over there--they and the mother who bore them. She was such a little, tender, delicate thing, always so easily frightened, and now she's out there all alone with the two babies, and they're burning.' "The man laughed again and began again to walk up and down the deck. "'That's right,' said the Marshal of the State of Texas, taking off his broad hat and letting the starlight shine on his strong face. 'That's right. We had to do it. We've burned over 1,000 people to-day, and to-morrow we shall burn as many more. "'Yesterday we stopped burying the bodies at sea; we had to give the men on the barges whisky to give them courage to do the work. They carried out hundreds of the dead at one time, men and women, negroes and white people, all piled up as high as the barge could stand it, and the men did not go out far enough to sea, and the bodies have begun drifting back again.' "'Look!' said the man who was walking the deck, touching my shoulder with his shaking hand. 'Look there!' "Before I had time to think I had to look, and saw floating in the water the body of an old woman, whose hair was shining in the starlight, A little farther on we saw a group of strange driftwood. "We looked closer and found it to be a mass of wooden slabs, with names and dates cut upon them, and floating on top of them were marble stones, two of them. "The graveyard, which has held the sleeping citizens of Galveston for many, many years, was giving up its dead. We pulled up at a little wharf in the hush of the starlight; there were no lights anywhere in the city except a few scattered lamps shining from a few desolate, half-destroyed houses. We picked our way up the street. The ground was slimy with the debris of the sea. "We climbed over wreckage and picked our way through heaps of rubbish. The terrible, sickening odor almost overcame us, and it was all that I could do to shut my teeth and get through the streets somehow. The soldiers were camping on the wharf front, lying stretched out on the wet sand, the hideous, hideous sand, stained and streaked in the starlight with dark and cruel blotches. They challenged us, but the marshal took us through under his protection. At every street corner there was a guard, and every guard wore a six-shooter strapped around his waist. "I went toward the heart of the city. I do not know what the names of the streets were or where I was going. I simply picked my way through masses of slime and rubbish which scar the beautiful wide streets of the once beautiful city. "They won't bear looking at, those piles of rubbish. There are things there that gripe the heart to see--a baby's shoe, for instance, a little red shoe, with a jaunty tasseled lace--a bit of a woman's dress and letters. "The stench from these piles of rubbish is almost overpowering. Down in the very heart of the city most of the dead bodies have been removed, but it will not do to walk far out. To-day I came upon a group of people in a by-street, a man and two women, colored. The man was big and muscular, one of the women was old and one was young. "They were dipping in a heap of rubbish and when they heard my footsteps the man turned an evil, glowering face upon me and the young woman hid something in the folds of her dress. Human ghouls, these, prowling in search of prey. "A moment later there was noise and excitement in the little narrow street, and I looked back and saw the negro running, with a crowd at his heels. The crowd caught him and would have killed him, but a policeman came up. "They tied his hands and took him through the streets with a whooping rabble at his heels. It goes hard with a man in Galveston caught looting the dead in these days. "A young man well known in the city shot and killed a negro who was cutting the ears from a living woman's head to get her ear rings out. The negro lay in the streets like a dead dog, and not even the members of his own race would give him the tribute of a kindly look. "The abomination of desolation reigns on every side. The big houses are dismantled, their roofs gone, windows broken, and the high water mark showing inconceivably high on the paint. The little houses are gone--either completely gone as if they were made of cards and a giant hand which was tired of playing with them had swept them all off the board and put them away, or they are lying in heaps of kindling wood covering no one knows what horrors beneath. "The main streets of the city are pitiful. Here and there a shop of some sort is left standing. South Fifth street looks like an old man's jaw, with one or two straggling teeth protruding. The merchants are taking their little stores of goods that have been left them and are spreading them out in the bright sunshine, trying to make some little husbanding of their small capital. The water rushed through the stores as it did through the houses, in an irresistible avalanche that carried all before it. The wonder is not that so little of Galveston is left standing, but that there is any of it at all. "Every street corner has its story, in its history of misery and human agony bravely endured. The eye-witnesses of a hundred deaths have talked to me and told me their heart-rendering stories, and not one of them has told of a cowardly death. "The women met their fate as did the men, bravely and for the most part with astonishing calmness. A woman told me that she and her husband went into the kitchen and climbed upon the kitchen table to get away from the waves, and that she knelt there and prayed. "As she prayed, the storm came in and carried the whole house away, and her husband with it, and yesterday she went out to the place where her husband had been, and there was nothing there but a little hole in the ground. "Her husband's body was found twisted in the branches of a tree, half a mile from the place where she last saw him. She recognized him by a locket he had around his neck--the locket she gave him before they were married. It had her picture and a lock of the baby's hair in it. The woman told me all this without a tear or a trace of emotion. No one cries here. "They will stand and tell the most hideous stories, stories that would turn the blood in the veins of a human machine cold with horror, without the quiver of an eyelid. A man sat in the telegraph office and told me how he had lost two Jersey cows and some chickens. "He went into minute particulars, told how his house was built and what it cost, and how it was strengthened and made firm against the weather. He told me how the storm had come and swept it all away, and how he had climbed over a mass of wabbling roofs and found a friend lying in the curve of a big roof, in the stoutest part of the tide, and how they two had grasped each other and what they said. "He told me just how much his cows cost and why he was so fond of them, and how hard he had tried to save them, but I said: 'You have saved yourself and your family; you ought not to complain.' "The man stared at me with blank, unseeing eyes. "'Why, I did not save my family,' he said. 'They were all drowned. I thought you knew that; I don't talk very much about it.' "The hideous horror of the whole thing has benumbed every one who saw it." ILLINOIS GIRL HAS A TRYING TIME IN THE RUINED CITY. Miss Alice Pixley, of Elgin, Ill., arrived at her home on Sunday, September 16, from Galveston, where she had a most trying time during the storm. She told her story in a wonderfully graphic way. "I had been in Galveston for about six weeks, visiting Miss Lulu George, who lives on Thirty-fifth street between N and N 1/2 streets. It was not until after the noon hour of Monday that we were frightened. Buildings had gone down as mere egg shells before that death-dealing wind. "About 1:30 o'clock I told Miss George that we must make our way to another building about half a block away. The water had risen over five feet in two hours, and as I hurried to the front door the wind tore down my hair and I was blinded for a time. "I turned my eyes to the west and for three long miles there was not a building standing, everything had been swept away. How we ever reached the two-story building a hundred yards away I do not know. We waded through the water and every few minutes we were carried off our feet and dashed against the floating debris. "The building we were trying to reach was a store and the foundation kept out the water. We hurried to the cellar and stayed there for several hours. At last the wind-swept waves found an opening and broke through the foundation and we had a mad run to escape the rushing, swirling waters. "We reached the first floor and I shrank into a corner, expecting every second to be carried out to my death. How it happened I can never tell, but this and one other building were the only ones left for blocks around. "As it was several people were killed in the building we occupied and the other house that was left standing. "After a time I felt faint from hunger and, while too weak from fright to seek food, I told Miss George that I would go into another room. I staggered along the floor until I reached a window, and fell, half fainting, through it. As I leaned there I witnessed sights that I pray God will never make another see. "Whirling by me, bodies, more than I could dare count, were crushed and mangled between a jumble of timbers and debris. Men, women and children went by, sinking, floating, dashing on I know not where. I wanted to close my eyes, but I could not. I cried aloud and made an attempt to go to my friends, but I was exhausted and all I could do was to watch the terrible scenes. "Babies, oh, such pretty little ones, too, were carried on and on, gowned in dainty clothing, their eyes open, staring in mute terror above. Thank Providence they were dead. "I was partly blinded by tears, but I could still see through the mist. Little arms seemed to stretch toward me asking assistance and there I lay, half prostrated, too weak to lend assistance. "How it all ended I know not. I must have fainted for I awakened with 'We are saved, Alice,' ringing in my ears. "When I found we could get out of the city I declared I would go at all costs. I thought of home and my parents and I wanted to telegraph, just like thousands of others, that I was safe. "It was days before we could get away, however, and then it was in a most terrible confusion. Eighty-eight persons crowded on a small boat and started for Houston. "The day we left the militia was out in all its force. I could hear the sharp report of a rifle and the wail of some soul as he paid the penalty for his thieving operations. "Later I saw the soldiers with their glistening rifles leveled at scores of men and saw them topple forward dead. Oh, they had to shoot those terrible beasts, for they were robbing the dead. They groveled in blood, it seemed. "I saw with my own eyes the fingers of women cut off by regular demons in the search for jewels. The soldiers came and killed them and it was well. HUMAN BODIES IN FIRE HEAP. "As we made our way toward the boat that was to take us from the City of Death I saw great clouds of smoke rising in the air. Upon the top of flaming boards thousands of bodies were being reduced to ashes. "It was best, for the odor that arose from the dead bodies was awful. Still it made one's heart ache with a sorrow never to be equaled as one witnessed little children tossed into the midst of the hissing flames. Do you wonder I cry? "Before me, no matter which way I turned, I could see dead bodies, their cold eyes gazing at me with staring intentness. I closed my eyes and stumbled forward, hoping I might escape for a moment the sight of dead bodies, but no; the moment I would open them again, right at my feet I would find the form of some poor creature. FULLY 10,000 ARE DEAD. "Coming to Chicago on the train I read the papers. They are mistaken, away wrong. They only say 5,000 dead. It will be more than 10,000. "I know I am right; every one in Galveston talks of 12,000, 15,000 and 18,000 dead, but it will be 10,000 at the very least. "I believe the worst sight I witnessed was the 2,800 bodies being carried out to sea and buried in the gulf. Huge barges were tied at the wharves and loaded with the unknown dead. As fast as one barge was filled it made its way out from the shore, and weighting the bodies, men cast them into the water. "Oh, those eyes," she cried, "that I might put them from my mind. I can see those little children, mere babies go floating by my place of refuge, dead, dead! God alone knows the suffering I went through. Thousands, yes thousands of poor souls were carried over the brink of death in the twinkling of an eye, and I saw it all." CHAPTER XIV. Twenty Thousand People Fed Every Day at a Cost of $40,000--Incidents at the Relief Stations--Applicants and Their Peculiarities--Great Mortality Among the Negroes. Twenty thousand people were fed and cared for daily in Galveston for many days with the supplies which poured in from all parts of the country. This number was cut at least one-half about October 1. The estimated cost of the aid extended after the first week of suffering was $40,000 a day. The great bulk of the aid went to the 4,000 men at work cleaning up the wreckage, digging for bodies and cleaning the streets. Through them it went to their families. No able-bodied laboring man was allowed to escape the work, whether he needed aid or not, though most of them did. The business men in position to resume were allowed to attend to their stores, and their clerical forces were not interfered with. On Tuesday, September 18, the debris-hunting and street-cleaning work was put upon a cash basis, the wages being $1.50. Time had been kept from the beginning, though the records were not complete. All were paid for the full time they worked. This applied to those who had to be made to work at the point of a bayonet as well as those who volunteered their services. This aid was given in the form of orders for tools for mechanics, lumber for those who had homes they wished to repair, etc. Heretofore practically every able-bodied man had been made to work, and unless he worked he got no supplies. The first few days' wages consisted entirely of rations, which were given according to the number and needs of the laborer's family, regardless of the amount of work he accomplished. Since other supplies began coming in they had been added. The work of distribution was conducted systematically and with an apparent minimum of imposition and fraud. There was a central committee, of which W. A. McVitie, a prominent business man, was chairman. Then there was a committee for each one of the twelve wards. As fast as goods or provisions arrived from the mainland they were placed in the central warehouse, from which the different ward chairmen requisitioned them, and they were taken to supply depots in the different wards. All day long there was a motley crowd around every one of these depots, negroes predominating at least two to one. Every applicant passed in review before the ward chairman. "Ah want a dress foh ma sistah," said a big negress. "You're 'Manda Jones, and you haven't any sister living here," replied the chairman. "Foh de Lord, ah has; ah ain't 'Mandy Jones at all; we done live on Avenue N before de storm, and we los' everything." "Go out with this woman and find out if she has a sister who needs a dress," ordered the chairman to a committeeman. In this way check was kept on all the applicants for aid. At the Fifth ward distributing station clothing was given away the evening of the 17th. A negro woman, who had been refused a supply, went outside and by way of revenge pointed out different ones of her friends and neighbors whom she alleged were similarly unentitled. "Dat woman done los' nuthin' at all," she shrieked. "Ah did not los' nuthin' mahself and doan wan' nuthin'." "What's the trouble?" asked a bystander. An old negress who was lined up waiting her turn replied. "Oh, she's mad 'cause de white folks won't give her nuthin'." So far no woman had been required to work, but a strong feeling developed to compel negro women to work cleaning up the houses. There were plenty of people who were willing to hire them, but as long as free food and clothing could be secured it was hard to get colored women to go in and clean up the partially ruined homes. "Our supply of foodstuffs is adequate," said Chairman McVitie, "but just now we are a little short of clothing. We have no idea of the contents of the cars on the road to us. Frequently we don't know anything is coming until the cars reach Texas City. With the money which has been coming in we have been augmenting our supplies by purchasing of local merchants in lines where there was a shortage. What do we need most? Money. If we have money we can order just what we need and probably get better value than the people who are buying it. Many people have made the mistake of sending money to Houston and Dallas and asking committees there to buy for us. They do not know just what we need, and if we had the money we could do better for ourselves. Money should be sent to us." One of the most remarkable things attending the Galveston disaster was the fortitude of the people. Their loss in relatives, friends and property had been so overwhelming that it seemed too much to be expressed with outward grief. Two men who had not seen each other since the disaster met in the street. "How many did you lose?" they asked by common impulse. "I lost all my property, but my wife and I came through all right." "I was not so fortunate. My wife and my little boy were both drowned." There was an expression of sympathy from the other, but nothing approaching a tear from either. "They are making good progress cleaning up," remarked the one whose losses were heaviest, with a pleasant smile. The other one made a light answer and they passed on. The people of Galveston had seen so much death that they were temporarily hardened to it. The announcement of the loss of another friend meant little to a man who had seen the dead bodies of his neighbors and towns-people hauled to the wharf by the drayload. No services were attempted for the dead until nearly a month had passed. Neither were there memorial services. The Rev. J. M. K. Kerwin, priest in charge of St. Mary's Catholic cathedral, said: "It was impossible. Priest and layman had to join in the work of cleaning the city of dead bodies. I don't expect there will be memorial services for a month." Father Kerwin's church was among the few which was comparatively little damaged. He set the value of Catholic property destroyed in the city at $300,000. Included in this loss was the Ursula convent and academy, which was badly damaged. It covered four blocks between Twenty-fifth and Twenty-seventh streets and Avenues N and O. It was the finest in the South. The city rapidly improved in its sanitary conditions. The smell from the ooze and mud with which most of the streets were filled was stronger ten days after the tragedy than that which came from the debris heaps containing undiscovered bodies. When these heaps were being burned and the wind carried the smoke over the city the odor was very similar to that which afflicts Chicago at night when refuse is being burned at the stock yards, and no worse. Soon even the odor of the slime was gone. Every dumpcart in the city was at work. Every Galveston business man talked confidently of the future of the city, though many of the clerks announced their intention of going away as soon as they can accumulate money enough. "I am not afraid of another storm," said a clerk in one of the principal stores. "But I'm sick and tired of the whole business." The Southwestern Telephone and Telegraph Company, which is a branch of the Erie system, early began to rebuild its telephone system there. "This will take us three months, and in the meantime we will give no service save long-distance," said D. McReynolds, superintendent of construction. "We will install a central emergency system the same as that in Chicago and put all wires under ground. We will employ 500 men if necessary to do the work in ninety days. The company's losses in Texas are $300,000--$200,000 here, $60,000 at Houston and the rest at other points." Residents were greatly pleased at this announcement, as it showed the confidence of a foreign company in the future of Galveston. FIFTEEN HUNDRED NEGROES PERISHED AT GALVESTON. William Guest, a Pullman car porter, returned to Chicago from the storm-stricken district Monday, September 17. He said: "I left Harrisburg night before last, and things then in the neighborhood were in a dreadful state. Galveston is about twenty miles distant, and the refugees were pouring in the direction of Houston in great numbers. Many well-to-do colored people have lost all they had. The Rev. W. H. Cain, a colored Episcopal minister, and his entire family were killed, and it was reported to me that Mrs. Cuney, the widow of Wright Cuney, was also lost, as well as a number of colored teachers employed in the public schools. At Houston relief committees have been organized." The Rev. Mr. Cain was well known in Chicago, having preached several times from the pulpit of the St. Thomas Episcopal church on Dearborn near Thirtieth street. Cyrus Field Adams, publisher of the Appeal, Chicago, received a letter from Galveston from W. H. Noble, Jr., saying that about 1,500 Afro-Americans lost their lives in the storm, and that fully 10,000 were homeless. Cooped up in a house that collapsed after being carried along by a deluge of water, John Elford, brother of A. B. Elford, No. 269 South Lincoln street, Chicago, his wife and little grandson, met death in the flood during the Galveston storm. Milton, son of John Elford, was in the building with the family at the time, and was the only one of the many occupants including fifteen women known to have escaped. A. B. Elford, bookkeeper for A. M. Foster & Co., No. 120 Lake street, was dumfounded when he received the first information of the disaster, for he had no idea of his brother being in Texas. John Elford was a retired farmer and merchant of Langdon, N. D. He had taken his family on a trip to old and New Mexico. On September 17 Mr. Elford received the following letter from Langdon, N. D.: "We have just received a letter from Milton. Father, mother, Dwight and Milton went to Galveston from Mineral Springs, Tex., where they had previously been stopping. They were so delighted with Galveston on reaching there that they sold their return tickets and decided to remain about two months. They were at first in a house near the beach, but moved farther away and to a larger and stronger house when the water began to rise. "All at once the water came down the street bringing houses and debris. They started to build a raft, but before it could be got together the house started to float. It had gone but a short distance when it went to pieces. Milton was struck with something and knocked out into the water. He came up, caught a timber and climbed to a roof, and thus managed to make his escape. He saw no one escape from the building as it collapsed. We do not believe the bodies have yet been recovered. "We have wired for more definite news regarding the bodies, but have heard nothing more. "EDGAR ELFORD." Dwight Elford, one of the drowned, was only five years old. He was the son of George Elford of Langdon. THE TAIL-END OF THE WEST INDIAN HURRICANE. On September 18 a tropical cyclone was central near these islands. The storm set in Monday morning, September 17, and was raging with increased severity the next day. Heavy cyclone rollers were sweeping in upon the coast and a strong northeast gale was blowing. All of the telegraph wires were blown down. Southeast rollers began to wash the shores Sunday, but the barometer continued high. During the night, however, it commenced falling, showing 29.91 inches. At 7 o'clock in the morning the wind was rising. By noon it had reached gale force from the northeast and rain was falling. The barometer then recorded 29.71 inches. The storm continued to increase during the afternoon, and at 4 o'clock the wind was blowing more than sixty miles an hour, carrying away the telegraph wires. Heavy seas were rushing in upon the coast. The barometer continued to fall, recording only 29.32 inches, but the wind veered to the north, although it was still blowing with some violence. A correspondent at St. John's, N. F., telegraphed as follows the same day: "From all quarters of Newfoundland come reports of devastation wrought by the gale of last Wednesday and Thursday, the outcome of the Texas hurricane sweeping north. So far sixty-five schooners are reported ashore or foundered, over 100 more being damaged. "Thirty-one lives have been reported lost so far. This small list of fatalities is due to the fact that most of the vessels have been in harbor latterly, as the fishing was poor. Several vessels are still missing, however, and it is feared the death roll may be enlarged. Labrador has suffered severely, fishing craft having been driven on the rocks by the shore, which fact, added to the bad fishing season, makes the condition of the coast folk pitiable in the extreme. "In Belle Isle strait the whole of the fishing premises has been destroyed. On the French shore over fifty vessels have been battered, ten being a total loss. The steamer Francis has been wrecked at St. George's. The bark Mary Hendry anthracite laden from New York is dismasted and derelict off St. Mary's. "On the Grand Banks the gale raged with the greatest fury. "Twenty-four men from Provincetown fishing schooner Willie McKay were landed at Bay Bulls Monday morning, their ship having foundered from buffeting in the storm Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. The men drifted about on the sinking hulk, without food, water or shelter, and only by incessant pumping kept her afloat. "The seas were constantly sweeping the decks and the entire crew were lashed about the rigging or bulwarks. They were ultimately rescued by the schooner Talisman of Gloucester, which landed them. One man perished from the exposure. The crew say the storm must have done awful damage on the banks. It seems certain many vessels could not escape the disaster when theirs, the finest of the fleet, succumbed." CLARA BARTON'S VIEW OF THE SITUATION. Miss Clara Barton, head of the Red Cross Society, wrote of the situation at Galveston on September 18: "It would be difficult to exaggerate the awful scene that meets the visitors everywhere. The situation could not be exaggerated. Probably the loss of life will exceed any estimate that has been made. "In those parts of the city where destruction was the greatest there still must be hundreds of bodies under the debris. At the end of the island first struck by the storm, and which was swept clean of every vestige of the splendid residences that covered it, the ruin is inclosed by a towering wall of debris, under which many bodies are buried. The removal of this has scarcely even begun. "The story that will be told when this mountain of ruins is removed may multiply the horrors of the fearful situation. As usual in great calamities, the people are dazed and speak of their losses with an unnatural calmness that would astonish those who do not understand it. [Illustration: DESTRUCTION OF HOMES BY THE GALVESTON STORM] [Illustration: GALVESTON SUFFERERS AFLOAT ALL NIGHT] [Illustration: BODIES OF THE DEAD ALONG THE SHORE AFTER THE GALVESTON STORM] [Illustration: A DESPERATE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE IN THE GALVESTON STORM] [Illustration: A HERO SAVING HIS WIFE AND MOTHER IN THE STORM] [Illustration: THE WATER FROM THE GULF DESTROYING GALVESTON] [Illustration: GALVESTON NEW COURT HOUSE, BUILT 1899] [Illustration: LOCOMOTIVE AND TRAIN DASHED INTO FRAGMENTS BY TEXAS STORM, GALVESTON] [Illustration: CHILDREN THAT WERE NOT HURT BY THE STORM] [Illustration: BURNING THE BODIES OF GALVESTON VICTIMS] [Illustration: JESUIT COLLEGE AND CHURCH, GALVESTON] [Illustration: SHOOTING VANDALS AT WORK ON THE DEAD BODIES IN GALVESTON AFTER THE DISASTER] [Illustration: EXODUS FROM GALVESTON] [Illustration: A SURVIVOR'S DREAM OF THE AWFUL GALVESTON NIGHT] [Illustration: HEROIC MEN TRYING TO SAVE WOMEN AND CHILDREN IN THE GALVESTON STORM] [Illustration: SURVIVORS INSANE OVER THE LOSS OF HOMES AND DEAR ONES] "I do believe there is danger of an epidemic. But the nervous strain upon the people, as they come to realize their condition, may be nearly as fatal. They talk of friends that are gone with tearless eyes, making no allusion to the loss of property. "A professional gentleman who called upon me this afternoon, a gentleman of splendid human sympathies and refinement, wore a soiled black flannel shirt, without a coat, and in apologizing for his appearance said in the most casual, light-hearted way: 'Excuse my appearance; I have just come in from burying the dead.' "But these people will break down under this strain, and the Red Cross is glad of the force of strong, competent workers which it has brought to their relief. "Portions of the business part of the city escaped the greatest severity of the storm and are left partially intact. Thus it is possible to purchase here nearly all the supplies that may be wanting. Still, the Galveston merchants should be given the benefit of home demands. "Mayor Jones has offered to the Red Cross as headquarters the best building at his disposal. "Relief is coming as rapidly as the crippled transportation facilities will admit. No one need fear, after seeing the brave and manly way in which these people are helping themselves, that too much outside aid will be given. "In reply to the question, 'What is most needed?' I would say: The most immediate needs are surgical dressings, the ordinary medical remedies, and delicacies for the sick." THEY READ THEIR OWN OBITUARIES. Reported dead several times, their obituaries printed in Galveston and Houston papers, Peter Boss, wife and son, formerly of Chicago, were found on the afternoon of September 18, after having passed through a most thrilling experience. Mr. and Mrs. Boss were the persons in search of whom Mrs. M. C. McDonald, No. 4501 Drexel boulevard, Chicago, went to Houston. Mrs. Boss' story of her experience in the disaster was a thrilling one. With her husband and son she was seated at supper in her home on Twelfth street when the storm broke. She seized a handkerchief containing $2,000 from a bureau, and, placing it in her bosom, went with her husband and son to the second story. There they remained until the water reached them and they leaped into the darkness and the storm. They alighted on a wooden cistern upon which they rode the entire night, clinging with one hand to the top of the cistern. Several times Mrs. Boss lost her hold, and fell backward into the water only to be drawn up again by her son. Timbers crashed against their queer boat, people on all sides of them were crushed to death or drawn into the whirling waters, but with grim perseverance the Boss family held on and rode the night out. Mrs. Boss was pushed off the cistern several times by her excited husband, but young Boss' presence of mind always saved her. With her feet crushed and bleeding, her clothing torn from her body and nearly exhausted, the woman was finally taken from her perilous position several hours after the hurricane started. Her companions were without clothing and were delirious. They were the only persons saved in the entire block in which they lived. They were taken to emergency hospitals, where they all tossed in delirium until Sunday. Mrs. Boss lost her money, and the family, wealthy a week before, was penniless. They had to appeal to the city authorities for aid, and got but little. TERRIBLE SCENES WITNESSED AT HOUSTON. The terrible scenes and happenings in Houston, Tex., the great amount of damage done and the intense suffering of the people there as a result of the recent storm were vividly portrayed in a letter from Walter Scott of that city to his sister in Chicago, received September 15. "Much has been written about the damage done to Galveston," Mr. Scott wrote, "and I suppose things there are so terrible that little thought is given to other places. But right here in this city the damage is so great that one would not believe even time could repair it. Furthermore, the suffering here is indeed the greatest I ever heard of. Thousands of refugees are here from Galveston and other places and the city is being taxed to the limit to find places for all of them. "Wednesday morning the first contingent arrived. There were about eight hundred, and a more forlorn, dejected and suffering lot of people never were brought together. The sick were cared for in hospitals and private homes, and the greater number of the others were assigned to places. But they apparently could not quiet themselves unless so fatigued and weak from loss of sleep and want of food that they practically fell down exhausted. "They roamed the streets with scarcely any clothing on them, men, women and children; all were hollow-eyed and sunken-cheeked and on the verge of despair. It is terrible to realize how many families have been broken up. "I have listened to harrowing tales until I am actually sick. The newspaper reports have not been exaggerated one iota. There is really nothing one can say which will express the situation. When I arrived at home from New Orleans at 10:30 o'clock Sunday night there wasn't a light in the city. Everything was in total darkness. It had been reported on the train that 7,000 lives had been lost at Galveston, but this we believed to be a gross exaggeration. "But I have changed my mind. I think now it is a conservative figure. I groped my way through the darkness, stumbling over piles of debris, to my boarding place, and after no little difficulty succeeded in reaching my room. Upon lighting a match I found the place denuded of everything; the paper was stripped from the ceiling and was hanging in shreds from the walls. It was damp and cold. My landlady, hearing me, soon came in, and standing there in the darkness she gave me a harrowing account of what they passed through, the details of which the newspapers already have described. All the other people in the house had gone elsewhere, and she, her husband and myself were alone in the house. "That night I slept in a fairly dry bed in a tolerably dry room, but all the windows in the house had been blown out, and the building was so damp and cold that we were almost afraid to sleep there. Some of the rooms in the lower part of the building were still flooded. There wasn't a room in the entire house that had not been damaged, and the servants' house in the yard was almost completely wrecked. The ruins were toppled over and leaning against our next-door neighbor's house. "There is scarcely a structure in Houston which escaped the fury of the storm. With the exception of the First Presbyterian, every church lost its steeple, and all were damaged to some extent. The streets for two or three days and even longer afterward were filled with debris--telephone and telegraph poles and wires, huge piles of bricks and timber, tin roofs and all kinds of miscellaneous things, such as furniture, trees, etc. "At Seabrook, a little seaside resort near here, only two homes were left standing." Walter S. Keenan, general passenger agent of the Gulf, Colorado and Santa Fe Railroad, arrived in Chicago September 17 from Galveston. He was in the general office, which is connected with the Union station at Galveston, during the great storm and escaped without injury. He said the accounts of the Galveston disaster were in no way exaggerated. The debris, in some of the streets, he declared, was thirty feet high. He went to his office in the station Saturday morning and was compelled to remain there until Sunday afternoon without a bite to eat. CHAPTER XV. Total Dead and Missing at Galveston and Vicinity, 8,661--Five Million Dollars in Relief Necessary to Carry the Survivors Through the Fall and Winter to Spring. It was given out from Galveston on Tuesday, September 20, that so far as could be ascertained on that date, the loss of life in the great catastrophe was as follows: Identified 4,754 Unidentified (recovered) 300 Missing 2,000 ------ Total 7,054 Dead in Central and Southern Texas 1,044 High Island 563 ------ Total 1,607 This makes the grand total of dead 8,661. The horrifying news reached Dallas late on the afternoon of September 18 that High Island, a seaside resort thirty miles northeast of Galveston, near the gulf shore and in the southwestern corner of Jefferson county, Tex., was entirely destroyed by the hurricane of the 8th inst. The place had about 1,000 residents, many of them visitors. Not a house was left standing and more than 400 dead bodies were found by relief and exploring parties. General Manager Spangler, of the Gulf and Interstate Railway, also received information on that date that more than thirty miles of that road had been entirely destroyed between Bolivar Point and High Island. After looking over the situation carefully, the decision was arrived at, ten days succeeding the tragedy, that to put Galveston on her feet would require $5,000,000. Such was the opinion of Congressman Hawley, one of the city's representative business men. This did not mean that the sum mentioned would come anywhere near restoring the city to the condition before the storm. Far from it. Mr. Hawley did not so intend to be understood. He was asked: "What measure of relief will burn your dead, clean and purify your streets and public places, feed and clothe the living, and place your people where they can be self-sustaining and on the way to regain what has been lost?" His reply was: "It will take $5,000,000 to relieve Galveston from the distress of the storm. At least that sum will be needed to dispose of the dead, to remove the ruins, and to do what is right for the living. I think that we should not only feed and clothe, but that we ought to have some means to help people who have lost everything to make a start toward the restoration of their homes. To do this will require every dollar of $5,000,000." There were then on the scene more nurses and physicians than required. The injured were recovering rapidly from their hurts, which were largely superficial. Many men and women were suffering from severe nervous shock and found it impossible to sleep. Food was coming in by boatload and carload faster than it could be handled, in such generous quantities that no further doubts were entertained about supplies. Estimates of the number dependent upon the relief committees varied. Mayor Jones made it about 8,000, while other authorities put the number as high as 15,000. In the business center the streets had been cleaned and opened. All buildings still showed marks of wind and water, but goods were displayed and business was being transacted. The city was gradually assuming the bustling ante-flood appearance. The principal streets were electrically lighted. Stenches no longer assailed the nostrils, except in the outside circle of destruction, where much debris still remained untouched. Cremation of the dead was being pushed, but it was many days before the working parties got out the last of the bodies. The whole twenty-two miles' length of the island was submerged. The horrors of the western portion beyond the city limits were just being learned at San Luis. One hundred and eighty-one bodies were buried on September 17. Between twenty and thirty bodies were counted among the piles of the railroad bridge between the island and Virginia Point. In Kinkead's addition about 100 were lost, eighteen in one house. The farther the men worked in the Denver reservoir section the more numerous were the dead. Fires were burning every 300 feet on the beach and along many of the streets. Mayor Walter C. Jones made a statement on that day of conditions and needs of Galveston people, basing his conclusions on the most reliable information which has come to him. Mayor Jones' statement was as follows: "It is almost impossible to speak definitely as yet of the needs of our people. We are broke, the majority of us. Galveston must have suffered, in my estimation, based upon all of the reports I have, $20,000,000. We now need money more than anything. "From the advices I have received I believe the shipments of disinfectants and food supplies now on the way will be sufficient to meet the immediate wants. By the time these are used we shall have regained our transportation facilities and stocks of everything, so that we can use money more advantageously. "It is impossible to state just how much money has reached us. We have received from the Governor, at Austin, $100,000 in cash. That is from the general fund. Special contributions have come through the Chamber of Commerce, the Cotton Exchange and several other channels. We have between 1,500 and 3,000 men at work searching for bodies, clearing the streets and burning debris. Of this work, which ought to be done as fast as possible in the interest of the living, there is enough to keep 3,000 employed for forty days, although I believe we shall have the principal streets clear in ten days or two weeks. "I hesitate to say how much it will take to put Galveston where her people can care for themselves. Certainly $5,000,000 will be a moderate estimate. There is not a building but is damaged, not a house of those left standing but will have to be re-roofed, and few that will not need to be straightened on their foundations. If Galveston could get $10,000,000 it would be used judiciously to enable the people to become self-sustaining. "It is true Galveston is represented as being one of the wealthiest cities of the country. But our rich people had everything here and are crippled. The people of moderate means, who had homes and worked on salaries are, with scarcely an exception, ruined. The class dependent upon labor must be furnished something to do for wages or must suffer. "Dr. Lord and others, who have been among the people more than I have, say there are 8,000 helpless who must be fed and clothed and carried along for some time to come, even after what might be called immediate needs have been met. "There is no contagious disease and we do not anticipate any. But many are suffering from shock and exposure and from injuries received among the ruins. The City of Galveston, I am convinced, lost fully 5,000 persons. Down the island, outside of the city limits, were scattered between 2,000 and 3,000 persons. From the reports slowly coming in it appears that most of these people lost their lives. The island in the sparsely settled parts seems to have been swept clean of habitations." The most motley crowd of United States regulars ever seen at attention lined up before Captain Rafferty the second Monday after the calamity. Battery O, First United States Artillery, the organization, was battered Battery O. No two men were dressed alike. Parts of uniforms and clothes which bore no semblance to any uniform were barely sufficient to cover nakedness, and in some cases there were bad rents, which showed the bare anatomy on dress parade. Battery O came out of the storm with a loss of 28 out of 190 men, a loss seldom sustained in battle. One of these regulars floated fifty-two miles on a door, another was carried on an outhouse across the island and then across Galveston Bay. The survivors had been barracked in a shattered church since the Sunday after the storm. They were sent to San Antonio to be outfitted and armed. The officers and men lost everything and had to get clothes to cover them. James Stewart, of St. Louis, had undertaken to see that Captain Benton Kennedy's boys did not suffer. It was believed the grain men of St. Louis would take a personal interest in this case. Captain Kennedy came to Galveston from St. Louis, Mo., where he was well known. He was superintendent of Elevator A. His family consisted of his wife, three boys and two girls. In August Captain Kennedy bought a nice home and moved into it. When the storm made the house no longer safe he placed Henry and Edwin, little fellows of 15 and 9, on a raft at the door and went back for the others. The raft was carried half a mile and the boys were rescued. Captain Kennedy and Mrs. Kennedy and the sisters and one brother were lost. Adjutant-General Thomas Scurry said Monday evening, September 17: "In my opinion the situation is rapidly growing better; the people found themselves dazed and shattered as a result of the storm. While there was an abundance of energy remaining, as might have been naturally expected, a vast amount of it was not concentrated. It has been the policy of this office to concentrate energies. These efforts have been most gratifying. We have a large number of men, possibly 2,000, at work. "What is most needed for Galveston now is money. Thousands of persons who owned their little homes have had them destroyed. They are now dependent upon the generosity of the outside world and upon the Relief Committee to prepare for the rigors of winter and to refurnish their homes with necessities. No man who has not been an eye-witness to the desolation which has swept over this city can have the faintest conception of what it means. "Galveston lies on an island about a mile wide from north to south, the city covering about six miles of this east and west. Along the southern side for a distance of two to five blocks every house has been absolutely demolished. Such of these unfortunates as were not drowned are now penniless." AN EYE-WITNESS TELLS OF THE STORM. A graphic description of the storm was that given by R. L. Johnson, a prominent citizen of Galveston. He said: "I reached home after wading in water to my neck and made immediate preparations to take my wife and three children where I felt their safety would be assured. The water began to rise so rapidly that in fifteen minutes we were driven to the second floor, and it was then impossible to leave the house. At this time Neighbor Kell's house, adjoining mine, went down with husband, wife and children. Then down Avenue S came two small cottages, which struck a telegraph pole and stopped directly in front of my house. I heard children crying and women screaming. The words, 'O God, save me,' I can still hear ringing in my ears. "Another cottage came sweeping by and carried away the gallery of my house. The Artigan, Henman and Pennings houses, carrying eighteen persons, floated by and I could see the struggling forms in the water. "I was expecting it was our turn next. I kissed my wife and children good-by, and as I did so my eldest boy, a lad of 15, said: 'Father, it is not our time to die.' Then came the piercing scream of a woman, followed by a crash, and another house turned over on its side and was driven past by the wind and flood. "The current was running like a mill race. The water was already on our second floor, and the waves kept knocking us about until we were completely exhausted. Then the wind went, and the water began to fall. I looked about and could not see a house for two blocks; there was nothing but a flood of water in every direction. In the morning we found our house had been moved about ten feet and deposited upon the sand." GALVESTON AGAIN MADE A PORT. "Issue bills of lading to Galveston and through Galveston to other points." On September 17, up and down the International and Great Northern, the Missouri, Kansas and Texas, the Santa Fe and their connections the wires were carrying the official information that Galveston would be a terminal, a sure enough port, as soon as the traffic could reach there. The Vice-Presidents and General Managers and General Agents had mastered the railroad wreck, they had set the time for the running of the first train into Galveston, and that time was Friday, September 21. By that date, according to the engineers, the temporary bridge would be ready for use. It was ready to the minute. The news that the roads had declared readiness to accept freight for Galveston and through Galveston was received by business men as tidings of great joy. It added greatly to the improvement of spirit. For several days after the storm the prediction was that no trains would enter Galveston under thirty days and that the time might be sixty days. Equally exhilarating with the action of the railroad men was the action taken by Secretary Bailey, of the Wharf Company, that exportation of wheat would be resumed to-morrow morning. The machinery of Elevator A was started up and was successful. Monday afternoon the wharf was cleared. A steamship was brought under the spout and loaded. James Stewart, Mr. Orthwein and other St. Louis grain men said almost the entire stock of wheat would be saved. The number of persons who left Galveston up to September 17, it was stated at relief headquarters, was over 8,000, of whom about 5,000 were then in Houston being cared for. Others had gone on into the interior of the State or to other States. The number coming up on the trains showed no falling off. New arrangements made at Galveston enabled people to get out without so much red tape and they took advantage of the opportunity to do so. Governor Sayers had now taken charge of the relief work here at all points, and money was being given out where needed, more than provisions and clothing. SWELLING THE RELIEF FUND. On September 18 Chicago had raised over $100,000 for the Galveston sufferers; New York nearly $300,000; St. Louis nearly $70,000, and other cities the following amounts: Boston $32,700 Philadelphia 28,320 Pittsburg 27,108 New Orleans 26,100 San Francisco 18,000 Kansas City 17,000 Louisville 14,000 Milwaukee 14,046 Baltimore 15,000 Denver 13,000 Minneapolis 12,000 Newark, N. J. 12,000 Cleveland 9,345 Memphis 9,123 Cincinnati 9,000 Colorado Springs 7,200 St. Paul 7,000 Topeka, Kan. 5,438 Charleston, S. C. 6,000 Omaha, Neb. 6,212 Los Angeles 5,184 Detroit, Mich. 5,190 Indianapolis 4,000 Helena, Mont. 4,108 Johnstown, Pa. 3,000 Columbus, Ohio 3,100 South Bend, Ind. 1,985 Springfield, Ill. 2,000 Portland, Ore. 2,100 Lexington, Ky. 2,098 The United States embassy at Berlin, Germany, cabled $500 to Governor Sayers on September 17. General J. B. Vinet, president of the Red Cross Society, State of Louisiana, New Orleans, received on Tuesday morning, September 18, a telegram from Miss Clara Barton, who was at Galveston, as follows: "Find greatest immediate needs here are surgical dressings, usual medicines and delicacies for the sick. No epidemic, but many people are worn out with suffering and exertion who need tender care and proper food. "CLARA BARTON." Building material was needed at Galveston but its delivery was necessarily slow, owing to the lack of rail communication with the mainland. There were still many pitiable cases of destitution. Many half-demented persons positively refused to leave their wrecked homes and as persistently refused to accept offers of relief extended them. In several instances parents who had lost children still occupied ruins of their former home and the surroundings had brought them to a state of mental and physical collapse. The number who had gone insane as a result of their experiences will probably never be known. In every lot of refugees sent out of the stricken city there were many insane men and women. The victims first made light of their losses, and laughed immoderately when telling of the death of relatives in the flood. It was a very short step from this to uncontrollable madness. The state militia companies did splendid work in patrolling the city after the storm, and many of the men were of the belief that they should be allowed to return to their homes and troops sent from other parts of the state to fill their places. The fears of an epidemic were allayed by the presence and the distribution of medicines and disinfectants and therefore a feature which would undoubtedly have had the effect of causing many to seek succor elsewhere, was eliminated from the situation. GOVERNOR SAYERS SENDS HIS THANKS. Governor Sayers, of Texas, sent out the following expression of thanks on behalf of the sufferers in Galveston and as the representative of the people of his state: "In behalf of the people of Texas I desire to express my acknowledgment to the people of the United States for the ready and generous response they have made in coming to the aid of our afflicted people. The number of deaths, the amount of destitution, and the loss of property is far greater than had been anticipated. "The Secretary of the Navy has placed the revenue cutter Galveston at my disposal, and I have in turn placed it at the disposal of the mayor of Galveston. The addition of this cutter to the boats already loaned by the Federal government will give us five boats at Galveston to handle supplies and passengers to and from the mainland, and I anticipate that their presence there will relieve the situation materially. "The city authorities at Galveston are in full control, and every effort is being made to bury the dead, to remove the debris, and to sanitate the city. Contributions of the most liberal character are reaching me, and I shall see that the money is used to the best advantage for the sufferers and that there shall be no waste of the magnificent contributions coming from the free hands and generous hearts of a sympathetic people." No idea could possibly be formed as to the frightful crush of railroad trains bearing relief supplies in and around Houston and Texas City, the latter being but six miles from Galveston, but separated from it by a stretch of water. Owing to the small number of vessels plying between Texas City and Galveston the shipment of supplies to the latter was necessarily aggravatingly slow. GREWSOME SCENES AND HARROWING INCIDENTS. Grewsome scenes and soul-harrowing incidents of the time immediately following the great gale in Galveston were graphically portrayed in a letter from a young woman caught on the island in the awful storm. It was written by Miss Nellie Cary to her parents, who live at 5408 Lake avenue, Chicago. Miss Cary had been home on a vacation for several weeks and left Chicago for Galveston the Tuesday evening before the hurricane, reaching the doomed city just in time to participate in the terrible experience. Her letter follows: "Galveston, Wednesday, September 12.--Dearest Parents: Have not had a minute to write and cannot collect my thoughts to tell you of the horrible disaster down here. Thousands of dead in the streets--the gulf and bay strewn with dead bodies. The whole island demolished. Not a drop of water--food scarce. If help does not reach us soon there will be great starvation for everybody. "The dead are not being identified at all--they throw them on drays and take them to barges, where they are loaded like cordwood, and taken out to sea to be cast into the waves, now peaceful, which were so hungry for them in their anger. "I was at the wharf this morning for a short time and saw three barges loaded with their grewsome freight. The bodies are frightful, every one nearly nude. God alone knows who they are. "The bay is full of dead cattle and horses, together with human corpses, blistering in the hot sun. It will be impossible to remove the dead from the debris for weeks--the whole island is frightful. I saw thirty-eight bodies taken from one house. Every one is striving to get the bodies buried for fear of the plague. "I never expected to get out alive, but thank God, not one of us was killed. We were driven back to the stairs, and up, stair by stair, by the great waves. The wind was blowing over a hundred miles an hour, and the rain fell in torrents. Never shall I forget the sight as darkness settled upon us. I thought of you, papa and mamma, and prayed that you might be comforted. Our roof is now gone, the walls have fallen around us, but we still have a floor and--I can't tell you, it is too horrible. "I was nearly drowned getting home from the office at 4 o'clock Saturday afternoon. Mrs. Whitman is almost crazy and is in a dangerous condition. I have lost everything; am now wearing clothes borrowed from those who were more fortunate. The stench is terrible. "Thousands of horses and cattle without owners are in the most pitiable condition imaginable; not a drop of water for them to drink since Saturday morning. And the people--I wonder that everybody is not mad at the horrors. No account can exaggerate it. It is absolutely necessary that everybody in the United States do what they can. "Nearly all our help at Clark & Courts are drowned--Mr. Hansinger, his whole family, our other bookkeeper and a number of the girls. The town is under martial law to protect it from the mob. Last night a negro was arrested with ten fingers in his pockets, with valuable rings on them. Mr. Fayling, at our house, is in command of the protective force. They have had to shoot many to keep the horrible ghouls in control. Eddie Rogers is next in command, and is doing noble work. I have done what I could to help the dying and wounded. COMPLETE RUIN FOR MILES. "We were on the highest point of ground in Galveston. That is all that saved us. For blocks and blocks, reaching into miles, not a house remains; not a building but is completely demolished--houses just torn board from board and piled up. I have climbed over wreckage forty feet high in the streets to get to places. I think we were more fortunate than any one else in town. I think not one was killed, though our escape was narrow. With the exception of Mrs. Whitman all were calm, though I reckon everybody quaked inside--I know I did. "Thursday.--Am well. Had something to eat this morning, and a little rainwater. Coffee is plenty, but water scarce. To-day the flesh slips off the bodies as they take hold to drag them from the ruins. They are piling them in great heaps now and burning them. The horrors multiply. I have seen men shot down in the streets by the soldiers. The stench is untold. Last night the awful smell kept us awake although we were utterly exhausted. It fills your throat and mouth, and makes your head ache so. COMPARATIVELY FEW CHILDREN LEFT. "The horrible experiences it will take years to tell and more than a lifetime to forget. If you could be here you would feel that your anxiety was nothing. It is so pitiable to see husbands, with a look of despair in their eyes, searching for their wives and children; wives for their loved ones; and, most pitiable of all, the comparatively few children--although they are enough, God knows, to be left orphans and homeless--looking into every one's face with frightened, appealing eyes. It is heartrending. "Now I am much better off. I am safe, so please don't worry. I hope to hear from you soon. "Best love and kisses to both from "NELLIE." CHAPTER XVI. Galveston's Inhabitants Refuse to Heed the Lessons Taught by their Experiences--Carelessness in Failing to Provide Against the Recurrence of Catastrophes. Although Galveston had been struck three times with floods and hurricanes even this experience was not enough to convince the residents that it might happen again. Only a few of the more cautious had any idea after the last disaster of taking steps to prevent its repetition. Asked if anything would be done to make future floods impossible they might probably quote the old saw: "Lightning never strikes in the same place twice," and seem to think that settled it. In the next sentence they would compare the damage done in the floods of 1875 and 1886 with this latest disaster. "No," said E. M. Hartrick, assistant United States engineer, "the people of Galveston will go on living in fancied security just as they did before. The plan to put a dike around the city is perfectly feasible and so is a series of jetties. I think the good old Holland plan is the best. The city doesn't need to be raised. I was six years city engineer of Galveston, and following the storm of 1886 drew plans for a dike ten feet high and extending all around the island except on the north side. There the wharves were to be raised and form the dike. "Galveston gave this plan consideration, and there is a map of the city in existence which shows it with a dike surrounding it. The legislature gave authority to bond the city, but it was some months after the flood when this had been secured, and the people said, 'Oh, we'll never get another one,' and they didn't build." The construction by the government of two jetties, one eight miles long extending out southeast for the purpose of making a narrower and deeper channel for boats coming into Galveston harbor, made the necessity of remedial work more apparent, but nothing was done. In the last storm, the southwesterly one of the jetties pocketed the water and carried it up over the southeastern end of the island. This was the place where whole blocks of buildings were literally washed away, leaving hardly enough of the foundations to indicate that buildings ever stood there. In that part of the city the water rose to a depth of fifteen feet in the streets. Had the houses demolished by waves and swept away by wind not formed into a great jam similar to a log jam, but extending along the south shore of the island for seven miles, this enormous body of water would have swept over the entire island and the number of dead would have been quadrupled. "It formed a dike," said Engineer Hartrick, in calling attention to this feature of the flood, "and had it not been for that dike we might not any of us be here now." According to Mr. Hartrick, Galveston had the wrong style of architecture for a gulf town. Its newer buildings were built on the northern plan with balloon frames, and poorly adapted to stand a blow. "This storm was a hurricane," he said, "just such as they have in the West Indies every summer, but which we have here perhaps once in a hundred years. Still we never know when one may come again, and we should build our houses accordingly." Colonel Davidson, a member of the relief committee, had given some time in the past to consideration of projects to prevent inundations. He favored the jetty system, but, like Engineer Hartrick, said nothing would ever be done. "You never heard of a man wanting an umbrella when it wasn't raining, did you?" he asked. "What we want is not to keep all the water out. We want the waves to break their force before they rise on to the island. It was the force of the great waves which wrecked the houses." The work of extracting bodies from the mass of wreckage continued. Tuesday, September 18, over 400 bodies were taken out of the debris which lined the beach front. With all that had been done to recover bodies buried beneath or pinned to the immense drift, the work had scarcely started. There was no time to dig graves and the putrefying flesh, beaten and bruised beyond identification, was consigned to the flames. Volunteers for this grewsome work came in fast. Men who had avoided the dead under ordinary conditions were working with a vigorous will and energy in putting them away. Under one pile of wreckage Tuesday afternoon twenty bodies were taken out and cremated. In another pile a man pulled out the remains of two children and for a moment gazed upon them, then mechanically cast them into the fire. They were his own flesh and blood. As they slowly burned he watched them until they were consumed, then resumed his work assisting others in removing other bodies. A large force of men was still engaged in removing the dead from Hurd's lane, located about four miles west of the city. At this point the water ran to a height of fourteen feet, and hung up in trees and fences were the bodies of men, women and children, which were being collected and cremated as fast as possible. On the mainland the searching for and cremating of bodies that either perished or found lodgment there was being prosecuted vigorously. The situation throughout the country extending from Bolivar to High island was possibly worse than in any other section of the mainland. Clara Barton, president of the Red Cross Society, issued an appeal on September 18 to the American people for money and supplies for the sick and wounded. Her idea was to spend some of the money with local merchants wherever practicable. Chairman Davidson of the relief committee stated that the greatest sufferers from the storm were the people of limited means who owned homes near the beach. There were hundreds of these people who owned mortgaged lots and had homes constructed by the loan companies and though their property was swept away the loan companies were protected by liens. Mr. Davidson advised that a fund be raised for people who had suffered in this way, that they might be able to restore what took them years to accumulate and was taken from them in a single night. The resources of the numerous sub-relief stations scattered throughout the city were taxed to their utmost capacity, and long lines of people awaited their turns for provisions and clothing. At Texas City a force of deputy United States marshals under Marshal Grant was guarding the entrance to Galveston and keeping back all people who could show no good reason for desiring to go there. People were daily leaving the city, a majority being women and children. The city was still under martial law, and remained so for weeks. Idlers and sight-seers who eluded the guards on the mainland upon their arrival were pressed into the street service. There was no place for a man who would not work. It was work or go to jail, and they generally went to jail. GOVERNOR SAYERS IN A HOPEFUL MOOD. "I look for the rebuilding of Galveston to be well under way by the latter part of this week," said Governor Sayers, of Texas, on September 18, at Austin, the state capital. "The work of cleaning the city of unhealthful refuse and burying the dead will have been completed by that time, and all the available labor in the city can be applied to its rebuilding. "If the laboring people of Galveston will only get to work in earnest prosperity will soon again smile on the city. Arrangements have been made to pay all the laborers working under the direction of the military authorities $1.50 and rations for every day they have worked or will work. An account has been kept of all work done and no laborer will lose one day's pay. "The money and food contributions coming from a generous people have been a great help to the people of Galveston, as it has relieved them of the necessity of spending their money to support the needy, and it can now be applied to the improvement of their own property and putting again on foot their business enterprises. "Five dollars a day is being offered to the mechanics who will come to Galveston, and, with the assurance from reputable physicians that there is no extraordinary danger of sickness, outside laborers will flock to Galveston and before many days a new city will rise on the storm-swept island. "The telegraph and telephone companies and railroads have been exceedingly generous since the great calamity. They have not only given money, but everything has been transported to that city free of charge, while those desiring to get away from the harrowing scenes of Galveston have been transported free. The people of Texas will long remember with grateful hearts the kindness of these companies. "It is now an assured fact that trains will be running into Galveston this week, and with uninterrupted communication with the outside world Galveston should soon assume her normal condition." SAD SIGHTS AT VIRGINIA POINT. When the relief train reached Virginia Point, which is on the mainland, opposite Galveston, it was found that of those who survived the flood and hurricane the majority was severely injured. Most of them were bruised and maimed, presenting a pitiful sight, their limbs lacerated and bleeding. All bemoaned the fate of those dear to them. Many of the dead--and the beach was strewn with corpses--had their faces and heads mutilated so that it was almost impossible to learn the names of those who found their last resting-place in the crude graves hurriedly dug. A headboard was placed on the grave in every instance, giving as nearly as possible age and accurate description. It was found necessary in many instances to bury three and four in one grave. Those who survived the wreck were homeless and had had nothing to eat since Saturday. As most of them were injured it was not possible for them to organize a movement on their part. Life sustenance was furnished these survivors in order that they might not swell the list of dead. Most of the bodies found in and around the vicinity of Virginia Point were supposed to have been washed inland from Galveston. CHAPTER XVII. Galveston's Storm Flies Over the United States and Does Great Damage--Many Lives Lost--It Finally Disappears in the Atlantic Ocean. When the hurricane was through with Galveston and central and southern Texas it sped north through Missouri, Kansas and Nebraska--its path being 300 miles in width--and then turning toward the east, or slightly northeast, crossed northern Iowa, southern Minnesota, southern Wisconsin, southern Michigan, northern Illinois, northern Indiana, northern Ohio, northern New York and southern Canada, finally disappearing in the Atlantic ocean, creating wreck and havoc wherever it went. It caused great losses of life and property in Newfoundland and destroyed many vessels off the eastern coast of the United States. The following dispatches show how widespread was its fury: Buffalo, September 12.--Immense damage was done here and at other lake ports by the Texas storm which traveled with great violence down Lake Erie last night. Reports from Crystal Beach, a summer resort on the Canadian side of Lake Erie, say that every dock has been destroyed, and all the boats of the Buffalo Canoe Club, together with several large seagoing yachts anchored there, were completely wrecked. In this city the wind attained a velocity of seventy-two miles an hour, and seemed to regain some of the power which it exhibited in wrecking Southern cities. Reports of property loss and fatalities have come in. St. Joseph, Mich., September 12.--The steamer Lawrence arrived here at 1 o'clock this afternoon from Milwaukee. She left that place at 8 o'clock yesterday morning, and the captain reports a fearful voyage. The captain's wife was here from Milwaukee and was on the dock waiting to meet her husband when the boat touched the dock. The meeting between the two was affecting. All this morning anxious watchers waited on the bluffs at the mouth of the river for a glimpse of the missing boat. Many people had friends among the passengers and crew, and as the morning hours wore on their anxiety became intense. Cleveland, September 12.--As a result of the furious gale which swept over the lake region last night telegraph and telephone lines were prostrated in all directions from this city to-day. During the height of the storm the wind reached a velocity of sixty miles an hour. To-day the storm is subsiding, the wind having dropped to twenty-six miles an hour. Up to noon to-day the big passenger steamers City of Erie and the Northwest, which left Buffalo last evening for this port, have not been heard from. They were due here at 6 o'clock this morning. The passenger steamer State of Ohio, due here about the same hour from Toledo, had not arrived at noon. The wind blew sixty miles an hour across Lake Erie, but the warnings had been so thorough that few vessels were caught unprepared. The steamer Cornell of the Pittsburg Steamship Company's fleet lost her smokestack off Fairport. Her barge anchored, but both came into port later. The Buffalo passenger boat has not yet arrived, having been in shelter at Long Point during the worst of the blow. Detour, Mich., September 12.--In the storm yesterday the schooner Narragansett, stranded near Cockburn island, was washed off the rocks, and shipping suffered greatly. Sault Ste. Marie, Mich., September 12.--The wind reached a velocity of thirty miles an hour from the northwest at midnight, the storm being accompanied by considerable rain. Many vessels were lost. Amhertsburg, Ont., September 12.--The tail end of the Galveston storm struck this section with great force about 11 o'clock last night and continued until early this morning. The loss to shipping is heavy. Kingston, Ont., September 12.--The Canadian steamer Albacore was driven ashore at 7 o'clock this morning, east of the life-saving station. The crew was saved. The wind is blowing a gale from the west, and shipping on Lake Ontario suffered seriously, many sailors being drowned. South Haven, Mich., September 12.--The storm did much damage to the docks here last night. Several vessels are reported lost. Port Huron, Mich., September 12.--The wind blew a gale until 11:30 last night. Three small schooners which left here bound for Sand Beach were wrecked. The gale passed over Chicago September 11 and attained a velocity early in the afternoon of seventy-two miles an hour, destroyed many lives in the city and neighborhood, did great damage to property on the land and wrecked several vessels on the lakes. The wind was fitful and blew in gusts. Its advance was met with frequent lulls and interruptions. An embankment of dark, ominous clouds rose steadily in the west. At first it was broken by an occasional rift which revealed the blue sky. But as the cloud bank rose it darkened and rolled over the plains toward Chicago with increasing speed. At 3 o'clock all the blue patches of sky had disappeared, the heavens had assumed a forbidding look and the lake rolled. The increased violence of the storm carried everything before it. No one disputed its rights to the streets, and it blew down wires innumerable, badly crippling the telegraph and telephone service. The Western Union's fifty-two New York lines were all down. From Chicago the storm continued its progress across Lake Huron, but was steadily diminishing in intensity. The storm's velocity diminished after leaving Texas, but increased with wonderful rapidity after reaching the lake region. The wind reached the greatest velocity at Chicago it had attained since leaving Galveston. CHAPTER XVIII. The World Not So Heartless as Supposed--People Give Generously to Aid the Suffering--A Social Phenomenon--Value of United States Weather Bureau. Perhaps the world is not so bad as it has been painted, or so heartless and indifferent as some pessimists would have us believe. Ordinarily men and women have enough to do in attending to their own affairs, expecting others, of course, to do the same, and consequently they pay small attention to what is going on around them; but when their hearts are really touched they drop everything and rush to the rescue of the afflicted. So it was in the case of Galveston. The catastrophe at Galveston served to bring conspicuously into notice the best and worst sides of human nature, which is always the common result of all appalling disasters. The people of that afflicted city were suddenly overwhelmed by the almost unprecedented fury of the elements. Thousands were killed and injured. Thousands more lost their homes and places of business. They were suffering with hunger and menaced with pestilence. All were brought to a common level by dangers of every description, death in its most awful forms, and an outlook of terrible uncertainty. And yet in the midst of all this ruin and suffering they were harassed by thugs and thieves and ghouls in human shape, who looted property, assaulted citizens who resisted them, and despoiled and disfigured the dead in a shockingly savage manner to secure rings and other jewels. Devoid of any feeling of sympathy or pity, they seized upon this awful disaster as an opportunity to enrich themselves. As soon, however, as the authorities could recover from the first shock of the disaster the city was placed under martial law, and the troops patrolling the island did not hesitate to kill every one of the vandals caught in the commission of his infamous work. Public opinion sustained this prompt style of punishment. It was a species of Southern lynching to which no objection was ever raised. The disaster also brought into prominence the greed and mercenary passion of human nature. A clique of ravenous wretches, taking advantage of the fact that the city of Galveston was cut off from bridge communication with the mainland, conspired to secure control of the transportation facilities by water, and charged extortionate prices even to those who were seeking to carry relief to the suffering people. Never was a more inhuman trust organized. Again, all the fresh provisions in the city were ruined, leaving only a few canned and dried articles which were available for food. The owners of these, bent upon making personal profit out of the necessities of their fellow-citizens, pushed up the prices, raising bread to 60 cents a loaf and bacon to 50 cents a pound. The mayor of Galveston, however, proved himself equal to the emergency, confiscated the food supply, reduced the prices to a reasonable rate, and compelled the owners of schooners and small craft to put down their prices also. This was the dark side of human nature, but the picture had its bright side also. The news of the awful disaster had hardly appeared in the public prints before tens of thousands of helping hands were busy collecting relief. The Chief Executive of the nation, the Governors of States, and the mayors of cities issued their appeals to the people, whose sympathies were already aroused and whose hearts and hands were enlisted generously and enthusiastically in the work of relief. Far-off countries sent their offerings; every city and town in the world where Americans live contributed; and crowned heads hastened to cable sympathy, together with more substantial evidences of their kindly feeling. Without delay of any kind, instantly and spontaneously, the machinery of charity began its work. The people of the North might differ radically from the people of the South in many ways, but in the presence of such a dreadful visitation of nature, involving suffering and death, the brotherhood of man asserted itself and all things else were forgotten. Only the higher and nobler attributes of human nature assert themselves. Private individuals, business houses, great corporations, municipal, state and national government vied with each other, as they did when fire swept over Chicago and the flood overwhelmed Johnstown, in expediting relief to the storm-ruined people of Texas. Day by day trains sped to Galveston from every part of the country, loaded with supplies, and the telegraph wires carried orders for money, testifying to the unanimity of the great work of relief, and to the higher and nobler instincts of human nature when it is appealed to by the claims of humanity. The ghouls of Galveston were comparatively few in number. Its generous sympathizers were to be counted by scores of millions. The convicts in the Texas state penitentiary at Rusk were moved by the sufferings of the Galveston victims to contribute $40 to the relief fund. Are men who go to prison totally bad? The scope and rapidity of the Galveston relief work all over the country afforded a spectacle at once gratifying and noteworthy. Trains laden with food and comforts for the sufferers were rushed towards the stricken city from every quarter of the United States. From Boston to San Francisco nearly every city, regardless of size, contributed its quota to the generous cause. Even from across the Atlantic the Liverpool and Paris funds came, being on the list for $10,000 each. Within a week after the disaster Galveston was in possession of a magnificent relief fund that went far toward alleviating the physical sufferings of its homeless thousands. Here is a social phenomenon that may well give pause to all critics who are wont to inveigh against our commercial and industrial age. These exhibitions of liberality are not rare in the United States. A long series of them might be compiled within the period between the Chicago fire and the Porto Rican hurricane. Singly and in the aggregate they are a striking negative to the charge of sordid commercialism in our individual and national life. The modern American is making more money than ever before, but he has a heart as well as a business head, and he is giving larger sums to noble causes than were ever given before. Probably the increased willingness of the people to help stricken communities like Galveston is due more to the railroads and telegraph lines than to anything else. Modern charity is the child of modern conditions. These indispensable adjuncts to commercial enterprise alone make widespread relief work possible. If the telegraph and the newspaper had not placed the sad picture of Galveston's misfortunes at once before the eyes of Americans from ocean to ocean there could have been no such national impulse of generosity. About ninety years ago an earthquake in Southern Missouri brought calamity to many settlers, but it was a month before the news reached the East, and another month would have had to elapse before relief could have been carried to the sufferers. The impulse to give cannot thrive under such circumstances. There have been tender hearts in all ages, but only in our time have the means of quick communication made human sympathy effective across continents. The railroad, the telegraph and the newspaper have lengthened the arm of charity quite as much as that of business. The Galveston incident is also a fine example of the way in which these agencies bind all sections of the nation together in increasing solidarity. GREAT VALUE OF THE UNITED STATES WEATHER BUREAU. The great value of the United States Weather Bureau and the remarkable correctness of its observations, all things considered, was demonstrated by the events preceding and succeeding the West Indian hurricane. It gave warning of the hurricane days before it manifested itself on the Texas coast. It anticipated its course from the vicinity of San Domingo until it reached Cuban waters, where it made a deflection no human skill could have foreseen. The bureau was not caught napping, however. It sent out its hurricane signals both for the Atlantic coast and the gulf coast, and when the storm turned from the north of Cuba westward the bureau turned its attention to Texas, and on the morning of September 7, nearly thirty-six hours before the disaster, warned the people of Galveston of its coming, and during that day extended its signals all along the Texas coast, thus preventing vessels from leaving. Of course the observers could not know what terrible energy it would gain crossing the Gulf of Mexico. Perhaps still greater accuracy in forecasting was displayed by the bureau in the warnings given out to mariners on the Great Lakes on Tuesday morning, September 11. Though nearly all lines of communication in Texas were cut off, the bureau kept track of the storm as it swept through Oklahoma into Kansas, and gave timely warning that it would turn northeast, moving across northern Illinois and southern Wisconsin, and thence across Lake Michigan and the northern end of the southern peninsula of Michigan to Canada. It further predicted the furious winds which prevailed the next day, their maximum velocity, the change caused by the northwest current from Lake Superior, and the fall of temperature yesterday to the nicety of a degree. Every vessel captain on the lakes had ample warning given him. In times gone by it was the habit to jeer at Old Probabilities, and whenever a prediction failed of verification to condemn the Weather Bureau as unreliable and not worth the expense of its maintenance. During the last few years, however, its operators have gained in skill and its record now is of a character of which its officials have every reason to be proud and which amply justifies whatever expense it may entail by its great saving of life and property. WHY SHOULD NOT GALVESTON BE REBUILT? The appalling nature of the wreck to which Galveston was reduced naturally led to some talk of abandoning the old site altogether and rebuilding the city somewhere on the mainland. An army officer concluded his report to Washington headquarters by expressing the opinion that Galveston was destroyed beyond the ability to recover, and the Southern Pacific railway was said to be in favor of leaving the flat island to the sport of the treacherous waves and heading a movement to rebuild the city at the mouth of the Brazos river. It is natural that non-residents of Galveston should consider the advisability of abandoning such a perilous site, especially as there can never be any complete security against a disaster like that of Saturday, September 8. But it is safe to say that Galveston will be rebuilt on its sand island. Mankind is not wont to desert any spot of the earth's surface because of a sudden and rare convulsion of nature. Lisbon was not abandoned because of the disastrous earthquake that killed 50,000 people in 1755. Similar earthquake disasters in Central and South America have not induced the survivors to abandon a single city. When 100,000 Chinamen were swallowed up at Peking in the last century it did not change the site of the city, nor have the still more disastrous floods along the Yellow river ever caused the survivors to change their habitat. History shows Europeans and Americans to be quite as tenacious in this regard as any other races. Italian peasants continue to cultivate the slopes of Vesuvius in spite of all past disasters, and the inhabitants of the Sea Islands along the Carolina coast were not disheartened when the elements committed fearful ravages. The leading business men of Galveston emphasized a point when they began to talk of rebuilding which had escaped general attention until that time. They were exceedingly anxious that commercial bodies, steamship owners, brokers and those interested in the commerce of Galveston should be as considerate as possible in their treatment of the city, that is to say, there should be liberality in the commercial relations. These men urged that the extent of the calamity should be taken into account when adjustment of contracts took place and in all business arrangements until the city could regain its footing. Charters provide by special mention for "Visitations of Providence," for the "Acts of God." The Galveston business men hoped that their business connections would apply a like spirit to all commerce affected by the storm. They were not disappointed, as the result showed. Galveston was just entering upon the busy season. There were from 200 to 300 ships under sailing contracts with that port for the months of September, November and December. Some of these ships were, when the storm came, on the high seas. Even a temporary paralysis of thirty days meant much loss and the derangement of many contracts. It was a time which called for the generous policy, not for strict enforcements of the letter of agreements. Galveston only asked what her business men thought was just, that thereby the shock to commerce might be mitigated. When the time came Galveston found that she had not asked too much, as she received all the consideration she could wish. Representatives of the railroad systems which connected Galveston with the outside world before the occurrence of the disaster agreed in saying, in a meeting held at New York, that her residents would rebuild on the same sand island in spite of the terrible experiences. They believed that Galveston, injured financially though her citizens had been, would be rebuilt by her citizens without the aid of outside capital. A. F. Walker, Chairman of the Board of Directors of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe, said he felt certain that Galveston would be rebuilt. The new energy and courage displayed by the people of Galveston is what was to be expected in a city so full of American pluck. Though stunned and prostrate under the most fatal disaster that had ever overtaken an American community, Galveston took only a few days to regain its breath. It has simply reasserted the same indomitable courage and will power by which Americans in times past built up a great nation where there was a wilderness a century ago. The terse motto stuck up on every street corner of the wrecked city is "Clean Up." Behind its grim humor there lies a stern determination that is one of the proudest attributes of our race. There is no reason why a greater Galveston, should not speedily rise on the site of the present ruins. The report of an army officer that the city was ruined beyond recovery and the suggestions of other persons that Galveston should be rebuilt on another site find no sympathy among the citizens. Galveston will be rebuilt upon its former site. Carpenters, masons and artisans are being called for by thousands, and, with the generous aid contributed by people all over the country, there will be a rapid transformation. The city has thrust its sorrow behind it and has its face set toward the future. Since the danger of flood cannot be removed so long as the city stands at its present level, it is to be hoped its builders will begin a new era of security by raising the grade of the streets. A few feet will materially decrease the danger from tidal waves. It will also be wise to construct the foundations of all permanent large buildings of stone to a height above the level reached by the recent inundation. In resolving to defy an untoward fate Galveston should begin by adopting all practical means for defying wind and waves. Even though the expense and delay will be greater, it will pay to give the new buildings all possible safeguards of solidity. Galveston will be rebuilt, as it was after the disaster of fourteen years previously. Its inhabitants will reason that the city had existed for two-thirds of a century in comparative safety, and that such a tidal wave is not likely to be repeated in a hundred years. The same commercial advantages that first tempted settlers to the island, and that made Galveston one of the most thriving cities on the gulf coast, are still present. Men who own real estate on the island will not abandon it, even though the improvements thereon have been reduced to a wreck. They know that even if they did abandon it there would be plenty of others to take it--risks and all--and rebuild the city. The federal government may hesitate about rebuilding its structures on so precarious a site, but private interests are not likely to abandon a city even for so terrible a disaster as that at Galveston. CHAPTER XIX. Galveston Island Directly in the Path of Storms, with No Way of Escape--What Is the City's Future--All Coast Cities in Danger--New York Will Be Flooded--Hurricane Foretold--Galveston's Settlement--Storm Will Recur. Galveston Island, with a stretch of thirty-five miles, rises only five feet above the level of high tide. To the south is an unbroken sweep of sea for 800 miles. Twelve hundred miles away is the nesting place of storms--storms that rise out of the dead calm of the doldrums and sweep northward, sometimes with a fury that nothing can withstand. Most of these storms describe a parabola, with the westward arch touching the Atlantic coast, after which the track is northeastward, finally disappearing with the storm itself in the north Atlantic. But every little while one of these West Indian hurricanes starts northwestward from its island nest, moving steadily on its course and entering the gulf itself. September and October are the months of these storms, and of the two months September is worse. In the ten years between 1878 and 1887, inclusive, fifty-seven hurricanes arose in the warm, moist conditions of the West Indian doldrums. Most of these passed out to sea and to the St. Lawrence River country, where they disappeared. But the hurricane of October 11, 1887, came ashore at New Orleans on October 17, and wrought havoc as it passed up the Eastern States to New Brunswick. The storm of October 8, 1886, reached Louisiana on the 12th, curving again toward Galveston on the Texas coast. It was in this storm that Galveston was flooded with loss of life and property while Indianola was destroyed beyond recovery. With these non-recurring storms two conditions favor their passage into the gulf. A high barometric area lies over the Atlantic coast States, while a trough of low pressure leads into the gulf and northward into the region of the Dakotas. The hurricane takes the path of least resistance always, and it must pass far northward before it can work its natural way around the tardy high area that hangs over the central coast States. It was this condition exactly which diverted the recent storm to Galveston and the Texas coast. The origin of a hurricane is not fully settled. Its accompanying phenomena, however, are significant to even the casual observer. A long swell on the ocean usually precedes it. This swell may be forced to great distances in advance of the storm and be observed two or three days before the storm strikes. A faint rise in the barometer may be noticed before the sharp fall follows. Wisps of thin, cirrus cloud float for 200 miles around the storm center. The air is calm and sultry until a gentle breeze springs from the southeast. This breeze becomes a wind, a gale, and, finally, a tempest, with matted clouds overhead, precipitating rain and a churning sea below throwing clouds of spume into the air. Here are all the terrible phenomena of the West Indian hurricane--the tremendous wind, the thrashing sea, the lightning, the bellowing thunder, and the drowning rain that seems to be dashed from mighty tanks with the force of Titans. But almost in an instant all these may cease. The wind dies, the lightning goes out, the rain ceases, and the thunder bellows only in the distance. The core of the storm is overhead. Only the waves of the sea are churning. There may be twenty miles of this central core, a diameter of only one-thirtieth that of the storm. It passes quickly, and with as little warning as preceded its stoppage the storm closes in again, but with the wind from the opposite direction, and the whole phenomena suggesting a reversal of all that has gone before. No storm possible in the elements presents the terrors that accompany the hurricane. The twisting tornado is confined to a narrow track and it has no long-drawn-out horrors. Its climax is reached in a moment. The hurricane, however, grows and grows, and when it has reached to 100 or 120 miles an hour nothing can withstand it. It is this terrible besom of the Southern seas that so nearly has taken Galveston off the map. The great storm of 1875 frightened the city. The fate of Indianola in 1886 and the loss of ten lives and $200,000 worth of property on Galveston Island has kept Galveston uneasy ever since. To-day, for it to suggest rebuilding, will meet with the disapprobation of many of the sympathizing Americans who are giving freely to the stricken people. But the abandonment of Galveston could not be without a struggle. For fourteen years its old citizens had been admitting that twice in their memory the sea had come in on the island, causing death and destruction, but as sturdily as their conservatism prompted they had insisted that it never could do so again. They gave no consistent reason for their belief. The island was no higher; the force of the sea was as boundless as before; the doldrums of the West Indies still hung over the archipelago in storm-brooding calm. But their belief spread and the island city grew and developed as the old settler never had hoped to see it grow when he squatted there in the sand more than sixty years ago. This settler stock of Galveston Island was of queer characteristics. The island settlement was of a sort of Captain Streeter origin. The only variation was that the Colonel Menard who founded it bought the island and established a town-site company to attract immigration. The mainland, as flat and desolate almost as the island, was three miles away. But deep water was there and to the north was an agricultural country that one day would have cotton to export. So the settlers waited. They held to their sand lots and traded with the "mosquito fleet" which sailed up and down the coast from Corpus Christi to New Orleans. This mosquito fleet was the only means for bringing outside traders to the town. As it grew it developed that the city's export trade was all it had. It did a wholesale business that was to its retail business in the proportion of 100 to 1! In this way Galveston developed in-growing propensities. It scoffed at the mainland for years after the gulf shore began to be peopled. It was satisfied with its railroad "bridges," which were mere trestlework mounted on piling driven into the shallow water of the bay. If the mainland wished to reach the city let it row out or sail out; the city would not go to the expense of a wagon bridge. As a result, Galveston was the most somnolent city in Texas, save on the wharves where tramp and coastwise ships and steamers loaded. When the market house closed by law at 10 o'clock in the morning, and when Galveston's own local population had laid in its supplies for a midday dinner and for supper and breakfast, Strand street took a nap. In the '80s, however, a new element had been attracted, which was dissatisfied with the mossback order of things. It was not satisfied to make change with a stranger and give or take bits of yellow pasteboard, representing street car rides, in lieu of nickels. But these young immigrants were frowned upon by Galveston conservatism. They were a disturbing element. They kept the staid, mossback citizen awake in the afternoons and he did not like it. They were clamoring for sewers and artesian water in mains, whereas the conservative was content to build his rain water cistern above ground out of doors and strain the baby mosquitoes out of the water through a cloth. When a new waterworks and standpipe had been completed in 1889, and when some new mills had been established under difficulties, affairs had come to a pass when the new Galvestonian and the old found a great gap between. The visiting stranger was the confidant of both sides. "This town isn't what it used to be," sighed the conservative. "As a matter of fact," the young business man would say, "Galveston needs to bury about 150 of its 'old citizens' before it can get awake." This was the situation when the government began to expend money upon the harbor. This was the situation, slightly altered by time, when the wagon bridge was built to the main land, when the government appropriated $6,200,000 for the deepening of the harbor, and when export trade from Galveston approached the mark of $100,000,000 annually. And this, virtually, was the Galveston now in ruins. In rebuilding Galveston, it has been suggested that the bay be dredged of sand and the island raised to a uniform level of fifteen feet above the tide. The plan is feasible in every sense, and it is contended that the value of the city as a port would more than justify the cost. However the island city may decide, it will have departed from several notable instances of water-swept cities in rebuilding. In addition to the abandonment of Indianola, on the mainland of Texas, are the stories of Last Island in the Gulf of Mexico and of Cobb's Island, a great fishing resort in Chesapeake Bay. Last Island was overwhelmed in 1856. Three hundred lives were lost in the hurricane. Lafcadio Hearn has put the legend of "L'Isle Derniere" into print and his description of the hurricane that swept in upon it is a description of the storm that has laid Galveston waste: "One great noon, when the blue abyss of day seemed to yawn over the world more deeply than ever before, a sudden change touched the quicksilver smoothness of the waters--the swaying shadow of a vast motion. First the whole sea circle appeared to rise up bodily at the sky; the horizon curve lifted to a straight line; the line darkened and approached--a monstrous wrinkle, an immeasurable fold of green water moving swift as a cloud shadow pursued by sunlight. But it had looked formidable only by startling contrast with the previous placidity of the open; it was scarcely two feet high; it curled slowly as it neared the beach and combed itself out in sheets of woolly foam with a low, rich roll of thunder. Swift in pursuit another followed--a third, a feebler fourth; then the sea only swayed a little and stilled again. "Irregularly the phenomenon continued to repeat itself, each time with heavier billowings and briefer intervals of quiet, until at last the whole sea grew restless and shifted color and flickered green--the swells became shorter and changed form. * * * "The pleasure-seekers of Last Island knew there must have been a 'great blow' somewhere that day. Still the sea swelled, and a splendid surf made the evening bath delightful. Then just at sundown a beautiful cloud bridge grew up and arched the sky with a single span of cottony, pink vapor that changed and deepened color with the dying of the iridescent day. And the cloud bridge approached, strained and swung round at last to make way for the coming of the gale--even as the light bridges that traverse the dreamy Teche swing open when the luggermen sound through their conch shells the long, bellowing signal of approach. "Then the wind began to blow from the northeast, clear, cool. * * * Clouds came, flew as in a panic against the face of the sun, and passed. All that day, through the night, and into the morning again the breeze continued from the northeast, blowing like an equinoctial gale. * * * "Cottages began to rock. Some slid away from the solid props upon which they rested. A chimney tumbled. Shutters were wrenched off; verandas demolished. Light roofs lifted, dropped again, and flapped into ruin. Trees bent their heads to earth. And still the storm grew louder and blacker with every passing hour. * * * WORK OF THE STORM. "So the hurricane passed, tearing off the heads of prodigious waves to hurl them a hundred feet in air--heaping up the ocean against the land--upturning the woods. Bays and passes were swollen to abysses; rivers regorged; the sea marshes changed to roaring wastes of water. Before New Orleans the flood of the mile-broad Mississippi rose six feet above highest water mark. One hundred and ten miles away Donaldsonville trembled at the towering tide of the Lafourche. Lakes strove to burst their boundaries. Far-off river steamers tugged wildly at their cables--shivering like tethered creatures that hear by night the approaching howl of destroyers. * * * "And swift in the wake of gull and frigate bird the wreckers come, the spoilers of the dead--savage skimmers of the sea--hurricane-riders wont to spread their canvas pinions in the face of storms. * * * There is plunder for all--birds and men. * * * Her betrothal ring will not come off, Guiseppe; but the delicate bone snaps easily; your oyster-knife can sever the tendon. * * * Over her heart you will find it, Valentio--the locket held by that fine, Swiss chain of woven hair * * * Juan, the fastenings of those diamond eardrops are much too complicated for your peon fingers; tear them out. * * * "Suddenly a long, mighty silver trilling fills the ears of all; there is a wild hurrying and scurrying; swiftly, one after another, the overburdened luggers spread wings and flutter away. Thrice the great cry rings through the gray air and over the green sea, and over the far-flooded shell reefs where the huge white flashes are--sheet lightning of breakers--and over the weird wash of corpses coming in. "It is the steam-call of the relief boat, hastening to rescue the living, to gather in the dead. "The tremendous tragedy is over." GALVESTON BUILT UPON THE SAND. Galveston is built upon the sand. According to Professor Willis L. Moore, Chief of the United States Weather Bureau at Washington, not only Galveston was insecurely built upon the flat sands of the island, but other cities on the gulf and Atlantic coasts, lying at tide, are subject to the same dangers. The West Indian hurricane may strike almost anywhere from the southern line of North Carolina, on down the coast, around the peninsula of Florida, and anywhere within the great arc described by the western shores of the Gulf of Mexico. These storms, perhaps 600 miles wide, have a vortex of twenty to thirty miles in diameter. It is in this vortex that the land is laid waste. It is this fact that will lead more strongly than any other to the rebuilding of Galveston. With an export business of $100,000,000 annually, the great West will bring pressure to bear upon the maintenance of the port. There is an island type of man in its population that will not be driven from that little ridge of sand three miles out in the gulf. There are 1,500 miles of gulf coast on which the vortex of such a storm may waste itself without touching Galveston, and both conservatism and commercialism will take the risk that a score of other cities at the tide level are taking. At the same time there are those who see for Galveston only a commercial existence. It never can grow as it has grown; it never can be the home of people whose fortunes are not tied up in the island. For fourteen years the city has had to contend with the fears of the incomer. The growth between 1890 and 1900 shows that these fears had been allayed in great measure, following the destruction in 1886. But years will not wipe out the black record of the last week. Hundreds will leave the island as a place of residence; thousands have been killed there and cremated in the sands or buried in the treacherous sea. A death rate of 200 in a population of 1,000 drove Indianola from the map of Texas. Five thousand or more deaths of the 35,000 population of Galveston must have its influence upon the living. For with the assurances of the United States Weather Bureau, it is recognized that in natural phenomena there are cycle periods in which extremes are repeated from nature's great laboratory. Observation has put this period of repetition at twenty years. According to this, in the case of hurricanes, the range of maximum and minimum will be within such a period. Without question Galveston is in the track of a certain abnormal but not infrequent West Indian hurricane which fails to be deflected from the Georgia and Florida coasts. It keeps to its northwestward course and strikes the Louisiana, Texas or Mexico coasts, according to its impulse. In the Galveston storm a new maximum seems to have been established, yet its repetition may be looked for within the next twenty-year period. As a matter of fact, indeed, the average period between the recurrence of these maximum storms has been less than fifteen years. Lyman E. Cooley, one of the original engineers in marking the route of the drainage canal, is an observer of periodic natural phenomena, and his theory holds in great measure with the observations of the United States weather service. "It is a general proposition," said Mr. Cooley. "It means just this much: Suppose that Chicago has a snow storm on June 15. Within a twenty-year period we may expect another phenomenon of the kind in the same calendar month. It may not snow in Chicago itself; the storm may be ten, twenty or thirty miles away, on any side of it. But in the same general territory, about the same time of the phenomenon, it will be repeated. "Suppose a terrible rain or wind storm develops, its repetition may be looked for in the same period. So with extremes of temperature, influences on lake levels, and all the other phenomena of nature's forces. They have their cycles, and the twenty-year period covers most of them." But in the case of Galveston, one of its great hurricanes was experienced in 1875, another in 1886, and the last only fourteen years later. These historic facts tend to confirm Mr. Cooley's observations. Galveston's destruction and that of other towns similarly situated had been predicted. Writing in the Arena in 1890, Professor Joseph Rodes Buchanan said: "Every seaboard city south of New England that is not more than fifty feet above the sea level of the Atlantic coast is destined to a destructive convulsion. Galveston, New Orleans, Mobile, St. Augustine, Savannah and Charleston are doomed. Richmond, Baltimore, Washington, Philadelphia, Newark, Jersey City and New York will suffer in various degrees in proportion as they approximate the sea level. Brooklyn will suffer less, but the destruction at New York and Jersey City will be the grandest horror. "The convulsion will probably begin on the Pacific coast, and perhaps extend in the Pacific toward the Sandwich Islands. The shock will be terrible, with great loss of life, extending from British Columbia down along the coast of Mexico, but the conformation of the Pacific coast will make its grand tidal wave far less destructive than on the Atlantic shore. Nevertheless, it will be calamitous. Lower California will suffer severely along the coast. San Diego and Coronado will suffer severely, especially the latter. "It may seem rash to anticipate the limits of the destructive force of a foreseen earthquake, but there is no harm in testing the prophetic power of science in the complex relations of nature and man. "The destruction of cities which I anticipate will be twenty-four years ahead--it may be twenty-three. It will be sudden and brief--all within an hour and not far from noon. Starting from the Pacific coast, as already described, it will strike southward--a mighty tidal wave and earthquake shock that will develop in the Gulf of Mexico and Caribbean Sea. It will strike the western coast of Cuba and severely injure Havana. Our sister republic, Venezuela, bound to us in destiny, by the law of periodicity will be assailed by the encroaching waves and terribly shaken by the earthquake. The destruction of her chief city, Caraccas, will be greater than in 1812, when 12,000 were said to be destroyed. The coming shock will be near total destruction. "From South America back to the United States, all Central America and Mexico are severely shaken; Vera Cruz suffers with great severity, but the City of Mexico realizes only a severe shock. Tampico and Matamoras suffer severely; Galveston is overwhelmed; New Orleans is in a dangerous condition--the question arises between total and partial destruction. I will only say it will be an awful calamity. If the tidal wave runs southward New Orleans may have only its rebound. The shock and flood pass up the Mississippi from 100 to 150 miles and strike Baton Rouge with destructive force. "As it travels along the gulf shore Mobile will probably suffer most severely and be more than half destroyed; Pensacola somewhat less. Southern Florida is probably entirely submerged and lost; St. Augustine severely injured; Charleston will probably be half submerged, and Newbern suffer more severely; Port Royal will probably be wiped out; Norfolk will suffer about as much as Pensacola; Petersburg and Richmond will suffer, but not disastrously; Washington will suffer in its low grounds, Baltimore and Annapolis much more severely on its water front, its spires will topple, and its large buildings be injured, but I do not think its grand city hall will be destroyed. Probably the injury will not affect more than one-fourth. But along the New Jersey coast the damage will be great. Atlantic City and Cape May may be destroyed, but Long Branch will be protected by its bluff from any severe calamity. The rising waters will affect Newark, and Jersey City will be the most unfortunate of large cities, everything below its heights being overwhelmed. New York below the postoffice and Trinity Church will be flooded and all its water margins will suffer." CHAPTER XX. Comparisons Between the Galveston and Johnstown Disasters--The Latter Not So Horrible in Its Features--Frightful Plight of the Texas Victims. Until the elements wreaked their vengeance upon the fair City of Galveston and vented their wrath upon its unoffending population, the awful disaster at Johnstown, Pa., which occurred on the 31st of May, 1889, was the most frightful calamity known in the history of the United States. Johnstown was almost literally wiped from the face of the earth, the suddenness of the flood which created the havoc precluding the escape of anyone unfortunate enough to be in its path. Unlike the Galveston catastrophe, the flood at Johnstown poured its waters upon the devoted inhabitants without warning and the slaughter was over within the space of a comparatively few minutes. The victims, that is to say, the majority of them, were drowned or dashed to pieces before they had time to realize the horror of it all. At Galveston the people knew for hours before the angry waters submerged the island and the resistless gale tore the business buildings and residences to pieces what their fate was to be. They looked death squarely in the face hour after hour, suffering all the terrors dire certainty could inflict, their knowledge that they were absolutely powerless and beyond the reach of aid adding to their agonies. Death was merciful to the people of Johnstown; he was cruel to his prey at Galveston, and delighted in the tortures he was enabled to impose before he placed his icy hand upon them and bade them come. Perhaps the only parallel in history to the Galveston visitation was the destruction, in 79 A. D., of Pompeii and Herculaneum. The frightened pleasure-seekers of those doomed cities could see the red lava stream bearing down upon them as it was vomited up from the bowels of Vesuvius and thrown out from the mighty maw of the crater, but even then they were mercifully stifled by the tremendous, never-ending shower of ashes which soon enveloped them and completely covered their homes. They did not stand for hours, with the blackness of the night around them, listening to the roar of the volcano's eruption and hear their death knell sounded long before they were compelled to undergo the actual pain of an awful death; they were caught as they sought safety in flight and stricken down while endeavoring to get beyond the reach of the sickle of the grim reaper; they could move and act in accordance with their impulses which prompted them to make a flight for life, and they succumbed only after a desperate struggle. It was different at Galveston. The men, women and children were not permitted even the small but precious boon of falling while battling with the grim destroyer; they were caught and imprisoned, even as those who were done to death during the time when the Inquisition reigned, and, on the way to execution, were, it might be said, compelled to bear the very cross upon which they were to be impaled. There is no record since time began of such a long-drawn-out agony as that which the devoted people of Galveston endured during the period intervening between the advent of the hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico and the final imposition of the death penalty. Fathers saw their wives and babes crushed by the wreckage flung aloft and around by the fury of the gale, or drowned in the swift running current; wives saw their husbands and children torn from them and swept from their sight forever; children saw their parents disappear in the murky, turbid waters of the flood. Men saw the dead faces of their loved ones they would have deemed it a joy to save as they were borne along upon the bosom of the waters. Men invited destruction in their efforts at rescue, only to realize how weak and utterly futile was their strength in comparison to the irresistible power of the enraged elements. Men died desponding because they could not save those they had cherished and heretofore protected, and went down in despair and gloom. At Johnstown the released waters tore their way through the beautiful valley of the Conemagh with the rush and speed of a giant avalanche and enfolded their victims in their merciless embrace; the inhabitants were, in the twinkling of an eye, borne from the sunshine of life to the gloom of the valley of the shadow; they may have felt a momentary terror before they succumbed, but it was all over in an instant. At Galveston, the condemned simply waited for the inevitable; they clung to the brief remaining supports and died a thousand deaths before death claimed them; they stood upon the brink of eternity and cried in vain for the succor they well knew would not come; they prayed for mercy, but there was none. When the waters of the gulf leaped upon the island where the beautiful city sat in all her glory the people fled to the high places and saw the flood creep higher and higher until it overcame them. Although it was not until the darkness of the night had long since settled upon them they had known in the afternoon that Galveston was doomed. The hurricane would not permit them to escape, but sundered all communication with the mainland and then laughed at their puny efforts at preservation. The death roster in and around Galveston was fully 8,000; at Johnstown the known number of victims was a score less than 2,300. Many died at Johnstown of whom nothing was ever heard, and there were possibly 2,500 persons engulfed in the stream which all but destroyed the town, but at the same time the probabilities are that 10,000 people died at Galveston and in the immediate vicinity. Bodies were washed up and thrown upon the shore by hundreds for days after the disaster; how many were burned upon the many funeral pyres no accurate record was kept. In one respect the two calamities were alike--the destruction of millions of dollars' worth of property, but the losses were not so great at Johnstown during those fearful two minutes as those occasioned by the beating of the winds and waves which for hours had Galveston at their mercy. Johnstown was a city of 30,000, teeming with the industry of a manufacturing town. With not even a warning shout to apprise the inhabitants the dam of a lake high above the town broke and the flood sweeping down the Conemagh Valley engulfed the city and its inhabitants before they even knew of the danger. The whole place was a mass of debris and dead when the deluge subsided. Galveston was a city of nearly 40,000 people, and had within its gates hundreds of strangers, and the fact that telegrams of inquiry from all parts of the United States poured into the mayor's office in a perfect stream for days after the flood indicated that scores were killed of whom the searchers knew nothing. But Johnstown was not alone in its misery. In the southwest a tragedy was enacted a few years later which claimed hundreds of victims. A tornado, immeasurable in its force and fury, blotted out a section of St. Louis late in the afternoon of May 22, 1896. Nearly a thousand lives and tens of millions in property were sacrificed. Until the disaster at Galveston the St. Louis catastrophe was the second greatest disaster of its kind in the history of the nation. The tornado destroyed dozens of the finest buildings in the city. It leveled massive structures to the ground. It tossed railroad locomotives about and crushed the eastern span of the Eads bridge, one of the strongest structures in the world. It made St. Louis a city of mourning for weeks and impoverished numberless families. Yet Galveston surpassed these cities in the frightful nature of its calamity. Hundreds of insane people are being cared for, their reason having been overthrown by their great sufferings. This was one of the saddest features of the shocking visitation. These poor creatures, first bereft of home, family and property, are now living legacies of the most stupendous catastrophe this country has ever known. CHAPTER XXI. Great Calamities Caused by Flood and Gale During Past Centuries--Millions of Lives Lost Through the Fury of the Elements. Since the great flood which covered the earth, and of which Noah and his family were the only survivors, the world has seen many calamities of this nature, and millions of lives have been lost through gales and rushing waters. At Dort, in Holland, seventy-two villages and over 100,000 people were destroyed on April 17, 1421. At a general inundation of nearly the whole of Holland in 1530, upward of 400,000 people lost their lives. In Catalonia, in 1617, 50,000 persons perished by flood. Six thousand perished by the floods in Silesia in 1813, and 4,000 in Poland in the same year. The loss of life during the recent floods in Austria-Hungary and in China have never been fully reckoned, and though 100,000 persons are said to have perished in the Chinese inundations, the figures are not regarded as trustworthy. These are the only floods on record where the loss of human life has been estimated at over 5,000. The list of smaller similar disasters is almost an endless one. Holland, the little lowland country "redeemed from the seas," has suffered worst, from the nature of its situation. Protected, as it is, by dikes, which separate the land from the water by artificial means, a constant vigilance has been required of its people to prevent the ocean from claiming its own. In both the deluges of 1421 and 1530 the immediate cause was a breaking down of the dikes. The records of both are meager, although the mere lists of the drowned suffice to show how awful the havoc must have been. The inundation at Dort began at Dordrecht, where a heavy storm caused the dikes at that point to give way. In that territory alone 10,000 people were overwhelmed and perished, while over 100,000 were drowned in and around Dullart in Friesland and Zealand. The subsequent inundation of 1530 was the most frightful on record. It nearly annihilated the Netherlands, and only to the indomitable pluck and industry which have ever characterized the inhabitants of that country was its subsequent recovery due. In 1108 Flanders was inundated by the sea. The submerged districts comprised an enormous area, and the harbor and town of Ostend were completely covered by water. The present city was built above a league from the channel, where the old one still lies beneath the waves. An awful inundation occurred at Dantzig on April 9, 1829, occasioned by the Vistula breaking through some of its dikes. Numerous lives were lost, and, the records state, 4,000 houses and 10,000 head of cattle were destroyed. A large part of Zealand was overflowed in 1717, and 1,300 of the inhabitants were lost in the floods. Hamburg, while her citizens with but few exceptions were saved, sustained an almost incalculable loss to property. The same city was again half flooded on January 1, 1855, and enormous damage suffered. In the Silesian flood spoken of above the ruin of the French army under MacDonald, which was in that country at the time, was materially accelerated by the forces of nature. One of the worst floods Germany ever had occurred in March, 1816; 119 villages were laid under water and a great loss of life and property followed the inundation. The floods in China and that portion of the Eastern Hemisphere, from time immemorial peculiarly subject to such calamities, have always entailed losses about which little has been known. No definite statistics of loss of life and damages have ever been obtainable. In recent years there have been floods there which are known to have been very disastrous, but that is practically all that can be said. In October, 1833, occurred one of the worst floods in the empire. Ten thousand houses were swept away and 1,000 persons perished in Canton alone, while equal or perhaps greater calamity was produced in other sections of the country. At Vienna the dwellings of 50,000 inhabitants were laid under water in February, 1830. Two thousand persons perished in Navarre in September, 1787, from torrents from the mountains produced by excessive rains. The beautiful Danube of poetry and song has, on numerous occasions, risen in its might, and brought disaster and distress to the inhabitants of the countries through which it winds. Pesth, near Presburg, suffered to an enormous extent from its overflow in April, 1811. Twenty-four villages were swept away, and a large number of their inhabitants perished. On the occasion of another overflow of this river, on September 14, 1813, a Turkish corps of 2,000 men, who were encamped on a small island near Widdin, were surprised and met instant death to a man. A catastrophe, which in some respects brings to mind that at Johnstown, occurred in Spain in 1802. Lorca, a city in Murcia, was overwhelmed by the bursting of a reservoir, and upwards of 1,000 people were destroyed. France has on numerous occasions suffered severely from floods. Its rivers have overflowed their banks at intervals for centuries back, causing great loss of life and damage to property. The Loire flooded the center and southwest of France by an unprecedented rise in October, 1846, and, while the people succeeded in escaping to a great extent, damages aggregating over $20,000,000 were sustained. Ten years later the south of France was again subjected to an inundation and an immense loss sustained. A large part of Toulouse was destroyed by a rising of the Garonne in June, 1875. So sudden and disastrous was the flood that the inhabitants were taken unawares and over 1,000 lost their lives. Awful inundations occurred in France from October 31 to November 4, 1840. The Saone poured its waters into the Rhone, broke through its banks and covered 60,000 acres. Lyons was almost entirely submerged; in Avignon 100 houses were swept away, 218 houses were carried away at La Guillotiere and upward of 300 at Voise, Marseilles and Nismes. It was the greatest height the Saone had attained for 238 years. At Besseges, in the south of France, a waterspout in 1861 destroyed the machinery of the mines and sent a torrent over the edge of the pit like a cataract. The gas exploded and hundreds of men and boys were buried below. Very few of the bodies of the dead were recovered. A thousand lives were lost in Murcia, Spain, by inundations in 1879. India has been the scene of numerous floods. In 186 a deluge overwhelmed the fertile districts of Bengal, killing hundreds and plunging the survivors into the direst poverty. Famine and pestilence followed, carrying thousands away like cattle. Italy has not been exempt from the devastation of the waters. On December 28 and 29, 1870, Rome suffered great loss, and in October, 1872, the northern portions of the kingdom were visited by great floods. There have been innumerable smaller inundations. Great Britain has a long list of inundations. It is recorded that in the year 245 the sea swept over Lincolnshire and submerged thousands of acres. In the year 353 over 3,000 persons were drowned in Cheshire from the same cause. Four hundred families were destroyed in Glasgow in the year 738 by a great flood. The coast of Kent was similarly afflicted in 1100, and the immense bank still known as the Goodwin Sands was formed by the action of the sea. While the record as given above is by no means complete, it will serve for all purposes of comparison. It embraces the most important disasters of the rushing waters on record, and shows what a destructive force the same element has proven which babbles in noisy brooks and sings merrily as it courses down the mountain sides. DEATH-DEALING STORMS IN OTHER COUNTRIES IN FORTY YEARS. 1864--Calcutta, India; 45,000 lives and 100 ships lost. 1881--Haifong, China; 300,000 lives lost. 1881--England; great destruction of life and property and many lives lost. 1882--Manila, Philippine Islands; 60,000 families rendered homeless and 100 lives lost. 1886--Madrid, Spain; 32 killed, 620 injured. 1887--Australian coast; 550 pearl fishers perished. 1888--Cuba; 1,000 lives lost. 1889--Apia, Samoan Islands; German and American warships wrecked and many lives lost. 1890--Muscat, Arabia; 700 lives lost. 1891--Martinique; 340 lives lost and $10,000,000 worth of property destroyed. 1892--Ravigo, Northern Italy; several hundred lives lost. 1892--Tonnatay, Madagascar; several hundred lives lost. 1893--Great storm on the northwest coast of Europe; 237 lives lost off English coast and 165 fishermen off Jutland. HISTORIC DEVASTATING STORMS IN THE SOUTHERN STATES. 1840--Adams County, Mississippi; 317 killed, 100 injured; loss $1,260,000. 1842--Adams County, Mississippi; 500 killed; great property loss. 1880--Barry, Stone, Webster and Christian Counties, Missouri; 100 killed, 600 injured; 200 buildings destroyed; loss $1,000,000. 1880--Noxubee County, Mississippi; 22 killed, 72 injured; 55 buildings destroyed; loss $100,000. 1880--Fannin County, Texas; 40 killed, 83 injured; 49 buildings destroyed. 1882--Henry and Saline Counties, Missouri; 8 killed, 53 injured; 247 buildings destroyed; loss $300,000. 1883--Kemper, Copiah, Simpson, Newton and Lauderdale Counties, Mississippi; 51 killed, 200 injured; 100 buildings destroyed; loss $300,000. 1883--Izard, Sharp and Clay Counties, Arkansas; 5 killed, 162 injured; 60 buildings destroyed; loss $300,000. 1884--North and South Carolina, Mississippi, Georgia, Tennessee, Virginia, Kentucky and Illinois; 800 killed, 2,500 injured; 10,000 buildings destroyed. [Illustration: HOMES RUINED AND FAMILIES KILLED] [Illustration: RUIN CAUSED BY THE FLOOD] [Illustration: A STREET AFTER THE FLOOD] [Illustration: AFTER THE DISASTER] [Illustration: RUINED HOMES] [Illustration: A STREET OF STORES IN RUINS] [Illustration: A TYPICAL SCENE AFTER THE DISASTER] [Illustration: HOUSES DESTROYED BY THE FLOOD] [Illustration: SOLDIERS ENCAMPED IN THE STRICKEN CITY] [Illustration: DESTRUCTION ALONG THE WHARFS] [Illustration: THE DESTRUCTION BY THE WATER] [Illustration: A STREET AFTER THE DISASTER] [Illustration: EXODUS FROM GALVESTON THE NEXT DAY] [Illustration: CREMATION OF BODIES HAULED TO THE WHARF FRONT] [Illustration: BODIES OF VICTIMS OF THE HURRICANE BEING CARTED TO SCOWS FOR BURIAL IN THE GULF] CHAPTER XXII. Overwhelming of Johnstown, Pa., by the Waters from Conemaugh Lake--One of the Most Peculiar Happenings in History--Actual Number of Deaths Will Never Be Known--About Twenty-Five Hundred Bodies Found. On Friday, May 31, 1889, at 12:45 p. m., the stones in the center of the dam which confined the waters of Conemaugh Lake began to sink because of leaks in the masonry; at 1 o'clock the dam broke and the flood rushed fiercely down the beautiful Conemaugh Valley to Johnstown, two and a half miles directly to the southwest--but thirteen miles by way of the winding valley--and within a few minutes nearly 2,300 men, women and children (this many, it is known, perished, although it is probable the loss of life was much greater) were lying dead in the wreckage of the city; millions of dollars' worth of property were destroyed and thousands of people beggared--and all because the members of the fishing club which controlled the lake were too penurious to have the leaks in the dam repaired. The coroner's verdict was to the effect that the club was to blame for the disaster. Hundreds of business buildings and residences were destroyed, and less than a score of the structures composing the town were uninjured; complete paralysis followed, and many said, as in the case of Galveston, the city would not be rebuilt; hundreds were crazed by their sufferings and never regained their reason; thieves swarmed to the place and looted the bodies of the dead until the arrival of several thousand State troops put an end to the carnival of crime; the impoverished survivors were cared for until they could get upon their feet again, relief pouring in from everywhere in the shape of hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash and thousands of carloads of supplies of all sorts; the business men plucked up courage and went to work with a will when the apathy succeeding the calamity had worn off, and to-day Johnstown is greater than ever, and has added to both her wealth and population. Conemaugh Lake is three and one-half miles in length, one and one-quarter miles in width, and in some places one hundred feet in depth, located on a mountain three hundred feet above the level of Johnstown, its waters being held within bounds by a huge earth dam nearly one thousand feet long, ninety feet thick and one hundred and twenty feet in height, the top having a breadth of over twenty feet. It was once a reservoir and a feeder for the Pennsylvania Canal. It had been widened and deepened and was the property of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club, an organization of rich and influential citizens of Pittsburg. It was a constant menace to the residents of the Conemaugh Valley, but engineers of the Pennsylvania Railroad regularly inspected it once a month and pronounced it safe. The club leased the lake in 1881 from the Pennsylvania Railroad Company. It paid no attention to the fears of the people of Johnstown, but merely quoted the opinions of experts to the effect that nothing short of an extraordinary convulsion of nature could affect the protecting dam. Johnstown's geographical situation is one that renders it peculiarly liable to terrible loss of life in the event of such a casualty as that reported. It is a town built in a basin of the mountains and girt about by streams, all of which finally find their way into the Allegheny River, and thence into the Ohio. On one side of the town flows the Conemaugh River, a stream which during the dry periods of the summer drought can be readily crossed in many places by stepping from stone to stone, but which speedily becomes a raging mountain torrent, when swollen by the spring freshets or heavy summer rains. On the other side of the town is the Stony Creek, which gathers up its own share of the mountain rains and whirls them along toward Pittsburg. The awful flood caused by the sudden outpouring of the contents of the reservoir, together with the torrents of rain that had already swollen these streams to triple their usual violence, is supposed to be the cause of the sudden submersion of Johnstown and the drowning of so many of its citizens. The water, unable to find its way rapidly enough through its usual channels, piled up in overwhelming masses, carrying before it everything that obstructed its onward rush upon the town. Johnstown, the center of the great disaster, is on the main line of the Pennsylvania Railroad, 276 miles from Philadelphia. It is the headquarters of the great Cambria Iron Company, and its acres of ironworks fill the narrow basin in which the city is situated. The rolling mill and Bessemer steel works employ 6,000 men. The mountains rise quite abruptly almost on all sides, and the railroad track, which follows the turbulent course of the Conemaugh River, is above the level of the iron works. The summit of the Allegheny Mountains is reached at Gallatizin, about twenty-four miles east of Johnstown. The people of Johnstown had been warned of the impending flood as early as 1 o'clock in the afternoon, but not a person living near the reservoir knew that the dam had given way until the flood swept the houses off their foundations and tore the timbers apart. Escape from the torrent was impossible. The Pennsylvania Railroad hastily made up trains to get as many people away as possible, and thus saved many lives. Four miles below the dam lay the town of South Fork, where the South Fork itself empties into the Conemaugh River. The town contained about 2,000 inhabitants. It has not been heard from, but it is said that four-fifths of it has been swept away. Four miles further down, on the Conemaugh River, which runs parallel with the main line of the Pennsylvania Railroad, was the town of Mineral Point. It had 800 inhabitants, 90 per cent of the houses being on a flat and close to the river. Few of them escaped. Six miles further down was the town of Conemaugh, and here alone was there a topographical possibility of the spreading of the flood and the breaking of its force. It contained 2,500 inhabitants and was wholly devastated. Woodvale, with 2,000 people, lay a mile below Conemaugh, in the flat, and one mile further down were Johnstown and its cluster of sister towns, Cambria City, Conemaugh borough, with a total population of 30,000. On made ground, and stretching along right at the river verge, were the immense iron works of the Cambria Iron and Steel Company, which had $5,000,000 invested in the plant. The great damage to Johnstown was largely due to the rebound of the flood after it swept across. The wave spread against the stream of Stony Creek and passed over Kernsville to a depth of thirty feet in some places. It was related that the lumber boom had broken on Stony Creek, and the rush of tide down stream, coming in contact with the spreading wave, increased the extent of the disaster in this section. In Kernsville, as well as in Hornerstown, across the river, the opinion was expressed that so many lives would not have been lost had the people not believed from their experience with former floods that there was positively no danger beyond the filling of cellars or the overflow of the shores of the river. After rushing down the mountains from the South Fork dam, the pressure of water was so great that it forced its way against the natural channel not only over Kernsville and Hornerstown, but all the way up to Grubbtown, on Stony Creek. By the terrible flood communication by rail and wire was nearly all cut off. The exact number of the victims of this dreadful disaster probably will never be known. Bodies were found beyond Pittsburg, which in all probability were carried to that place from Johnstown and its suburbs. The terrible holocaust at the barricade of wrecks at the bridge of the Pennsylvania Railroad below Johnstown, where hundreds of men, women and children who were saved from the waves were burned to death, caused a terrible loss of life. The loss of property was about $10,000,000. KNEW THE DAM WAS WEAK. On the Monday after the catastrophe there came to Johnstown a man who had scarcely more than a dozen rags to cover his nakedness. His name was Herbert Webber, and he was employed by the South Fork Club as a sort of guard. He supported himself mostly by hunting and fishing on the club's preserves. By almost super-human efforts he succeeded in working his way through the forest and across flood, in order to ascertain for himself the terrible results of the deluge which he saw start from the Sportsman's Club's lake. Webber said that he had been employed in various capacities about the preserve for a considerable time. He had repeatedly, he declared, called the attention of the members of the club to the various leakages at the dam, but he received the stereotyped reply that the masonry was all right; that it had been "built to stand for centuries," and that such a thing as its giving way was among the impossibilities. But Webber did not hesitate to continue his warnings. Finally, according to his own statement, he was instructed to "shut up or he would be bounced." He was given to understand that the officers of the club were tired of his croakings and that the less he said about the dam from thence on the better it would be for him. Webber then laid his complaint before the Mayor of Johnstown, not more than a month before the catastrophe. He told him that the spring freshets were due, and that, if they should be very heavy, the dam would certainly give way. Webber says the Mayor promised to send an expert to examine the dam then, and if necessary to appeal to the State. Somehow the expert was not chosen, the appeal was not made at Harrisburg, and the calamity ensued. For three days previous to the final outburst, Webber said, the water of the lake forced itself through the interstices of the masonry, so that the front of the dam resembled a large watering pot. The force of the water was so great that one of these jets squirted full thirty feet horizontally from the stone wall. All this time, too, the feeders of the lake, particularly three of them, more nearly resembled torrents than mountain streams and were supplying the dammed up body of water with quite 3,000,000 gallons of water hourly. At 11 o'clock Friday morning, May 31, Webber said he was attending to a camp about a mile back from the dam, when he noticed that the surface of the lake seemed to be lowering. He doubted his eyes, and made a mark on the shore, and then found that his suspicions were undoubtedly well founded. He ran across the country to the dam, and there he saw the water of the lake welling out from beneath the foundation stones of the dam. Absolutely helpless, he was compelled to stand there and watch the gradual development of what was to be the most disastrous flood of this continent. According to his reckoning it was 12:45 when the stones in the centre of the dam began to sink because of the undermining, and within eight minutes a gap of twenty feet was made in the lower half of the wall face, through which the water poured as though forced by machinery of stupendous power. By 1 o'clock the toppling masonry, which before had partaken somewhat of the form of an arch, fell in, and then the remainder of the wall opened outward like twin-gates, and the great storage lake was foaming and thundering down the valley of the Conemaugh. Webber became so awestruck at the catastrophe that he was unable to leave the spot until the lake had fallen so low that it showed bottom fifty feet below him. How long a time elapsed he did not know before he recovered sufficient power of observation to notice this, but he did not think more than five minutes passed. Webber said that had the dam been repaired after the spring freshet of 1888 the disaster would not have occurred. Had it been given ordinary attention in the spring of 1887 the probabilities are thousands of lives would not have been lost. To have put the dam in excellent condition would not have cost $5,000. EXPERT SAID THE DAM WAS NOT STRONG. A. M. Wellington, one of the most noted engineering experts in the United States, said of the dam after the flood: "No engineer of known and good standing could possibly have been engaged in the reconstruction of the old dam after it had been neglected in disuse for twenty odd years, and the old dam was a very inferior piece of work, and of a kind wholly unwarranted by good engineering practices of its day, thirty years ago. "Both the original dam and the reconstructed one were built of earth only, with no heart wall and rip-rapped only, on the slopes. True, the earth is of a sticky, clayey quality; the best of earth for adhesiveness, and the old dam was made in watered layers, well rammed down, as is still shown in the wrecked dam. But the new end was probably not rammed down at all; the earth was simply dumped in like an ordinary railway filling. Much of the old dam still stands, while the new work contiguous to it was carried away. "It has been an acknowledged principle of dam building for forty years, and the invariable practice to build a central wall either of puddle or solid masonry, but there was neither in the old nor in the new dam. It is doubtful if there is another dam of the height of fifty feet in the United States which lacks this central wall. "Ignorance or carelessness is shown in the reconstruction, for the middle of the new dam was nearly two feet lower in the middle than at the ends. It should have been crowned in the middle by all the rules and practice of engineering. "Had the break begun at the ends, the cut of the water would have been gradual and little or no harm would have resulted. And had the dam been cut at once at the ends when the water began running over the center, the suddenness of the break might have been checked, the wall crumbling away at least more slowly and gradually and possibly prolonged so that little harm would have been done. "There was an overflow through the rocks in the old dam, which provided that the water must rise seven feet above the ordinary level before it would pass over the crest of the dam. But, owing to the raising of the ends of the dam in 1881, without raising the crest, only five and a half feet of water was necessary to run water over the middle of the dam. And this spillway, narrow at best, had been further contracted by a close grating to prevent the fish from escaping from the lake, while the original discharge pipe at the foot of the dam was permanently closed when the dam was constructed. Indeed, the maximum discharge was reduced in all directions. The safety valve to that dangerous dam was almost screwed down tight. "There seems to have been no leakage through the dam, its destruction resulting from its running over at the top. The estimates for the original dam call for half earth and rock, but there is no indication of it in the broken dam. The riprap was merely a skin on each face, with loose spawls mixed with the earth. The dam was 72 feet high, 2 inches slope to a foot inside, 1-1/2 inches to a foot outside slope and 20 feet thick at the top. The fact that the dam was a reconstructed one, after twenty years disuse, made it especially hard on the old dam to withstand the pressure of the water." EVERYTHING OVER IN A FEW MINUTES. All was over in a few moments' time. The flood rushed down the valley when released from its prison, swept earth, trees, houses and human beings before it, depositing the vast debris in front of the railroad bridge, which formed an impassable barrier to the passage of everything except the vast agent of destruction--the flood--which overflowed it and passed on to wreak fresh vengeance below. One of the most terrible sights was the gorge at the railroad bridge. This gorge consisted of debris of all kinds welded into an almost solid mass. Here were the charred timbers of houses and the charred and mutilated remains of human beings. The fire at this point, which lasted until June 3 and had still some of its vitality left on the 5th, was one of the incidents of the Johnstown disaster that will become historic. The story has not been and cannot be fully told. One could not look at it without a shock to his sensibilities. So tangled and unyielding was the mass that even dynamite had little effect upon it. One deplorable effect, however, was to dismember the few parts of human bodies wedged in the mass that the ruthless flood left whole. From the western end of the railroad bridge the view was but a prelude to the views that were to follow. Looking across the gorge the first object the eye caught in the ruined town is the Melville school, standing as a guardian over the dead--a solitary sentinel left on the field after the battle. Still further on and near the center of the town were the offices and stores of the Cambria Iron Company. Beyond and around both buildings were sand flats, mud flats until the 29th of May, the almost navigable water of the flood itself until the 2d of June, the most populous and busy part of the city until the 31st of May. Part of the ground was covered by a part of the shops of the Cambria Company. Not a vestige of these remained. When the great storm of Friday came, the dam was again a source of uneasiness, and early in the morning the people of Johnstown were warned that the dam was weakening. They had heard the same warning too often, however, to be impressed, and many jeered at their informants. Some of those that jeered were before nightfall scattered along the banks of the Conemaugh, cold in death, or met their fate in the blazing pile of wrecked houses wedged together at the big stone bridge. Only a few heeded the warning, and these made their way to the hillside, where they were safe. Early in the day the flood caused by the heavy rains swept through the streets of Johnstown. Every little mountain stream was swollen by the rains; rivulets became creeks and creeks were turned into rivers. The Conemaugh, with a bed too narrow to hold its greatly increased body of water, overflowed its banks, and the damage caused by this overflow alone would have been large. But there was more to come, and the results were so appalling that there lived not a human being who was likely to anticipate them. At 1 o'clock in the afternoon the resistless flood tore away the huge lumber boom on Stony creek. This was the real beginning of the end. The enormous mass of logs was hurled down upon the doomed town. The lines of the two water courses were by this time obliterated, and Stony creek and the Conemaugh river were raging seas. The great logs levelled everything before them, crushing frame houses like eggshells and going on unchecked until the big seven-arch stone bridge over the Conemaugh river just below Johnstown was reached. Had the logs passed this bridge Johnstown might have been spared much of its horror. There were already dead and dying, and homes had already been swept away, but the dead could only be counted by dozens and not yet by thousands. Wedged fast at the bridge, the logs formed an impenetrable barrier. People had moved to the second floor of their houses and hoped that the flood might subside. There was no longer a chance to get away, and had they known what was in store for them the contemplation of their fate would have been enough to make them stark mad. Only a few hours had elapsed from the time of the breaking of the lumber boom when the waters of Conemaugh lake rushed down upon them. The scoffers realized their folly. The dam had given way, and the immense body of water which had rested in a basin five miles long, two miles wide and seventy feet deep was let loose to begin its work of destruction. The towering wall of water swooped down upon Johnstown with a force that carried everything before it. Had it been able to pass through the big stone bridge a portion of Johnstown might have been saved. The rampart of logs, however, checked the torrent and half the houses of the town were lifted from their foundations and hurled against it. This backed the water up into the town, and as there had to be an outlet somewhere, the river made a new channel through the heart of the lower part of the city. Again and again did the flood hurl itself against the bridge, and each wave carried with it houses, furniture and human beings. The bridge stood firm, but the railway embankment gave way, and some fifty people were carried down to their deaths in the new break. Through this new outlet the waters were diverted in the direction of the Cambria Iron Works, a mile below, and in a moment the great buildings of a plant valued at $5,000,000 were engulfed and laid low. Here had gathered a number of iron workers, who felt that they were out of the reach of the flood, and almost before they realized their peril they were swept away into the seething torrent. It was now night, and darkness added to the terror of the situation. Then came flames to make the calamity all the more appalling. Hundreds of buildings had been piled up against the stone bridge. The inmates of but few of them had had time to escape. Just how many people were imprisoned in that mass of wreckage may never be known, but the number was estimated at between 1,000 and 2,000. The wreckage was piled to a height of fifty feet, and suddenly flames began leaping up from the summit. A stove had set fire to that part of the wreck above the water, and the scene that was then witnessed is beyond description. Shrieks and prayers from the unhappy beings imprisoned in the wrecked houses pierced the air, but little could be done. Men, women and children, held down by timbers, watched with indescribable agony the flames creep slowly toward them until the heat scorched their faces, and then they were slowly roasted to death. Those who were held fast in the wreck by an arm or a leg begged piteously that the imprisoned limb be cut off. Some succeeded in getting loose with mangled limbs, and one man cut off his arm that he might get away. Those who were able worked like demons to save the unfortunates from the flames, but hundreds were burned to death. Meanwhile Johnstown had been literally wiped from the face of the earth, Cambria City was swept away and Conemaugh borough was a thing of the past. The little village of Millville, with a population of one thousand, had nothing left of it but the school-house and the stone buildings of the Cambria Iron Company. Woodvale was gone and South Fork wrecked. Hundreds of people were drowned in their homes, hundreds were swept away in their dwellings and met death in the debris that was whirled madly about on the surface of the flood; hundreds, as has been said, were burned, and hundreds who sought safety on floating driftwood were overwhelmed by the flood or washed to death against obstructions. The instances of heroism and self-sacrifice were never excelled, perhaps not equalled, on a battle-field. Men rather than save themselves alone died nobly with their families, and mothers willingly gave up their lives rather than abandon their children. "At 3 o'clock in the afternoon," said Electrician Bender, of the Western Union at Pittsburg, "the girl operator at Johnstown was cheerfully ticking away; she soon had to abandon the office on the first floor because the water was three feet deep there. She said she was wiring from the second story and the water was gaining steadily. She was frightened, and said that many houses around were flooded. This was evidently before the dam broke, for our man here said something encouraging to her, and she was talking back as only a cheerful girl operator can when the receiver's skilled ears caught a sound of the wire made by no human hand. The wires had grounded or the house had been swept away in the flood, no one knows which now. At 3 o'clock the girl was there and at 3:07 we might as well have asked the grave to answer us." Edward Deck, a young railroad man of Lockport, saw an old man floating down the river on a tree trunk, with agonized face and streaming gray hair. Deck plunged into the torrent and brought the old man safely ashore. Scarcely had he done so, when the upper story of a house floated by on which Mrs. Adams, of Cambria, and her two children were both seen. Deck plunged in again, and while breaking through the tin roof of the house cut an artery in his left wrist, but though weakened with loss of blood, he succeeded in saving both mother and children. J. W. Esch, a brave railroad employe, saved sixteen lives at Nineveh. At Bolivar a man, woman and child were seen floating down in a lot of drift. The mass of debris commenced to part, and by desperate efforts the husband and father succeeded in getting his wife and little one on a floating tree. Just then the tree washed under the bridge and a rope was thrown out. It fell upon the man's shoulders. He saw at a glance that he could not save his dear ones, so he threw the means of safety to one side and gripped in his arms those who were with him. A moment later the tree struck a floating house. It turned over, and in a second the three persons were in the seething waters, being carried to their death. C. W. Hoppenstall, of Lincoln avenue, East End, Pittsburg, distinguished himself by his bravery. He was a messenger on the mail train which had to turn back at Sang Hollow. As the train passed a point where the water was full of struggling persons, a woman and child floated in near shore. The train was stopped and Hoppenstall undressed, jumped into the water, and in two trips saved both mother and child. The special train pulled in at Bolivar at 11.30 o'clock and trainmen were notified that further progress was impossible. The greatest excitement prevailed at this place, and parties of citizens were all the time endeavoring to save the poor unfortunates that were being hurled to eternity on the rushing torrent. The tidal wave struck Bolivar just after dark and in five minutes the Conemaugh rose from six to forty feet and the waters spread out over the whole country. Soon houses began floating down, and clinging to the debris were men, women and children, shrieking for aid. A large number of citizens at once gathered on the county bridge and they were reinforced by a number from Garfield, a town on the opposite side of the river. They brought a number of ropes and these were thrown into the boiling waters as persons drifted by in efforts to save some poor beings. For half an hour all efforts were fruitless until at last, when the rescuers were about giving up all hope, a little boy astride a shingle roof managed to catch hold of one of the ropes. He caught it under his left arm and was thrown violently against an abutment, but managed to keep hold and was successfully pulled on to the bridge, amid the cheers of the onlookers. His name was Hessler and his rescuer was a train hand named Carney. The lad was taken to the town of Garfield and cared for in the home of J. P. Robinson. The boy was about 16 years old. His story of the frightful calamity is as follows: "With my father, I was spending the day at my grandfather's house in Cambria City. In the house at the time were Theodore, Edward and John Kintz, and John Kintz, Jr., Miss Mary Kintz, Mrs. Mary Kintz, wife of John Kintz, Jr., Miss Tracy Kintz, Miss Rachel Smith, John Hirsch, four children, my father and myself. Shortly after 5 o'clock there was a noise of roaring waters and screams of people. We looked out the door and saw persons running. My father told us not to mind, as the waters would not rise further. But soon we saw houses being swept away and then we ran to the floor above. The house was three stories, and we were at last forced to the top one. In my fright I jumped on the bed. It was an old-fashioned one with heavy posts. The water kept rising and my bed was soon afloat. Gradually it was lifted up. The air in the room grew close and the house was moving. Still the bed kept rising and pressed the ceiling. At last the post pushed the plaster. It yielded and a section of the roof gave way. Then suddenly I found myself on the roof and was being carried down stream. After a little this roof commenced to part and I was afraid I was going to be drowned, but just then another house with a single roof floated by and I managed to crawl on it and floated down until nearly dead with cold, when I was saved. After I was freed from the house I did not see my father. My grandfather was on a tree, but he must have been drowned, as the waters were rising fast. John Kintz, Jr., was also on a tree. Miss Mary Kintz and Mrs. Mary Kintz I saw drowned. Miss Smith was also drowned. John Hirsch was in a tree, but the four children were drowned. The scenes were terrible. Live bodies and corpses were floating down with me and away from me. I would hear persons shriek and then they would disappear. All along the line were people who were trying to save us, but they could do nothing and only a few were caught." The boy's story is but one incident and shows what happened to one family. God only knows what has happened to the hundreds who were in the path of the rushing water. It is impossible to get anything in the way of news, save meagre details. An eye-witness at Bolivar Block Station tells a story of unparalleled horror which occurred at the lower bridge which crosses the Conemaugh at this point. A young man and two women were seen coming down the river on a part of a floor. At the upper bridge a rope was thrown them. This they all failed to catch. Between the two bridges the man was noticed to point towards the elder woman, who, it is supposed, was his mother. He was then seen to instruct the women how to catch the rope which, was being lowered from the other bridge. Down came the raft with a rush. The brave man stood with his arms around the two women. As they swept under the bridge he reached up and seized the rope. He was jerked violently away from the two women, who failed to get a hold on the life line. Seeing that they would not be rescued he dropped the rope and fell back on the raft, which floated on down. The current washed the frail craft in towards the bank. The young man was enabled to seize hold of a branch of a tree. The young man aided the two women to get up into the tree. He held on with his hands and rested his feet on a pile of driftwood. A piece of floating debris struck the drift, sweeping it away. The man hung with his body immersed in the water. A pile of drift soon collected and he was enabled to get another secure footing. Up the river there was a sudden crash and a section of the bridge was swept away and floated down the stream, striking the tree and washing it away. All three were thrown into the water and were drowned before the eyes of the horrified spectators just opposite the town of Bolivar. Early in the evening a woman with her two children were seen to pass under the bridge at Bolivar, clinging to the roof of a coalhouse. A rope was lowered to her, but she shook her head and refused to desert the children. It was rumored that all three were saved at Cokeville, a few miles below Bolivar. A later report from Lockport says that the residents succeeded in rescuing five people from the flood, two women and three men. One man succeeded in getting out of the water unaided. They were kindly taken care of by the people of the town. A little girl passed under the bridge just before dark. She was kneeling on a part of a floor and had her hands clasped as if in prayer. Every effort was made to save her, but they all proved futile. A railroader who was standing by remarked that the piteous appearance of the little waif brought tears to his eyes. All night long the crowd stood about the ruins of the bridge, which had been swept away at Bolivar. The water rushed past with a roar, carrying with it parts of houses, furniture and trees. The flood had evidently spent its force up the valley. No more living persons were being carried past. Watchers with lanterns remained along the banks until day-break, when the first view of the awful devastation of the flood was witnessed. CRAZED BY THEIR SUFFERINGS. When the great waves of death swept through Johnstown, the people who had any chance of escape ran hither and thither in every direction. They did not have any definite idea where they were going, only that a crest of foaming waters as high as the housetops was roaring down upon them through the Conemaugh, and that they must get out of the way of that. Some in their terror dived into the cellars of their houses, though this was certain death. Others got up on the roofs of their houses and clambered over the adjoining roofs to places of safety. But the majority made for the hills, which girt the town like giants. Of the people who went to the hills the water caught some in its whirl. The others clung to trees and roots and pieces of debris which had temporarily lodged near the banks, and managed to save themselves. These people either stayed out on the hills wet and in many instances naked, all night, or they managed to find farmhouses which sheltered them. There was a fear of going back to the vicinity of the town. Even the people whose houses the water did not reach abandoned their homes and began to think of all of Johnstown as a city buried beneath the water. When these people came back to Johnstown on the day after the wreck of the town they had to put up in sheds, barns, and in houses which had been but partially ruined. They had to sleep without any covering in their wet clothes, and it took the liveliest kind of skirmishing to get anything to eat. Pretty soon a citizens' committee was established, and nearly all the male survivors of the flood were immediately sworn in as deputy sheriffs. They adorned themselves with tin stars, which they cut out of pieces of sheet metal in the ruins, and sheets of tin with stars cut out of them are turning up continually, to the surprise of the Pittsburg workmen who are endeavoring to get the town in shape. The women and children were housed, as far as possible, in the few houses still standing, and some idea of the extent of the wreck of the town may be gathered from the fact that of 300 prominent buildings only sixteen were uninjured. For the first day or so people were dazed by what had happened, and for that matter they are dazed still. They went about helpless, making vague inquiries for their friends and hardly feeling the desire to eat anything. Finally the need of creature comforts overpowered them, and they woke up to the fact that they were faint and sick. This was to some extent changed by the arrival of tents and by the systematic military care for the suffering. THE BRIDGE WHERE HUNDREDS LOST THEIR LIVES. The "fatal bridge," as it is now called, and which wreaked such awful destruction, is described by a writer in this way: "The bridge whose 'resistance of the torrent' was the matter of so much talk, was a noble four-track structure, just completed, fifty feet wide on top, 32 feet high above the water line, consisting of seven skew spans of fifty-eight feet each. It still remains wholly uninjured, except that it is badly spalled on the upper side by blows from the wreckage, but that it so remains is due solely to the accident of its position, and not to its strength, although it was and is still the embodiment of solidity. "Had the torrent struck it, it would have swept it away as if it had been built of card-board, leaving no track behind; but fortunately (or unfortunately) its axis was exactly parallel with the path of the flood, which hence struck the face of the mountain full, and compressed the whole of its spoils gathered in a fourteen-mile course into one inextricable mass, with the force of tens of thousands of tons moving at nearly sixty miles per hour. "Its spoils consisted of (1) every tree the flood had touched in its whole course, with trifling exceptions, including hundreds of large trees, all of which were stripped of their bark and small limbs almost at once; (2) all the houses in a thickly settled town three miles long and one-fourth to one-half mile wide; (3) half the human beings and all the horses, cows, cats, dogs, and rats that were in the houses; (4) many hundreds of miles of telegraph wire that was on strong poles in use, and many times more than this that was in stock in the mills; (5) perhaps 50 miles of track and track material, rails and all; (6) locomotives, pig-iron, brick, stone, boilers, steam engines, heavy machinery, and other spoil of a large manufacturing town. "All this was accumulated in one inextricable mass, which almost immediately caught fire from some stove which the waters had not touched. Hundreds if not thousands of human beings, dead and alive, were caught in it, many by the lower part of the body only. Eye-witnesses describe the groans and cries which came from that vast holocaust for nearly the whole night as something almost unbearable to listen to, yet which could not be escaped. Hundreds, undoubtedly, suffered a slow death by fire; yet we cannot doubt that the vast majority of the men, women, and children in that fearful jam, which covered fully thirty acres, and perhaps more, were already dead when the fire began. "Johnstown proper is in a large basin formed by the junction of the Conemaugh and the almost equally large Stony creek, flowing into the Conemaugh from the south, just above the bridge. The bridge being hermetically sealed, it and the adjacent embankment formed a second dam about thirty feet high, Johnstown serving as a bed of a reservoir which we should judge to be nearly large enough to hold the entire contents of the reservoir above, except that it was already filled knee-deep or more by an unusually heavy but annual spring flood. "One offshoot of the main torrent was deflected southward by the Gautier Works, and went tearing through the heart of the more southerly portion of the town, and still another similar branch was split off from the main torrent further down; but in the main, the direct force of the torrent did not strike this southerly portion of the town. "It struck first against the jam, and thus lost most of its fierce energy, flowing thence southward in a heavy stream, which tossed about houses in the most fantastic way, so that this part of the town looks much like a child's toy-village poured out of a box hap-hazard; the houses are not torn to pieces generally. "About half the loss of life was in this district, for all Johnstown became speedily a lake twenty or more feet deep, and stayed so all night; and it was here, and not in the direct path of the flood, that all the 'rescuing' of people from roofs and floating timbers occurred. "Nothing of the kind was possible in the flood itself. Likewise, after the break in the embankment had occurred, and the flood began to recede from Johnstown, it was from this district chiefly that people were carried off down stream on floating wreckage. All that came within the direct path of the flood was fast within the jam. "The existence of this temporary Johnstown reservoir naturally broke the continuity of the flood discharge, and transformed it into something not greatly different from an ordinary but very heavy freshet. Cambria City, just below the bridge, was badly wrecked, with the loss of hundreds of lives; but in the main, from Johnstown down, the flood ceased to be very destructive. It took out almost every bridge it came to, for fifty miles, and washed away tracks, and did other minor damage, but the Johnstown 'reservoir' saved hundreds of lives below it by equalizing the flow." THE DAY EXPRESS DISASTER. John Barr, the conductor in charge of the Pullman parlor car on the first section of the day express, which was caught in the flood at Conemaugh, told a thrilling story of his experience. His train, with two others, had been run onto a siding on high ground at Conemaugh Station, opposite the big round-house. He saw the water coming and describes it as having the appearance of a mountain moving toward him. He immediately ran to his car and shouted to his passengers to run for their lives. John Davis, connected with a large rolling mill near Lancaster, was traveling from Colorado with his invalid wife and two children, aged 4 and 6. Mr. Davis was engaged in getting his wife off the car, and Conductor Barr grabbed up the two children, and, with one under each arm, started for the hills, with the water right at his heels. He ran a distance of about 200 yards and barely managed to deposit his precious burden on safe ground before the flood swept past him. Mr. Barr said it would never be known how many persons lost their lives from the ill-fated train. The one passenger coach which was carried away had some people in it; how many nobody knows. At least twenty were drowned. A freight train was between the day express and the flood on an adjoining track, and this served to in a measure protect his train. Some idea of the terrible force of the flood may be gained from Mr. Barr's statement that the engines in the round-house, thirty-seven in number, swept past him standing half way out of the water, their forty tons of weight not being sufficient to take them beneath the surface. The baggage car was lifted clear out of the water and landed on the other side of the river. A Miss Wayne, who was traveling from Pittsburg to Altoona, had a wonderful escape. She was caught in the swirl and almost all of her clothing torn from her person, and she was providentially thrown by the angry waters clear of the rushing flood. Miss Wayne said that while she lay more dead than alive on the river bank, she saw the Hungarians rifle the bodies of dead passengers and cut off their fingers for the purpose of obtaining the rings on the hands of the corpses. Miss Wayne was provided with a suit of men's clothing and rode into Altoona thus arrayed. Miss Maloney, of Woodbury, N. J., a passenger on the parlor car, started to leave the car, and then, fearing to venture out into the flood, returned to the inside of the car. When the water subsided the crew rushed to the car, expecting to find Miss Maloney dead, but the water had not gone high enough to drown her and she was all right, though greatly frightened. She displayed a rare amount of forethought in the face of danger, having tied securely around her waist a piece of her clothing on which her name was written in indelible ink. She fully expected that she would be drowned, and did this in order that her body, if found, might be identified. When the water was still high Conductor Barr made an attempt to get back to his car from the hill, but after wading up to his arm-pits in the water he was forced to return to safe ground. THE PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD'S LAST TRAIN. The last train to which the Susquehanna River permitted the use of the tracks of the Pennsylvania Railroad between Harrisburg and Lancaster rolled into Broad Street Station, at Philadelphia, at 9:35 p. m. on Saturday, June 1. It was a nondescript train. The last car was a vestibule Pullman which had never stopped at so many way stations before in its aristocratic life, and which had been cut off the stalled Chicago limited at Harrisburg to be taken back to New York. The rest of the train had started from Harrisburg at 3:40 as the day express and at Lancaster had been changed into the York and Columbia "tub." No train's name ever fitted it better. The tub had swam through seven miles of water on its way, water differing in depth from three inches to three feet. The seven miles of water covered the track between Harrisburg and Highspire. When the newspaper train touched with the morning dailies and to some extent with the men who make them, dashed drippingly into Harrisburg at half-past 7 in the morning it had only encountered three-fourths of a mile of water. No reports of a great increase in the Susquehanna's output had reached beleaguered Harrisburg during the day, and the express started out with two engines, 1095 and 1105, towing it and a fair chance of reaching Philadelphia on time. The original three-quarters of a mile of overflow--caused by the back water of Paxton creek--was passed without incident. The water was about up to the bottom steps of the car platforms and the pilot of the leading engine threw to each side a fine billow of yellow water, sending a swell like that of a tramp steamer passing Gloucester, in among the floating outhouses and submerged slag heaps of the suburbs of Harrisburg and bringing cheers from thousands who watched the train's advance from their second-story windows and forgot the condition of their first-floor furniture in the excitement of watching the amphibious prowess of the day express. "We've seen the worst of it," said the elderly, kindly conductor to a couple of excited women passengers as the last of the three-fourths of a mile of billows was thrown from the pilot of 1095. "We've seen the worst of it, but the train will have to wait here a little while--the fires are almost out." So 1095 and 1102 stood puffing and panting for a while on the high track while the afternoon sunlight dried their dripping flanks and the baffled Susquehanna rolled its burden of driftwood sullenly southward on their right. Then the day express rolled on again. The dry ground was just about long enough to give the train an impetus for another header into the Susquehanna's overflow. It was into the Susquehanna itself that the header seemed to be taken this time. It was no longer a question of an overflow creek in a railroad cut. The billows from the prow of 1095 swept not in among overturned outhouses and submerged slag heaps, but out on the broad coffee-colored bosom of the river to be broken into a thousand chop waves among the churning driftwood. The people in the second-story windows forgot to cheer. The people in the coaches forgot to joke on the men's part and to fret on the women's. It was curious and it was ticklish. The train was running slowly, very slowly. The wheels were out of sight. The water was swirling among the trucks and lapping at the platforms. The only sign of land locomotion about the day express was an audible one, a watery pounding and rumbling of the wheels on the hidden tracks. The day express looked like a long broad river serpent wriggling on its belly down along the green river bank. Gradually there was a simultaneous though not concerted movement among the passengers. They began crowding toward the platforms and looking toward the land side. Suddenly a brakeman broke the queer silence, in a voice which had just the least crescendo of excitement in it. "If you people don't keep quiet we can't do anything!" he shouted. The demand was a little absurd, the direction of a land coxswain to "trim ship." Still, it had its uses. It relieved the tension which everybody felt and nobody acknowledged. The passengers retired from the platforms. Joking began again among the men and fretting among the women. There hadn't been much fun in looking toward the land side anyway. What had appeared to be a recession of the waters when looked at from above was merely a swelling of the stream from the overflow of the canal which parallels the road for several miles at that point. All at once the train, which had been moving more slowly for each of a good ten minutes, stopped short. It seemed as if 1095's sharp nose had scented danger like a sensitive horse, and, panting, refused to go further. Then the engine crews were seen by the passengers to leap from their cabs thigh deep in the water and begin hauling at some sub-aquean obstacle. "Driftwood," said the same brakeman who had commanded quiet. So it was. A train stopped by driftwood! It was floating all about and threatened to impede the progress of the day express altogether. Fence rails from far up country farms, planks from dismantled signal stations, platforms along the line, railroad ties innumerable, branches and even small trunks of trees floated against the wheels with disjected stacks of green wheat and other ruined crops upon the ever-rising flood of the river. There had been high dry land in sight just beyond Highspire Station, but as sure as guns were iron and floods were floods the land was disappearing. The river's rise was steady. The inhabitants of the drowned lands who appeared to take the drowning easily, though no such a drowning had been known to them in a quarter of a century, had been in large numbers keeping company of the train for the last two miles in skiffs and punts. They rowed close to the cars and towed away the larger drift. They were not entirely on life-saving service. There was a bit of the wreckage in their composition. They towed the trunk and ties into their front yards and anchored them to their window-blinds. Finally the straining backs of the engine crews gave one mighty tug at the hidden obstacle. A huge platform plank floated loose from 1095, and 1095 shrieked triumph. The wheels began to churn the brown water with yellowish white and 1095 and 1102 ran up on the dry ground like the eagle in the sun, to whom the Irish poet compared the Irish troops at Fontenoy. As they did so the clatter of a light advancing train was heard from the east, and a sound of cheering. A single engine drawing two crowded cars shot around the bend, and ran with a light heart into the torrent out of which the day express had just emerged. "They'll never get through," was the unanimous comment of the day express passengers, and their verdict seemed to be confirmed officially by the brakeman who had been excited. He stood in the door of the car and shouted: "This train will stop at all stations between Lancaster and Bryn Mawr. There will be no more trains between Harrisburg and Lancaster to-night." Afterwards he added: "As this is the last train it will have to take the place of the 'tub.'" THE FIRST RUSH OF THE DEATH WAVE. A man who was above the danger line on the right bluff above the town, and who saw the first rush of the death wave, says that it was preceded by a peculiar phenomena, which he thinks was the explosion of the gas mains. He says that a few minutes before the wall of the water had reached the city there was a tremendous explosion somewhere in the upper part of the place. He said that he saw the fragments of the buildings rise in the air, and the next moment saw two lines of flame down through the city in different directions, and frame buildings were apparently being torn to pieces and wrecked. The next minute the water came, and he remembers nothing further. There really was an explosion of gas that wrecked a church in the upper part of the city just at the time of the flood. If there was also an explosion of the gas main, the cause of the fire at the bridge is explained. Light frame buildings set on fire by the explosion were picked up bodily and tossed on top of the water into the wreck at the bridge without the fire being extinguished. Mrs. Fredericks, an aged woman, was rescued alive from the attic in her house. The house had floated from what was formerly Vine street to the foot of the mountains. Mrs. Fredericks says her experience was terrible. She said she saw hundreds of men, women and children floating down the torrent to meet their death, some praying, while others had actually become raving maniacs. THE REAL HORRORS OF THE DISASTER. "No one will ever know the real horrors of this accident unless he saw the burning people and debris beside the stone bridge," remarked the Rev. Father Trautwein. "The horrible nature of the affair cannot be realized by any person who did not witness the scene. As soon as possible after the first great crash occurred I hastened to the bridge. "A thousand persons were struggling in the ruins and imploring for God's sake to release them. Frantic husbands and fathers stood at the edge of the furnace that was slowly heating to a cherry heat and incinerating human victims. Every one was anxious to save his own relatives, and raved, cursed, and blasphemed until the air appeared to tremble. No system, no organized effort to release the pent-up persons was made by those related to them. "Shrieking they would command: 'Go to that place, go get her out, for God's sake get her out,' referring to some beloved one they wanted saved. "Under the circumstances it was necessary to secure organization, and thinking I was trying to thwart their efforts when I ordered another point to be attacked by the rescuers, they advanced upon me, threatened to shoot me or dash me into the raging river. "One man who was trying to steer a float upon which his wife sat on a mattress lost his hold, and in a moment the craft swept into a sea of flame and never again appeared. The agony of that man was simply heartrending. He raised his arms to heaven and screamed in his mental anguish and only ceased that to tear his hair and moan like one distracted. Every effort was made to save every person accessible, and we have the satisfaction of knowing that fully 200 were saved from cremation. One young woman was found under the dead body of a relative. "A force of men attempted to extricate her and succeeded in releasing every limb but one leg. For three hours they labored, and every moment the flames crept nearer and nearer. I was on the point several times of ordering the men to chop her leg off. It would have been much better to save her life even at that loss than have her burn to death. Fortunately it was not necessary; but the young lady's escape from mutilation or death she will never realize." The flood and fire claimed among its victims not only the living, but the dead. A handsome coffin was found half burned in some charred wreckage down near the point. Inside was found the body of a man shrouded for burial, but so scorched about the head and face as to be unrecognizable. The supposition is that the house in which the dead man had lain had been crushed and the debris partly consumed by fire. The body is still at the Fourth Ward school house, and unless reclaimed it will be buried in the unknown field. THE CLOCK STOPPED AT 5:20. One of the queerest sights in the center of the town was a three-story brick residence standing with one wall, the others having disappeared completely, leaving the floors supported by the partitions. In one of the upper rooms could be seen a mantel with a lambrequin on it and a clock stopped at twenty minutes after five. In front of the clock was a lady's fan, though from the marks on the wall paper the water had been over all these things. In the upper part of the town, where the back water from the flood went into the valley with diminished force, there were many strange scenes. There the houses were toppled over one after another in a row, and left where they lay. One of them was turned completely over and stood with its roof on the foundations of another house and its base in the air. The owner came back, and getting into his house through the windows, walked about on his ceiling. Out of this house a woman and her two children escaped safely and were but little hurt, although they were stood on their heads in the whirl. Every house had its own story. From one a woman sent up in her garret escaped by chopping a hole in the roof. From another a Hungarian named Grevins leaped to the shore as it went whirling past and fell twenty-five feet upon a pile of metal and escaped with a broken leg. Another is said to have come all the way from very near the start of the flood and to have circled around with the back water and finally landed on the flats at the city site, where it is still pointed out. THE SITUATION NINE DAYS AFTER. A correspondent described the situation at Johnstown nine days after the disaster in this way: "So vast is the field of destruction that to get an adequate idea from any point level with the town is simply impossible. It must be viewed from a height. From the top of Kernsville Mountain, just at the east of the town, the whole strange panorama can be seen. "Looking down from the height many things about the flood that appear inexplicable from below are perfectly plain. How so many houses happened to be so queerly twisted, for instance, as if the water had a twirling instead of a straight motion, was made perfectly clear. "The town was built in an almost equilateral triangle, with one angle pointed squarely up the Conemaugh Valley to the east, from which the flood came. At the northerly angle was the junction of the Conemaugh and Stony creeks. The southern angle pointed up the Stony Creek Valley. Now about one-half of the triangle, formerly densely covered with buildings, is swept as clear as a platter, except for three or four big brick buildings that stand near the angle which points up the Conemaugh. "The course of the flood, from the exact point where it issued from the Conemaugh Valley to where it disappeared below in a turn in the river and above by spreading itself over the flat district of five or six miles, is clearly defined. The whole body of water issued straight from the valley in a solid wave and tore across the village of Woodvale and so on to the business part of Johnstown at the lower part of the triangle. Here a cluster of solid brick blocks, aided by the conformation of the land evidently divided the stream. "The greater part turned to the north, swept up the brick block and then mixed with the ruins of the villages above down to the stone arch bridge. The other stream shot across the triangle, was turned southward by the bluffs and went up the valley of Stony creek. The stone arch bridge in the meantime acted as a dam and turned part of the current back toward the south, where it finished the work of the triangle, turning again to the northward and back to the stone arch bridge. "The stream that went up Stony creek was turned back by the rising ground and then was reinforced by the back water from the bridge again and started south, where it reached a mile and a half and spent its force on a little settlement called Grubbtown. "The frequent turning of this stream, forced against the buildings and then the bluffs, gave it a regular whirling motion from right to left, and made a tremendous eddy, whose centrifugal force twisted everything it touched. This accounts for the comparatively narrow path of the flood through the southern part of the town, where its course through the thickly clustered frame dwelling houses is as plain as a highway. "The force of the stream diminished gradually as it went south, for at the place where the currents separated every building is ground to pieces and carried away, and at the end the houses were only turned a little on their foundations. In the middle of the course they are turned over on their sides or upside down. Further down they are not single, but great heaps of ground lumber that look like nothing so much as enormous pith balls. "To the north the work of the waters is of a different sort. It picked up everything except the big buildings that divided the current and piled the fragments down upon the stone bridge or swept them over and so on down the river for miles. "This left the great yellow, sandy and barren plain, so often spoken of in the dispatches where stood the best buildings in Johnstown--the opera house, the big hotel, many wholesale warehouses, shops and the finest residences. "In this plain there are now only the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad train, a school house, the Morrell Company's store and an adjoining warehouse and the few buildings of the triangle. One brick residence, badly shattered, is also standing. "These structures do not relieve the shocking picture of ruin spread out below the mountains, but by contrast making it more striking. That part of the town to the south where the flood tore the narrow path there used to be a separate village which was called Kernsville. It is now known as the South Side. Some of the queerest sights of the wreck are there, though few persons have gone to see them. "Many of the houses that are left, there scattered helter skelter, thrown on their sides and standing on their roofs, were never in that neighborhood nor anywhere near it before. They came down on the breast of the wave from as far up as Franklin, were carried safely by the factories and the bridges, by the big buildings at the dividing line, up and down on the flood and finally settled in their new resting places little injured. "A row of them, packed closely together and every one tipped over at about the same angle, is only one of the queer freaks the water played. "I got into one of these houses in my walk through the town to-day. The lower story had been filled with water and everything in it had been torn out. The carpet had been split into strips on the floor by the sheer force of the rushing tide. Heaps of mud stood in the corners. There was no vestige of furniture. The walls dripped with moisture. "The ceiling was gone, the windows were out and the cold rain blew in and the only thing that was left intact was one of those worked worsted mottoes that you always expect to find in the homes of working people. It still hung to the wall, and though much awry the glass and frame were unbroken. The motto looked grimly and sadly sarcastic. It was:-- 'There is no place like home.' "A melancholy wreck of a home that motto looked down upon. "I saw a wagon in the middle of a side street sticking tongue and all straight up into the air, resting on its tail board, with the hind wheels almost completely buried in the mud. I saw a house standing exactly in the middle of Napoleon street, the side stove in by crashing against some other house and in the hole the coffin of its owner was placed. "Some scholar's library had been strewn over the street in the last stage of the flood, for there was a trail of good books left half sticking in the mud and reaching for over a block. One house had been lifted over two others in some mysterious way and then had settled down between them and there it stuck, high up in the air, so its former occupants might have got into it again with ladders. "Down at the lower end of the course of the stream, where its force was greater, there was a house lying on one corner and held there by being fastened in the deep mud. Through its side the trunk of a tree had been driven like a lance, and there it stayed sticking out straight in the air. "In the muck was the case and key board of a square piano, and far down the river, near the debris about the stone bridge, were its legs. An upright piano, with all its inside apparatus cleanly taken out, stood straight up a little way off. What was once a set of costly furniture was strewn all about it, and the house that had contained it was nowhere. "The remarkable stories that have been told about people floating a mile up the river and then back two or three times are easily credible after seeing the evidences of the strange course the flood took in this part of the town. People who stood near the ruins of Poplar Bridge saw four women on a roof float up on the stream, turn a short distance above and come back and go past again and once more return. Then they were seen to go far down on the current to the lower part of the town and were rescued as they passed the second-story window of a school house. A man who was imprisoned in the attic of his house put his wife and two children on a roof that was eddying past and stayed behind to die alone. They floated up the stream and then came back and got upon the roof of the very house they had left, and the whole family were saved. "At Grubbtown there is a house which came all the way from Woodvale. On it was a man who lived near Grubbtown, but was working at Woodvale when the flood came. He was carried right past his own home, and coolly told the people at the bridge to bid his wife good-bye for him. The house passed the bridge three times, the man carrying on a conversation with the people on the shore and giving directions for his burial if his body should be found. "The third time the house went up it grounded at Grubbtown, and in an hour or two the man was safe at home. Three girls who went by on a roof crawled into the branches of a tree, and had to stay there all night before they could make anyone understand where they were. At one time scores of floating houses were wedged in together near the ruins of Poplar street bridge. Four brave men went out from the shore, and stepping from house-roof to house-roof brought in twelve women and children. "Some women crawled from roofs into the attics of houses. In their struggles with the flood most of their clothes had been torn from them, and rather than appear on the streets they stayed where they were until hunger forced them to shout out of the window for help. At this stage of the flood more persons were lost by being crushed to death than by drowning. As they floated by on roofs or doors the toppling houses fell over upon them and killed them. "The workers began on the wreck on Main street just opposite the First National Bank, one of the busiest parts of the city. A large number of people were lost here, the houses being crushed on one side of the street and being almost untouched on the other, a most remarkable thing considering the terrific force of the flood. Twenty-one bodies were taken out in the early morning and taken to the morgue. They were not much injured, considering the weight of lumber above them. "In many instances they were wedged in crevices. They were all in a good state of preservation, and when they were embalmed they looked almost lifelike. In this central part of the city examination is sure to result in the unearthing of bodies in every corner. Cottages which are still standing are banked up with lumber and driftwood, and it is like mining to make any kind of a clear space. "Thirteen bodies were taken from the burning debris at the Stone Bridge at one time yesterday afternoon. None of the bodies were recognizable, and they were put in coffins and buried immediately. They were so badly decomposed that it was impossible to keep them until they could be identified. During a blast at the bridge yesterday afternoon two bodies were almost blown to pieces. The blasting has had the effect of opening the channel under the central portion of the bridge. "The order that was issued that all unidentified dead be buried is being rapidly carried out. The Rev. Mr. Beall, who has charge of the morgue at the Fourth Ward school house, which is the chief place, says that a large force of men has been put at work digging graves, and at the close of the afternoon the remains will be laid away as rapidly as it can be done. "William Flynn has taken charge of the army of eleven hundred laborers who are doing a wonderful amount of work. In an interview he told of the work that has to be done, and the contractors' estimates show more than anything the chaotic condition of this city. 'It will take ten thousand men thirty days to clear the ground so that the streets are passable and the work of rebuilding can be commenced,' said he, 'and I am at a loss to know how the work is to be done. This enthusiasm will soon die out and the volunteers will want to return home. "'It would take all summer for my men alone to do what work is necessary. Steps must be taken at once to furnish gangs of workmen, and I shall send a communication to the Pittsburg Chamber of Commerce asking the different manufacturers of the Ohio Valley to take turns for a month or so in furnishing reliefs of workmen. "'I shall ask that each establishment stop work for a week at a time and send all hands in the charge of a foreman and timekeeper. We will board and care for them here. These gangs should come for a week at a time, as no organization can be affected if workmen arrive and leave when they please.' "A meeting was held here in the afternoon which resulted in the appointment of James B. Scott, of Pittsburg, generalissimo. "Mr. Scott in an interview said that he proposed to clear the town of all wreckage and debris of all descriptions and turn the town site over to the citizens when he has completed his work clean and free from obstructions of all kinds. "I was here when the gang came across one of the upper stories of a house. It was merely a pile of boards apparently, but small pieces of a bureau and a bed spring from which the clothes had been burned showed the nature of the find. A faint odor of burned flesh prevailed exactly at this spot. "'Dig here,' said the physician to the men. 'There is one body at least quite close to the surface.' The men started in with a will. A large pile of underclothes and household linen was brought up first. It was of fine quality and evidently such as would be stored in the bedroom of a house occupied by people quite well to do. "Presently one of the men exposed a charred lump of flesh and lifted it up on the end of a pitchfork. It was all that remained of some poor creature who had met an awful death between water and fire. "The trunk was put on a cloth, the ends were looped up, making a bag of it, and the thing was taken to the river bank. It weighed probably thirty pounds. A stake was driven in the ground to which a tag was attached giving a description of the remains. This is done in many cases to the burned bodies, and they lay covered with cloths upon the bank until men came with coffins to remove them." CHAPTER XXIII. Not More Than Half the Bodies of Victims Identified--Hundreds of Corpses of the Unknown and Nameless Cast Into the Sea--Others Buried in the Sand and Cremated--List of Identifications. The actual number of lives lost at Galveston will never be known, but over 4,500 bodies of victims of the frightful catastrophe were identified; and these, together with the hundreds of identified and unidentified corpses which were buried at sea, in the sands along the beach, in the yards and grounds of private residences; those bodies which must have been carried out into the gulf when the waters receded from the island Sunday morning; those cremated; the hundreds found on the gulf coast, on the shores of Galveston Bay, and those taken from the water; and, finally, those discovered in all sorts of places inland (the bodies found outside Galveston Island being buried where picked up)--all these served to swell the Galveston death list to possibly 7,000, which was the figure named by Mayor Jones the fifth day after the flood. He had every opportunity for obtaining information on this point. Until the cremation of bodies began the foremen of the various burial gangs made lists of the bodies disposed of by their men, but when it became necessary to burn the corpses, the danger of pestilence being so great that they had to be put out of the way at the earliest possible moment, the compilation of these lists was abandoned and a mere general estimate made. The work of clearing the business and residence streets proceeded but slowly, the men in the gangs assigned to this being enervated by the intense heat of the sun, sickened by the effluvia from the decomposing bodies of dead human beings and animals, and depressed by the gloomy character of their surroundings. Most of the men thus employed were citizens of Galveston, many of whom were in comfortable circumstances before the storm swept away their belongings. In the majority of cases these workers had lost not only their earthly possessions, but members of their immediate families as well, and were heartsore and crushed in spirit. In the main, they engaged in this work because they wanted to help the city out in its desperate straits, and for the further reason that if not busied in mind and body they might possibly go mad. The first of the lists of the identified dead was made out and made public on Tuesday following the disaster, and the lists compiled the succeeding days were given out as soon as completed. The lists printed below comprise the first and only complete roster of the dead which has appeared anywhere: FIRST LIST OF IDENTIFIED VICTIMS--TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11. Aguilo, Joseph B., chairman of the Democratic county executive committee. Allen, Charlotte M., Seventeenth street and Avenue A. Allen, E., and wife. Amundsen, mother of Deputy Chief of Police Amundsen. Burrows, Mrs. M. Bross, Mrs. Kate, Twenty-second street, near beach. Burnett, Mrs. George, and child, Twenty-fourth street and Avenue P. Barbon, Mrs. Baxter, Mrs., and child, lost in Magia store. Bell, Mrs. Dudley, wife of Galveston News compositor, and child. Beveridge, Mrs., and two children. Betts, Walter, cotton broker, and wife. Bird, the family of police officer Bird. Broecker, John F., wife and two children. Bowe, Mrs. John, and three children. Police officer John Bowe attempted to save his family on a raft, but they were swept away and drowned. Burnett, Gary, and wife and Mrs. Burnett. Caddom, Alex., and four children. Clark, Mrs. C. T., and infant. Compton, A. J., and wife. Correll, Mrs. J. R., and family. Collins, daughter of Mrs. Collins. Cline, Mrs., wife of Dr. L. M. Cline, local forecast official of the United States weather bureau. Coryell, Patti Rosa. Coates, Mrs. William, wife of William A. Coates, of Galveston News. Cramer, Miss Bessie. Daly, W. L., grain exporter and steamship agent for Charles F. Ortwein & Co. Day, Alfred. Davies, John R., and wife. Delaney, Mrs. Jack, wife of United States bridge officer of the port, with two children. Delyea, Paul, ex-sergeant police. Davenport, W., wife and three children. Davis, Lessie. Dorin, Mrs. Dorrian, Mrs., and five children; had taken refuge with nine other persons on the roof of a house which was destroyed and all lost. The Dorian house withstood the elements. Ellison, two children of Captain Ellison, one of them drowning in its mother's arms. Engelke, John, wife and child. Evans, Mrs. Kate, and two daughters. Eichter, Edward, Thirteenth street and Avenue N. Ewing, Miss. Fordtran, Mrs. Claude J., 1919 Tremont street. Fix, C. H. Fisher, W. F., wife and two children. Flash, William, and daughter, Twenty-fifth street and P avenue; Mrs. Flash was saved. Foster, Harry, wife and three children. Frederickson, Violet. Frederickson, Mrs., and baby. Gernand, Mrs. John F., and two children. Guest, Mamie. Gordon, Mrs. Abe, and five children. Gernaud, John H., wife and two children. Hansinger, H. A., daughter and mother-in-law. Harris, Mrs. (colored.) Harris, Mrs. Rebecca. Hobeck, ----, and boy. Howe, ----, police officer, and family. Howth, Mrs. Clarence. Hughes, Joe. Hawkins, Mattie Lea. Hesse, Mrs. Irene, Broadway and Sixth street. Hunn, F., street-car motorman. Hunter, Albert, and wife. Hamburg, Mrs. Peter, and four children. Harris, Mrs. J. H. Jones, Mr., and wife. Johnson, Richard, struck by flying timber and instantly killed. Jones, Mrs. W. R., and child. Kelly, Willie. Keller, Charles A., prominent cotton man. Kelly, Barney. Lackey, wife and two children of Leon J. Lackey, telegraph operator. Longnecker, Mrs. A. Lord, Richard, traffic manager George H. McFaden Brothers, cotton exporters. Lynch, John. Lassocco, Mrs., Twenty-first street and Avenue P. Twenty-five persons are reported to have been lost in the store building of Mrs. Lassocco. Lisbony, W. H. Labbat, Joe. Lafayette, Mrs., and two children. Magia, Mr., two daughters and son, grocery. Eleventh street and Avenue A. Masterson, B. T., and family. Motter, Mrs., and two daughters. Munn, Mrs. J. W., Sr. McKenna, five members of the P. J. and J. P. McKenna families. Monroe, Mrs., colored, and three children. Mordon, Miss. McCauley, Miss Annie. Morton, Mrs., and two babies. Nolly, Mrs. Sam and four children, with ten other women and children, in the Nolly house on Fortieth street and Avenue T. Mr. Nolly and another man were saved after a bitter struggle. O'Keefe, Mrs. Michael, and brother. O'Harrow, William. O'Dell, Miss Nellie, and brother, daughter and son of James O'Dell. Peck, Captain R. H., city engineer, wife and five children. Peek, Captain; house was seen to overturn while he was in it, and he has not been found. Porette; thirteen persons killed in a house at Eighth street and Broadway. Dominick Porette is the only one of the party who lives to tell the tale. Parker; an entire family living at Thirty-ninth and Q streets, consisting of Angeline Parker and grandchild, Tommy Lesker; Si Sullivan Parker and wife and three children. Parker, Mrs. Frank, Avenue Q and Thirty-first street. Porfree, Henry, a tailor. Palmer, J. B., and baby. Plitt, Harmon. Parker, Mrs. Mollie. Ptolmey, Paul. Quester, Mrs. W., little son and daughter. Quester, Bessie. Rice, proof reader on the Galveston News, and child. Richards, ----, police officer. Roll, J. F., wife and four children. Rowan, ----, police officer, and family. Rust, Charles, knocked from a dray while attempting to carry his family to a place of safety; instantly killed. Rose, Mrs., wife of Commissary Sergeant Franklin Rose of the United States Army. Ripley, Henry, son of H. S. Ripley. Rhymes, Thomas, wife and two children. Regan, Mike, wife and mother-in-law, lost at the Porette house. Roudaux, Murray. Sailor, Spanish, of the steamship Telesfora, which drifted against the Whitehall at pier 15. Schofield, Miss Ida, lost in Magia store. Schroeder, Mrs. George M., and four children. Schuler, Mr., wife and five children. Schwartzback, Joseph. Shaw, nephew of M. M. Shaw. Somers, Miss Helen. Spencer, Stanley G., local representative of Demster & Co.'s steamship lines and the North German Lloyd steamship lines. Stickloch, Miss Mabel, Mechanic street. Swain, Richard D. Sweil, George, mother and sister. Schultz, Mr. and wife. Sharp, Miss Annie. Summers, Sarah. Sharp, Mr. and wife. Schaler, Mrs. Charles, and four children. Sylvester, Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Mamie. Sherwood, Charles. Thompson, mother-in-law and sister-in-law of William Thompson of the fire department. Tovrea, ----, police officer. Treadwell, Mrs. J. B., and infant. Taylor, Mrs., colored. Toothacker, wife and daughter of Jesse W. Toothacker, contractor and builder. Trebosius, Mrs. George, wife of George Trebosius of the Galveston News, and two sisters of Mr. Trebosius, at their home, Fortieth street and Avenue R. Unidentified--Two sisters-in-law and a niece. Unidentified--White girls, 12 years old, found in the yard of J. Paul Jones. Unidentified--Four white and seven colored persons found in the first story of W. J. Reitmeyer's residence. Reitmeyer family, in the second story, escaped. Unidentified--A lady and her daughter from St. Louis. Unidentified--Thirteen Inmates and three matrons at the Home for the Homeless. Wakelee, Mrs. Davis. Webster, Edward, and two sisters. Webster, Thomas, Sr., secretary of the grain inspector of the port, with family of four. Wensmor, several members of the family residing in the east end; one of the family, an old man, was saved. Wenman, Mrs. J. W., and two children. Wolfe, Charles, police officer, and family. Wood, Mrs., mother of United States Deputy Marshal Wood. Wilson, Mrs. Mary Ann and baby. Wallace, ----, and four children. Watkins, S. W., Avenue Q and Thirty-first street. Mr. Watkins was drowned and it was reported that about twenty other persons in the same house met a similar fate. Wren, James, wife and six children; drowned at the Porette House. Wootam, ----. Woodward, Miss Hattie. Wollam, C., drowned after saving several women and while trying to save others. Walter, Mrs. Charles, and three children. Twenty-two persons--Francois, a well-known waiter, reported the loss of twenty-two persons who had taken refuge in his house. At Hitchcock, Tex., thirty lives were lost. Two Italian families of thirteen people met death by drowning. The following were killed by falling timbers: Robinson, William. Dominic, a child. Johnson, Hiram, and wife. Pietze, Mrs., and three children. The family of C. W. Young, wife, two sons and two daughters. Montelona, Mary. Palmero, ----, wife and seven children. O'Connor, T. W. Members of two families of Alvin, who were visiting the Young family. Seven unidentified found on prairie, supposed to be from Galveston. Five Houston people perished at Seabrook in the hurricane. They were: Lucy, Mrs. C. H., and two small children. M'Ilhenny, Haven, and the 5-year-old son of David Rice. At Alvin the dead were: Johnson, J. M. Johnston, Mrs. J. S. Appelle, Miss. Lewis, Mrs. O. S. Glaspy, John S. Richardson, B. Collins, Mrs. J. W., killed by falling timbers. Collins, Mrs. Hawley, W. P. Mebam, W. C., and wife. At Rosenburg the following death list was reported: Watson, Rev. A. Ontrall, Mrs. I. J. Herman, B. S. At Oyster Creek the reported dead were: Carlton, H. Smith, S. Jones, Tom. Arnold, A. Smith, Connie. Marshall, Lucy. Stephens, Tom, colored. At Arcola: Wofford, Mrs. A., aged white woman. At Alto Loma: Twenty-seven--(no list given). At Richmond eighteen persons were killed. At Wharton, sixteen negroes were drowned. At Morgan's Point: Vincent, Mrs., and two children. THE DEATH LIST FOR WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 12. Almers, Mrs. P. Anderson, M., and family. Andrew, Mr., and three children. Annudsen, Louis. Armstrong, Mrs. Dora, and four children. Bell, Mrs. A. C. Bell, Guy. Berger, W. L., wife and child. Bodden, Mrs., and Mrs. J. F. Brockelman, three children of J. T. Brockelman. Bures, ----, wife and sister. Burge, William, wife and child. Burnett, Mrs. Mary. Burnett, Mrs. Gary, and two children. Carigan, Joseph. Childs, K. T. Cleveland, George, and family. Cornett, Charles, and wife. Connett, Mr. and Mrs. William, and two children. Craig, George. Dailey, K. Dilz, M., and two sons. Dorian, George, and wife. Ducos, ----, two children. Delcie, Mrs. Henry R., and child. Darby, Charles. Dowell, Mrs. Sam. Edmunsen, Mrs. Edwards, Miss Eliza. Eggerett, William, and son Charles. Ellis, Mrs., and family. English, John, wife and child. Eideman, H. E. Everhart, J. H., wife and daughter. Fabey, Sumptey. Falke, Joseph, and three children. Farmer, Mrs. I. P. Faucett, Robert. Faucett, Mrs. Belle. Fegue, Lillie, and Esther and Laura May, children of Mrs. Lillie Fegue. Fox, Thomas. Fritz, ----. Floehr, Mrs. Gaulters, J. Grathcar, Mrs. John, and child. Harrah, Martin. Harris, Mrs. John, and three children. Heck, Mrs., and son. Herman, Martin, and two children. Hinke, August, Richard and Johanna. Holbeck, Mrs. L. L. Homburg, Peter. Hock, Mrs., and son. Hayman, Mrs. John A., and five children. Johnson, A. S., wife and three children. Jones, Robert. Junemann, Charles, wife and daughter. Junter, William, and six children. Kampe, Charles. Kauffman, H., wife and children. Kelso, Munson, Jr. Kelso, Roy, baby boy of J. C. Kelso. Kirby, Mrs. J. H., and three children. Klein, Mrs. E. V. Kleincke, H., and wife. Koepler, Mrs. Fred., and family. Kraus, Mr. and Mrs. J. J. Krauss, Fred. Krauss, Joseph J., wife and daughters. Krausse, L., wife and two daughters. Louis, Poland, carrier News. Lorance, Mrs. T. A. Lucas, Mrs. H., and two children and white nurse. Malrs, O. M., wife and child. Maree, ----, employed by James Fascher. Malter, J. Martin, Mrs., wife of Policeman Martin. Masterson, B. T., and family. Miles, Colson. Miller, William, and family (partner of Childs). Mitchell, Mrs. W. H., and child. Mongon, John. Morro, Dotlo, wife and seven children. Muttie, A. M'Manus, Mrs. William. Miner, Lucia. Neill, ----, and family. Nolan, Mrs. Olson, Mrs. Mattie, and two children. Opperman, Miss May, and Marguerite and Gussie of Palestine. Odelle, O. Olsen, Mrs. Matilda, and two children. Parler, Mrs. D., and two children. Pasker, Miss Ethel. Pauls, Nellie and Cecilia. Pix, C. H. Palmer, J. B., and baby. Plitt, Harmon. Peters, Mrs. Park, Mrs. M. L. Park, Miss Alice. Park, Miss Lucy. Roberts, ----, watchman G. H. and N. R. R. Rattizan, Mrs. Leon, and four children. Ratissa, Mrs. W. L., and three children. Raymond, Mr. and Mrs., and two children. Reagan, J. N. Rhaes, T. F., wife and two children. Roan, Mrs., and three children. Rudger, C., wife and child. Runter, A., and mother and father. Schoabel, George, wife and daughter. Severet, J., and wife. Sherwood, Thomas, wife and three children. Shilke, Mrs., son and infant. Siegler, Mrs. Fred. Sommers, F., wife and three daughters and his son Joseph, wife and child. Stetgel, Mr., and family. Stockfelt, Peter, wife and six children. Swanson, Mrs. Stockfletch, Peter, wife and six children. Schwotsel, George, wife and daughter Lulu. Sayers, Dr. John B. Sayers, Tom. Smith, Jacob. Stowinsky, Mr., and wife. Seixas, E., and two daughters, Anna and Lucile. Tarpey, Joseph. Toveca, Sam, policeman, wife and four children. Tow, T. C., wife and five children. Thomsen, Mrs. W. D., and two children. Tovrea, Sam, wife and child. Toothacker, Miss Jennie. Tillebach, Charles, wife, mother-in-law and two children. Villeneve, Mrs., and child of Hitchcock. Vogel, Mrs. Henry, and three children. Vondenbaden, Mrs., and two children. Walden, Mr. Warmarvosky, Adolph, mother and sister reported missing. Warneke, Mrs. A. W., and five children. Warren, James, wife and six children. Webber, Mr., family missing. Wedges, Judge, justice of the peace, and wife. Wilsh, Joseph, wife and two children. Wincott, Mrs. Windman, Mrs. Webster, Edward, Sr. Webster, Mrs. Julia. Webster, Mrs. Sarah. Webster, George. Webster, Joe. Yeats, ----, child. Youngblood, L. J., wife and child. Zipp, Mrs. and daughter. THURSDAY'S (SEPTEMBER 13) AWFUL ROSTER OF IDENTIFIED DEAD. The official list of those identified on Thursday was as follows: Adams, Toby. Adams, Mrs. Agin, George. Allen, Mrs. Alex. Anderson, Mrs. S. Albertson, A. Albertson, Mrs. Alpin, George. Alpin, Mrs. Anderson, Mrs. Jack. Ashe, George, Sr. Ashe, George, Jr. Bell, Alexander. Berger, Mrs. Lucy. Bell, Henry. Bland, Mrs. Bland, Mrs. Florence. Bodecker, Charles. Boss, Charles. Boss, D. Brooks, J. R. Cain, Rev. Thomas W. Cain, Mrs. Calhoun, Mrs. Thomas. Carter, Corinne. Casey, Mrs. Annie. Clark, C. Y. Chaffee, Mrs. Cuney, R. C. Davis, Gabe. Day, Alfred. Day, Willie. Dempsey, Mr. and Mrs. Davis, Henry T. Dorrfe, Mr. Dorrfe, Mrs. Dunton, Mrs. Annie. Dammel, Mrs. Dammell, W. D. Direkes, Henry. Dowell, Mrs. Samuel. Dunning, Mrs. H. C. Dunning, Richard. Evans, Mrs. Falkenhagen, Mr. and Mrs. Freitag, Harry. Frank, Mrs. Aug. Frieman, Mr. and Mrs. Feither, Mrs. F. Ferget, Julius. Gibson, Professor. Goth, A. E. Goth, Mrs. Green, Mrs. Lucy. Gentry, Charlotte. Gottleib, Mrs. Homes, Florence. Harris, Effie. Higgins, Mrs. Hoffman family. Holland, Mrs. James. Hughes, Robert. Jefferbrook, August. Jefferbrook, Mrs. Johnson, Mrs. Johnson, Mrs. W. J. Jones, W. R. Jasters, Perry. King, Mrs. Knowles, Mrs. W. T. Kuhn, Mrs. H. Clem. Kuhnel, Mrs. Lawson, Charles. Lawson, Mrs. Lewis, Agnes. Lewis, Maria. Lewis, Mrs. Maria. Levin, P. Lindquist, Mrs. O. Lockman, Mr. and Mrs. H. Ludwig, Alfred. Lyle, William. Lemmon, Virgie. Lloyd, Buck. Lloyd, Mrs. Ludwig, Albert. Manley, Joe. Moore, Mrs. N. Moore, Mrs. Nathan. Martin, Herman. Menzel, John. Menzel, Mrs. Morse, Arthur P. Morse, Mrs. McGuire, John. McPherson, Robert. McDade, Ed. Nelson, Mrs. Park, Miss Lucy. Piney, Mrs. Patrick, Cora. Patrick, Ida. Pierson, Mrs. Mary. Pierson, Alice. Pierson, Frank. Piner, Mrs. Ella. Powers, Mrs. Randolph, Edith. Ravey family. Roehm, Mrs. Roehm, William. Roehle, John. Roehle, Mrs. Ruehrmond, Professor. Ruehrmond, Mrs. Roukes, Mrs. Charles. Reuter, Otto. Reuter, Henry. Rowe, Ada. Rowe, Hattie. Rowe, George. Shaw, Frank. Seidenstricker, Henry. Schultze, Charles. Schulz, Fred. Schulz, Mrs. Schulz, Charles C. Schwotsel, George. Scott, Annie. Scull, Mrs. Mary. Seixas, Miss Arma. Seixas, Miss Lucille. Sexalis, Sella. Schutte, E. R. Schutte, Mrs. Shilhe, Mrs. Tix, Herman. Torr, T. C. Torr, Mrs. T. C. Thurman, Mrs. Tresvant, Jordan. Trostman, Mrs. Turner, Mrs. Turner, Mr. Turner, Mrs. Uleridge, Adelaide. Van Liew, Mollie. Van Buren, Herman. Waring, Mrs. (Chicago). Warren, Celia. Washington, Mrs. Weiss, Professor. Weidemann, Fritz. Wilke, assistant city electrician. Wilke, Mrs. Williams, Mrs. E. C. Williams, Sam. Williams, Mrs. Woodrow, Matilda. Yeager, William. Zweigel, Mrs. IDENTIFICATIONS MADE ON FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 14. Aberhart, T., and wife. Ackermann, Herman, wife and daughter. Adams, M., and Mrs. Tobey (colored). Adameit, Mrs. G. and seven children. Akers, C. B., wife and three children. Albertson, A., wife and two children. Allardico, R. L., wife and three children. Allen, Cornelia. Allen, Daisy. Allen, Elve. Allen, Zerena. Alphonse, John, wife and family. Anderson, Oscar, wife and children. Anderson, Andrew, wife and children. Armitage, Miss Vivian. Armour, Mrs., and five children. Artisan, John, wife and nine children. Andrew, Mrs. A., and family. Bell, Alexander, wife, two sons and daughter. Boedecker, Charles. Bercer, Mrs. Lucy. Brooks, J. T. Bland, Mrs., and seven children (colored). Bell, Henry. Bankers, Mrs. Charles. Beach, Miss Nina of Victoria. Boedenker, H., father, brother and sister-in-law. Barnard, Mrs. Becker, John, wife and daughters, Mae and Vida. Brown, Winnie M. Bellew, Mr. and Mrs. J., and daughter. Bass, John, wife and four children (colored). Baulch, Will, wife and two children. Beal, Mrs. Dudley, and child. Bedford, Cushman (colored). Bohn, Dixie. Boss, Peter, and wife. Bowen, ----. Bradley, Miss Mannie. Bradley, Miss Ethel. Bentley, and family. Briscoll, A. M. Bockelman, C. J. Brown, Joe, and family. Buckley, Selma. Buckley, Blanche. Buckley, mother and father. Buckley, Mrs. and daughter. Burgee, William, wife and child. Burrell, Mrs. (colored). Bittell, Mrs. Christian, John. Campbell, Will. Curry, Mrs. Martha J., and Miss Louisa. Campbell, Miss Edna. Carter, Adeline. Ninety people at Catholic Orphan Home. Cato, William (colored). Childs, William, and wife. Clark, Tom. Corbett, James J., and four children. Caddoe, Alex., and five children. Colsen, ----. Connor, Captain D. E. Connor, Edward J. Cowen, ----. Crouse, J. J., wife and children. Credo, Will. Cromwell, Mrs., and three children. Crook, Ashby. Crowley, Miss Nellie, and brother. Cuneo, Mrs. Joseph, New Orleans. Curry, Mrs. E. H., and child. Carven, Mrs., and daughter. Carnett, ----, and wife, of Orange. Crawford, Rayburn. Carson, Frank C. Clinton, Mrs. Mary, and children--George A., Horace, Lee W., Joseph B., Willie B. and Freddie. Darrell, ----, and five children. Davis, Mrs. T. F. Deltz, M., and two sons. Dinter, Mrs., and daughter. Donahue, Ellen, Utica, N. Y. Donahue, Mary, Utica, N. Y. Doll, George and wife. Doll, Frank, and family. Doty, John. Doyle, Jim. Dunningham, Richard E. Dunnin, Mrs. Howard C., and three children. Dirke, Henry, and family. Darfee, Mr. and Mrs., and two daughters. Dammill, W. D., and wife (colored). Dunham, George R., and wife. Dunham, George R., Jr., and two children. Donnelly, Nick. Ducos, Madeline and Octavia. Davis, Miss Emma. Drewa, H. A. Demesie, Mrs., and two sons. Dowles, Samuel, wife and one child. Davis, Mrs. Mary, and children--Carrie, Alice, Lizzie and Eddie. Eckett, Fred. Eckett, Charles. Edward, James, and family. Eismann, ----, wife and child. Eismann, Howard. Elias, James, and two children. English, John, wife and child. Emmanuel, Joe. Eppendorf, Mr. and Mrs. Eads, Sumpter. Forget, Julius. Pfeither, Mrs. Fritz. Frau, Mrs. August, and daughter. Faby, C. S., wife and two children. Foster, Mrs. August. Freise, Mr. and Mrs. Charles M. Forbush, John, and Freddie. Fretwell, J. B., Mrs. and boy. Foster, Mrs. S. F. Farrer, Miss Nannie of Sullivan's Island. Frank, Anton, wife and two daughters. Fanchon family. Fedo, Joe. Ferwedert, Peter. Fickett, Mrs., and four children. Fiegel, John. Figge, Mrs., and four children. Franks, Mr., and daughter. Fornkesell, T. C. Foster, Mr. and Mrs. Harry, and three children. Fox, Thomas, wife and four children. Frankovich, Charles and John. Fredericks, Corinne. Furst family. Gait, A. E., and wife. Gibson, Professor, and family. Gentry, Charlotte (colored). Gonzales, Andrew, wife and daughter Pauline. Graham, Mrs. H., and baby. Garnett, Robert F. Gibson, Mary C. Guilett, Colonel, of Victoria. George, H. K., and family. Grey, H. K., and family. Grey, Randolph, four children and sister-in-law. Garbaldi, August. Gabel, Mr. and Mrs. (colored). Gallishaw, and five children. Gaires, Mrs. Lillie, and two daughters. Ganth, ----. Garrigan, Joe. Gecan, Matt. Gordon, Oscar. Clausen, Charles, and family of four. Gregg, ----, and four children. Grief, John, wife and three children. Grosscup, Mrs. Goodwin, two girls. Genning, Tim, and wife. Gruetsmicher, Louis, wife and two daughters. Gaines, Captain Edward, and wife. Hildebrand, Fred. Harris, Miss Rebecca. Hubbell, Misses Maggie and Emma. Haines, sister of Mrs. Captain Haines. Huebener, Mrs. A., and boy. Haughton, Willie O. Hunter, George. Hausinger, George. Hall, Charles (colored). Hannamann, Mrs. August. Harris, L. Harris, Thomas, wife and three children. Harris, Mrs. W. D., and son. Harrison, Tom, and wife. Hassler, Charles, and wife. Hasselmeyer family. Haughton, Mrs. W. W. Heidmann, William, Jr. Helfenstein, Sophie and Willie. Hennessy, Mrs. M. P., and two nieces. Herman, Martin, and two children. Hersey, Mrs. John. Holmes, Mrs. (colored). Hoskins, T. D., wife and three children (colored). Hubbell, Emma and Maggie. Hull, William (colored). Hull, Charles (colored). Humberg, Mrs. Peter, and four children. Jackman, Ada, and two children. Jaeger, William H. Jaeger, John, and wife. Jaecke, Mrs. Curt, and three children. Jennings, James A., and wife. Jennssen, Mrs. and Mr., and five children. Johnson, Asa, wife and son. Johnson, Julian. Johnson, child. Johnston, J. B., wife and two children. Johnston, Mrs. Alice. Johnston, Mrs. E. E., and four children. Junkf, Martha. Junka, Mrs. Paulina. Junker, Mrs. Colina. Johnston, Mrs. Johnston, Mrs. W. J. Johnson, Mrs. C. S. Jones, J. H., and wife. Jaeger, Walter H. Johnson, V. S. Johnson, Odin, wife and child. Johnston, J. A., and wife. Keats, Tom, and wife. Keeton, J. C., wife and three children. Kelmer, Charles L., Sr. Kely, ----, wife and three children. Keiffer, wife and daughter. Kennelly, Mrs. Annie. Kester, Fred, and daughter. Kirby, James, and three men. Kirby, Mrs. George, and two children. Kleinicke, Mrs., and family. Klenmann, Fred and wife. Knowles, Mrs. W. T., and three children. Kuder, Ed., and wife. Kuhn, Oscar, wife and three children. Kleinmann, Henry, and wife. Klindlund, Newton and Carl. Kemp, Tom and wife. Kemp, W. C., and wife. Kotte, William. Kimlo, Mrs. John, and two children. Kelly, Thomas, wife and two children. Kreckrecek, Joe, wife and three children. King, Mrs. Karvel, Mrs. Jack, and four children. Konstantopolos, F. Kreywell, David, and daughter. Keis, L., wife and four children. Lawson, Charles, wife and child. Ludwig, Alfred, mother and sister-in-law. Lackey, Mrs., father and mother. Lyle, William, grandmother and sister. Labatt, H. J. Labatt, Louisa C., and sister, Nellie E. Lackey and children, Leon and Pearl. Lane, Rev. Mr., and family. Lane, F., and family. Lang, five children. Lapeyre, James, wife and four children. Larson, H., and two children. Laukhuffe, Genevieve. Lawson, Mrs. W., and one child. Learman, H. L. Leverman, Professor. Lemier, Joe, and four children. Leon, ----, and two children. Leslie, Mrs. Gracie. Lettermann, W., wife and two children. Levine, Mrs. P. A., daughter and two sons. Levy, W. T. Lewis, Mrs. J., and six children. Londer, John, wife and seven children. Livingston, Mrs. Lloyd, Charles H., wife and one child. Locke, Mrs. Mary. Lockstadt, Albert, wife and three children. Loasberg, Miss Maggie. Lorance, Mrs. E. A. Love, Ed. G. Ludeke, Henry, wife and son. Luddeker, ----. Little, Mrs. J. A. Lepehear, J. H., wife and three children. Lanahan, Laura, Francis, Terrence, and Claud, children of John Lanahan. Luca, Mrs. J. Leibe, Mrs. Mary. Lang, F. A., four sons and daughter and colored nurse. Levy, Miss, of Houston. Legate, Louis, wife and son. Legate, Mrs. Peticles, two sons and two daughters. Legate, Christian. Manley, Joe, mother and two nieces. Manley, Mrs. S. R. Miller, Mrs., and five children (colored). M'Neill, Miss J., and Miss Ruby. Maybrook, wife and five children. Morris, Harry, wife and three children. Muri, Annie and Murine. Marcotte, Miss Pauline. M'Avay, Mrs. E. C. Mulsburger, Tony, and wife. Martin, Miss Annie. Marlo, Alex. Massey, E., wife and child. Mati, Amendio. M'Camish, R., wife and two daughters. M'Cluskey, Mrs. Charles, and two daughters. M'Cormick, Mrs. B., and four children. M'Millan, Mrs. E., and family. M'Peters, wife and children. Mealy, Mrs. Joseph. Mealy, Joseph. Mielhulan, Mrs. Medzel, John, wife and five children. Mesley, Charles (colored). Milan, wife and four children. Miller, Leslie. Mitchell, Louis R. (colored). Mitchell, Mrs. Annie and son. Moffett, ----, wife and two children. Mongan, John. Monoghan, Mike and family. Monoghan, John, and wife. Morrow, Mrs., and four children. Moore, Miss Maggie. Moore, Mrs. Nathan (colored). Moore. E. W. Moore, two children. Moore, ----. Moore, O., wife and seven children. Morley, D., and wife. Morton, Hammond, and four children. Morse, Albert T., wife and three children. Mulcahey, two children. Munn, Mrs. J. W., Sr. Murrie, Mrs. Annie, and daughter. Myer, Hermann, wife and son. Myers, Mrs. C. J., and one child. Neimann, Mrs., and daughter. North, Miss Archie. Oakley, F. O'Connor, Mamie. Olds, Charlotte (colored). Ormond, George, and five children. Ohlsen, Mr. and Mrs. Opperman, Albert L., and wife. O'Connolly, Miss Mamie. Pett, Mrs. Park, Mrs., and two daughters. Powers, Mrs., and child. Palmer, Mrs. Mae, and son Lee, 6 years old. Patterson, Florence. Pruesmith, Mrs. F., and three children. Paisley, William. Park, Mrs. M. L. Pellins, Mrs. M. Penny, Mrs. A., and two sons. Perry, Jasper, Jr., wife and two children. Peterson, Charles, wife and two children. Peterson, Mrs. J., and children. Phelps, Miss Ruth. Quinn, John. Raab, George W., and wife. Raphael, Nick. Reader, ----, and family. Richardson, William (colored). Ricke, Tony, and wife. Riley, Solomon, and wife. Ring, J., proof reader Galveston News, and two children. Riordan, Thomas. Reagan, Mrs. Patrick, and son. Rhea, Mrs. and Miss Mamie of Giles County, Tennessee. Roach, Annie. Roberts, ----, watchman. Robbins, Mrs. H. B., of Smith's Point. Rodefeld, William, Jr. Rohl, John, wife and five children. Roll, Mrs. A., and four children. Ross, daughter of Mrs. Ross of Houston. Roth, Mrs. Kate, and three children. Roe, Ada (colored). Rowe, Hattie (colored). Rotter, A. J., wife and two children. Rudder, Robert, wife and four children. Rudger, C., wife and child. Rughter, Lena. Ruce, Ida (colored). Rice, Fisher (colored). Redello, Angelo, wife and four children. Randolph, Edith. Rosenberg, ----, and baby. Roe, K. (colored). Riser, Henry, wife and three children. Riesel, Mrs. Lula, and children--Ray and Edna. Roberts, Herbert N. Rhodes, Miss Ella, trained nurse. Rose, C. M. Ruhler, Frank, Mrs. K., Leon and Albert. Reagan, John P. Rutter, H., wife and five children. Sandford, S., and family. Sawyer, Dr. John B. Sawyer, Tom. Sawyer, Mrs. Robert, and three children. Schadermantle, Maud and Randle. Scheirholz, W., wife and five children. Schoolfield, D. (colored). Schrader, Mary. Schuler, Mr. and Mrs., and five children. Schook, Mr. and Mrs. Robert, Jr. Skarke, Charles F., and son. Smith, Mary. Smith, Charles L. Smith, Professor F. C., wife and five children. Smith, Jacob. Smith, Wiley, wife and children (colored). Sodiche, L. Solomon, Frank, and family of six. Solomon, Julius, and wife. Stacker, Mrs. Sophie. Stacker, Miss Alfreda. Stacker, George. Stackpole, Dr., and family. Steding, wife and children (seven in family). Stenzel, wife and three children. Stewart, Captain T., and family. Stewart, Miss Lester. Stiglitz, Miss Mamie. Strabo, Nick, and family, except one. Strickhausen, Mrs. Sweigel, George, mother and sister. Symms, two children of H. C. Smith, Mrs. Mary and baby (colored). Scull, Mrs. Mary. Schutte, R., wife and two children. Simpson, W. R., and two children, James and Berry. Sargent, Thomas, Arthur and Allen. Sladeyce, R. L., wife and three children. Stanford, Mrs. Emma. Schwartz, Marie, Maggie and Willie. Seidenstucker, John. Schrader, Mary. Summers, Miss Sarah, of Cading, Ky. Smith, Jacob (unaccounted for.) Spann, J. C., wife and daughter. Turner, Mrs. Trizevant, Jordan. Thurman, Mrs. Taylor, Mrs. J. W. Thomas, Nolan and Nathan. Thomason, Mrs. W. B., and two children. Thomas, ----, wife and six children. Thornton, two children of Leigh. Tickel, Mrs. James, Sr. Trahan, Mrs. H. V., and child. Travers, Mrs. H. C., and son, Sheldon. Turner, Mr. and Mrs. Trostman, Mrs. E., and three children. Tayer, Verma, and M. C. Unger, Mrs. E., and five children. Ulridge, Adelaide (colored). Van Buren, Ethel. Vaught, Edna, child of W. J. Vaught. Vitocitch, John, and family. Van Buren, Herman, wife and three children. Wallace, Scott. Wallace, Earl. Walden, son of Henry. Walsh, J., wife and child. Warner, Mrs. A. S. Warner, Mrs. Flora. Warren, Martha. Weber, Mrs. Charles T. Weber, Mrs. Anna. Webber, Mrs. F., and family. Windberg, Otto, wife and child. Weiss, Oscar, wife and child. Wenderman, Mrs. Westway, Mrs. George. Wharton, ----. White, family of Walter. Whittle, Tom. Wilde, Mrs., and Miss Freida. Williams, Frank, wife and child. Wilson, Annie. Winscoatte, Mrs. W. D. White, ----. Williams, Alex. Windmann, Mrs. Winmoore, James, wife and two children. Winn, Mrs., and child. Withey, H. M. Wood, William (colored). Woods, Miss, from Joliet, Ill. Woods, Mrs. Julia and Miss Nannie, of Joliet. Wright, Lulu and John. Wurzlow, Mrs. Williams, Mrs. E. C. (colored). Woodrow, Matilda. Wisrodt, August, Jr., and wife and two children. Weinberg, Otto, wife and five children. Walker, Louis D. Watkins, Mrs. F., Stanley, Arthur and Berna. Wallis, Lee, wife, mother, four children and a little orphan girl who formerly lived at Palestine. Weight, Jennie T., and Lula. Walker, Joe. Williams, Rosanna (colored). Winberg, Mrs. F. A., and Fritz. Yeager, William. Yuenz, Lillie and Henry George. Younger, Evelia, and two children (colored). Zeigler, Mrs., and two daughters. Zwigel Mrs., and two daughters. At the Catholic Orphanage: Sister Camillus, Superior. Mary Vincent. Mary Elizabeth. Raphael. Catherina. Genevieve. Felicitus. Mary Finbar. Evangeline. Ranignus. ADDITIONS TO THE DEAD ROSTER FOR SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 15. Allison, S. B. Antonovitch, P. Augustial, P. Allen, E. B. Bowles, Samuel. Bowles, Mrs. S. Bellew, J. Bellew, Mrs. J. Bourdon, Mrs. L. A. Blum, Mrs. Isaac. Blum, Mrs. Sylvan. Barry, Mrs. M. E. Bereckman, Edw. Bell, Clarence. Buckner, Mr. Benston, T. Bergeron, Mrs. Banneval, Mrs. A. Bearman, T. Brown, Adolph. Clupp, Mrs. C. P. Cook, William. Cook, Mrs. Scott. Copps, Charles. Cowan, Mr. Carlton, Charles. Cratz, Jack. Cleary, Dan. Coddard, Alex. Duett, Miss M. Dawler, Mrs. Samuel. Davis, Mrs. Thomas. Dorrin, Mrs. C. Demsie, John. Demsie, Mrs. John. Edwards, A. R. C. Esteman, Paul. Falk, Mrs. Fuger, Frank. Goldman, Theo. Garbaldi, August. Hoffman, H. H. Hegman, Edward. Herr, Leonard. Hayman, John A. Holland, Mrs. J. Higgins, Mrs. Irvin, Joseph. Johnson, H. P. Jefferbrook, August. Jefferbrook, Mrs. Aug. Jones, J. H. Jones, Mrs. J. H. Kinds, Joseph. Kimpan, Paul. Keefe, T. J. Kalb, August. Kalif, Mrs. John. Kaiser, Louis. Kinsfader, Joe. Kelly, Florence. Kirky, George. King, Mrs. Karvel, Mrs. Jack. Lindner, Mrs. L. Levy, Major W. T. Lossing, Mrs. H. M'Ewan, John H., Jr. Massey, Tom. Martyn, Mrs. R. Mott, Mrs. Frank. Martin, Jim. Marcoburro. Miller, Joe. Meyer, Joe. McGovern, James. McHale, John. Menard, Miss Mary. Mellor, Robert. Morton, Mrs. A. Morton, Henry. Miller, Mrs. Martin, Herman. McGuire, John. McPherson, Robert. Marcotte, Miss P. McVay, Mrs. E. C. Nick, oysterman. Nelson, Mrs. Opiliz, Anita. O'Keefe, Mrs. C. J. Olsen, Steve. Olson, Thomas H. Provost, James. Plotomey. Plitt, Hermann. Potoff, Charles. Phelps, Ruth. Peklinge, Mrs. Pinto, Mrs. Tony. Peco, Leon. Pierson, Miss Mary. Pierson, Alice. Pierson, Frank. Quarrovich, ----. Rummelin, Ed. Reagan, H. J. Raleigh, Miss Nellie. Reamann, Mrs. Redford, Mattie. Ritter, Mrs. W. M. Roehm, W. W. F. Ravey, ----. Randolph, Edith. Rosenberg, ----. Rurehmond, Professor. Rurehmond, Mrs. Riser, Hy. Riser, Mrs. Hy. Riesel, Mrs. Lulu. Schuler, A. Steager, J. Smith, O. P. Senott, Maggie. Schultz, Charles. Schultz, Charles C. Schultz, Fred. Schultz, Mrs. F. Scull, Mrs. Mary. Simpson, W. R. Sargent, Thomas. Sargent, Arthur. Sargent, Allen. Stanford, Mrs. E. Tuckett, Walter. Tayer, Verma. Tayer, M. C. Williams, Mrs. E. C. Woodrow, Matilda. Waring, Mrs. Wisrodt, August, Jr. Wisrodt, Mrs. A., Jr. Walker, L. D. Watkins, Mrs. F. Watkins, Stanley. Watkins, Arthur. Watkins, Berna. Wallis, Lee. Wallis, Mrs. L. C. Weight, Jennie T. Weight, Lula. Williams, R. Woodward, E. C., Jr. Williams, Rosanna. Walters, F. A. Wicke, Mrs. Wegner, Fritz. Zippi, J. M. Zumberg, Gus. The members of Battery O, First Artillery, U. S. A., lost in the storm were: Andrews, George F., private. Andrews, William L., private. Cantner, James W., cook. Delaney, William A., private. Downey, Peter, private. George, Hugh R., first sergeant. Glaffey, John, private. Hess, Fred, private. Hunt, Frank W., private. Kelly, John, private. Lewis, Everett A., private. Link, George, mechanic. Marsh, James A., sergeant. Mitchell, Benjamin D., private. McArthur, Malcolm, mechanic. Peterson, George, private. Rander, Leopold, private. Roberts, Samuel, corporal. Sauerber, William S., private. Seffers, Otto, private. Vantilbruch, Benjamin, private. Wheeler, Wadsworth B., private. White, Herbert R., private. Wilhite, Carvan M., private. Wright, Sidney, private. Hospital corps: Forrest, Samuel, private. Gossage, Joseph, private. McIlvene, Elright, private. Few of the bodies of the dead regulars were ever found. Twelve miles down Galveston Island the following were killed: John Schneider's whole family. Henry Schneider's whole family. Fritz Opper's whole family. William Schroeder's wife and seven children. Sam Kemp (colored) lost all his family. Fritz Boehle's wife. Ansie Boehl lost wife and three daughters. Ostermayer and wife. Only about six houses remained between South Galveston and the city limits. Following is a revised list of dead outside of Galveston: AT ARCADIA. James, Bodecker and son. James Wofford. Eleven lives were lost here. AT ALVIN. Misses M. and S. M. Johnson. Mrs. Wilhelm, sister of the Misses Johnson. Mrs. Hawley, killed by being blown against a post. ON CHOCOLATE CREEK. Mr. Gilaspey. Mrs. J. W. Collins. Mrs. S. O. Lewis. Mrs. Proctor, of Rosenburg, killed in Santa Fe wreck. AT MARVIL. Mr. Bumpass. H. H. Richardson, Jr. Mrs. Jules A. Tix, of Galveston County. ON MUSTANG CREEK. J. McLain. Twelve were lost altogether. AT ANGLETON. Feklin Williams. E. J. Duff and son. Three unknown. AT BROOKSIDE. W. B. Smith's daughter, aged 16. Alice Leonard (colored). AT COLUMBIA. Perry Campbell and three unknown negroes. AT DICKINSON. Three ladies, mother and two daughters and seven unknown men. AT HITCHCOCK. William Johnson and wife. William and Robinson Linnie. Mrs. Pietze. Mary Monenla. Mr. Palmero, wife and five children. Unknown woman, aged 45. Unknown boy, aged 14. George Young, wife and four children. T. W. O'Connor and wife of Alvin, Miss. Mrs. J. W. Collins. W. P. Hawley. Son of Joseph Bodecker. Son of James Bodecker. Hiram Johnson and wife. William Robinson. Domenio Child. Mrs. "Joe" Meyer. Several unknown found on the prairie. Three unknown found on a fence. AT LEAGUE CITY. W. A. Williams. Miss Letitia Schultz and Mrs. Sophia Schultz. AT MORGAN POINT. Louis Bracquail. "Billy" Jones. AT PATTON. B. Landrum, wife and five children. ---- Aikins, wife and child. Mrs. Slatom and child. Traney Lenton, wife and five daughters. A. Vinson, wife and child, of Liverpool, Texas. John Gluspey. AT QUINTANA. Fifteen convicts. Six bodies picked up on beach, believed to have floated over from Galveston. AT ROSENBERG. J. L. Cantrell. Rev. Mr. Watson. Coleman Norman, of Needville. Mrs. Robert Dawson's infant. Child of Mrs. Graggiss. Child of Mrs. Kirkpatrick. Child of Mrs. Palmer. Charles Scott. Mary Hughes. AT RICHMOND. Eighteen unknown. AT SANDY POINT. Eight negroes, names unknown. AT SEABROOKE. Mrs. Fred May. Mrs. P. Pflinger. Mrs. Vincent and three children. Mrs. S. K. Milhenny. Haven Milhenny. Child of Rice Davids. Mrs. Dr. Nicholson. Mrs. Jane Woodlock. Two unknown. AT VIRGINIA POINT. Two children of Mrs. Wright. Mrs. Leon Cleary and three children. James Sylvester. Three negro men. Two unknown negro women. Louis Domengeux. AT MOSSING SECTION. Foreman Kirby, with fourteen white men. AT VELASCO. Rev. Father Keene. L. W. Perry. "Sam" Bliss. Mrs. Parker and granddaughter. AT WALLER. Mrs. Mary Proctor, of Rosenberg, killed in Santa Fe wreck. The number of those known to have met death outside of Galveston aggregated 1,000. THOSE IDENTIFIED SATURDAY AND SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 15 AND 16. Augustine, Pasquila and wife. Anderson, Nelson. Agin, George and child. Anderson, Henry. Alexander, Annie and Christian. Almeras, children of Thomas. Alpin, Geo., and wife. Amundsen, Emil, wife and child. Anderson, Ned, wife and two children. Anderson, Amanda, colored. Anderson, Mrs. Carl, and four children. Anizen, Mrs. Frank, and two children. Armstrong, Mrs. Dora, and four children. Azteanza, Captain Sylvester. Alaway, Fred, and family. Bradford, F. H., and family. Boygoyne, Mrs. Francis, and son. Burke, J. G., and wife. Burns, Marco, wife and four children. Bernerville, Mrs. Antonio, and two children. Badger, Otto. Balliman, Gus, Irene and John. Balseman, Mrs. Barns, Mrs. Louise. Barry, Mrs., and six children. Balje, Otto. Batteste, Horace. Baubch, William, wife and two children. Bell, George, wife and four children. Bell, Miss Mattie. Bell, Henry (colored). Berger, Theodore, wife and child. Bergman, Mrs. E. J., and daughter. Bierman, Frederick. Blackson, baby of William. Block, son of Charles. Blum, Isaac. Borden, J. M., and wife. Blum, Sarah and Jennie. Bornkessel, T. C. of United States weather bureau, wife and child. Boske, Mrs. Charles and two sons. Bowen, ----. Branch, Allen (colored). Brandies, Fritz, wife and four children. Brandon, Lottie. Britton, James (colored). Brooks, J. T. Brown, Adolph, wife and two children. Bryan, Mrs. L. W. and daughter. Buckley, Selma and Blanche. Burgoyne, Douglas. Bourke, J. K. Burrell, Elivie and two children (colored). Bureel, Mrs. C. (colored). Baxter, Mrs. George and two children. Chambers, Ada. Curtis, Jane, two children and her mother-in-law (colored). Cleary, Mrs. Dan and five children. Chenivere, Mrs. Christian, Paul and wife. Clancy, Pat, wife and three children. Clauson, Katie. Cleary, Mrs. Leon and one child. Cleveland, George and wife. Cleveland, Roy and Seneca. Close, J. M. Coleman, Mandy and child (colored). Connell, William. Cook, W. S., wife and six children. Cornell, Mrs. Porter and two daughters (colored). Cort, infant of E. L. (colored). Cramer, Miss Bessie. Credo, child of Anthony. Cromwell, Mrs. and three daughters. Curtis, Mrs. J. C. and one child (colored). Curtis, Lula (colored). Cushman, John Henry. Daniels, Mrs. E., three girls, one son, two grandchildren. Davis, Annie N. Davis, Henry T. (colored). Daley, Nicholas. Darby, Charles. Davis, Irene. Deegan, Haddy. Delaney, Joe. Delano, Asa P., wife and children. Deltz, M. and two sons. Dempsey, Mr. and Mrs. Robert. Dixon, Mrs. Louisa and children. Dinsdale, wife and two children. Dittman, Mrs. F., and son. Dore, ----, an old Frenchman. Dore, Deo, Jr., wife and two children. Garrene, Mr. and Mrs., and two children. Dorsett, B., and family of five. Dotto, Mike, wife and six children. Doyle, Jim. Drecksmith, D. Dreckschmidt, H. Drew, H. A. Duffard, A. Duffy, Mrs. Dunant, Frank, Sr. Dunton, Mrs. Adelaide. Dunkins, Mrs. Duntonovitch, John and Pinckey. Darkey, John and wife and daughter Belle. Edmonds, Mrs. Eberhard, F., and wife. Eberg, Mrs. Kate. Eckel, William, wife and son. Edmondson, Fred and father. Eichler, W. Eichler, Mrs. A. Eismann, Howard. Ellis, John. and family of four. Ello, Joseph, wife and two children. Englehart, Louis. Englehart, Mrs. Ludwig. Englehart, G. C. Evans, Mrs. Katy and two daughters. Everhart, J. H., wife and Miss Lena and Guy. Ferrell, Mrs., wife of Rev., and three children. Falke, Joseph, and three children. Faucette, Mrs. Robert. Feigle, John, Sr., and wife. Feigle, Mabel. Flanagan, Mrs. Martin, and child. Foreman, Mrs. Mamie, Cassie, Thomas, Amos, Webster. Franklin, George. Franck, Mrs. Augusta. Freidolf, ----, wife and son. Freilag, ----, and son Harry. Frohne, Mrs. Charles and two children. Frye, Mrs. W. H. Fryer, Bessie Bell. Gwynn, Mrs. D. Gordon, Sol and two children. Gabell, Mr. and Mrs. (colored). Gaines, Mrs. Tillie J. and two daughters. Gallishaw, five children. Garrett, Ed. Garrigan, James. Garrigan, Joseph. Garth, Johnnie and Gussie. Genter, Robert. Gensen, four children. George, first sergeant of Battery O. George, Charles and wife. Gillis, Dan. Gordon, Asker and baby. Grant, Fred (colored). Grant, Mamie E. (colored). Gother, Mrs. Fred. Grumberg, Alex, supposed to belong to life-saving station. Haag, three children of Mrs. B. Hagen, George W. Hall, Joe and family (colored). Hansel, Dick, wife and three children. Harris, Tim. Harris, Thomas, wife and three children. Harris, Robert, wife and one child. Harris, George. Harry, Mrs. (colored). Harris, Mrs. W. R. and son. Hayes, child of Mrs. Eva of Taylor, Texas. Helfstein, John, Jr., (child). Helfstein, Sophie and Lily, children of W. Hemann, Mrs. R. M. and child. Hess, Bugler. Hester, Charlie. Hoarer, Martin, wife and son. Hoch, Mrs. and three sons, Mike, Willie and Louis. Holland, James H., wife and son Willie and grandson Otis. Holland, ---- (colored). Holland, Mrs. James. Holmes, child of Laura (colored). Hubner, Edward and Antoinette. Hudson, Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Mattie. Hughes, Stuart C. Hughes, John. Hull, Charlie (colored). Huzza, Charles, wife and four children. Hyman, Anthony. Hybach, Charles and son. Jaeger, Mr. and Mrs. and two children. Jackson, Mrs. J. W. and two children. Jamoneck, Ed., wife and two children, all of Dallas. Jasper, two children of Perry (colored). Jefferbock, Mr. and Mrs. Augusta. Jerrel, J., wife and four children and mother-in-law. Jones, Frank, son and Fred (colored). Jones, Mrs. Matilda and daughter. Johnson, Peter, wife and five children. Johnson, Mrs. P. and children. Johnson, R. D., wife and two children. Johnson, Mrs. Genevive and daughter. Johnson, W. J., wife and two children. Johnson, Mrs. Ben and three children. Johnson, Mike, wife, child and mother-in-law. Johnson, Harry. Johnson, Mrs. H. B. Johnson, A. S., wife and six children. Junemann, Charles, wife and daughter. Kunker, William, wife and child. Kace, Mrs. John and four children. Kennedy, Benton, wife and three children. Kemp, Pearl C. (colored). Kemp, Mrs. (colored). Kerpan, Mr. and Mrs. Paul. King, Mrs. (colored). King, Rosa J. (colored). Kindlund, Edgar. Knowles, Mrs. W. T. and three children. Kimley, Mrs. John and family. Kinsell, E. Kreza, Joseph, wife and three sons. Kurpan, Paul and wife. Kaiser, Louie, wife and three children. Kehler, Mrs. Fred and two sons. Keiss, Mrs. John. Keiss, Miss Judie. Keiss, Mrs. Louise and four children. Keiffer, wife and daughter. Kelsy, James. Lackey, Miss Pearl. Lackey, Alma. Lackey, Robert. Lackey, Mrs., four children and daughter-in-law. Lafayette, Mrs., and two children. Lapierce, James, wife and five children. Larson, H. and two children. Laukhuff, Genevieve. Lashley, Mrs. Dave. Lausen, August and three children. Lawson, Mrs. W., and Miss Oralie. Lawson, Mr. and Mrs. and child. Legue, three children of Mrs. Lillie. Lee, Captain G. A. and wife. Lenker, Tom. Lennard, Fred. Lemira, Joseph, wife and four children. Leon, ---- and two children. Leslie, Miss Gracie. Lewis, Mrs. C. A. (colored). Lewis, Mrs. Jake and six children. Lewis, Agnes (Colored). Lindgren, John, wife and seven children. (Miss Lillie, eldest, saved). Lloyd, Buck and wife. Locke, Mrs. Mary. Lockhart, Mrs. Charles, and two children. Losica, Mrs. F., daughter, three children and son-in-law. Lucas, Mrs. William and two sons. Lucas, two children of Mrs. David. Lucas, John and two children. Ludke, Henry, wife and son. Ludewig, E. A. and mother. Lumberg, Will and Lena. Lumber, Gus, wife and nine children. Lynch, A. Lynch, James and wife. Lynch, Ed and family. Lyster, W. W. Miller, Joe and children. Munn, Mrs. S. S. McCauley. J. B. and wife. Macklin, W. L., wife and three children. Mandy, Mrs. and daughter (colored). Matson, Grace and three children (colored). Martin, Frank, wife and son. Maquelte, Mrs. Pauline. Maxwell, Mrs. McAmish, S. A., wife and two daughters. McAughlar, Ira (colored). McCulloch, A. R. (colored). McManus, Mrs. W. H. McMillan, Mrs. M. J. McNeill, Mrs. and baby. McNeal, Mrs. James and child. McPeters, wife and two children. McPherson, Robert (colored). Mealey, Mrs. John. Mealy, Joseph. Megna, Mrs. Joe. Megna, child of Mike. Menzella, John, wife and five children. Merle, Eugene and mother. Merle, John, wife and children. Mestry, Charlotte (colored). Meyer, Chris, missing. Miller, wife and six children. Moran, James and wife. Morrow, Mrs. and four children. Moore, Mrs. Nathan. Moore, Estelle (colored). Moore, ----. Morley, D. and wife. Morris, Harry, wife and three children. Morton, Hammond and four children. Mott, B. F. Mulcahey, two children of J., of Houston. Mulholland, Mrs. Louise. Mullock, Henry, wife and child. Mundyne, Mrs. Meria. Murie, Mrs. Annie and daughter. Meyer, Herman, wife and son Willie. Myers, Mrs. C. J. and one child. Napoleon, Henry, wife and sister (colored). Otis, Charlotte (colored). O'Dowd, D. J. O'Keefe, C. J. and wife. Olsen, Ed. Oterson, A. A. and wife. Ostermayer, Henry and wife. O'Shaughnessy, Pauline. Perry, Mrs. H. M. and son Clayton, Houston. Puesnutt, Mrs. Fred and three children. Paetz, Mrs. Lena. Paskall, August and wife. Pashelag, Miss Louisa. Pashelag, Mrs. E. and three children. Paysee, Mrs. Henry and two children. Pauly, Mr. and Mrs. Peetz, Mrs. Captain J. J. and eldest and youngest daughters. Pellenze, Mrs. and mother. Perkins, Albert (colored). Perkins, Arthur (colored). Perkins, wife and grandson (colored). Peterson, Mrs. J. and children. Peterson, K. C., wife and child. Pettit, W. B. Pettingill, W. H. and wife and three sons, Walter W., James and Norman (missing). Pilford, W., Mexican Cable Company, and children, Madele, Jack and Georgianna. Quowvich, John and four others unknown. Quester, Bessie. Quinn, Thomas. Quinn, John, engineer (missing). Rockford, William and wife. Ryan, Joseph, wife and child. Raleigh, Miss Lelia. Rayburn, Crawford. Rattisseau, A. and wife and three children. Rattisseau, Mrs. W. L. and three children. Reagan, Mrs. John J. Reagan, W. J., wife and three children. Rein, wife and daughter. Reinhart, Agnes and Helen, daughters of John. Rhone, Lulu L. (colored). Richardson, S. W. and wife. Richamderes, Mrs. Irene and baby. Riley, Mrs. W. and two children. Rimmelin, Edward H. and wife. Riordan, Thomas. Ritzeler, Mrs. Rhymes, Thomas, wife and two children. Roach, Annie. Roberts, "Shorty." Ritchford, Ben and wife. Roemer, C. C. and wife. Roemer, Elizabeth, wife of A. C. Roehm, Mr. and Mrs. William and two children. Rogers, Blanche Donald, niece of D. B. Ross, 9-year-old child of Mrs. Ross, of Houston. Rosse, Mrs. L. and three children. Rossalee, B., wife and three children. Roth, Mrs. Kate and three children. Rowe, Mrs. and three children. Rudder, Robert, wife and four children. Rudger, C., wife and child. Ruenbuhl, Johnnie. Ruther, A., mother and father. Ruhrmond, Prof., wife and two children. Rust, Henry and three children. Redelli, Angelo, wife and four children. Sanford, Southwick, wife and child. Schmidt, Mrs. F. and son Richard. Schmidt, Richard J. Schneider, J. F., wife and six children. Schoolfield, ---- (colored). Schoolfield, Isaac. Schutte, ----, wife and two children. Schutze, Mr. and Mrs. Scott, Hugh (colored). Seals, Wallace D. (colored). Seats, Sarah N. (colored). Sedgwick, child. Seibel, Mrs. Julius. Seibel, Lizzie. Seibel, Mrs. Jacob and son Julius. Seixas, Mrs. E., Arma, Lucille, Cecilia. Severt, John and wife. Shaper, Henry, wife and two sons. Sherman, Albert. Skelton, Mrs. Emma and two children. Sharke, Charles F. Smith, Jim, prize fighter. Simerville, S. B. and wife (colored). Sourbien, Battery O. Slayton, Mrs. Carey B. (colored). Steeb, J. and wife and two children. Stevens, Frank, Leo, Jerold and Edward, sons of T. J. Stewart, Captain P. and family. Stilkolitch, Mannie. Stimman, Robert, wife and child. Strabe, Nick and family, except one. Strickhausen, Mrs. Strunk, William, wife and six children. Sudden, Clara (colored). Swartsbach, child of A. Swickel, mother and three sisters of John. Sylvester, Miss. Simms, two children of H. G. Thomas, Miss Daisy. Tavinette, Antoinet. Terrell, Mrs. Q. V. and four children (colored). Thomas, Newell and Nathaniel. Thompson, Mr., wife and three children. Thurman, Mrs. (colored). Tiggs, Lavina and daughter (colored). Tilsman, Robert, wife and five children. Tinbush, and family. Trickhausen, Mrs. Trostman, Mrs. and three children. Tucker, Mr. and Mrs. and one child. Turner, Mr. and Mrs. Udell, Oliver, wife and child. Uhl, Mrs. Christopher and six children. Ulridge, Val, Mrs. and six children. Van, Miss Mary. Vining, Mrs. Annie and four children. Viscavitch, Magdelena, daughter of Mrs. Wemberg, O. M., wife and five children. Winn, Mrs. and grandchild. Wallace, Scott and Earl. Wade, Mrs. Hillie (colored). Wade, Hettie and husband (colored). Walden, Samuel, son of W. H. (colored). Waldgren, Mr. Walker, Mrs. H. V. Walter, Mrs. Charles and three children. Walsh, Joseph, wife and three children. Walters, Gus. Waring, Mr. (colored). Warrah, Martin. Waters, three nephews of James. Watkins, child of P. Watson, Judge, wife and two children. Webber, Mrs. and family. Weber, W. J., wife and two children. Wester, George and Joe. Weidmang, Fritz and wife, Paul and mother. Weiss, Prof. Walsh, Mrs. Westaway, Mrs. George. Westerman, Mrs. A. Westman, Mrs. White, James, wife and babe. Wicke, Lena. Wilke, C. O. Wilcox, child. Wilde, Miss Freda. Williams, Mrs. Mary. Wilson, Bertha (colored). Withey, H. Witt, C. H., wife and two children. Wood, Mrs. R. N. Wood, Eddie and Burley (colored). Wood, Mrs. Caroline and two daughters, Mary and Kate. Wuchnach, M., wife and two children. Young, Mrs., two daughters and one son. The following, previously reported dead, were saved: Coddou, Alex, Jr., Ray and Eugene, whose father and three brothers were lost. Cato, William. Hunter, Mrs. J. J. Sommer, Miss Helen T. LIST OF IDENTIFICATIONS FOR MONDAY, SEPT. 17. Allen, Mrs. Kate. Allen, Mrs. Alex and five children. Anderson, Mrs. Dora. Anderson, Mrs. Sam (colored). Anderson, Nick and two sons. Andrel, Mrs. and three children. Anlonovich, Eddie. Baker, Florence (colored). Baker, Mrs. and three children (colored). Baldwin, Sallie (colored). Bastor, Mrs. Clara. Bostford, Edwin and wife. Bostford, Kate. Brady, ---- and wife. Brandus, Fritz and wife and four children. Burns, Mrs. Bushon, Hisom. Boyd, Andy and family, on beach. Brophey, M., and mother of Peter. Calvert, George W., wife and daughter. Campbell, Mrs. Emma. Caroline, Mrs. Alice and three children. Cheles, William and wife. Chester, Paul and wife. Christian, John. Crain, Anna M. Crain, Charles. Crain, Maggie McCree. Crain, Mrs. C. D. Carter, A. J. Carter, Mrs. Celeste. Davis, E. Debner, William, wife and three children. Doherty, Mrs. Dagert, Mrs. and children. Floehr, Mrs. Hoesington, H. A. Hurt, Walter, wife, two children and two servants. Iwan, Mrs. A. Jones, John A. and wife. Johnson, Leonard, wife and four children. Joughin, Tony. Jones, E. B. Kaufman, Mrs. Eliza. Keller and family. Kolbe, infant of C. B. Kleiman, Joe, wife and two workmen. Kroener, Will, Sophie and Florie. Kupper, ----. Larson, H. and two children. Luckenbell, B. E. and wife. Lott, Walker C., wife and two children. Martin, Miss Annie. Manly, Joen, Sr., mother and two nieces. McCauley, J. and wife. Neuwiller, William, wife and three children. Newton, Mrs. J. M. and child. Oakley, F. Poland, Ed. and sister. Pryor, Ed., wife and four children, of St. Joseph, Mo. Patrick, Mariah. Powers, Carrie V. Patter, C. H. and baby. Quinn, Mrs. Frank and son Claude. Ripley, Henry. Roberts, John T. Scholea, Richard, wife, son Frank and adopted daughter, Tilla Meyer. Sommer, Joe, wife and child. Spaeter, Mrs. Fred. Spaeter, Otilla. Slayton, Mrs. Carrie (colored). Steeb, ----, wife and child. Steinbunk, Edward, George and Arthur. Sweikel, mother and three sisters of John. Steinforth, Mrs. Emma. Stillman, Lily. Stevens, Frankie and Lee, two boys of T. J. Stewart, Miss Lester. Swenson, Mrs. Mary K. Simons, two children of H. G. Tavenett, Anton. Thompson, Milton. Thompson, wife and four children. Tickle, H. P., wife and two children. Told, Subie. Torr, T. C. Toothacre, Miss Etta. Tozen, Mrs. G. M. and Miss Bella. Washington, John and five children. Wiede, wife and five children. White, Willie. White, family of Walter. Williams, Ed. Zickler, Mrs. Fred and two children. Zinkie, August and two children. Zwansig, Adolph. Sr., Richard, Herman and three daughters of Adolph. ROLL FOR TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 18. Andrews, Mrs. Allen, William, wife and three children. Allardyce, Mrs. R. L., and three children. Allen, Claude. Allen, Herbert. Allen, Lucy. Bradfoot and wife. Brown, William. Briscal, Alfred, and two children. Burkhead, Mrs., and daughter. Burns, Mrs. P., and daughter Mary. Byman, Mr. and Mrs. George. Clancy, Pat, wife and five children. Colsberg, Frank G., wife and baby. Chester, Frank, Ellen and Mary (colored). Christianson, Miss Annie, of Shreveport (who was visiting George Dorian). Costly, Sanders, and wife and child of Alexander Costly (colored). Cowan, Isabella, and daughter. Calloum, Antona, wife and four children. Cornell, Mrs. Eliza. "Dago Joe" and wife Mary. Dearing, William, wife and six children. Devoti, Joe, and three children. Devoti, Mrs. Julia, and two children. Devoti, Louis. Devoti, "Doc." Durrant, Frank. Dumond, Joseph, and wife. Dazet, Mrs. Leon, and child. Eaton, F. B. Fachan, family gone; he is alive. Falk, Mrs. Julius, and five children. Falk, Gustavo. Felsmann, Richard (blacksmith), wife and five children. Fritz, wife and two children. Graus, wife and two children. Hall, Chase (colored). Harris, John, wife and two children. Haucius, Mrs., and one child. Hermann, W. J. Herman, Mrs., and five children. Hylenberg, Jacob, wife and child. Jerrel, J., wife and four children. Jordan, Charles. James and children. Jackson, wife and daughter, Mabel. Kaper, August, wife and one child. Keogh, John, wife and four children. Keogh, Mrs., and three children. Koch, William, Sr. Kothe, William Q. Leagett, Mrs., and three children. Leaget, Mrs. Celia, and family of six. Letts, Captain, wife and two children and sister. Lynch, Peter. Mackey, Mrs. W. G., and four children. Maclin, J. D., wife and seven children. McCann, Billy, wife and four children. Maupin, Joseph. McDonald, Mrs. Mary, and son. McEwen, John. McGraw, Peter, and wife. McNeil, Hugh, and baby and Miss Jennie McNeil. McPeters, Mrs., and two children. McVeigh, Miss Lorena. Miller, Frank. Miller, wife and four children. Midlegge, August, wife and five children. Mellor (better known as Miller), Robert. Meyer, Henry, and four children. Moore, Cecelia, Loraine, Vera and Mildred, children of Mr. and Mrs. Louis Moore. Morseburger, Antonia, and wife. Moserger, ----. Middleburger, George, wife and three children. Middleberger, John, wife and three children. Miller, E. O. Moore, Mrs. Dock. Neal, a fisherman. O'Neill, James and Frank, sons of James. O'Neill, Lawrence. O'Neill, wife and five children, an oysterman, with four hired men. Platt, Mrs. S. Peterson, George, soldier, wife and four children. Peters, Robert. Peters, Rudolph. Potter, C. H., and little daughter. Praker, William. Preussner, Mrs., and three children. Pischos, Mr. and Mrs. Quinn, Robert, wife and six children. Rattiseau, P. A. Rattiseau, J. B., wife and four children. Rattiseau, C. A., wife and seven children. Rattisseau, Mrs. J. L., and three children. Raw, Mr. Ray, Miss Susie. Roberts, Herbert M. Mrs. Rose's baby. Rosen, Mrs., and four children. Rudireker, and three women. Ryan, Mrs. Mary. Scarborough, Harry, a fisherman. Scott, Hughie (colored). Ricker, John. Speck, Captain. Summers, Mrs. M. S. Tian, Mrs. Clement, and three children. Tripo, an oysterman. Turner, Angeline (colored). Wallace, and wife. Warnke, Mr. and Mrs., and three children. Washington, Johnnie, and family, colored. Weit, Mr., and three children. Walker, L. D., stepson and W. J. Hughes. Weeden, Lou, wife and four children. Wurzlow, Mrs. Annie. One laborer at Dr. Fry's dairy. Anderson, C. L., wife, and children. Burns, Mrs. M. E., and daughter. Boening, William, wife and three children. Burwell, T. M. Buren, Larzen, wife and five children. Bernardoni, John. Chouke, Mrs. Charles and child. Connolly, Mrs. Ellen. Cook, Mrs. Ida (colored). Cook, Henry (colored). Deboer, P. G., and wife. Doyle, James. Dickinson, Mrs. Mary, and children (colored). Ellis, Mrs. Henry (colored). Edwards, Mrs. Jane, and daughter (colored). Falco, J. A. C. Fagan, Frank. Fager, Mrs. Frances. Frank, Miss Anna. Galmer, H. H., and wife. Geist, wife and daughter. Colmer, H. H., wife and five children. Heusse, W. A., and wife. Hoch, Mike. Heare, L., wife and twelve children. Homburg, Joe, wife and four children. Homburg, William, wife and five children. Hurlbert, Mrs. Victoria, Miss Minnie, Walter and Hattie (all colored). Hass, Professor Carl, and family. Johnson, A., and wife. Johnson, Dan (colored). Jay, J. J. Kessner, August, Lena, Emma and James H. Keats, Miss Tillie. Lemere, T., and wife. Lisbony, Mrs. W. H., Jr., and Miss Eunice, daughter of C. P. Lehman, Charles and son. Mitchell, W. P. McConnelly, H., and wife. McGown, Jim. McVeagh, Mrs. J. M. Manning, Mark. Mead, James. Neimeier, Henry, wife and five children. Patterson, H. J. Patterson, Miss S. (colored). Perkins, Lucy and Lotta (colored). Perkins, Mrs. L., and two children (colored). Parobich, Michael, wife and four children. Pruessne, Henry. Panleick, Matthew. Rose, H., and wife. Radeker, Mrs. Herman, and child. Rehm, William, wife and two children. Reymanscott, Louis. Richardson, William. Ruther, Robert, wife and six children. Steerholz, W., and wife. Seible, O. J., Jr. Schroeder, Mrs. Lottie A. Swan, George, wife and four children. Terrell, G., and wife. Varnell, James, wife and six children. Vuletach, Andrew, wife and daughter. Warren, Mrs. Flora. Wilkinson, George, wife and son. Wilson, Mrs. Julia Anna (colored). Zurapanin, Mrs. N., and eight children. Transcriber's Notes: Punctuation has been corrected without note. On page 302, "186" is presented as in the original text. The series of paragraphs beginning on page 85 has no closing quotation mark. The following misprints have been corrected: "botton" corrected to "bottom" (page 37) "Quale" corrected to "Quayle" (page 110) "Thusday" corrected to "Thursday" (page 224) "yets" corrected to "yet" (page 290) "beople" corrected to "people" (page 302) "Though" corrected to "Through" (page 332) "diminshed" corrected to "diminished" (page 354) "Kedso" corrected to "Kelso" (page 366) Other than the corrections listed above, inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original. 
36179	----	[Illustration: THE ARRIVAL AT THE BARLOW FARMHOUSE.] THE ROVER BOYS ON A TOUR OR _LAST DAYS AT BRILL COLLEGE_ BY ARTHUR M. WINFIELD (Edward Stratemeyer) AUTHOR OF THE ROVER BOYS AT SCHOOL, THE ROVER BOYS ON THE OCEAN, THE PUTNAM HALL SERIES, ETC. _ILLUSTRATED_ [Illustration] NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS Made in the United States of America BOOKS BY ARTHUR M. WINFIELD (Edward Stratemeyer) THE FIRST ROVER BOYS SERIES THE ROVER BOYS AT SCHOOL THE ROVER BOYS ON THE OCEAN THE ROVER BOYS IN THE JUNGLE THE ROVER BOYS OUT WEST THE ROVER BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES THE ROVER BOYS IN THE MOUNTAINS THE ROVER BOYS IN CAMP THE ROVER BOYS ON LAND AND SEA THE ROVER BOYS ON THE RIVER THE ROVER BOYS ON THE PLAINS THE ROVER BOYS IN SOUTHERN WATERS THE ROVER BOYS ON THE FARM THE ROVER BOYS ON TREASURE ISLE THE ROVER BOYS AT COLLEGE THE ROVER BOYS DOWN EAST THE ROVER BOYS IN THE AIR THE ROVER BOYS IN NEW YORK THE ROVER BOYS IN ALASKA THE ROVER BOYS IN BUSINESS THE ROVER BOYS ON A TOUR THE SECOND ROVER BOYS SERIES THE ROVER BOYS AT COLBY HALL THE PUTNAM HALL SERIES THE PUTNAM HALL CADETS THE PUTNAM HALL RIVALS THE PUTNAM HALL CHAMPIONS THE PUTNAM HALL REBELLION THE PUTNAM HALL ENCAMPMENT THE PUTNAM HALL MYSTERY 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, New York COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY EDWARD STRATEMEYER, _The Rover Boys on a Tour_ INTRODUCTION MY DEAR BOYS: This book is a complete story in itself, but forms the twentieth volume in a line issued under the general title, "The Rover Boys Series for Young Americans." As I have mentioned in other volumes, this line was started a number of years ago with the publication of "The Rover Boys at School," "On the Ocean," and "In the Jungle." These stories were so well received that there was an immediate cry for more, and so, year by year, they were followed by the publication of "The Rover Boys Out West," "On the Great Lakes," "In the Mountains," "In Camp," "On Land and Sea," "On the River," "On the Plains," "In Southern Waters," "On the Farm," "On Treasure Isle," "At College," "Down East," "In the Air," "In New York," "In Alaska," and finally, "In Business," where we last left our heroes. The Rover boys have, of course, gradually been growing older. Dick and Tom are both married and doing what they can to carry on their father's business in New York City. Sam, the youngest of the boys, is still at Brill College. The particulars are given of some winter sports around that institution of learning, and then of a great baseball game in which the youngest Rover distinguishes himself. Then Sam graduates from college, and all the boys, with some others, go on a long automobile tour, during which a number of exciting adventures occur. The party is caught in a storm on the mountains, and later on are caught in a great flood. What the Rover boys did under such trying circumstances I leave for the pages which follow to disclose. Once more I wish to thank all my young friends for the many gratifying things they have said about my books. I trust that the present volume will fulfil all their expectations, and that the reading of the same will do them good. Affectionately and sincerely yours, EDWARD STRATEMEYER CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I THE SNOWBALL FIGHT 1 II SOMETHING ABOUT THE ROVER BOYS 14 III WHAT HAPPENED TO SONGBIRD 25 IV THE CHASE 35 V AT THE RAILROAD STATION 46 VI AT THE SANDERSON HOME 57 VII SAM AND GRACE 67 VIII SOMETHING ABOUT BLACKIE CROWDEN 78 IX IN WHICH TOM ARRIVES 90 X THE FEAST 100 XI TOM FREES HIS MIND 111 XII OLD GRISLEY COMES TO TERMS 121 XIII SAM ON THE ROAD 133 XIV DAYS OF WAITING 143 XV BASEBALL TALK 154 XVI THE OPENING OF THE BALL GAME 166 XVII HOW THE GAME ENDED 176 XVIII GOOD-BYE TO BRILL 187 XIX GETTING READY FOR THE TOUR 201 XX A MOMENT OF PERIL 211 XXI NEWS OF BLACKIE CROWDEN 221 XXII ON THE TRAIL 232 XXIII BACK AT ASHTON 242 XXIV AT THE FESTIVAL 252 XXV A CALL FOR ASSISTANCE 262 XXVI SAM FREES HIS MIND 272 XXVII A TELEGRAM FROM NEW YORK 282 XXVIII CLOUDBURST AND FLOOD 292 XXIX THE RESCUE ON THE RIVER 304 XXX MRS. SAM ROVER--CONCLUSION 314 THE ROVER BOYS ON A TOUR CHAPTER I THE SNOWBALL FIGHT "Now then, boys, are you ready?" "I am!" "Been ready for the last five minutes!" "Sure you've got all the snowballs you can carry?" "I couldn't carry any more if I tried," came from Sam Rover, with a grin. "Just see how I am loaded up," and he glanced down at both hands, which were filled with snowballs, and at the snowballs held under either arm. "I've got some dandy hard ones," put in Spud Jackson. "Oh, you can't use soakers, Spud!" cried Stanley Browne, who was the leader of the snowballing contingent. "That's against the rules." "They are not soakers, Stanley," was the reply. "They are only good and hard, that's all." "Hi, you fellows! When are you going to start things?" came a cry from behind a snow wall up the slope of a hill. "We can't waste the whole afternoon waiting for you." "We're coming, don't fear," answered Stanley Browne. "And when we arrive you won't know what's struck you," announced Sam Rover gaily. "It's all vell enough to brag, but you'd chust better start dot fight," came in German-American accents from behind the snow wall, and a merry face appeared in sight for an instant and a fist was shaken playfully at those beyond. "Sound that bugle, Paul!" yelled the leader of the attacking party, and an instant later the mellow notes of a bugle floated out on the crisp, wintry air. It was the signal for the attack, and with merry shouts the students at the foot of the hill charged upward through the snow toward the wall above. The occasion was the annual snowball fight at Brill College. Snow fights there were, of course, without number, but each year there was one big contest in which the freshmen and sophomores attempted to hold a snow fort located on the hill back of the institution against the attacks of the juniors and seniors. According to the rules, three charges were allowable, all of which must be made inside of two hours, and if all of these failed to take the fort, then the victory went to the defenders, and they were permitted to crow over their success until the following winter. A little over an hour and a half had been spent in the sport and two attacks had been made and repulsed, much to the chagrin of Stanley Browne, the senior in charge of the attacking army. Juniors and seniors had fought nobly, but the freshmen and sophomores outnumbered them, and, being strongly intrenched behind the snow wall of the so-called fort, had succeeded in forcing a first, and then a second, retreat. "Say, fellows, we've got to do it this time, sure!" cried Sam Rover, as, side by side with Stanley, he led the attack. "If we don't oust them they'll never get done talking about it." "Right you are, Sam!" answered Bob Grimes, who also had hands and arms full of well-made snowballs. "Remember what I told you," came from Stanley, as he turned slightly to address his followers. "Don't throw any snowballs yet. Do as the soldiers did in Revolutionary days--wait until you can see the whites of their eyes." "And then make those whites blacks!" burst out Spud Jackson, gaily. "Come ahead, and no turning back." Up the snowy hillside sped the crowd of students, while a number of professors and visitors watched the advance from a distance. "Get ready for 'em! Don't let them come too near!" came in a rallying cry from behind the snow wall. And then, as the attacking party came closer, a volley of white spheres came flying through the air into the faces of the juniors and seniors. It was a sharp and heavy volley, and for the instant the air seemed to be filled with flying snowballs. Many of them, of course, went wild, but others landed on the heads and bodies of the attacking party, and for the moment the advance was checked. "Wow!" came from one of the juniors who had been hit in the ear. "Why can't we do some throwing ourselves?" "That's the talk! Give it to 'em!" came from another student who had had his cap knocked off by a snowball. "No, no," answered Stanley. "Save your snowballs until we get closer." "Come on, we'll soon be up there," put in Sam Rover. "Only a hundred feet more, fellows!" There was a yell of assent, and forward the charging party went again in the face of another volley of snowballs. By bending low the juniors and seniors protected themselves as much as possible from the onslaught, but many were hit, two so stingingly that they had to retire to the rear. "Hurrah! We've got 'em on the run!" came from the leader of the fort contingent, who had mounted a tree stump located behind the wall. "Give it to 'em, fellows! Give it too 'em hot!" "Now, then, boys, all together!" yelled Stanley at the top of his voice, and then the eager juniors and seniors launched their snowballs with all the swiftness and accuracy of aim at their command. The two previous attacks which had been repulsed had taught the advancing students a lesson, and now in this third attack scarcely a snowball was wasted. Those in the front ran directly up to the wall of the fort, while those farther back spread out, as directed by their leader, to the right and to the left, sending in cross fires at points where the fort was supposed to be weakest. It was a thrilling and spirited fight, but, although the students were greatly excited, there was little more actual roughness than there would have been at a football or other athletic contest. "Over the wall, boys! Over the wall!" burst out Sam Rover, and the next instant he was up on the wall of the fort, quickly followed by Stanley, Bob, Spud, and several others. "Back there, you rebels! Back!" came in a yell from the interior of the fort, and then a wild fusillade of snowballs struck Sam and his chums in various parts of their bodies. "Jumping hambones!" spluttered Spud, as a snowball took him directly in the chin. "What do you think I'm built of, iron?" "Get back or you'll get worse!" was the cry from the fort, and then another snowball took Spud in the ear. In the meantime, Sam Rover had dodged a ball which was coming directly for his face, and now he returned the fire with a hard one that took the sophomore below him in the ear. Then Sam jumped down into the fort, quickly followed by eight or ten others. "Clear them out! Don't let them stay here!" was the wild cry. "Everybody around the flagpole!" was the command of the fort leader. The flagpole was a small one located in the center of the enclosure, and from it fluttered the banners of the freshmen and the sophomore classes. Those making the attack would have to haul those banners down before they could claim a victory. Snowballs were now flying in all directions, and it was quite probable that in the excitement many of the students let fly at their friends instead of at the enemy; but it was all good, clean sport, and everybody enjoyed it greatly. "Now, then, fellows, for a center rush!" came from Stanley, when he and Sam and about twenty others had forced their way to within ten yards of the flagpole. "Avalanche them, boys! Avalanche them!" came suddenly from one of the sophomores, and then without warning huge chunks of loose snow were sent flying through the air on the heads of those who were battling to get to the flagpole. "Great Cæsar's ghost!" spluttered Bob, as some of the snow went down inside his collar. "What is this; a snowslide?" "Oh, you mustn't mind a little thing like that," answered Sam Rover. "Come ahead, everybody! Push!" There was a wild scramble, with many yells and shouts. Student after student went down in the mêlée, a few to be trampled upon, but fortunately nobody was seriously hurt. There was such a congestion that to make or throw more snowballs was out of the question, and the most a fighter could do was to snatch up a handful of loose snow and thrust it down the neck of the student opposing him. Sam and Stanley, with four others close by them, had now managed to get within a few feet of the flagpole. Here, however, the freshmen and sophomores had planted themselves in a solid mass, and it looked for the moment as if nothing could budge them. "Only six minutes more, boys! Only six minutes more!" came from one of the sophomores who had been detailed as a timekeeper. "Save those banners for six minutes and we'll win." "Hit 'em, fellows, hit 'em!" roared Stanley. "We've got to get those banners this year." "And we're going to do it," added Sam. He turned to Bob and Spud. "Boost me up, fellows, and I'll walk right over their heads to the pole." "All right, if you want to take the chance," answered Spud, and in a twinkling Sam was shoved up into the air onto the shoulders of the boy in front of him. This student let out a cry of alarm, but before he could do anything Sam made a leap forward, landing on the shoulders of two students close to the pole. "Fire him back! Don't let him reach the pole!" came in a yell from several throats. "Hold him by the ankles! Don't let him jump!" cried out the leader of the fort defenders. Several students turned to clutch at the ankles of Sam Rover, but he was too nimble for them, and with another leap he reached the flagpole and clutched it tightly. "Hurrah! Rover has reached the pole!" "Get those banners, Sam! There is no time to spare!" "Hold him!" "Pull him down!" "Maul him!" cried the fort defenders. "Don't let him climb up the pole!" Several turned to clutch at Sam's legs and feet, but he thrashed out wildly and all but one fell back, fearing injury. The undaunted student caught Sam by a heel and held on very much as might a bulldog. "Let go there," came from Spud, and the next instant he raised a chunk of snow and shoved it directly into the open mouth of the boy who had the grip. This was too much for the student, and he fell back among his fellows. "Only two minutes more!" yelled the timekeeper. "Two minutes more!" "We won't need more than fifteen seconds," came triumphantly from Sam, and as he spoke he commenced to climb the pole. A sophomore followed, clutching again at one of his feet, but now the Rover boy had his hand on the first of the banners, and down it came in a twinkling, and the second quickly followed. "Here you are, boys; catch them!" Sam cried and, wadding the banners into something of a ball, he hurled them out into the midst of a group of seniors. "Hurrah! we've got 'em!" was the triumphant cry. "We've got 'em!" "Time's up!" yelled the timekeeper. A cheer arose from the juniors and seniors, who quickly held the captured banners aloft. The freshmen and sophomores were, of course, keenly disappointed, and a number of them showed it. "Let's drive them out of the fort, anyway!" was the sudden cry. "Give it to 'em! Send 'em flying!" "Wait, wait, this contest is at an end," said a professor who was one of the umpires. "Never mind, let's have some fun anyway." This cry was taken up on every side, and while some of the seniors retired with the two captured banners, the other students continued the contest, those who had held the fort doing all they possibly could to overcome and expel their enemies. As soon as he had thrown the banners Sam slid down the pole, and was now trying his best to make his way out of the crowd of freshmen and sophomores. These students were very bitter against the Rover boy, and several did all they could to trip him up and cover him with snow. "Say, Sam, that was great!" cried Spud. "Best I ever saw!" "Out with 'em! Out with 'em!" was the yell. "Don't let 'em stay in the fort even if they did get the banners." "Come on!" cried Sam quickly. "Now we have the banners let us drive them clean down the other side of the hill." This suggestion received instant approval and, in spite of all that some of the professors could do to stop it, the fight went on as furiously as ever. Some of the students who had retreated to a safe distance came back with a fresh supply of snowballs, and the air was once more filled with the flying missiles. "Come on, let us teach them a lesson," cried Bob Grimes. "They should have stopped fighting as soon as the banners were captured. Let us give the sophomores and freshmen all they want." This cry was taken up on all sides, and around and around the enclosure which had been designated the fort went the various crowds of students. The blood of the juniors and seniors was now up, and slowly but surely they forced the younger students to retreat. Then came a break and something of a panic, and a few minutes later the fort defenders were retreating down the other side of the hill, which led through some brushwood to a road that ran to Ashton. "After 'em! After 'em! Don't let 'em get away!" cried Sam, and was one of the first to go down the hill after the retreating students. On the way he paused only long enough to make several snowballs. Having reached the road which led to the town, the freshmen and sophomores divided, some going behind a barn and others taking to the woods beyond. Not knowing exactly what to do next, Sam and several with him halted to consider the matter. "There they go!" was the cry a moment later, and a number of students were seen speeding around a corner of the road. "That's Bissel, the fellow who hit me in the ear," cried Sam. "I'm going after him." "And, yes, there is Dutz, who filled my mouth with snow," cried Spud. "Come on!" Sam was already on the run, and, coming to the turn in the road, he let fly several snowballs. "Here! Here! What do you mean by such actions?" came suddenly from behind some brushwood which lined the roadway and then, as the students advanced still further, they were surprised to find themselves confronted by a tall man wearing a heavy, fur-lined overcoat. He had likewise been wearing a beaver hat, but the tile now lay in the snow. "Belright Fogg!" exclaimed Sam in dismay. "That lawyer who tried to get the best of us! And I thought he was one of the students!" "Ha! so it is you," snarled the man in the fur overcoat harshly. "What do you mean, Rover, by attacking me in this fashion?" CHAPTER II SOMETHING ABOUT THE ROVER BOYS "Say! that isn't one of the students." "Not much! Why, that's the lawyer who used to do business for the railroad company--the man the Rovers had so much trouble with!" "Who knocked his hat off?" "I don't know--Sam Rover, I guess." Such were some of the remarks made as a number of the juniors and seniors began to congregate around Sam and Mr. Belright Fogg. All of the students could readily see that the lawyer was very much put out over what had occurred. "I say, Rover, what do you mean by attacking me in this fashion?" repeated Belright Fogg, with a savage look at the youth before him. "If I knocked your hat off, Mr. Fogg, I am sorry for it," answered Sam, as soon as he could recover from his surprise. "Knocked my hat off?" roared the lawyer. "You hit me a hard one on the head; that is what you did!" "Let me see if you are hurt," put in Stanley, stepping forward. "Where did the snowball hit you?" "You keep your hands off me," returned Belright Fogg. "I've a good mind to have the law on such loafers as you." "We are not loafers, Mr. Fogg," answered Sam, the color coming quickly to his face. "We were having our annual snowballing contest, and we did not know that any outsider was on this back road. If I hit you and hurt you I am very sorry for it." "Humph! I think you will be sorry for it if I bring a suit for damages," muttered the lawyer. "I don't know why Dr. Wallington permits such rowdyism." "This isn't rowdyism, nor are we loafers," put in Stanley, somewhat sharply. "You seem to forget, Mr. Fogg, that this road runs through the property belonging to Brill College, and we have a perfect right to hold our snowballing contest here. If you want to report the matter to Dr. Wall----" "Bah! I know you students, and I wouldn't expect any sympathy from your teacher. He's too afraid of losing any of his students." Belright Fogg snatched his beaver hat from the hands of Spud, who had picked it up. "I'll settle with you for this later, Rover," he added, and then turned on his heel and hurried down the road. "I wonder what brought him on this back road on foot?" observed Bob. "He isn't on foot. He has his horse and cutter beside the barn," answered another student. "There he is now, picking up a robe out of the snow. It must have fallen out of the cutter and he walked back to get it." Which surmise was correct. "This looks like more trouble for me," said Sam, soberly. "I'm mighty sorry it was Mr. Belright Fogg I hit with that snowball." "You can wager he'll make out a case against you if he possibly can," remarked Spud. "Lawyers of his calibre always do." "Well, this settles the snowball fight for us," put in Stanley, as he looked up and down the road. "The freshies and sophs are clear out of sight. Let us go back to the campus and celebrate our victory;" and then, as Belright Fogg drove away in his cutter, the students walked over the hill in the direction of Brill. To my old readers the youths already mentioned in these pages will need no special introduction. For the benefit of others, however, let me state that Sam Rover was the youngest of three brothers, Dick being the eldest and fun-loving Tom coming next. They were the sons of one Anderson Rover, a rich widower, and had for years made their home with their Uncle Randolph and their Aunt Martha at a beautiful farm called Valley Brook. From the farm, and while their father was in Africa, the three Rover boys had been sent by their uncle to school, as related in the first volume of this series, entitled "The Rover Boys at School." This place was called Putnam Hall Military Academy, and there the lads made many friends, and likewise several enemies, and had "the time of their lives," as Tom Rover often expressed it.* * For particulars regarding how Putnam Hall Military Academy was organized, and what fine times the cadets there enjoyed even before the Rover boys came on the scene, read "The Putnam Hall Series," six volumes, starting with "The Putnam Hall Cadets."--PUBLISHERS. The first term at school was followed by an exciting trip on the ocean, and then another trip into the jungles of Africa, where the boys went looking for their parent. Then came a trip to the West, followed by some grand times on the Great Lakes and in the Mountains. Then the boys returned to Putnam Hall, to go into an encampment with their fellow-cadets. This term at Putnam Hall was followed by a never-to-be-forgotten journey on Land and Sea to a far-away island in the Pacific. Then they returned to this country, sailing down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. After leaving the Father of Waters, they took an outing on the Plains, and then went down into Southern Waters, where they solved the mystery of a deserted steam yacht. After so many exciting adventures the three brothers had been glad to journey to the home farm for a rest, after which they returned to Putnam Hall, settled down to their studies, and graduated with considerable honor. "Now for college!" Dick Rover had said. But before setting out for Brill, a fine institution of learning located in the Middle West, the boys had become involved in a search for a fortune left on Treasure Isle. During their days at Putnam Hall the Rover boys had become well acquainted with Dora Stanhope, who lived near the school with her widowed mother, and also with Nellie and Grace Laning, Dora's two cousins, who resided a short distance farther away. It had not been long before Dick and Dora showed a great liking for each other, and at the same time Tom often paired off with Nellie and Sam was frequently seen in the company of Grace. A few miles away from Brill College was located Hope Seminary, an institution for girls, and when the Rover boys went to Brill, Dora, Nellie and Grace went to Hope; so that the young folks met almost as often as before. A term at Brill College was followed by an unexpected trip Down East, where the Rovers brought to terms a rascally ex-schoolteacher, named Josiah Crabtree, who had given them much trouble while at Putnam Hall. In those days the art of flying was attracting considerable attention and, through the indulgence of their father, the Rover boys became the possessors of a biplane and took several thrilling trips through the air, their experiences in that line coming to an abrupt finish when the flying machine was one day wrecked on the railroad tracks. This had brought on a sharp contest between the Rover boys and the railroad lawyer, Mr. Belright Fogg. The Rovers had claimed all that was coming to them, and the railroad had been made to pay up, much to Belright Fogg's disgust. Later, the lawyer had been discharged by the railroad from its services. About this time Mr. Anderson Rover, who was not in the best of health, was having much trouble with brokers in New York City who were trying to swindle him out of some property. The brokers were Pelter, Jackson & Company, and it was not long before the Rover boys discovered that Pelter was in league with Josiah Crabtree. In a struggle poor Tom Rover was hit on the head by a wooden footstool thrown by Pelter and knocked unconscious. This had so affected his mind that he wandered off to Alaska, and Sam and Dick had many adventures trying to locate him. When he was found he was brought home and placed under the care of a specialist, and soon was as well as ever. Dick Rover was now growing older, and, with his father in such poor health, it was decided that the youth should leave Brill, become married to Dora, and settle down in charge of the office in Wall Street, New York. This plan was carried out, as related in detail in the volume preceding this, entitled "The Rover Boys in Business." At that time, Sam and Tom still remained at Brill, but an urgent message from Dick brought them quickly to the metropolis. A large number of unregistered bonds belonging to the Rovers had mysteriously disappeared, and all the boys went on a hunt to recover the securities. In the end it was learned that their old enemy, Jesse Pelter, was the guilty party, and he was brought to justice. Then it was felt that Dick needed assistance in the office, and it was decided, much to Tom's satisfaction, that he might get married to Nellie Laning and move to the city. "That will leave me all alone at Brill," said Sam Rover at that time. "Well, you shouldn't mind that so much," Tom Rover had replied. "Remember, Grace will still be at Hope," at which words the youngest Rover had blushed deeply. When the Rovers had gone to Brill College they had been accompanied by their old-time school chum, John Powell, always called "Songbird" on account of his propensity for writing doggerel which he insisted on calling poetry. At the same time there came to Brill from Putnam Hall one William Philander Tubbs, a very dudish student with whom the boys often had great fun. It did not take the three Rover boys long to make a number of friends at Brill. These included Stanley Browne, a tall, gentlemanly youth; Bob Grimes, who was greatly interested in baseball; Will Jackson, always called Spud, because of his unusual fondness for potatoes; and Max Spangler, a German-American youth, who was still struggling with the language, and who had failed to advance in his studies, so that at the present time he was only in the sophomore class. They had also made several enemies, but these had for the time being left Brill. "You'll be the hero of this occasion, Sam," remarked Stanley, as the students tramped in the direction of the college campus. "Hero of the occasion, I suppose, for hitting Mr. Fogg in the head," returned Sam, with a slight grin. "Oh, forget that!" burst out Spud. "I don't think he'll do a thing. Remember the affair occurred on the college grounds, just as Stanley said." "Say! where is Songbird to-day?" asked Paul Orben. "He ought to have been in this fight." "He wanted to come very much," answered Sam, "but he had a special errand to do for Mr. Sanderson, who is laid up with a broken ankle." "Was he doing the errand for Mr. Sanderson or for Minnie?" questioned Stanley; and then a short laugh went up, for it was well known among the young collegians that Songbird Powell and the daughter of Mr. Sanderson, a prosperous farmer of that vicinity, were much attached to each other. As Sam Rover and his friends reached the college campus, a great cheer arose. "There he is!" "Here the conquering hero comes!" "Let us put him up on our shoulders, fellows!" and a rush was made towards the youngest Rover boy. "Not much! Not to-day!" returned Sam, and slid back behind some of his friends. "Aw! come on, Sam!" cried one of the students. "You are the hero of the occasion, and you know it." "Forget it, Snips," answered Sam. "What did the fellows do with those banners?" "Lentwell has them. He is keeping them for you. I suppose you'll nail them up in your den?" "Surest thing you know!" "Maybe the freshies and sophs will want them back," put in another youth in the crowd. "Not much! They can have them back after I graduate next June," answered Sam. "They have got to understand---- Stop it, fellows, stop it! I don't want to---- Well, if you've got to, I suppose I'll have to submit." And an instant later Sam found himself hoisted up on the shoulders of several stalwart seniors, who tramped around and around the college campus with him while all the other seniors, and also the juniors, cheered wildly and waved their caps. "Doesn't that make you feel proud, Sam?" asked Spud, during a lull in the proceedings. "It sure does, Spud," was the quick reply. "I've only got one regret--that Dick and Tom aren't here to share this victory with us." "Yes, it's a shame. And just to think of it, after next June, when we graduate, we'll all be scattered here, there, and everywhere, and the good old times at Brill will be a thing of the past." "Don't mention such things," put in Stanley. "It makes me sick clean to the heels every time I think of it. But I suppose college days can't last forever. We've got to go out into the world, just as our fathers did before us." "Yes, and I've got to get into business," answered Sam. "I want to help father, as well as Dick and Tom, all I can." "Hi, fellows!" was the unexpected cry from the lower end of the campus. "Here come the freshies and the sophs back! Line up and be ready to receive them!" "That's it! Line up, line up, everybody!" ordered Stanley. "Give them our old song of victory!" CHAPTER III WHAT HAPPENED TO SONGBIRD It was fully half an hour later before Sam Rover could break away from his college chums and run up to room Number 25, which he had formerly occupied with his brother Tom and which he now shared with Songbird Powell. Nearly a week before, the youngest Rover had made a date with Grace Laning, inviting her, if the snow remained on the ground, to a sleighride that afternoon and evening. At that time Sam had forgotten completely that this day was the date set for the annual snowballing contest. "I think I'll go anyway," he had remarked to Songbird, the day before. But then had come word to his roommate that Mr. Sanderson wanted him on a matter of importance, and Stanley, as the leader of the seniors, had insisted upon it that he could not spare both of his chums. "All right, then," Sam had answered finally; "you can go, Songbird, and do what Mr. Sanderson wants you to, and I'll put off my sleighride with Grace until after the contest;" and so it had been settled. There were no public turnouts at the college, but Sam had arranged with Abner Filbury, who worked around the place with his father, to obtain for him a first-class horse and cutter from the Ashton livery stable. "That horse is some goer, believe me!" remarked Abner, when he came to the door of Sam's room, to tell him that the turnout was in readiness. "You'll have to keep your eye on him, Mr. Rover." "All right, Ab. Trust me to take care of him," returned Sam lightly. "Don't forget that I was brought up on a farm, and my Uncle Randolph had some pretty spirited animals." "Have a good time, Sam!" cried Spud, who was present to see his chum depart. "Wish I was going to see such a nice girl." "Oh, your time will come some day," answered Sam. "Are you going directly to Hope?" "Yes." "Alone?" "I expect to unless you want to ride along that far." "Say! I'd like that first-rate," returned Spud, eagerly. "I know some of the girls up there, and I'd like to call on them. I wouldn't mind walking back later on." "Then come on if you are ready. I haven't any time to wait." "Oh, I'm always ready," came from Spud; and he lost no time in bestowing himself beside Sam. The latter gathered up the reins, gave a slight chirp to the horse, and away they sped out of the college grounds and on to the highway leading past Hope Seminary, which was about two miles distant. The air was cool and bracing, and the snow on the highway well packed down, so that the cutter slid over it with ease. As Abner Filbury had said, the steed was a mettlesome one, and soon Sam found he had all he could do to hold the horse in. "Some goer, that!" remarked Spud, as he pulled his cap down tighter to keep it from flying off. "Puts me in mind of a race horse." "Yes, I shouldn't wonder but what he could make a mile in almost record time," responded Sam, as they flew along past the trees, bushes and occasional farm buildings which lined the roadway near Brill. "You want to watch yourself with a horse that goes as fast as that," returned Spud, with a chuckle. "If you don't, you'll get a mile or two past Hope before you know it;" and at this little joke Sam grinned. Early in the ride they passed one or two cutters and several farm wagons. Then they reached a turn in the road, and to their surprise saw ahead of them a sign resting on a large wooden horse: ROAD CLOSED "Hello! What does this mean?" queried Sam, as he brought his horse to a standstill. "I didn't know this road was shut off." "Oh, yes, I heard something about this, come to think of it," returned Spud. "They are going to move that old Jackson barn from one side of the road to the other, and they must have closed the road for that purpose. You'll have to take the old road on the left, Sam." "I suppose so," grumbled the other. "Too bad, too, for this road was just about perfect for sleighing. But never mind, I suppose I can get through on the other road well enough." They turned back a distance of less than two hundred feet, and then took to the side road which Spud had mentioned. This was more hilly than the other, and ran through a long patch of timberland on which no houses were located. "Hark! Don't I hear another sleigh coming?" questioned Spud, a minute later. "Something is coming, that's sure," answered Sam. "Gracious me! Look at that!" Coming to another bend of the woodland road, the youngest Rover had barely time to pull his steed well toward the right hand and almost into some bushes when another cutter hove into sight, coming along at a furious rate. The horse was on a gallop, and the man driving him, a fellow wrapped up in a heavy overcoat and with a fur cap pulled far down over his forehead, was using his whip freely. "Wow! That fellow must be in some hurry," observed Spud, as the other turnout flashed past. "He isn't sparing his horse any." "It's a lucky thing for me that I pulled in here as I did," returned Sam, and his tone of voice showed his anger. "If I hadn't done it he would have run into us, sure pop." "You're right, Sam. That fellow had no right to come along in that fashion. He ought to be arrested for reckless driving. But maybe he wants to catch a train at Ashton or something like that." "No train he could catch for an hour and a half, Spud. And he could walk to the station in that time;" and thus speaking, Sam chirruped to the horse, and they resumed their ride. A little farther on the woodland road made another turn, and here the way was uphill. The numerous rains of the summer previous had washed the rocks bare of dirt, and often the cutter bumped and scraped so badly that Sam was compelled to bring his steed down to a walk. "Well, one satisfaction, we'll be back to the main road before long," observed Spud, as they finally reached the top of the hill and could get a view of the surroundings. "There is the other road just below us." "Hello! What's that ahead?" cried Sam, pointing with his left hand. "Looks to me like somebody lying in the snow." "It is somebody!" exclaimed his chum. "Say! do you suppose that other horse was running away, and this fellow fell out?" "Not much, with that other fellow using the whip as he was!" returned Sam. "This fellow ahead probably had nothing to do with that other cutter. Excepting he may have been knocked down by the horse," he added suddenly. "That's what the trouble is! That rascal knocked this fellow down and then hurried on, Sam! Poor fellow! I wonder if he is much hurt?" By this time the cutter had reached a point opposite to where the person in the snow rested. All the boys could see was some person, wrapped in an overcoat, lying face downward. A cap that looked strangely familiar to Sam lay close at hand. Stopping the horse, Sam leaped from the cutter, and Spud did the same. "Say, Sam!" burst out the latter, "it looks like----" "Songbird!" burst out the Rover boy. "It's Songbird, Spud, and he's badly hurt." It was indeed poor Songbird Powell who rested there in the snow by the roadside. He had on his overcoat and his fur-lined gloves, but his head was bare, and from a cut on his left temple the blood was flowing. The boys turned their college chum over, and at this Songbird uttered a low moan. "He has either had an accident or been attacked," was Spud's comment. "I wonder how badly he's hurt?" "I'm afraid it's pretty bad," answered Sam, soberly. "That's a nasty cut. And say! his chin is all swelled up as if he had been hit there with a club!" The two boys knelt beside their unconscious chum and did what they could to revive him. But Songbird did not open his eyes, nor did he make any other sound than a low moan. "We'll have to get him somewhere out of this biting, cold air," observed Sam. "There is a farmhouse just below here on the main road. Let us put him in the cutter and carry him there." When they picked Songbird up he uttered another moan and for an instant his eyes opened; but then he collapsed as before. They deposited him on the seat of the turnout, and Sam picked up his cap and several books that lay scattered around. With sober faces the boys led the mettlesome horse down the slope to the main road. Both kept their eyes on their chum, but he still remained insensible. "Maybe he won't get over it," suggested Spud. "Oh, don't say that!" cried Sam in horror. "It can't be as bad as that." And then he added: "Spud, did you notice the looks of that horse when he dashed past us?" "I didn't have time to notice much," was the reply. "Did he wear white stockings?" "What? Oh! I know what you mean--white feet. Yes, he had white feet. I know that much." "And did he have any white under his neck?" "Yes, I think he did. Do you think you know the horse, Sam?" "I know Mr. Sanderson has a horse with white feet and a white chest--a dark horse, just like that one was." "Then it must have been Mr. Sanderson's horse and cutter!" cried Spud. "If it was, do you think that man was running away with the outfit?" "I don't know what to think, Spud. To my mind it's a mighty serious piece of business. But our first duty is to do all we can for poor Songbird." Arriving at the nearest farmhouse, Spud ran ahead and knocked on the door. A woman answered the summons, and as she happened to know the youth, she readily consented to have Songbird brought in and laid on a couch in the dining-room. Hardly had this been done when the sufferer slowly opened his eyes. "Don--don't hit m-m-me again!" he murmured. "Ple-please don't!" "It's all right, Songbird. Don't you know me?" said Sam, quietly. The injured collegian opened his eyes again and stared at the youth before him. "Sam! Wh-where did you co-come from?" "Spud and I found you on the road, face down in the snow," answered Sam. "What happened? Did you fall out of the cutter, or were you attacked?" "I--I---- Oh! how my head spins!" muttered Songbird. He closed his eyes again and was silent for a moment. Then he looked once more at Sam. "I was attacked," he mumbled. "The man--he hit me--with a club--and hauled me out of the cutter." "It must have been the fellow we saw on the road!" exclaimed Spud. "Songbird, why did he do it?" "I--I--do-don't know," mumbled the sufferer. "But maybe I do!" he suddenly shouted, in a strangely unnatural voice. Then with a sudden strength born of fear, he raised his left hand and dived down into the inner pocket of his coat. "The package! It's gone!" "The package! What package?" queried Sam. "The package belonging to Mr. Sanderson!" gasped poor Songbird. "The package with the four thousand dollars in it! It's gone!" and with another groan Songbird lapsed once more into unconsciousness. CHAPTER IV THE CHASE It must be confessed that Sam and Spud, as well as the woman of the house, were very much surprised over the statement made by Songbird. "Attacked and robbed!" murmured Sam. "What an awful thing to do!" "He said he had been robbed of four thousand dollars!" broke in Spud. "Where in the world would he get that much money? He must be dreaming, Sam." "I hardly think so, Spud. I know he was to go on a very important errand for Mr. Sanderson, who is laid up at home with a sprained ankle." "Well, if Songbird was robbed, it's more than likely the fellow we saw in the cutter did it." "Exactly! And the chances are he will get away just as fast as he possibly can," added Sam, bitterly. "What do you think we ought to do?" "I think we ought to notify the authorities, Spud." "Hadn't we better wait until we get some particulars from Songbird?" "Not much! The quicker we get after that fellow the better. Remember he is running away not only with the money but also with Mr. Sanderson's horse and cutter. Many people living in this vicinity know Mr. Sanderson's animal, and that may help us to locate that rascal." Sam turned to the woman of the house. "Have you a telephone?" "No, we haven't any; but the folks in the next house up the road have one." "Then I'll go there and telephone," said Sam. "You do what you can for Songbird, Spud. I'll try to get a doctor, too, while I'm at it." In a few seconds more Sam was on the way, using his horse and cutter for that purpose. Arriving at the next farmhouse, he readily received permission to use the telephone, and at once got into communication with the authorities in Ashton, and asked the official in charge to send word around to the various towns and villages within the next ten or fifteen miles, and he also sent word to a physician at Ashton. Then he managed to get Grace on the wire. "I'm afraid I'll be late," he told the girl. "And maybe I won't be able to get there at all," he added. "Songbird has been knocked down on the road and robbed, and he is in pretty bad shape." "Oh, Sam! isn't that too bad!" was Grace's reply. "Do you mean that he is seriously injured?" "We can't tell yet, Grace. I have just telephoned for the doctor, and now I am going back to the Bray farmhouse, where Songbird is, to wait for him." And after that Sam gave the girl as many details of the affair as he deemed necessary. "Oh! I hope he gets over it, Sam," said Grace. "And to think he was robbed of all that money! If they can't get it back, what ever will Songbird and the Sandersons do?" "I don't know," he returned. "It certainly is a bad piece of business. But now I've got to go back, so I'll say good-bye." "Good-bye, Sam, and you stay with Songbird just as long as you please. We can have our sleighride some other time." When Sam returned to the Bray farmhouse he found that Spud and the lady of the house had washed Songbird's wound and bound it up. The lady had also brought forth some simple home remedies, and these had been so efficacious that Songbird was sitting on the couch, propped up by numerous pillows. "Did you catch him?" asked the sufferer eagerly, as Sam entered. "I've sent word to the police, Songbird, and sent word for a doctor too. Now you had better take it easy until the doctor comes." "But how can I take it easy with that four thousand dollars missing?" groaned the youth on the couch. "Why, I can't make that amount up, and Mr. Sanderson can't afford to lose it." "How does your head feel?" "It feels sore all over, and sometimes spins like a top. But I wouldn't care about that if only I could get that money back. Can't you and Spud go after that rascal?" "I'm willing if you want us to, Songbird; but you'll have to promise to stay here until the doctor comes. We don't want you to attempt to do anything while you are in your present condition." "Oh, I'll stay here, don't fear," answered Songbird, grimly. "I just tried to stand up, and I went in a heap, and Spud and the lady had to put me back on this couch." "Let's take that horse of yours and go after that fellow, Sam," burst out Spud, eagerly. "That horse is a goer, as we know, and we ought to be able to catch that man sooner or later." "Providing we can follow his trail, Spud," answered Sam. "You must remember there are a good many side roads around here, and he can take to any one he pleases." "But we might be able to find the footprints of the horse in the snow." "Possibly, although I doubt it, with so many other horses using the highway. However, come on, we'll do the best we can." Sam turned again to the sufferer. "Now, Songbird, you keep quiet until the doctor comes, and then you do exactly as he orders." "Maybe Mrs. Bray will see to that," ventured Spud. "I will if you want me to," responded the woman of the house. "That cut on his head is a nasty one, and if he doesn't take care of himself it may make him real sick." In a moment more Sam and Spud were out of the house and into the cutter, which was then headed up the side road where they had found Songbird. Here they stopped for an instant to take another look around, and picked up two more books which had escaped their notice before. "Books of poetry, both of 'em," remarked Spud. "Songbird thinks more of a poem than he does of a square meal," and he smiled a bit grimly. It did not take long to reach the spot where the other cutter had passed them. They went straight on, soon reaching the point where the woodland road joined the main highway. "Now, you see, here is where we are going to get mixed up," announced Sam, as they moved in the direction of Brill. "Did the fellow go straight to Ashton, or did he turn off to one of the other places?" "The folks traveling along the road must have seen him," returned Spud. "Let us make some inquiries as we go along." This was a good suggestion, and was carried out. They found a farmer who had seen the strange man in the cutter drive toward Ashton, and a little later they met two ladies in a sleigh who declared that the fellow had turned into a side road leading to a hamlet known as Lester's Corners. "If he went there, we ought to have a chance to catch him," cried Spud. "This road I know doesn't go beyond the Corners." "Yes. But he could take a road from there to Dentonville," answered Sam, "and you know that is quite a railroad station." "But if he went to Dentonville and to the railroad station, couldn't you telephone to the operator there to have him held?" "Maybe, Spud, providing there is any telephone at the Corners." Onward they went once more, through some heavy woodland and then over several small hills, finally coming in sight of the Corners, where were located a general store, a blacksmith's shop, a chapel, and about a dozen houses. "Did I see a feller in a cutter goin' as fast as he could?" repeated the storekeeper, when questioned by Sam. "You just bet I did. Gee whiz! but he was goin' to beat the band!" "And which way did he head?" questioned the Rover boy, eagerly. "Headed right straight for Dentonville." "And how long ago was this?" put in Spud. "Oh, about quarter of an hour, I should say. Say! he nearly skeered old Mrs. Rasley to deth. She was a-crossin' the road comin' to my store when he swung aroun' that corner yonder, and he come within a foot of runnin' over her. She wanted to git Joe Mason, the constable, to arrest him, but, gee whiz! there wasn't no arrestin' to it--he was out o' sight before you could say Jack Robinson." "Have you any telephone connection with Dentonville?" questioned Sam. "Ain't got no telephone here at all. The telephone fellers promised to put a line through here three years ago, but somehow they hain't got around to doin' it. You see, Squire Buzby owns some of their stock, and he don't think that we ought to----" "That's all right, Captain," broke in Sam, hastily. "Then if we want to catch that fellow, all we can do is to go after him, eh?" "Thet's about the size on it," returned the storekeeper. "Now you see if we had thet telephone here, we might be able to----" "That's so, we might. But as the telephone is missing, we'll go after him in our cutter," broke in Sam; and a few seconds later he and Spud were once more on their way. The road to Dentonville was not much traveled, and for a mile and a half they met no one. Then, just as they reached a crossing, they came in sight of an old farmer driving a box-sled filled with milk cans. "Did you meet a man driving a horse and cutter very rapidly?" questioned Sam, after he drew up. "A dark horse with a white breast and white feet?" "I jest guess I did!" replied the farmer. "He come pretty close to runnin' into me." "Which way was he headed?" "Headed straight for Dentonville." "Can you tell me when the next train stops there?" "The train is due there in about fifteen minutes, and she won't stop more'n long enough to put my milk cans on board. I jest left 'em there, and got these empty ones," explained the farmer, pointing to the cans behind him. "Fifteen minutes!" cried Spud. "And how far is it from here?" "Nigh on to three miles." "Is it a good road?" queried Sam. "Pretty fair. It's some washed out on the hills, but the snow has covered the wo'st of the holes. Want to ketch that feller?" "We certainly do. That horse and cutter belongs to Mr. Sanderson." "By gum! You don't say! Did he steal the turnout?" "He certainly did," answered Spud, "and nearly killed a young fellow in the bargain." "Then I hope you ketch 'im," answered the farmer, and stood up in his sled to watch Sam and Spud as they sped once more along the highway leading to Dentonville. The boys had a long hill ahead, and before the top was gained the horse attached to the cutter was glad enough to settle down to a walk. But once the ridge was passed, he did not need much urging, and flew along almost as rapidly as ever. "This horse must have been in the stable for quite some time," remarked Spud. "He evidently enjoys the outing thoroughly." "Listen!" cried Sam, a little later. "Isn't that the whistle of a locomotive?" "It sure is, Sam! That must be the train coming into Dentonville!" They were passing through a small patch of timber, and directly beyond were the cleared fields and the buildings of a tidy farm. As the boys came out of the woods they looked over the fields in the direction of Dentonville and saw a mixed train, composed of several passenger coaches and a string of freights, entering the station. "There she is!" cried Sam. "Oh, if only we can get there before she leaves!" He spoke to the horse and did what he could to urge the steed forward at a greater rate of speed than ever. Much to the astonishment of several onlookers, they dashed into the outskirts of Dentonville and then along the main street leading down to the railroad station. "Hi! Stop!" roared a voice at them, just as they were crossing one of the side streets, directly in front of a sleigh and two wagons. "Hi! Stop, I tell you! You ain't got no right to drive that fast here in town," and a blue-coated policeman, one of the four of which the place boasted, shook his club at the boys and ran out in front of their cutter. [Illustration: A BLUE-COATED POLICEMAN SHOOK HIS CLUB AT THE BOYS.] "Say! officer, you are just the man we want," cried Sam, hurriedly. "Come on with us. We want to have a man arrested down at the depot before he has a chance to get away on the train." "What's that? Want a man arrested?" queried the bluecoat. "What has he done?" "A whole lot of things," broke in Spud. "Jump in; we haven't any time to explain now--that train may pull out at any moment." "That's so; so it might," replied the officer; and then, as Spud made room for him, he sprang into the cutter, sitting on the boy's lap. "But you look out that you don't kill somebody," he added to Sam, who was now using the whip lightly to urge the horse to greater efforts. They were still two blocks away from the railroad station when there came a whistle, followed by the clanging of a bell, and then they saw the train moving away. "There she goes!" groaned Spud. "But she isn't moving very fast." "Maybe we can catch her yet," returned Sam; and then the race continued as before. CHAPTER V AT THE RAILROAD STATION "See anybody, Sam?" "Nobody that looks like that man, Spud, but there is Mr. Sanderson's horse with the cutter." "Yes, I spotted those right away. Look how the poor nag is heaving. He must have been driven almost to death." "That may be. Although we got here almost as quickly as he did. But he may have been used quite some before this trip," returned Sam; and this surmise was correct. The two boys, with the policeman, had done their best to catch the departing train and have it stop, but without avail. When they had reached the depot the last of the cars was well down the line, and soon the train had disappeared around a curve of the roadbed. "What's the matter, Ike? What are you after?" queried the freight agent, as he came up to the policeman. "We are after the man who was driving that cutter yonder," explained Sam. "Did you see him--a big fellow with a heavy overcoat and with a fur cap pulled down over his forehead?" "Why yes, I saw that fellow get aboard," answered the freight agent. "I was wondering what he was going to do with his horse. He didn't even stop to put a blanket over the animal." "That fellow was a thief," explained Sam. "I wonder if we can't have him captured in some way? What is the next station the train will stop at?" "Penton." "How far is that from here?" "About six miles." "And after that?" "She'll stop at Leadenfield, which is about six miles farther." "Then I'll send a telegram to Penton and another to Leadenfield to have the train searched and the man arrested if he can be spotted," said Sam; and a few minutes later he was in the telegraph office writing out the messages. He described the man as well as he could, but realized that his efforts were rather hopeless. "Maybe Songbird could give us a better description," he said to his chum; "but as Songbird isn't here, and as we can't get him on the telephone, we'll have to do the best we can." The policeman was, of course, anxious to know some of the details of what had occurred, and when the boys told him that their college chum had been knocked senseless and robbed of four thousand dollars he was greatly surprised. "It's too bad you didn't get here before the train started," he observed. "If you had we might have nabbed that rascal and maybe got a reward," and he smiled grimly. "We don't want any reward. We simply want to get that four thousand dollars back," returned Sam. "And we would like to put that fellow in prison for the way he treated our college chum." "What will you do with the horse and cutter?" "If there is a livery stable handy, I think I'll put the horse up there," answered Sam. "He is evidently in no condition to be driven farther at present. I'll notify Mr. Sanderson about it." And so it was arranged. A little while later, after the two boys had walked around to the police station with the officer and given such particulars as they were able concerning the assault and robbery, Sam and Spud started on the return to the Bray farmhouse. When they arrived there, they found that Dr. Havens and Dr. Wallington had come in some time before. By the directions of the head of Brill the physician from Ashton had given Songbird a thorough examination and had treated him with some medicine from his case. "The cut on his head is rather a deep one," said the doctor to the boys, "but fortunately it is not serious, nor will there be any bad effects from the blow on his chin. He can thank his stars though that the crack on his head did not fracture his skull." "We are going to take him back to Brill in a large sleigh," said Dr. Wallington, "and then I think the best he can do will be to go to bed." "Oh, I can't do that!" broke in Songbird, who was still on the couch, propped up by pillows. "I've got to get to Mr. Sanderson's and explain how the thing happened." "You had better let me do that, Songbird," answered Sam, kindly. "I can drive over there and Spud can go with me. You just let us know exactly how it occurred." This, of course, was after the boys had related the particulars of their failure to catch the fleeing criminal at Dentonville. "It happened so quickly that I hardly realized what was taking place," answered the would-be poet of Brill. "I was driving along from Knoxbury, where I had been to the bank for Mr. Sanderson, when I came to the spot where I suppose you found me. Just as I reached there a man in a heavy overcoat, and with a thick fur cap pulled over his face so that I could hardly see him, stepped in front of the cutter. "'Say! can you tell me where these people live?' he asked me, and thrust a sheet of paper towards me. 'I've lost my eye-glasses, and I can't see to read without them.' "I took the paper he handed out and started to look at some writing on it which was very indistinct. As I bent over the paper the man swung a club or something in the air and struck me on the head. Then, as I tried to leap up and defend myself, he hit me another blow on the chin. That seemed to knock me clean out of the cutter; and that is all I know about it." "Then you don't know where that fellow came from?" queried Spud. "No more than that he came from the bushes beside the road." Songbird seemed to meditate for a moment. "Now I come to think of it though, maybe that's the same fellow that watched me go into the bank at Knoxbury and get the money for Mr. Sanderson!" he cried, suddenly. "It was a very unwise move on Mr. Sanderson's part to have you get that money for him in cash," observed Dr. Wallington. "I do not understand why he could not have transacted his business with a check, especially if it was certified." "I don't know much about that part of it," answered Songbird, "excepting he told me that the old man with whom he was doing business was something of a crank and didn't believe in banks or checks, and said he wanted nothing but solid cash. It's a pity now that Mr. Sanderson didn't use a check," and Songbird heaved a deep sigh. "But what did you just say about a man watching you when you went into the bank?" questioned Sam. "Oh, I noticed that fellow hanging around the building just as I went in," returned Songbird. "He was asking the janitor about the trains out of town, and the reason I noticed him was because he had a peculiar stutter and whistle when he talked. He went like this," and Songbird imitated a man who was stuttering badly, ending in a faint whistle. "Great Scott! A fellow ought to know a man who talked like that anywhere," was Spud's comment. "Should be able to pick him out in the dark," and at this sally even Dr. Wallington smiled faintly. "Of course I'm not sure that that man had anything to do with it," went on Songbird. "But he was the only fellow around who seemed to notice me when I got the money. When the bills were passed over to me, there were forty one-hundred-dollar bills. I took them to a little side stand, to place them in a wallet Mr. Sanderson had lent me, and then I wrapped the wallet in a piece of paper with a stout string around it. As I did this I noticed the man who stuttered and whistled peering at me hungrily through a side window of the bank." "And the fellow wore a heavy overcoat and a fur cap?" questioned Sam. "Yes, I am sure of that." "Then it is more than likely he was the guilty party," remarked Spud. "But hold on a minute!" broke in Sam. "You got the money at Knoxbury, and this attack took place on the road above here, which is at least seven miles from that place. Now, if the man who did the deed was at the bank when you drew the money, how did he get here in time to hold you up?" "I don't know about that, Sam; but I didn't leave Knoxbury immediately after getting the money. I had an errand to do for Minnie. She wanted me to pick out a--er--a necktie for my birthday, and I--well, I looked around two or three stores, trying to find something nice to take back to her. I bought two books of poetry, but I don't know where they are now." "We found them on the road, and they are out in the cutter," answered Sam. "Spud, you might bring them in and give them to Songbird." "The errands kept me in town for about half an hour after I was at the bank," continued the youth who had been attacked. "And where had you left Mr. Sanderson's cutter in the meantime?" "Right in front of the bank building, the horse tied to a post." "That would give the man time to get another turnout in which to follow you," said Sam. "But if he did that, I don't see how he got ahead of you." "Well, maybe he didn't, and maybe it was some one else who did the deed," returned Sam. "You had better not worry your head too much about this affair, Mr. Powell," said Dr. Havens. "That crack on the head might have been more serious, but at the same time you ought to take care of yourself for a day or two at least." "Then you don't think I ought to go to Mr. Sanderson's?" queried the would-be poet of the college. "Not just yet. If you feel stronger you might go there to-morrow, or the day after." "Then will you go, Sam, and try to explain matters?" questioned Songbird, eagerly. "Of course I'll go, Songbird." "And I'll go with him," added Spud. A large sleigh had been brought to the farmhouse by Dr. Wallington, and Songbird was placed in this and made as comfortable as possible among the robes and blankets which it contained. Mr. Bray, the owner of the farm, had been up in the timber bringing down some firewood, and now, when he approached, the others saw that he had tied behind his sled an extra horse. "Hello! Where did that horse come from?" cried Sam. "Is it yours?" "No, 'tain't mine," said Timothy Bray. "I found it up in the woods right near the road yonder," and he pointed with his hand as he spoke. "Found that horse in the woods!" cried Spud. "Then that explains it." "It sure does," returned Sam. "Explains what?" demanded Timothy Bray. "What's goin' on down here anyway?" he continued, looking at his wife and then at the others. "Oh, Timothy! an awful thing has happened!" cried Mrs. Bray, and then she and the others gave the farmer a few of the particulars. He listened with mouth wide open, and then looked at the horse which he had found. "I guess you are right!" he exclaimed. "That feller got this horse in Knoxbury. It's one that belongs to Hoover, the livery stable man. I know him on account of this brand on his left flank. It's a horse Cy Tamen used to own and swapped for a bay mare." "Then I think that explains it," declared Sam. "That rascal saw Songbird get the money, and he at once went to the livery stable and hired the horse and followed Songbird to the spot where the attack was made. More than likely he passed Songbird on the road." "That's just what he did!" cried the youth who had been struck down. "I remember now! I was busy composing some poetry when I noticed a fellow on horseback go past me and disappear around a turn in the road, and that was just a few minutes before that fellow came up with a sheet of paper, and knocked me senseless." "I believe you have made out a pretty clear case," was Dr. Wallington's comment. "Now if we can only reach that man who stuttered and whistled, I think we shall have the culprit." "We telephoned ahead from Dentonville. If they can only locate him on the train it will be all right," answered Sam. "But you must remember we didn't have very much of a description to go by." "Yes, and that fellow may be fixed to change his appearance a good deal," added Spud. "A man isn't going to get his hands on four thousand dollars without doing all he possibly can to get away with it, especially when he knows that if he is caught he will be sent to prison." "What am I going to do with this horse?" questioned Timothy Bray. "You had better keep that animal in your stable until the livery man from Knoxbury calls for him," answered Dr. Wallington. "He'll have to pay me for doing it," was Mr. Bray's reply. "Every time I go to Knoxbury, Hoover charges me an outrageous price for putting up at his stable, and now I can get even with him," and he chuckled over the thought. CHAPTER VI AT THE SANDERSON HOME It was just about supper time when Sam, accompanied by Spud, drove into the lane beside the Sanderson farmhouse, which was lit up from end to end. Evidently Minnie Sanderson, the pretty daughter of the farmer, had been on the watch, for as they approached the house she came out on a side piazza to meet them. "Why, Songbird! what kept you so long?" she cried, and then added: "Who's that with you?" "It isn't Songbird, Minnie," answered Sam, after he sprang out of the cutter, followed by Spud. "We've got some news for you." "Oh, Sam Rover!" exclaimed the girl. "And Will Jackson! Whatever brought you here? Where is Songbird--do you know anything about him?" "Yes, we do; and that is what brought us here," answered Sam. "Oh, Sam! you don't mean that--that something has happened to John?" faltered the girl, turning pale. "Yes, something did happen, Minnie, but don't be alarmed--he isn't hurt very much. Come into the house and we'll tell you and your father all about it." "Hurt! Oh, are you sure it isn't serious? Now please don't hold anything back." "I'll give you my word, Minnie, it isn't serious. The doctor said he would be as well as ever in a few days, but he is rather knocked out, and the doctor said he had better not try to come here. So then he asked Spud and me to come." While Sam was speaking he and Spud had led the girl back into the house. She was very much agitated and her manner showed it. "But what was it, Sam? Do tell me. Did that horse run away with him? I know John isn't much of a driver, and when he gets to composing poetry he doesn't notice things and becomes so careless----" "No, Minnie, it was not that. Where is your father? We'll go to him and then we'll tell you the whole story." "What's this I hear?" came from the dining-room, where Mr. Sanderson rested in a Morris chair, with his sprained ankle perched on a footstool. "Where is John? And what about that money he was to get for me?" "Good evening, Mr. Sanderson," said Sam, coming in and shaking hands, followed by Spud. "We've got some bad news for you, but please don't blame Songbird--I mean John--for I am sure he was not to blame." "That's right!" broke in Spud. "What happened might have occurred to any of us. I think we ought to be thankful that Songbird--that's the name we all call John, you know--wasn't killed." "Oh, but do tell me what did happen!" pleaded Minnie. "And what about my money--is that safe?" demanded Mr. Sanderson. "No, Mr. Sanderson. I am sorry to say the fellow who attacked Songbird got away with it." "Gone! My four thousand dollars gone!" ejaculated the farmer. "Don't tell me that. I can't afford to lose any such amount. Why! it's the savings of years!" and his face showed his intense anxiety. "Oh, so John was attacked! Who did it? I suppose they must have half killed the poor boy in order to get the money away from him," wailed Minnie. "We might as well tell you the whole story from beginning to end," answered Sam, and then, after he and Spud had taken off their overcoats and gloves, both plunged into all the details of the occurrence as they knew them. "And he was hit on the head and on the chin! Oh, how dreadful!" burst out Minnie. "And are you positive, Sam, it was not serious?" "That is what Dr. Havens said, and he made a close examination in the presence of Dr. Wallington." "He ought to have been more careful," said Mr. Sanderson, bitterly. "But, Pa! how could he have been?" interposed the daughter. "Oh, in lots of ways. He might have placed that money inside of his shirt," answered the father. "It don't do to carry four thousand dollars around just as if it was--a--a--book of poetry or something like that," he added, with a touch of sarcasm. "Pa, I think it's real mean of you to talk that way!" flared up Minnie. "John told me that he didn't much like the idea of bringing that four thousand dollars in cash from the bank, but he undertook the errand just to please you." "Humph! Well, I was foolish to send him on the errand. I should have got some man who knew how to take care of such an amount of cash." "Mr. Sanderson, I don't think it's fair for you to blame Songbird," broke in Spud. "He did the best he could, and, of course, he had no idea that he was going to be attacked." "It's all well enough for you to talk, young man," broke out the farmer, angrily; "it wasn't your four thousand dollars that was stolen. I wanted that money to pay off the mortgage on this farm. It's due to-morrow, and the reason I wanted cash was because old Grisley insisted on cash and nothing else. He lost a lot of money in the bank years ago, and that soured him, so he wouldn't take a check nohow. Now what I'm going to do if I can't pay that mortgage, I don't know. And me down here with a sprained ankle, too!" he added with increasing bitterness. "You'll have to tell Mr. Grisley to wait for his money," said Sam. "When he learns the particulars of this affair he ought to be willing to wait." "If I could only walk I'd get on the trail of that thief somehow," muttered Mr. Sanderson. "It's a shame I've got to sit here and do nothin' when four thousand dollars of mine is floatin' away, nobody knows where." "We have notified the police and sent telegrams ahead, just as I told you," answered Sam. "I don't see what more we can do at present. Songbird was attacked so suddenly that he isn't sure that the fellow who did it is the same fellow he saw around the Knoxbury bank or not. But if he is the same fellow, we have a pretty fair description of him, and sooner or later the authorities may be able to run him down." "Oh, I know the police!" snorted the farmer. "They ain't worth a hill of beans." "Well, Songbird told me to tell you that if the money is not recovered, he will do all he can to make good the loss," continued Sam. "Make good the loss? Has he got four thousand dollars?" questioned the farmer, curiously. "Oh, no! Songbird isn't as wealthy as all that. He has only his regular allowance. But he said he'd work and earn the money, if he had to." "Humph! How is he going to earn it--writing poetry? They don't pay much for that kind of writing, to my way of thinking." "Now, Pa, please don't get so excited," soothed the daughter. "Let us be thankful that John wasn't killed. If he had been, I never would have forgiven you for having sent him on that errand." "Oh, now, don't you pitch into me. Minnie!" cried the father. "I've lost my four thousand dollars and that's bad enough. If I can't pay that mortgage, Grisley may foreclose and then you and me will be out of a home." "Nothing like that will happen, Mr. Sanderson," said Sam. "I don't know why." "The mortgage is on this farm, isn't it?" "Yes." "Is it the only mortgage you have, if I may ask?" "It is." "And what do you consider the farm worth?" "Well, I was offered eight thousand dollars for it last year, and I refused to sell." "Then I think it will be an easy matter to arrange to have the mortgage taken up by somebody else. Possibly my father or my uncle will do it." "Will they?" demanded Mr. Sanderson, eagerly. "Well, of course, that would be some help, but, at the same time, it wouldn't bring my four thousand dollars back," he added glumly. After that Minnie demanded to know more concerning Songbird's condition, and the two youths gave her every possible detail. "If I had a telephone here I might send word to Ashton to find out if they had tracked that rascal yet," said Mr. Sanderson. "But they asked so much money to put a telephone in over here I didn't have 'em do it." "Where is the nearest telephone?" questioned Spud. "Nothin' closer nor the railroad station at Busby's Crossing." "That's only half a mile away," put in Sam. "We might drive over there now and see if there is anything new." "You wait until you have had your supper," interposed Minnie. "It's all ready. I was expecting John, you know," and she blushed slightly. "But if your father is anxious to get word----" began the Rover boy. "Oh, I suppose you might as well wait and have somethin' to eat first," said the farmer. "That will give the authorities time to do somethin', if they are goin' to." In the expectation of having Songbird to supper, Minnie, with the aid of a young hired girl, had provided quite an elaborate meal, to which it is perhaps needless to state the young collegians did full justice. Then the youths lost no time in driving off in the cutter to Busby's Crossing, where they were lucky enough to find the station agent still in charge, although on the point of locking up, for no more trains would stop at the Crossing that night. The boys first telephoned to the college and to Ashton, and then to Dentonville and the railroad stations up the line. To get the various connections took considerable time, and to get "information that was no information at all," as Spud expressed it, took much longer still. The sum total of it was that no one had been able to trace the man in the heavy overcoat and with the heavy fur cap, and no one had the slightest idea about what had become of that much-wanted individual. "It's going to be like looking for the proverbial pin in the haystack," remarked Spud. "It's too bad," returned Sam, gloomily. "I did think we'd have some sort of encouraging word to take back to Mr. Sanderson." "Say! he's pretty bitter over the loss of that money, isn't he, Sam?" "You can't blame him for that. I'd be bitter too." "It looks to me as if he might make Minnie break with Songbird if that money wasn't recovered." "Possibly, Spud. Although he ought to know as well as we do that it was not Songbird's fault." "I'm glad to see Minnie sticks up for our chum, aren't you?" "Oh, Minnie's all right and always has been. She thinks just as much of Songbird as he does of her. Once in a while she pokes a little fun at his so-called poetry, but Songbird doesn't mind, so it doesn't matter." When the boys returned to the farmhouse Minnie ran out to meet them, and from their manner saw at once that they had no news worth mentioning. They could see that the girl had been crying, and now it was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears again. "Oh, Minnie, you ought not to take it so hard," said Sam, kindly. "Of course, to lose four thousand dollars is a terrible blow, but maybe they'll get the money back some way, or at least a part of it." "It isn't the money, Sam," cried the girl, with something like a catch in her voice. "It's the way papa acts. He seems to think it was all John's fault. Oh! I can't bear it! I know I can't!" she suddenly sobbed, and then ran away and up the stairs to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. CHAPTER VII SAM AND GRACE "This whole affair is certainly a tough proposition," remarked Sam, when, about half an hour later, he and Spud were on their way back to Brill. The time had been spent in telling Mr. Sanderson how they had failed to obtain any satisfaction over the telephone, and in listening to the farmer's tirade against poor Songbird. "Old Sanderson certainly pitched into Songbird," returned Spud. "I declare if anybody called me down that way, I think I'd be apt to get into a regular fight with him." "He is very much excited, Spud. I think when he cools down he will see matters in a different light. Just at present the loss of the four thousand dollars has completely upset him." "I suppose he pitched into Minnie even more than he pitched into us." "Maybe he did. I must say I am mighty sorry for that poor girl." "What are you going to tell Songbird?" "I suppose we'll have to tell him the truth, Spud, although we'll have to smooth over Mr. Sanderson's manner as much as we can. There's no use in hurting Songbird's feelings, especially now when he's broken up physically as well as mentally." When they reached the college they found that Songbird had insisted upon it that he be taken to the room he occupied with Sam instead of to the sick ward. He was in bed, but wide awake and anxious to hear all they might have to say. "Of course I knew Mr. Sanderson would blame me," he said, after asking a great number of questions. "Four thousand dollars is a heap of money." He knitted his brows for a moment, and then cast an anxious glance at Sam. "How did Minnie really seem to take it?" he continued. "She sided with you, Songbird, when her father talked against you," answered Sam. "She did, did she? Good for her!" and Songbird's face lit up for an instant. "She's true blue, that girl is!" "Now, the best thing I think you can do is to try to go to sleep and get a good night's rest," went on Sam. "This worrying about what can't be helped won't do you any good." "Yes, but, Sam, what am I going to do if that money isn't gotten back? The Sandersons can't afford to lose it, and even if I went to work right away, it would take me a long, long time to earn four thousand dollars." "I have been thinking that over, Songbird, and as the money was to be used in paying off a mortgage, I think I can arrange the matter, providing the holder of the present mortgage won't extend the time for it. I think I can get my father or my uncle to take the mortgage." "Very good, Sam, so far as it goes. But that wouldn't be getting the money back. If it isn't recovered, I'll feel that I am under a moral obligation to earn it somehow and give it to Mr. Sanderson." "We'll talk about it later. Now you've got to go to sleep," were Sam's concluding words, and after that he refused to say any more. He undressed and threw himself on his bed, and was soon asleep. But poor Songbird turned and twisted, and it is doubtful if his eyes closed until well along in the early morning hours. On the following day Sam had several classes to attend, as well as to work on a theme; but as soon as these tasks were over he obtained permission to leave the college to find out, if possible, if anything had been done in the matter of the robbery. He visited Ashton and had an interview with the police, and then used the telephone in several directions. But it was all of no avail; nothing whatever had been seen or heard of the rascal who had made the attack upon Songbird. "I'm afraid it will be one of those mysteries which will never be explained," mused the youngest Rover boy, as he jumped into the cutter which he was using and drove away from Ashton. "It's too bad! Oh! how I'd like to get my hands on that rascal, whoever he may be!" It was not until two days later, when Songbird was once more able to be about and had insisted on being driven over to the Sanderson place, that Sam had a chance to go on the sleighride with Grace Laning. He drove over to Hope Seminary about four o'clock in the afternoon, having sent word ahead that he was coming. Grace was waiting for him, and the pair speedily drove away, wistfully watched by a number of the girl students. "It's so nice of you to think of me, Sam, when you've got so much to think about on poor Songbird's account," said Grace, as they were speeding out of the seminary grounds. "How is he?" "Oh, he's doing better than we expected, Grace. He insisted on being driven over to the Sandersons this afternoon. Stanley took him over, because none of us thought Songbird was strong enough to drive himself." "I want you to give me all the particulars of the attack," said the girl, and this the youth did readily. "It must have been the man who stuttered and whistled--the fellow Songbird saw at the Knoxbury bank," declared the girl, positively. "Wouldn't it pay to get a detective on his track?" "Perhaps so, Grace. I think Songbird is going to mention that to Mr. Sanderson." Sam did not want the girl to worry too much over what had occurred and so soon changed the subject. They talked about college and seminary matters, and then about affairs at home, and about matters in New York City. "I just got another letter from Nellie to-day," said Grace. "She says that the apartment she and Tom have rented is perfectly lovely--every bit as nice as the one occupied by Dick and Dora." "I'm glad they like it, Grace. But, believe me, it will be some job for Tom to settle down and be a staid married man! He was always so full of fun." "Why, the idea, Sam Rover! Don't you think a man can be married and still keep full of fun?" "Well, maybe, if he got such a nice girl as Nellie. Just the same, I'll wager Tom sometimes wishes he was back in good old Brill." "Indeed! And do you think you'll wish you were back at Brill if ever you get married?" she asked slyly. "Oh, I didn't say anything about that, Grace. I--I----" "Well, it's just about the same thing," and Grace tossed her pretty face a trifle. "Oh, now look here, Grace! You haven't any call to talk that way. I suppose when I get married I'll be just as happy as Dick or Tom. That is, providing I get the right girl," and he gazed at the face beside him very ardently. "Sam Rover, you had better watch where you are driving, unless you want to run us into the rocks and bushes," cried the girl, suddenly. For, forgetting the steed for a moment, Sam had allowed the horse to turn to one side of the somewhat rough highway. "I'll attend to the horse, never fear," he answered. "I never yet saw the horse that I couldn't manage. But speaking of letters, Grace, I had one from Dick day before yesterday and he made a suggestion that pleased me very much." "What was that?" "He suggested that if I graduate from Brill this coming June, as I expect to do, that we make up a party to occupy two or three automobiles and go off on a regular tour this summer, taking in the Middle West and maybe some other points." "Oh, Sam, how grand! Of course he was going to take Dora along?" "Yes. His idea was that if matters could be arranged at the offices in New York, that he and Dora, as well as Tom and Nellie, would go along and that we would go too, along with some others--say enough to make at least two automobile loads." "Oh, I'd love an auto tour like that! Couldn't we have just the best times ever?" and Grace's pretty eyes sparkled in anticipation. "When I got the letter I thought the same, and I also thought we might ask Songbird and Minnie--Dora and Nellie could chaperon her, you know. But now I don't know what we'll do about them. Most likely Songbird wouldn't feel like going if that money wasn't recovered, and more than likely Mr. Sanderson wouldn't let Minnie go." "Oh, dear! I suppose the loss of that money will hang over Songbird like a big cloud forever," pouted the girl. "It's too bad! I don't see why Mr. Sanderson couldn't have paid that mortgage with a check." "Just exactly what we all say now, Grace. But that doesn't do any good." "Are you sure you are going to graduate, Sam?" "I certainly hope so. I am going to try my best not only to graduate, Grace, but to get as close to the top of the class as possible. Dick and Tom had to leave before they had a chance to graduate, so I want to make a good showing for the Rover family." "It's the same with me, Sam. Nellie left to get married, and so did Cousin Dora, so I've got to do the best I can for our family next June." "Then you hope to get through too?" "Of course." "How are the teachers treating you these days? Have you had any more trouble with Miss Harrow, or the others?" "Not the least bit. They are all perfectly lovely, and Miss Harrow is so sorry that she ever thought Nellie had taken that diamond ring." "Well, she ought to feel sorry," responded Sam. "It certainly put Nellie to a lot of trouble. Did that gardener who put the diamond ring in the inkwell ever come back to work at the seminary?" "Andy Royce? Yes, he is working there. I have seen him several times. He is quite a changed man, and I don't think he drinks at all." "Well, that's one good job done, Grace. That man's worst enemy was liquor." Sam had arranged that they might remain out until nine o'clock that evening, and so drove Grace over to Knoxbury, where they went to quite a fashionable restaurant for dinner. Here they met several young men and girls they knew, and all had a most delightful time during the repast. When Sam went outside to get his horse and cutter, which had been placed in a livery stable near by, he was surprised to encounter the very man he had mentioned but a short while before, Andy Royce, the gardener who had once been discharged from Hope Seminary for not attending properly to his duties and who, through the intercession of the Rovers and the Lanings, had been reinstated in his position. "Good evening, Mr. Rover," said Andy Royce, respectfully, as he touched the cap he wore. "Hello, Royce! What are you doing here?" asked the youth. "Oh, I just drove over to Knoxbury to get some things for the seminary," replied Royce; and then stepping closer he added in a lower tone: "I saw you going into Meeker's restaurant a while ago and I stayed here to see you when you came out. I'd like to talk to you a bit." "All right. What have you to say?" returned Sam, briskly. "I haven't got much time to waste." "I wanted to ask you about the young fellow who was knocked down and robbed the other afternoon," went on Andy Royce, as the two walked away, out of the hearing of the others in the livery stable. "Somebody told me that the fellow who was robbed said a man did it who stuttered and whistled." "Well, we rather think that man did it, but we are not certain," answered Sam. He glanced sharply at the gardener. "Do you know anything of that fellow?" "I think I do, Mr. Rover. You see it's this way: Several years ago I used to live out West, in Denver and Colorado Springs, and I used to know a man out there who went by the name of Blackie Crowden. He used to stutter fearfully and had a funny little whistle with it." "Out in Denver, you say? That's a long way from here." "I know it is, sir, but after I left I heard that this Blackie Crowden had come to Center Haven, and that's only twenty miles from here. And that ain't all," continued Andy Royce, earnestly. "I was in this town about a week ago and I am almost certain I saw this same Blackie Crowden on the street. I tried to reach him so as to speak to him, but he got away from me in a crowd that had come up to see a runaway." "This is interesting," returned Sam. "Tell me how this Blackie Crowden looks," he went on. And then as Andy Royce described the individual he added slowly: "That seems to tally with the description Songbird gave of the fellow who looked at him through the bank window when he was placing the money away. More than likely that fellow was that same Blackie Crowden." "Well, if it was Blackie Crowden, why don't you have him locked up?" queried the gardener. "Perhaps I will, providing he is still in Center Haven," answered Sam. CHAPTER VIII SOMETHING ABOUT BLACKIE CROWDEN When Sam returned to Brill late that evening, after having spent a most delightful time with Grace, he found that Songbird had returned from the Sandersons' homestead some time before. The would-be poet of the college was working hard over some of his lessons, and it was plainly to be seen that he was in anything but a good humor. "Sanderson treated me like a dog--like a regular dog!" he burst out, in reply to Sam's question. "Why! to hear him talk you would almost think I was in league with the fellow who attacked me!" "It's too bad, Songbird; but you shouldn't take it so much to heart. Remember, Mr. Sanderson is a very hard-working man and one who has probably never allowed another fellow to get the best of him in any kind of a deal. The amount that was lost represents probably the savings of a good many years, and to lose it so suddenly and in such an underhanded way has completely upset him. When he has had time to think it over calmly he'll probably see that you were not to blame." "I don't think so--he's not that kind of man, Sam. He was very bitter and he told Minnie that she wasn't to see me any more. Minnie was dreadfully upset, of course, and she rushed off to her room, so I didn't have any chance to say good-bye to her." "As bad as that, eh? Well, you can write her a letter anyway." "So I can; but maybe her father will see to it that she never gets it," responded the smitten youth, gloomily. "I've got a little news that may prove encouraging," pursued Sam after a slight pause; and then he related the particulars of his meeting with Andy Royce, and what the Hope gardener had said regarding Blackie Crowden. "Say! that's great!" burst out the would-be poet. "If I could see this Crowden I'd know at once if he was the man who watched me when I was at the Knoxbury bank, and if it was it would certainly pay to put the authorities on his trail." "I was thinking the same, Songbird. I wonder if we couldn't get permission from Dr. Wallington to drive over to Center Haven to-morrow and find out what we can about this Blackie Crowden?" "Oh, he'll have to give us permission--at least he'll have to let me go," returned Songbird. "I can't settle down to any lessons until something is done, one way or another. Here I am, trying to study, and I hardly know a word of what I'm reading." "Let us go to the doctor at once if he is still up and ask him," said Sam. Permission to leave the college was readily granted by Dr. Wallington, who, however, cautioned Songbird about overexerting himself while he was still suffering from the attack that had been made upon him. "I'll depend upon you, Rover, to look after him," said the head of Brill, kindly. "And let me add, I wish you every success in your search for the offender. I certainly would like to see you get Mr. Sanderson's money back." The two young collegians had breakfast as early as possible, and by eight o'clock were on their way to Center Haven in the automobile belonging to the Rovers, and which had now been left in Sam's care. Heavy chains had been put on the wheels so that the automobile made its way over the snowy roads without much trouble. Of course in some spots where the frozen highway was uneven, the boys got some pretty hard bumps, but this they did not mind, their one thought being to get to Center Haven as soon as possible and learn all they could concerning Blackie Crowden and his doings. Center Haven was a town about the size of Knoxbury, and among other things boasted of a large hotel which was generally well patronized during the summer months. Andy Royce had said that Crowden had been seen at this hotel and probably had some sort of position there. When the boys arrived there they found that the main building of the hotel was completely closed. The only portion that was open was a small wing with an equally small dining room used for the accommodations of the few transients who came to Center Haven during the winter months. "We came here to find a man named Blackie Crowden," said Sam to the proprietor of the hotel, who came forward to meet them when they entered. "Can you tell me anything about him?" "You won't find him here," returned the hotel man, brusquely. "I discharged him two weeks ago." "Discharged him?" queried Songbird, and his tone showed his disappointment. "Any trouble with him?" "Oh, yes, lots of trouble. Are you friends of his?" "We certainly are not," answered Sam. "But we'd like to find out something about him." "I'm glad you are not friends of his," continued the hotelkeeper. "I feel very sore over that man. I took him in and gave him a good job, and paid him a good deal more than he was worth. But he wouldn't work--in fact he was the laziest man I ever saw--and so I had to discharge him. I paid him all that was coming to him, and when he got out he was mean enough to sneak off with some of my clothing, and also a pair of my gloves and my rubbers. If I could lay my hands on him, I'd be strongly tempted to hand him over to the police." "Did he take an overcoat of yours and a fur cap?" demanded Songbird, quickly. "He certainly did. A heavy, dark-gray overcoat and one of these fur caps that you can pull down over your ears and over the back of the head." "He must have been the same fellow," remarked Sam. "And the fact that he robbed this man here goes to prove what sort of rascal he really is." "Did he steal anything from you people?" asked the hotelkeeper, curiously. "I think he did," answered Songbird. "Did you hear anything of the attack that took place a few days ago on the road near Ashton, in which a young fellow was robbed of four thousand dollars in cash?" "Oh, yes, I heard about that from the police captain here." "Well, I am the fellow who was robbed," continued Songbird. "And I'm strongly inclined to think now that it was this Blackie Crowden who was guilty--in fact I am almost certain of it. When I was at the Knoxbury bank getting the money and putting it away in my pocket I saw a man watching through a window of the bank. He had on a dark-gray overcoat and a fur cap pulled far down over his face. Then, later on, just after I was attacked, my friend here with a chum of ours came driving along and saw this same man with the heavy overcoat and the fur cap drive off with the horse and cutter that I had had--and he was the same fellow who had knocked me senseless." "Is that so! Well, I think you've hit the nail on the head, and if you catch this Blackie Crowden you'll have the right fellow. Anybody who would run off with my things as he did after he had been treated as well as I treated him wouldn't be above committing such a crime. But the question is, where did he go? Have you any idea?" "We know he got on the train at Dentonville," said Sam. "That's as far as we've been able to trace him so far. But now that we know that this criminal is Blackie Crowden, maybe the authorities will be able to run him down sooner or later." "This Crowden was very friendly with one or two of the men around the stables," went on the hotelkeeper. "Maybe you can find out something about him from them." "A good idea!" answered Songbird. "We'll see what they have to say." The hotel man took the two youths to the stables, and there they talked with several men present who had known Crowden. From these they learned that the man had been very much dissatisfied with the work assigned to him, and had frequently spoken about the good times to be had in such large cities as New York, Chicago and Denver. "He said he thought he would go back to New York first," said one of the stable men, "and then he thought he would go on to Chicago and after that visit some of his old places and cronies in Denver. But, of course, where he really did go to I haven't the least idea." "What you say is something of a clue anyway," returned Sam. "Now if we only had a photograph of this Crowden, it might help the police a great deal." "We've got a picture of him," said one of the men present. "It was taken by one of the visitors at the hotel this fall. He came out here to take a picture of some of the horses and we helped him, so all of us got into the picture, Crowden with the rest. I'll get it," he added, and disappeared in the direction of his sleeping quarters. The photograph was a fairly large one, showing three men and as many horses. The man in the center was Blackie Crowden, and the stable man and the hotelkeeper declared that it was an excellent photograph of that individual. "Will you let us have this photograph?" asked Songbird. "I would like to have that picture of Crowden enlarged, and then you can have it back." "Sure you can have it," answered the stable man. "As that fellow is a thief, you might as well tear that picture up afterward, because I don't want to be in no photograph with a criminal," and he grinned sheepishly. "All right then, I won't take the trouble to return it," answered Songbird. "Suppose you accept this dollar for it," and he passed over a banknote, which the stable man took with thanks. A little later the two youths started on the return to Ashton. "Well, that's one step nearer the solution of this mystery," announced Sam. "Now I think we had better stop at Knoxbury and find out about that horse which belonged to Hoover, the livery stable man." They reached the banking town about noon, and went directly to the livery stable. As they did so a man in a cutter drove in, leading a horse behind him. "There is the horse now!" cried Sam. "He must have just gotten the animal back from Mr. Bray." "Are you Mr. Hoover?" questioned Songbird of the man in the cutter, as he came to a halt near them. "That's my handle, young man. What can I do for you?" "I would like to know something about that horse, and who hired him from you;" and then he introduced himself and Sam. "I don't know who got the animal," answered Mr. Hoover. "I was away at the time, and a stable boy let him out. He declares the fellow said he was a friend of mine, and that it would be all right." "And was the fellow dressed in a heavy, gray overcoat and a heavy fur cap?" asked Sam. "Yes, that was the description the stable boy gave. When he found I didn't know anything about the man he was scared to death, because I told him that if the horse didn't come back I'd make him pay for the animal." "Then that's all we want to know, Mr. Hoover," answered Songbird. "I'm pretty sure now I know who it was that knocked me down and robbed me." "He was a rascal, all right," answered the livery stable man. "I had to pay old Bray four dollars to get my own horse back," he added, sulkily. As the long ride in the open air had made them hungry, the two youths went to the restaurant in Knoxbury for dinner. Then the automobile was turned once more in the direction of Ashton. "I'll have that photograph enlarged by Clinger," said Songbird, referring to a photographer in the town who did a great deal of work for the Brill and Hope students. "Then I'll have copies sent to the various police stations, even to New York, Chicago and Denver, along with a description of Blackie Crowden." "That's the talk, Songbird. Oh, I am sure we'll get on his trail sooner or later," said Sam. But though he spoke light-heartedly for his chum's benefit, he knew that to trace the criminal would be by no means easy. With the four thousand dollars in his possession, Blackie Crowden would probably make every effort to keep from being discovered. As they sped along the road, Songbird could not help becoming poetical, and despite his blueness he managed to concoct the following doggerel: "The engine hums--advance the spark, Turn on the throttle--what a lark! Away we go like a flash of light Over the hill and out of sight." "Not so bad, Songbird," was Sam's comment. "That's right--keep it up and maybe you'll feel better." But that was the only verse to be gotten out of the would-be poet for the present. Arriving at Ashton, they went immediately to the photographer's shop and told him what was wanted, and he agreed to re-photograph the picture of Crowden and then enlarge the same and make as many copies as Songbird desired. "I'll do it this afternoon," said Mr. Clinger, "and you can have a dozen or more copies by to-morrow morning. I'll make the head of the fellow about as large as a half dollar, and that ought to make a picture for any policeman or detective to go by;" and so it was arranged. While the youths were at the photographer's an express train had come into Ashton and now quite a few people were coming away from the railroad station. As the boys walked towards the automobile, Songbird suddenly uttered a cry. "Look, Sam! Look who's here!" "Why, it's Tom! My brother, Tom!" exclaimed Sam, as he rushed forward. "What in the world brought him here to-day?" CHAPTER IX IN WHICH TOM ARRIVES Tom Rover, tall and broad-shouldered, looked the picture of health as he came toward his younger brother and Songbird. He smiled broadly as he shook hands with them. "Why, Tom! What brings you here?" remarked Sam. "You didn't write about coming on." "Oh, I thought I'd just drop in and surprise you," returned Tom. "You know I can't quite get used to being away from Brill," he continued, with a grin. "Want to get back to your studies, I suppose," was his brother's dry comment. "Well, come ahead; you can help me on a theme I am writing on 'Civilization in Ancient Central America.'" "Wow! that sounds as interesting as a Greek dictionary!" cried Tom. "Thank goodness! I don't have to worry my head about themes any more. But just the same, Sam, don't make any mistake. I am as busy these days as I ever was in my life, trying to help Dick and dad to put our new organization on its feet." "And how is that getting along?" "Fine. We incorporated this week and have our papers, and now I am the secretary of The Rover Company," and Tom strutted around with his thumbs under his arms. "Some class to me, eh?" "And what is Dick?" questioned Songbird, curiously. "Oh, Dick is treasurer," answered Tom. "Dad, of course, is president, but he expects to hold that position only until Sam comes in. Then Dick is to become president; myself, treasurer; and Sam, secretary." "Say! that's all right," responded the youngest Rover, his face showing his satisfaction. "That is, provided you want to come in, Sam. Dad doesn't want you to give up your idea of becoming a lawyer unless you want to." "Oh, I might become a lawyer and remain secretary of the company too," was the answer. "One thing is sure, if you and Dick are going to remain in that company you'll have to take me in." "Well, what's the news?" went on Tom. "Had any fun lately? How is Grace?" and he looked rather sharply at his brother. "Oh, Grace is all right," answered Sam. He hesitated a moment. "I suppose you didn't get the letter I sent to you and Dick yesterday--the letter about Songbird here?" "Why no. I left the office night before last." "Songbird is in trouble, Tom," returned the brother. "Are you going up to the college? If you are you can go with us in the automobile and we'll tell you all about it on the way." "Yes, I'll go up, and I might as well take my grip with me, for maybe I'll stay over until to-morrow if they have room for me," and thus speaking Tom turned back to the railroad station to get his dress-suit case. The three youths were soon on their way to Brill, and as Sam manipulated the car he and Songbird gave the new arrival the details concerning the attack. Tom, of course, listened with deep interest. "That's a rank shame, Songbird!" he cried, at the conclusion of the narrative. "I know just how you feel. If I could get my hands on that Blackie Crowden, I think I'd put him in the hospital first and in prison afterward." "I told Songbird not to worry as far as the money was concerned," went on Sam. "If that old fellow who holds the mortgage won't wait for his money, I told Songbird that I thought we could get our folks to advance the cash." "Sure thing!" responded Tom, promptly. "You give me the details and I'll see about the money when I go back." "Mr. Sanderson said he would know about it early next week," answered Songbird. "He expects a visit from old Grisley and Belright Fogg." "My gracious! You didn't tell me anything about Fogg being connected with this," burst out Sam. "I forgot all about it," answered Songbird. "It seems that as soon as old Grisley heard the money was stolen and that it wasn't likely the mortgage would be paid, he hired Belright Fogg to take the matter up for him. He is an old man and very excitable, and he somehow got the notion that Mr. Sanderson would try to swindle him in some way. So he got Belright Fogg in the case, though as a general thing he has no more use for lawyers than he has for banks." "Well, he's very foolish to put his case in the hands of such a fellow as Belright Fogg. Tom, I guess you'll remember the trouble we had with that fellow." "I sure do, Sam!" "And Sam had more trouble with him," cried Songbird. "Don't forget how you hit him in the head with a snowball." "That's right. In the excitement of the attack on you, Songbird, I forgot all about that," answered the youngest Rover. "I suppose he is laying back to bring that up against me." They soon reached the grounds surrounding Brill, and Tom looked at the college buildings with interest. "Looks almost like home to me," he said somewhat wistfully. "My, but I had some good times here! I wish I had been on deck for that snowballing contest." "Sam was the hero of that occasion, according to all accounts," answered Songbird. "He captured the banners of the freshies and sophs, you know." As the automobile rolled into the grounds a number of students recognized Tom and waved friendly greetings to him. Leaping out, he was soon surrounded by a number of his old chums, all of whom wanted to know where he had been keeping himself and how long he was going to stay with them. "Can't stay longer than to-morrow noon," he announced. "You know I'm a business man now," and he puffed up and grinned in a manner that made all of the others smile. "You just came in time, Tom," cried Spud. "Your old friend, William Philander Tubbs, who has been away on business to Boston, got back here this morning." "What! My old friend Tubby here? I'll be glad to shake his flipper," announced Tom, and grinned more than ever as he recalled the practical jokes that had been played at different times on the dudish student who had been mentioned. Of course the students present wanted to know what had been learned by Sam and Songbird on the trip to Center Haven, and many were the speculations regarding Blackie Crowden. "The authorities ought to be able to catch that fellow now that you have his photograph and a good description of him," remarked Stanley. "It would be a good idea to send that description and photograph broadcast." The boys reported to Dr. Wallington, and Tom went with them. The head of Brill was glad to see his former student, and readily consented to allow Tom to remain with the others that night, an extra cot being put into room No. 25 for that purpose. "Are those the banners you captured, Sam?" questioned Tom, when the boys entered the room, and as he spoke he pointed to two banners which were nailed up on the wall. "Yes, Tom, those are the ones we captured," was the reply of the youngest Rover, with considerable pride. "The freshies and sophs wanted them back the worst way, but I told them there was nothing doing, that I intended to keep them at least until I graduated. They sent a committee to me to get the banners, and I can tell you that committee was pretty sore when they went away without getting them." "You watch out that they don't take those banners on the sly, Sam." "Oh, Songbird and I are looking out for them. Didn't you notice we had the door locked? We always lock up now, and no one has a key but the janitor, and we have cautioned him not to let any one in here without our permission." "I'll tell you what I'd like to do to-night," said Tom. "I'd like to smuggle something to eat into this room and give some of our crowd a spread, just for the fun of it." "All right, I'm willing, Tom," answered his brother. "Of course you'll have to keep rather quiet about it, because I don't want to get into the bad graces of any of the monitors or of Dr. Wallington. I want to graduate next June with the highest possible honors." It was arranged that while Songbird and Sam studied some necessary lessons, Tom was to return to Ashton in the automobile and bring back a number of things which would be needed for the proposed spread. Tom took Spud and Stanley with him. Out on the campus the three came face to face with William Philander Tubbs. "Hello, Tubblets, old boy!" cried Tom cordially, as he caught William Philander by the hand. "How are you making it these days?" "I--er--er---- How do you do, Rover?" stammered the dudish student. "Why, I am--er--am quite well, thank you. I thought you had left college?" "Oh, I couldn't leave it for good, you know, Tubby, my dear. They wouldn't be able to get along without me." "Why--ah--why--ah--somebody told me you were going into business in New York." "That's right, Tubbette." "Oh, Rover! please don't call me by those horrid nicknames any longer," pleaded William Philander. "You promised me long ago you wouldn't do it." "Only a slip of my memory, my dear Philander Williams. I really----" "No, no! Not Philander Williams. My name is William Philander." "That's right! so it is. It's always been Philander William--No, I mean Willander Philiams--no, that isn't it either. My gracious, Tubblets, old boy! what have you done with the front handles of your cognomen, anyway? You twist me all sideways trying to remember it." "Really, how odd! My name is William Philander Tubbs. That's easy enough." "If I had it engraved in script type on a visiting card and looked at it daily, maybe I would be able to remember it," answered Tom, mournfully. "You know my head was never very good for history or anything like that. However, now that I know that your name is Philander Tubblets Williams, don't you think you'd like to ride down to Ashton with us? We are going to have a little spread to-night, and I want you to help me pick out the spaghetti, sauerkraut, sweet potato pie, Limburger cheese, and other delicacies." "Oh, by Jove! do you really mean you are going to have those things for a spread?" gasped William Philander. "That is, if they are just the things you like," returned Tom, innocently. "Of course, Stanley here suggested that we have some fried eel sandwiches and some worm pudding. But I don't know about such rich living as that." "Eel sandwiches! Worm pudding!" groaned William Philander, aghast. "I never heard of such things! Why don't you get--er--er--some cream puffs and chocolate éclares and er--and--er--and mint kisses and things like that, you know?" "Not solid enough, my dear Willie boy. The boys love substantials. You know that as well as I do. Of course we might add a few little delicacies like turnips and onions, just for side dishes, you know." "I--I--really think you had better excuse me, Rover!" exclaimed William Philander, backing away. "I am not feeling extra good, and I don't think I want to go to any spread to-night," and William Philander bowed and backed still farther. "Oh, all right, Philly Willy," responded Tom, dolefully. "Of course if you don't want to participate you don't have to, but you'll break our hearts if you stay away. Now you just come to room twenty-five to-night and we'll give you the finest red herring and mush ice cream you ever chewed in your life," and then he and his chums hurried away in the automobile, leaving William Philander Tubbs gazing after him in deep perplexity. CHAPTER X THE FEAST When Tom came back accompanied by Stanley and Spud, all had their arms full of the things purchased in Ashton. "And this is only the half of it," announced the fun-loving Rover to his brother, in answer to a query. "We've got to go back and get the rest out of the automobile." "We'll bring that stuff up," said Stanley. "You stay here with your brother. Come on, Songbird, I see you are doing nothing, so you might as well give us a lift," and off the three boys trooped to bring up the rest of the things purchased for the feast. "I'm mighty glad you are going to give this, Tom, on Songbird's account," announced Sam, when he and his brother were left to themselves. "Songbird is about as blue as indigo. You see, it isn't only the money--it's Minnie. Her father won't let him call on her any more." "Tough luck, sure enough," responded Tom. "Well, let us do all we can to-night to make Songbird forget his troubles." Tom took a walk up and down the room, halting in front of a picture of Grace which was in a silver frame on a chiffonier. "Pretty good picture, Sam," he observed. "Yes, it is." "Did you say that you had been out with Grace lately?" "Oh, yes. We had a fine sleighride only the other day." "She's made quite a friend of a Miss Ada Waltham at the seminary, a rich girl, hasn't she?" "She has mentioned Miss Waltham to me. I didn't know that they were particularly friendly," answered Sam. "You know this Miss Waltham is very rich." "So I heard, Sam. She is worth about a quarter of a million dollars, so somebody said. But she has a brother, Chester, who is worth even more. An uncle died and left nearly his entire estate to the brother." "Is that so? Lucky young fellow! But I don't see how that interests me, Tom," and Sam looked at his brother inquiringly. "You act as if you had something on your mind." "So I have, Sam; and that is one of the reasons I came here to-day," announced Tom. "I'll tell you about it in the morning," he added hastily, as a tramping was heard in the hallway; and the next moment the door burst open and in came Stanley, Songbird, Spud and one or two others, all loaded down with bundles and packages. "Make way for the parcels post and the express company!" proclaimed Spud, as he dropped several packages on one of the cots. "Say, Tom, you must have bought out half of Ashton." "Only three-eighths, Spud," answered the fun-loving Rover, gaily. "You see I knew what an awful appetite you had, and as I had an extra twenty-five cent piece in my jeans I thought I'd try to satisfy that appetite just once." "Twenty-five cents! Wow!" commented Stanley. "I'll wager this spread costs you a good many dollars." Word had been passed around to a number of Tom's old friends, and they were all requested to be on hand by ten o'clock. "Tubbs says he begs to be excused," announced Paul Orben when he came in. "He says he has got some studying he must do." "Nonsense! He's afraid we'll treat him to some sauerkraut pie and some pickled pastry," returned Tom. "I don't want him to stay away and miss a good time. What room is he in?" "Number eighteen." "Then come along, some of you, and we'll bring him here," announced the fun-loving Rover, and marched off, followed by Spud and Bob. In the meanwhile, Sam, Songbird and Stanley brought the things from the closet and began to prepare for the feast. Tom and his friends found William Philander busy folding and putting away half a dozen gorgeous neckties. He was rather startled at their sudden entrance, and did his best to hide the articles. "Hello! I thought you were boning away on trigonometry or mental science," was Tom's comment. "Say, old boy, that's a gorgeous necktie," he added as he picked up a creation in lavender and yellow. "Did you buy this to wear at the horse show, or at a meeting of mothers' helpers?" "Oh, my dear Rover, please don't muss that up!" pleaded William Philander, snatching the necktie from Tom's hands. "That is one that was--er--made--er--a--a present to me." "Oh, I see. That's the one that blind young lady gave to you. I admire her taste in picking it out." "Blind lady? I--er--have no blind lady friend," returned William Philander. "Oh, yes, I remember now, Tubby, she was deaf--not blind. It's a wonder she didn't pick out something a little louder." "Oh, Rover, I really believe you are poking fun at that necktie," returned the dudish student. "We came to get you to come to the feast, Willie," announced Spud. "We don't want you to miss it." "We wouldn't have you miss it for a peck of shelled popcorn," put in Bob. "Yes, but really, I've got some studying to do, and----" "You can study after the feast is over, my dear boy," broke in Tom, as he caught William Philander by the arm. "You'll be surprised how much quicker you can learn on a full stomach than on one that is half vacant. Come on!" "Yes, but I----" "We haven't any time to spare, Tubblets. You are going to the feast, so you might as well make the best of it. Come on, fellows, help him along. He's so bashful he can't walk," and thus urged, Spud took William Philander's other arm while Bob caught him by the collar and in the back, and thus the three of them forced the dudish collegian out of his room and along the hallway to Number 25. By this time something like fifteen students had gathered in the room, and the advent of Tom and his chums with the somewhat frightened William Philander was greeted with a roar of approval. The dudish student was marched in and made to take a seat on a board which had been placed on two chairs. On the board sat several students, and William Philander was placed on one end. "Now, then, everybody make himself at home," announced Tom, as soon as a look around had convinced him that his brother and the others had everything in readiness for the feast. "I believe you'll find everything here except toothpicks, and for those we'll have to chop up one of Sam's baseball bats later on." "Not much! You're not going to touch any of my bats," announced the younger brother, firmly. "Sam wants to keep them to help bat another victory for Brill this spring," put in Spud. "My! but that was one great game we had last season." "So it was," put in another student. "And don't forget that Tom helped to win that game as well as Sam." While this chatter was going on various good things in the way of salads and sandwiches had been passed around, and these were followed by cake and glasses of root beer, ginger ale and grape juice. "Why, this is perfectly lovely," lisped William Philander Tubbs, as he sat on the end of the board-seat, his lap covered with a paper napkin on which rested a large plate of chicken salad and some sandwiches. In one hand he held an extra large glass of grape juice. "Everybody ready!" announced Stanley, with a wink at several of the boys. "Here is where we drink to the health of Tom Rover!" "Tom Rover!" was the exclamation, and at a certain sign all the boys seated on the board except William Philander leaped to their feet. The result was as might have been expected. The dudish pupil had been resting on the end of the board, which overlapped the chair, and with the weight of the others removed, the board suddenly tipped upward and down went William Philander in a heap, the chicken salad jouncing forward over his shirt front and the glass of grape juice in his hand being dashed full into his face. [Illustration: THE BOARD SUDDENLY TIPPED AND DOWN WENT WILLIAM PHILANDER.] "Hi! Hi! What--er--did--er--you do that for?" he spluttered, as he sat on the floor, completely dazed. "Say! why didn't you tell me you were going to get up?" and then he started to wipe the grape juice from his eyes and nose. "Hello! Salad's going down!" cried one student gaily. "Say, Tubbs, there is no use of throwing such nice food as that away even if you don't want it," chimed in another. "Don't you know enough to stand up when a toast is to be drunk?" queried a third. "I--I--didn't quite understand," stammered William Philander, and then with an effort he extracted himself from the mess on his lap and slowly arose to his feet. "My gracious! I believe I have utterly ruined this vest and trousers!" he added mournfully, as he gazed down at the light gray suit he wore. "Oh, a little gasoline will fix that up all right," said Spud. "Don't let a little thing like that interfere with your pleasure, Tubbs. Come on--here's another glass of grape juice. No use of crying over spilt milk--I mean juice," corrected the youth. "Tom Rover! Everybody up!" came the call, and then amid a subdued murmuring of good luck the boys stood around Tom and drank his health. "Thank you, fellows, very much," answered Tom, and there was just a suspicion of huskiness in his voice. "Speech! Speech! Give us a speech!" came from several. "Speech? Great guns! I never made a speech in my life," announced Tom, and now for the first time he looked a bit confused. "Oh, you've got to say something, Tom," cried Stanley. "What shall I talk about--earthquakes in India, or the spots on Tubbs' pants?" queried Tom, with a grin. "Never mind what you talk about so long as you say something," came from Bob. "All right then--here goes!" announced Tom after a little pause. "Catch this before it's too late. I'm glad to be here, otherwise I wouldn't be here. I'm glad you are here, otherwise you wouldn't be here. I think Brill College is the best college any fellow could ever go to, if that hadn't been so I'd never have gone to Brill. I'm sorry I couldn't stay here to graduate, but I've left the honor to Sam here, and I trust he'll get through and make a record for the whole family. Boys, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. And here's wishing you all success at graduation and success through life," and thus concluding his little speech, Tom took a generous drink of ginger ale, while the others applauded vigorously. "Very good!" cried Sam, but then added quickly: "For gracious sake! don't make too much noise or you'll have one of the monitors here and we'll get some black marks." "That's right, fellows," announced Stanley. "After this we'll have to be as noisy as a mouse in a cheese factory." "Now that I have been called on to make a speech," announced Tom, after quietness had been restored, "I am going to call on Songbird for one of his choice bits of poetry." "Oh, now, Tom! please don't do that," pleaded the would-be poet of Brill. "You know I'm in no humor for writing poetry now." "All the more reason why you should write some," announced Sam. "Come on now. You must have something tucked away in your system--I mean something brand new." "Well--er--I've got something new, but I hardly think it is appropriate for this occasion," answered Songbird slowly. "Never mind; give it to us no matter what it is," cried one of the students. "Let her flutter!" "Poetry for mine!" "Let her flow, Songbird!" "That's right. Turn on the poetry spigot, Songbird;" and thus urged the would-be poet of Brill began: "The world is black and I feel blue, I do not know what I'm to do, That fellow hit me in the head And left me in the road for dead. I go around from hour to hour And I am feeling mighty sour. I am consumed with helpless woe----" "Because I lost that heard-earned dough," completed Tom, rather suddenly, and this abrupt ending caused a general laugh. CHAPTER XI TOM FREES HIS MIND The party in Number 25 did not break up until some time after midnight, and all present declared that they had had the time of their lives. Only one interruption had come, made by a good-natured monitor who had begged them to make less noise, and this fellow, well known to Tom, had been bought off with several sandwiches and a bottle of ginger ale. "And how do you fellows feel this morning?" asked Tom, who was the first to get up after a sound sleep. "Oh, I'm first rate," announced his younger brother. "I thought I'd dream, with so much chicken salad and sandwiches and cake in me, but I slept like a log." "I didn't sleep extra well," came slowly from Songbird. "But I don't think it was the feast kept me awake." Tom walked over to where the would-be poet of Brill sat on the edge of a cot and dropped down beside him. "Songbird, you take the loss of that money too much to heart," he said kindly. "Of course we all know it was a great loss. Yet it won't do to grieve over it too much. And besides, there is hope that some day the authorities will catch that Blackie Crowden and get at least part of the money back." "It isn't the money alone, Tom; it is the way Mr. Sanderson has treated me. And besides that, I'm worried over that mortgage. I'd like to know just what old Grisley and his lawyer are going to do." "I'll tell you what I'll do, Songbird. If you wish me to, I'll call on Mr. Sanderson and tell him what we are willing to do, so that he can rest easy about paying the mortgage off if he has to." "I wish you would go, Tom--and put in a good word for me, too," cried Songbird, eagerly. "Oh, I'll do that, never fear. I'll go this morning before I start back to New York;" and thus it was arranged. "You said that you had something to tell me, Tom," remarked Sam, as the three were going downstairs to breakfast. "What was it?" "Oh, it may not amount to much, Sam. I'll tell you about it as soon as we can get by ourselves," answered Tom. The morning meal was quickly disposed of, and then Tom and Sam returned to Number 25, the former to repack his dress-suit case before leaving for the Sandersons' place and for New York. "I don't exactly know how to get at this, Sam," began his brother, slowly, when the pair were in the bedroom and the door had been closed. "It is about Grace and the Walthams." "About Grace?" and Sam showed his increased interest. "What about her?" "Well, as I mentioned last night, this Ada Waltham is very rich, and she has a brother, Chester, who is older than she is and much richer. In fact, I've heard it said that he is a young millionaire." "Well?" queried Sam, as his brother paused. "Oh, I really don't know how to get at this, Sam," burst out Tom, and his face showed his worry. "Maybe there is nothing in it at all; but just the same I thought I had better bring it to you at once. I knew you would rather have it come from me than from some outsider." "But what in the world are you talking about, Tom?" "I'm talking about the attentions this Chester Waltham is bestowing upon Grace. It seems that his sister, Ada, introduced him to Grace a couple of months ago, and since that time I've heard that he has been up to Hope several times, ostensibly to call on his sister, but really to see Grace. I understand he has taken both of them out riding several times." "Taken Grace out riding!" cried Sam, and his face flushed suddenly. "Are you sure of this? Grace never mentioned it to me." "I think it's the truth, Sam. You see, ever since Nellie left Hope she has kept corresponding with several of the girls there, and one of these girls knows Ada Waltham quite well, and she mentioned the fact of the sister and Grace going out with Chester. She said that she quite envied Grace being invited to ride out with a young millionaire. Then Nellie spoke to Dora about it, and Dora said she had heard practically the same thing from another one of the seminary students. Now I don't like to butt in, Sam, but at the same time I thought you ought to know just how things were going." "I don't understand it at all," returned the younger brother, and for the moment he looked rather helpless. "If Grace received an invitation to go out with this Chester Waltham, I am quite sure she would mention it to me." "Perhaps she merely went as a companion of Ada's," suggested Tom, "and she might have thought it wasn't necessary to mention it." "Have you heard anything more than that, Tom?" "Not much, except that in one of the letters this girl said that she would envy Grace all the nice flowers and boxes of candy she might expect from such a wealthy young man as Waltham. Now, as I said before, Sam, it's none of my business, but I just couldn't help coming out here to put a flea in your ear. We--Nellie and I--know just how you feel about Grace, and both of us would like nothing better than to have you double up with her after you graduate." "Thank you, Tom; it's fine for you to talk that way, and it's fine to have Nellie on my side. But I don't understand this at all. If Grace has been going out with this Chester Waltham, why hasn't she said something to me about it? She has spoken to me about Ada a number of times, but I never heard this Chester mentioned once." "Well, I can't tell you any more than I have told you," returned Tom. "If I were you, I'd see Grace and find out just what this fellow has been doing. You know a fellow who is worth a million dollars is some catch for any girl." "Yes, I know. It's a good deal more than I'll be able to offer Grace." "True, but money isn't everything in this life, Sam. I didn't look for money when I married Nellie, and I don't think she cared a rap how much I was worth." "That's the way it ought to be done----" "I always supposed that you and Grace had some sort of an understanding between you," went on Tom, after rather an awkward pause. "Of course, Sam, you haven't got to say a word about it if you don't want to," he added hastily. "We did have some sort of an understanding, Tom. But you know how it was with you and Nellie--Mrs. Laning wouldn't think of your becoming publicly engaged until after you had left college. She has told Grace that she will have to wait. So she is free to do as she chooses." There was but little more that could be said on the subject, and so Tom turned to pack his suit case while Sam got ready to attend one of his classes. The youngest Rover heaved a heavy sigh, which showed that he was more disturbed than he cared to admit. A little while later Tom had said good-bye to his brother and to his numerous friends at Brill and was on his way in a hired turnout to the Sanderson homestead, which he had promised to visit before leaving on the train at Ashton for New York City. Tom went on his errand alone, none of the others being able to get away from the college that morning. The Sandersons had heard nothing about his arrival at Brill and, consequently, were much surprised when he drove up. Minnie greeted him with a warm smile, and even Mr. Sanderson, considering his great loss, was quite cordial. "Ain't comin' back to complete your eddication, are you, Mr. Rover?" questioned the farmer, with a slight show of humor. "No, Mr. Sanderson. I'm through with Brill so far as studying goes," answered the youth. "I just took a run-out to see how Sam and the others were getting along. They told me all about your loss, and I'm mighty sorry that the thing happened. Poor Songbird is all broke up over it." "Humph! I reckon he ain't half as much broke up as I am," retorted the farmer. "This has placed me in a fine pickle." "Now, Pa, please don't get excited again," pleaded Minnie, whose face showed that she had suffered as much, or more, as had her parent. "Ain't no use to get excited now. The money is gone, and I suppose that is the last of it. What I'm worryin' about is how I'm goin' to settle about that mortgage. Grisley at first said he would put it off, but yesterday he sent word that he was comin' here to-day with his lawyer to settle things." "And here they come now!" interrupted Minnie, as she glanced out of a window. The others looked and saw two men drive up the lane in a cutter. They were old Henry Grisley, the man who held the mortgage on the farm, and Belright Fogg. The girl went to the door to let the visitors in. Old Henry Grisley paid scant attention to Tom when the two were introduced to each other. The lawyer looked at the visitor in some astonishment. "Huh! I didn't expect to see you here, Mr. Rover," said Belright Fogg, coolly. "Are you mixed up in this unfortunate affair?" "I may be before we get through," answered Tom. "You weren't the young man who lost the money?" "No." "I've got an account to settle with your brother," went on Belright Fogg, rather maliciously. "He took great pleasure the other day in hitting me in the head with a snowball, almost knocking me senseless. I've had to have my head treated by a doctor, and more than likely I'll sue him for damages." "I reckon you'll do what you can to make it hot for him," returned Tom. "It's your way, Mr. Fogg. But just let me give you a word of advice--you take care that you don't get your fingers burnt." "Ha! Is that a threat?" "Oh, no. It is only a word of advice. Please to remember that we know all about you, and we won't stand any nonsense from you. If my brother really hurt you, he'll be willing to do the fair thing; but if you think you can gouge him in any way, you've got another guess coming." "Looky!" came in a shrill voice from old Henry Grisley. "I thought we come here fer my money on that er mortgage," and from under a pair of heavy gray eyebrows he looked searchingly into the faces of Mr. Sanderson and the lawyer. "Yes, Mr. Grisley, that's what we came for," returned Belright Fogg, "and the sooner we come to business perhaps the better." "As I've told you before, the money is gone--stolen," said Mr. Sanderson. "I can't pay--at least not now, and I'd like an extension of time." "Mr. Grisley isn't inclined to grant any extension," said Belright Fogg, somewhat pompously. "The mortgage is too big for this place anyway, and he feels that he ought to have his money." "And if Mr. Sanderson can't pay, what then?" questioned Tom, before the farmer could speak. "Why, we'll have to foreclose and sell the place," answered the lawyer, quickly. "That's it! That's it!" came shrilly from old Henry Grisley. "I want my money--every cent of it. If I don't git it, I'm goin' to take the farm," he added in tones which were almost triumphant. "But see here----" began Mr. Sanderson. "Oh, Pa, don't let them sell the farm!" burst out Minnie, and as she spoke the tears started to her eyes. "You won't sell the farm, Mr. Grisley," said Tom, coolly. "Why not, if the money isn't paid?" cried the old man. "The money will be paid--every cent of it," answered Tom. CHAPTER XII OLD GRISLEY COMES TO TERMS All in the room looked at Tom in some surprise because of the plain way in which he had spoken. "Mr. Rover, you are sure of what you are saying?" questioned Mr. Sanderson, quickly, in a low voice. "Yes, Mr. Sanderson, we'll take care of this mortgage. Don't you worry a bit about it." "Did you say you would pay off this mortgage?" demanded Belright Fogg, glaring at Tom. "I didn't say I'd pay it off personally. But my folks will take care of it." "The money is due now--has been due for several days." "Yes, sir, that's right!" came shrilly from Henry Grisley. "And I want you to know that I want the full amount with interest up to the day when it is paid. I ain't goin' to lose nothin'--not a cent." "Mr. Grisley, I have an offer to make to you," went on Tom addressing himself directly to the old man and utterly ignoring Belright Fogg. "You don't know me, but let me say that my father and my uncle are worth a good deal of money. I am in business in New York with my father, and our concern has a great deal of money to invest. Now, if you will agree to hold this mortgage for thirty days, I will guarantee to have it paid in full at that time with every cent of interest. And in addition to that I will pay you twenty-five dollars for your trouble and for your lawyer's fees." "Ha! What do you think I am? What do you think I work for?" demanded Belright Fogg, with a scowl. "My fee will be more than twenty-five dollars in this case." "What? What?" shrilled Henry Grisley, turning his beadlike eyes on the lawyer. "Twenty-five dollars? Not much! I'll give ye ten dollars and not a cent more." "That's the way to talk, Mr. Grisley. You give him ten dollars and you keep the fifteen dollars for your own trouble," cried Tom. "So far as I can see he hasn't done anything for you excepting to come here to see Mr. Sanderson, and certainly such a trip as this isn't worth more than ten dollars." "My services are worth a good deal more!" exclaimed Belright Fogg. And thereupon ensued a war of words between him and Henry Grisley which lasted the best part of a quarter of an hour. The lawyer saw the case slipping away from him, and at last in deep disgust he said he would have no more to do with the affair. "Don't want ye to! Don't want ye to!" piped out Henry Grisley. "Lawyers are a useless expense anyway. I'll settle this case myself, and for what you've done I won't pay more'n ten dollars, jest remember it!" and he shook a long, bony finger in Belright Fogg's face. "I won't be insulted in this manner!" cried the lawyer, and then in a dudgeon he stormed from the house, leaped into the cutter, and drove away. "A good riddance to him," murmured Mr. Sanderson. But then he added hastily: "Was that your horse, Grisley?" "No, it wasn't," was the answer. "And how I'm to git home now, I don't know," added the old man, helplessly. "Where do you live?" questioned Tom. "The other side of Ashton, on the Millbury road." "All right, then, I'll take you there when I go down to the depot," answered Tom. "That is, if you want to ride with me." "I want to know jest how we stand on this mortgage question first," announced Henry Grisley. "I want your offer down in black and white." "You shall have it, and the others can be witnesses to it," answered Tom, and in the course of the next quarter of an hour a paper was drawn up and duly signed by which Tom agreed that the mortgage should be taken over by the Rovers within the next thirty days, with all back interest paid, and that Henry Grisley should be paid a bonus of twenty-five dollars for his trouble and for his lawyer's fees. To bind the bargain Tom handed the old man a ten-dollar bill on account, which Henry Grisley stowed away in a leather wallet with great satisfaction. "Oh, Tom! it's just splendid of you to help us out in this manner!" said Minnie, after the transaction had been concluded and while old Grisley and Mr. Sanderson were talking together. "I'm glad to be of service to you," answered the youth. "I only hope for your sake, and for the sake of Songbird, that the money that was stolen is recovered. Songbird is going to get on the trail of that rascal if it is possible to do so." "I hope they do locate that fellow, Tom. If they don't I'm afraid pa will never forgive poor John." "Oh, don't say that, Minnie. 'Never' is such a long word it should not have been put in the dictionary," and Tom smiled grimly. Now that he felt fairly certain that he was to get his money, Henry Grisley was in much better humor. "I suppose I might as well have left that mortgage as it was," he mumbled. "It was payin' pretty good interest." "Well, that was for you to decide, Grisley," returned Mr. Sanderson. "Personally I don't see how you are going to make any better investment in these times." "Well, I've got thirty days in which to make up my mind, ain't I?" queried the old man. "If I don't want to close out the mortgage I ain't got to, have I?" "Certainly you've got to sell out, now that you have bargained to do so," put in Tom. "You can't expect us to pull our money out of another investment to put it into this one and then not get it." "Hum! I didn't think o' that," mused old Grisley. He thought hard for a moment, pursing up his lips and twisting his beadlike eyes first one way and then another. "Supposin' I was to say right now that I'd keep the mortgage? What would you do about it?" "Do you really mean it, Grisley?" asked Mr. Sanderson, anxiously. "Depends on what this young man says, Sanderson. One thing is sure; I ain't goin' to give up that ten dollars he give me--and Fogg is got to be paid somehow." "Look here! if you want to keep the mortgage just say so," declared Tom. "It's a good mortgage and pays good interest. You can't invest your money around here to any better advantage." "All right, then, I'll keep the mortgage," announced Henry Grisley. "But understand, young man, I'm to keep that ten dollars you give me too," he added shrewdly. "Well, I don't see----" began Tom, when Mr. Sanderson interrupted him. "All right, Grisley, you keep the ten dollars, and you settle with Fogg," announced the farmer. "And it's understood that you are to make out the mortgage for at least one year longer." "Can't ye give me more'n the ten dollars?" asked Henry Grisley. "Mebbe I might have to pay Fogg more'n that." "Don't you pay him a cent more," said Tom. "His services aren't worth it." "I won't pay him nothin' if I can git out of it," responded the old man, shrewdly. "If I keep the mortgage, then what has he done for me? Nothin'. Mebbe I'll give him half of the ten dollars. I've had jest as much trouble as he has." Following this discussion the paper formerly drawn up was destroyed and a note written out and signed by Henry Grisley, in which the old man agreed to renew the mortgage for one year from the date on which it had been due. "To tell ye the truth, I wouldn't have bothered about this," explained old Grisley, in a burst of confidence; "but, you see, Fogg knew the mortgage was due and he come to me and asked me what I was goin' to do about it. And then when word come that your money had been stolen, he told me that I'd better foreclose or otherwise I might git next to nothin'." "The underhanded rascal!" was Mr. Sanderson's comment. "That's just what he is," answered Tom. "You know we had a lot of trouble with him last year--and evidently we are not done with him yet," he added, as he thought of what Belright Fogg had said concerning the snowball thrown by Sam. Tom wanted to say a good word for Songbird, and the opportunity came when, a few minutes later, and before their departure, Minnie invited them to partake of some cake and hot coffee. While Grisley sat down in the dining-room, the youth talked to the farmer. "Now, Mr. Sanderson, I have done what I could for you," he said, coming at once to the point; "and now I want to say a word or two about poor Songbird. He feels awfully bad over this matter, and he thinks that you are doing him an injustice. And let me say I think so too," and Tom looked the farmer squarely in the eyes as he spoke. "Yes, I know, Rover, but----" "Now, Mr. Sanderson, supposing you had been in Songbird's place and had been knocked down and nearly killed; what would you say if you were treated as you are treating him? Wouldn't you be apt to think that it was a pretty mean piece of business?" At these plain words the farmer flushed and for the instant some angry words came to his lips. But then he checked himself and turned his eyes away. "Maybe you are right, and maybe I was a bit hasty with the lad," he said hesitatingly. "But you see I was all worked up. It took me a good many years to save that four thousand dollars, and now that I am getting old it won't be no easy matter for me to save that amount over again." "You won't have to save it over again, Mr. Sanderson. Songbird insists upon it that just as soon as he gets to work he's going to pay you back dollar for dollar." "Did he tell you that?" "He did. And he told the others the same thing. He'll make that loss up to you if it takes him ten years to do it. I've known him for a good many years now. We went to Putnam Hall Military Academy together before we came to Brill--and I know he is a fellow who always keeps his word. He's one of the best friends we Rover boys have. He's a little bit off on the subject of poetry, but otherwise he's just as smart and sensible and true-blue as they make 'em," went on Tom, enthusiastically. "And not only that, he comes from a very nice family. They are not rich, but neither are they poor, and they are good people to know and be connected with," and Tom looked at the farmer knowingly. "I see, Rover." Mr. Sanderson drew a deep breath, and then looked through the doorway to where Minnie was pouring out the coffee. "If I was too hasty I--I--am sorry." "And you will let Songbird come here and call on your daughter?" "I--I suppose so, if Minnie wants him to come." "Thank you, Mr. Sanderson. I am sure you won't regret your kindness," said Tom, and insisted upon grasping the farmer's hand and shaking it warmly. Then he went in to have some cake and coffee before taking his departure with old Grisley. "So you are going back to New York, are you, Tom?" said the girl while he was being served. "Yes, I am going to take the train this afternoon," he answered, and then continued: "I've got a loose button here on my coat, Minnie. Will you fasten it before I go?" "Sure I will," she returned, and a few minutes later led the way to a corner of the sitting-room, where was located a sewing basket. "I wasn't worrying much about losing the button, Minnie," he whispered. "I wanted to tell you about Songbird. I have just spoken to your father about him, and he says he can come to see you the same as he used to." "Oh, Tom! did he really say that?" and Minnie's eyes brightened greatly. "Yes, he did. And as soon as I get to Ashton I am going to send Songbird a telephone message to that effect," returned Tom. "Oh, Tom! will you?" and she looked at him pleadingly. "Surest thing you know, Minnie. And believe me, Songbird, when he gets that news, will be the happiest fellow in Brill." "I don't think he'll be any happier than I'll be," answered the girl; and then of a sudden blushed deeply and finished sewing on the button without another word. Ten minutes later Tom bade the Sandersons good-bye, and, accompanied by Henry Grisley, drove away in the direction of Ashton. Old Grisley was left at his home, and then Tom took himself to the depot, where, from a telephone booth, he sent a message to Songbird telling the would-be poet of Brill how it had come about that Grisley had agreed to renew the mortgage for one year, and how Mr. Sanderson had said that Songbird could renew his calls upon Minnie if he so desired. "Tom, you're a wonder!" said Songbird over the telephone, "you're a wonder, that's all I can say!" "Never mind what I am," returned the fun-loving Rover, kindly; "you just see if you can get on the trail of that fellow who stole the four thousand dollars, and at the same time you get busy and make up for lost time with Minnie. Good-bye!" and then he hung up the receiver, and a few minutes later was on board the train bound for the metropolis. CHAPTER XIII SAM ON THE ROAD The next few days were very busy ones for Sam because he had a number of important classes to attend, and he was hard at work finishing his theme on "Civilization in Ancient Central America." It was impossible to call on Grace, and so he did nothing to find out the truth about Chester Waltham because he did not wish to ask the girl about this over the telephone, nor did he see his way clear to expressing his thoughts on paper. Sunday came and went, and Monday morning brought a letter to the youngest Rover which he read with much interest. It was from Belright Fogg, a long-winded and formal communication, in which the lawyer stated that he had been under medical treatment because of being hit in the head by a snowball thrown by Sam, and he demanded fifty dollars damages. If the same was not paid immediately, he stated that he would begin suit. "Anything wrong, Sam?" questioned Songbird, who was present while Sam was reading the letter. "You look pretty serious." "Read it for yourself, Songbird," was the reply, and Sam passed the communication over. "Well, of all the gall!" burst out the would-be poet of Brill. "Fifty dollars! Of course you won't pay any such bill as this?" "Not so you can notice it," returned Sam, sharply. "If he had sent me a bill for five dollars or less I might have let him have the money just to shut him up. But fifty dollars! Why, it's preposterous!" "What do you propose to do?" "I won't do anything just yet. I want time to think it over and to talk it over with some of the others and, maybe, with Dr. Wallington." When they heard of this demand for money from the rascally lawyer, Stanley and Spud were as angry as the others. "I don't believe he's entitled to a cent," came from Stanley. "We were having that snowballing contest on the college grounds, and while the highway runs through that end of the grounds, I believe Fogg passed through there at his own peril, as a lawyer might put it. If I were you, Sam, I'd put the whole case up to Dr. Wallington, and I'd remind the doctor of your former trouble with Fogg, and let him know just what sort of an underhanded rascal he is." "All right, Stanley, I'll do it," answered Sam. "I'll go to the doctor immediately after classes this afternoon. Will you go along?" "Of course, if you want me to." Four o'clock found them at the door of the doctor's study. He looked at them rather curiously as they entered. "Well, young men, what can I do for you?" he questioned pleasantly. "I've got into some trouble over that snowballing contest," answered Sam; and, sitting down, he gave the head of Brill the particulars of the occurrence, and then produced the letter received from Belright Fogg. "Hum!" mused the worthy doctor, as he knitted his eyebrows. "He must have been pretty badly hurt." "I don't think he was hurt at all, Doctor," interrupted Stanley. "I was present, and so were a number of the other students. Mr. Fogg had his hat knocked off, and that was about all. He wasn't stunned or anything like that. He talked to Sam just as rationally as I am talking to you, and all those standing around heard him. Of course, he was very angry, not only because he had been hit but because the fellow who had thrown the snowball was Sam Rover. He, of course, remembered how the Rovers foiled his plot to do them out of what was coming to them when their flying machine was wrecked on the railroad, and also how they got the best of Fogg and a company of brokers in New York City." "Yes, yes, I remember about the wrecked flying machine," returned Dr. Wallington. "I know nothing about this affair in New York." "Well, it was a very serious matter, and Fogg came pretty close to going to prison," answered Sam, and gave a few details, as already related in the volume entitled "The Rover Boys in New York." "Very interesting, Rover, very interesting indeed," murmured the head of Brill. "But even that did not excuse your hitting this man in the head with a snowball and hurting him." "There is another point I would like to mention," said Stanley. "We were having the contest on the college grounds, and Mr. Fogg was struck on the roadway where it runs through our grounds." "Ah! I see. That might make a difference. The highway is more or less of a public one, it is true, but it has never been turned over to the county authorities, so it really forms a part of our grounds still. But of one thing I wish to be sure, Rover--did you aim at Mr. Fogg, or was the snowballing unintentional?" "I didn't see him at all," answered Sam. "Some of the fellows rushed behind the bushes and I simply let drive along with a number of others. Then Fogg appeared and claimed that I had hit him in the head. I rather think he tells the truth, although I am not positive." "In that case he would have to prove that you were guilty. Besides that, if it came to a matter of law, he would have to prove actual damages, and I do not see how he could claim fifty dollars if he was not hurt more than you say. If you wish, you can leave the whole matter in my hands and I will have it investigated." "Thank you very much, Doctor Wallington," returned Sam, warmly. "This lifts a load off my mind. Of course I will pay whatever you settle on;" and so the matter was allowed to rest. A thaw had set in and the snow began to disappear rapidly from the roads and fields around Brill. There was a good deal of slush, which rendered some of the highways almost impassable, so that it was not until a week later that Sam had an opportunity to visit Hope. In the meantime, however, he had sent a nice little note to Grace in which no mention was made of the Walthams. He had looked for an answer but none had come. "Where bound, Sam?" questioned Songbird, when he saw his roommate getting ready to use his automobile. "I'm going for a run to Hope. Do you want to come along?" and Sam's eye had a twinkle in it. "You might run me around to the Sanderson place. It won't take long in the auto," returned the would-be poet. "If I can get there, I won't mind walking back this evening. I've been wanting to go for a long while, but the roads have been so poor I couldn't make it." "All right, Songbird, come ahead," was Sam's answer; and a little later found the pair on the road. It did not take long to reach the Sanderson farm, and as they entered the lane Sam tooted his horn loudly. "I've brought you a visitor, Minnie!" cried the Rover boy, as he brought the machine to a standstill. "Here is somebody I know you won't want to see, but I'm going to leave him here nevertheless," and he grinned broadly. "Oh, John!" burst out the farmer's daughter, and blushed deeply. She came forward and shook hands with both youths. "I am more than glad to see you." "I am on my way to Hope, so I won't come in," went on Sam. "How is everything, Minnie?" "Oh, about as usual," answered the girl, and then went on: "Of course you know all about what Tom did for us? It was splendid!" "You haven't heard anything more regarding the money?" "Not a thing, Sam. I thought maybe you had something to tell," and the girl turned from Sam to Songbird. "We have sent out the photographs and the description of Blackie Crowden," answered the latter. "They are going to the police in all the large cities, so if Crowden turns up at all he'll be arrested sooner or later." After a few more words Sam left the Sanderson place and headed directly for Hope. Although he would not admit it even to himself, the youngest Rover was a good deal worried. What Tom had told him concerning Grace and the Walthams had been continually in his mind, and time and again he had wondered how he should broach the subject to Grace and what the answer of the girl would be. "Of course she's got a right to go out with whom she pleases," he told himself. "But still I thought--well I thought it was all fixed between us, that's all." Sam was so occupied with his thoughts that he paid scant attention to the running of the automobile. As a consequence he went over a number of sharp stones, and a minute later there came a loud report from the rear of the machine. "A blowout! Confound the luck!" he exclaimed, as he brought the automobile to a standstill. "And just when I was in a hurry to get to Hope!" There was nothing else to do, so, stripping himself of his overcoat and donning a jumper, Sam got out, taking with him some of the tools from under the automobile seat. It was a tire on one of the rear wheels which had blown out, and this wheel he now jacked up for the purpose of putting on a new shoe and inner tube. As luck would have it, the tire that had been cut fit very tightly, so that it was all the Rover boy could do to get it off the rim. He tugged and twisted, perspiring freely, but it was some time before he could even get the injured shoe started. "If I can't get it off, what ever am I to do?" he mused. "I must be at least half a mile from even a telephone, and the nearest garage is at Ashton. At this rate I'll never get to Hope." He continued to work over the tire, at last doing his best to pound it off with a bit of iron and a hammer. Then he gave a final wrench, which brought the tire off so suddenly that Sam was sent flat on his back in the dirt and slush of the road. It was an occurrence to try anybody's patience, and Sam arose in anything but a happy frame of mind. His back was covered with mud, and a good deal of the slushy water had penetrated to his skin. "Ugh! of all the rank luck!" he muttered, as he shook himself. "If I ever get this wheel mended I'll be a fine sight to present myself at a fashionable ladies' seminary. Why in the world didn't I look where I was driving, instead of rushing right over such a prime collection of rough stones?" But finding fault with himself did not mend matters, and so, casting the cut tire aside, Sam unstrapped one of the extra shoes he carried and got out another inner tube. As if everything was to go wrong that afternoon, the new shoe proved to be as small as that which had been taken off, and as a consequence Sam had to work like a Trojan for the best part of half an hour before he finally got it into place. "And now I've got to pump it up by hand," he observed to himself, grimly, as he remembered that the power pump which had been installed on the engine was out of order and could not be used. Then he brought out the hand pump and set to work to fill the new tire with air. Sam had the tire about three-quarters pumped up and was working away as vigorously as his somewhat exhausted condition would permit when he heard a honking of an automobile horn, and the next moment a machine came in sight around a turn of the highway. The car was a large and powerful one of foreign make, and was driven by a young man stylishly dressed, in a full suit of furs, and wearing automobile goggles. Behind him were two young ladies, also wearing furs, and with veils covering their faces. "Tough luck!" sang out the young man at the wheel of the passing car, and he waved one hand pleasantly towards Sam. The youth had been bending over the hand pump, but now, as the other automobile swept by, he straightened up suddenly and stared with open eyes after the vanishing turnout. He had not recognized the young man who was running the machine, but he had recognized the two young ladies in the tonneau of the car. "Ada Waltham! And that was Grace with her!" he murmured. "And if that's so, it must have been Chester Waltham who was running the car!" CHAPTER XIV DAYS OF WAITING As Sam gazed after the vanishing automobile a pang of bitterness swept through his heart. He remembered all that his brother had told him concerning Chester Waltham, and he also remembered that Grace had never mentioned the young millionaire. "And she knew I was coming over to Hope just as soon as the roads made it safe and pleasant for automobiling," he murmured to himself. Neither of the young ladies in the tonneau of the car had looked back, so it was more than likely they had not recognized him as he was bending over the hand pump, inflating the new tire. "But maybe she saw me after all and did not want to let on," he thought dismally. "Maybe she thought I wouldn't recognize her." What to do next was a problem for the young collegian. If Grace was not at the seminary he had no desire to call there. He continued to work over the tire, and soon it was properly inflated, and he put away the tools he had used. His face was a study, for he was doing some hard thinking. "Well, I'll go to Hope anyway, and if she isn't there I'll leave my card, so she'll know I called. Then I'll see what she has to say about matters," he told himself; and setting his teeth somewhat grimly he started up the automobile and continued his trip. At the door of the seminary he was met by a maid, who brought him the information that Miss Laning was out. Then several girls who knew Sam came up, and one of them explained that Grace had gone automobiling. "She went with Ada Waltham and her brother, Chester," explained the girl student. "You see, Chester has a brand new foreign car--a beauty--and he was very anxious to give his sister and Grace a ride. We thought he might have asked some of us to go along, but he didn't," and the girl pouted slightly. "You don't suppose they were going to stop at Brill?" questioned Sam, struck by a sudden thought. "I don't think so, Mr. Rover. Ada said something about riding to Columbia and having dinner there this evening. That, you know, is quite a distance, and the road doesn't run past your college." "Then I suppose they won't be back till late?" "They had permission to stay out until ten o'clock," put in another of the girls who were present. "Oh! I see." As the girls were looking at him rather sharply, Sam felt his face begin to burn. "Well, I hope they have a good time," he added somewhat hastily. "Good-evening," and then turned and walked quickly towards his automobile; and in a minute more was on his way back to Brill. "I'll wager Grace Laning has got herself into hot water," was the comment of one of the girls, as they watched Sam's departure. "I don't believe he likes it one bit that she went off with the Walthams." "Humph! You can't expect a girl to hang back when she is asked to take a ride in a brand new automobile, and with such millionaires as Chester Waltham and his sister," broke in another girl. "I just wish I had the chance," she added rather enviously. In the meantime, Sam was driving along the country road in rather a reckless fashion. His mind was in a turmoil, and to think clearly just then seemed to be out of the question. "Of course she has a right to go out and dine with the Walthams if she wants to," he told himself. "But at the same time----" And then there came up in his mind a hundred reasons why Grace should have refused the invitation and waited for him to call upon her. "Hello! you are back early," remarked Spud, when Sam appeared at Brill. "I thought you were going to make an evening of it." "I had some bad luck on the road," replied Sam, rather sheepishly. "I had a blowout, and in trying to get the tire off I slipped and went flat on my back in the mud and slush," he continued. "Is that so? Well, that's too bad, Sam. So you came home to get cleaned up, eh? I thought your girl thought so much of you that she wouldn't care if you called even when you were mussed up," and at this little joke Spud passed on, much to the Rover boy's relief. The only occupant of Number 25 who seemed to be happy that night was Songbird, who came in whistling gaily. "Had a fine time with Minnie," he declared--"best time I ever had in my life. I tell you, Sam, she's a wonderful girl." "So she is, Songbird." "Of course, you don't think she's half as wonderful as Grace," went on the would-be poet of Brill; "but, then, that's to be expected." "How did Mr. Sanderson treat you?" broke in Sam, hastily, to shift the subject. "Oh, he treated me better than he did before." Songbird's face sobered for a minute. "To be sure he feels dreadfully sore over the loss of that four thousand dollars. But I assured him that I and the authorities were doing all in our power to get the money back, and I also assured him that if it wasn't recovered I expected to pay it back just as soon as I could earn it. Of course he thinks I am talking through my hat about earning such a big amount, but just the same I am going to do it just as soon as I graduate from Brill. I'd go to work to-morrow instead of staying here if it wasn't that I had promised my folks that I would graduate from Brill, and as near the top of my class as I could get. If I left now, my mother would be heartbroken." "Of course your folks know about the loss, Songbird?" "Yes. I wrote them the whole particulars just as soon as I could, and I've let them know what we are doing now." "Do they blame you for the loss?" "My father thinks I might have been a little more careful, but my mother says she thinks it is Mr. Sanderson's fault that he let me get such an amount of money in cash and carry it on such a lonely road. But dad is all right, and in his last letter he said he could let Mr. Sanderson have a thousand dollars if that would help matters out." "Had Mr. Sanderson heard any more from old Grisley, or Belright Fogg?" "Yes. He saw Grisley and the old man said the lawyer was boiling mad because he had agreed to let the mortgage run for another year. Fogg wouldn't accept the five dollars that old Grisley offered him for his trouble, so then Grisley would give him nothing; and there the matter stands." "He'll get something out of Grisley if he possibly can. My opinion is, since Fogg lost his job with the railroad company, and made such a fizzle of his doings in New York City, he is in bad shape financially and eager to get his hands on some money in any old way possible." "Have you settled the snowball affair with him yet?" "No. I'm going to see Dr. Wallington about it to-morrow," answered Sam. The Rover boy had rather expected some sort of a communication from Grace the next day, and he was keenly disappointed when no letter came and when she failed to call him up on the telephone. Several times he felt on the point of calling her up, but each time set his teeth hard and put it off. "It's up to her to say something--not me," he told himself. "She must know how I feel over the affair." When Sam called upon Dr. Wallington, the head of Brill met him with rather an amused smile. "I suppose you want to see me in regard to that claim of Mr. Fogg's," he said. "Yes, sir." "Well, I have had one of the professors call on the lawyer and bind him down to just exactly what happened and how badly he was hurt. It seems that he did not go to any doctor at all, although he did see a friend of his, a Doctor Slamper, on the street." "Doctor Slamper!" cried Sam. "Oh, I remember him. He's the fellow who came here with Mr. Fogg at the time we put in our claim for damages on account of the wrecked biplane." "Ah, indeed! I remember," and Dr. Wallington nodded knowingly. "And what does Mr. Fogg want us to do?" questioned Sam. "At first, as you know, he wanted fifty dollars. Then he came down to twenty-five, and at last to fifteen. Then we brought to his attention the fact that the snowballing contest had taken place on the college grounds, and that it was his own fault that he had become mixed up in the affair. This brought on quite an argument, but in the end Mr. Fogg agreed to accept six dollars, which he said would pay for three consultations with Dr. Slamper at two dollars per consultation," and the good doctor smiled rather grimly. "And did you pay the six dollars, Doctor?" "Not yet, Rover. I expected, however, to send him a check for that amount to-morrow, provided you are satisfied." "I think I'll have to be, Dr. Wallington. I suppose it's rather a cheap way out of the difficulty, although as a matter of fact I don't believe he is entitled to a cent." "You may be right, Rover. But six dollars, I take it, is not so very large a price to pay for so much fun--I mean, of course, the fun of the snowballing contest in which, so they tell me, you were the one to capture the banners of the opposition." "You're right, sir. And I'm satisfied, and you can place the amount on my bill," answered Sam; and then he bowed himself out of the doctor's office. Another day passed, and still there came no word to Sam from Hope. He was very much worried, but did his best not to show it. "Call for all baseball candidates at the gym to-morrow afternoon!" announced Bob, during the lunch hour. "I don't think I want to go in for baseball this spring," returned Sam. "I heard something of that from some of the other fellows, Sam," interrupted Bob. "It won't do. We need you and we are bound to have you." The roads were now drying up rapidly, and that afternoon Spud asked Sam if he did not want to walk to Ashton. "I've got a few things I want to get at the stores," said Spud. "Come along, the hike on the road will do you good." "All right, Spud, I'll go along, for I am tired of writing themes and studying," answered Sam. But it was not his theme and his lessons that worried the boy. Thinking about Grace, and waiting continually for some sort of word from her, had given him not only a heart ache but a headache as well. When the boys arrived at Ashton they separated for a short while, Spud to get fitted with a new pair of shoes while Sam went to another place in quest of a new cap. The Rover boy had just made his purchase, and was leaving the store to rejoin Spud when he heard some one call his name, and looking around saw Andy Royce approaching. "I just thought I'd ask you if you had heard anything about that Blackie Crowden yet," remarked the gardener from Hope, as he approached. "Not yet, Royce. But they have sent out a good description of him, along with copies of his photograph, so the authorities think they will get him sooner or later." "I've heard something that maybe you would like to know," went on Andy Royce. "I've heard that Crowden was over at Leadenfield, to a small roadhouse kept by a man named Bissette, a Frenchman." "When was this?" demanded Sam, with interest. "Either the day of the assault or the day after. Bissette didn't seem to know exactly. I happened to be there buying some potatoes for the seminary--you see Bissette is a kind of agent for some farmers of that neighborhood. I mentioned the robbery to him and spoke about the suspicion about Crowden, and he was very much surprised. He said Crowden was there for a couple of hours using the telephone, and then he left the place when somebody drove up in a cutter." "Do you mean that Crowden went off with the other person in the cutter?" "Bissette thinks so, although he ain't sure, because as soon as Crowden went out, Bissette turned to do some work inside and forgot all about him." "Did Bissette have any idea who the man in the cutter was?" "He wasn't sure about that either, but he kind of thought it was a lawyer who used to work for the railroad company--a man named Fogg." CHAPTER XV BASEBALL TALK "Fogg!" cried Sam, in astonishment. "Do you mean Belright Fogg?" "That's the man--the fellow who used to do the legal work for the railroad here." "Was this Bissette sure it was Fogg?" "No, he wasn't sure, because he didn't pay very much attention. But he said if it wasn't this Fogg, it was some one who looked very much like him," answered Andy Royce. This was all he could tell Sam of importance, and the Rover boy went off, to rejoin his chum in a very thoughtful mood. "That's rather a queer state of affairs," was Spud's comment, when told of the matter. "If Fogg met this Blackie Crowden, what do you suppose it was for?" "I haven't the least idea, Spud." "Do you think he was mixed up in this robbery?" "No, I can't say that. The assault was committed by one man, and so far they haven't been able to find any accomplices." When Sam returned to Brill he at once sought out Songbird and told him of what he had heard. The would-be poet of Brill was even more surprised than Spud had been. "I wouldn't put it above Belright Fogg to be in with a rascal like Blackie Crowden," was Songbird's comment. "He did his best against you in that flying machine affair and in that affair in New York City." "I've got an idea," said Sam, after a slight pause. "I am to pay him six dollars' damages for hitting him in the head with that snowball. Doctor Wallington was going to send him a check. I've got a good notion to ask the doctor to let me pay the bill and get Fogg's receipt for it. That will give me a chance to pump him about this matter." "Do it, Sam! And I'll go along," burst out his chum, quickly. "If this Belright Fogg knows Blackie Crowden I want to know it." Permission was readily granted by the head of Brill to Sam to pay the bill, and that evening the Rover boy and Songbird took the former's automobile and rode over to where Belright Fogg boarded, on the outskirts of Ashton. They found the lawyer just preparing to go out, and he showed that he was very much surprised to see them. "I suppose you are here to pay that bill you owe me," he said stiffly to Sam. "I am, Mr. Fogg," was the answer. "I believe you agreed to accept six dollars. If you will make out a receipt for the amount I will give you Doctor Wallington's check." "Humph! isn't the check receipt enough?" demanded the lawyer. "Perhaps. But I would prefer to have a receipt showing exactly what the money is being paid for," answered Sam. "As a lawyer you must know it is best to have these things straight." "Oh, very well. Come in and I'll write out your receipt for you," announced Belright Fogg, coldly, and ushered the pair into a sitting-room. Sam had asked Songbird to say nothing about Blackie Crowden until the matter of the snowball injury was settled. A receipt for the money was quickly penned by Belright Fogg. "There, I presume that will be satisfactory," he said, as he showed it to Sam. "That's all right, Mr. Fogg," was the answer. "And here is your check." Sam paused for a moment while the lawyer looked the check over. "By the way, Mr. Fogg, I understand you were in Leadenfield a few days ago at the tavern kept by Bissette." "What's that?" shot out the lawyer, somewhat startled. "I said that I understood that you were in Leadenfield a few days ago at the tavern kept by Bissette." "And that you met a man there named Blackie Crowden," broke in Songbird, quickly. "I--I was in Leadenfield some days ago on business," answered Belright Fogg, hesitatingly, "but I wasn't at the Bissette place, or anywhere near it." "But you met a man named Blackie Crowden?" queried Sam. The lawyer glared at the Rover boy and also at Songbird. "Blackie Crowden? I don't know such an individual--at least, not by name." "He is a fellow who used to work in Hoover's livery stable in Center Haven--a man who stutters greatly." "Don't know the fellow," was the prompt response. "You mean to say you didn't meet Blackie Crowden at Bissette's?" cried Songbird. "Look here, young man, what are you driving at?" stormed Belright Fogg, in a sudden temper. "You've no right to question me in this manner. What is it all about?" "We have it on good authority that you met this man, Blackie Crowden, outside of Bissette's place," answered Sam, stoutly. "Who is this man you mention?" "Being a lawyer and interested in public affairs, you ought to know that, Mr. Fogg," answered Songbird. "He is the man who, we think, knocked me down and robbed me of Mr. Sanderson's four thousand dollars." "Ah! I--I remember now. And so you are trying to connect me up with that rascal, are you? What do you mean by that?" "Never mind what we mean," declared the would-be poet of Brill, stoutly. "I want to get at the facts in this matter. If you say you didn't meet Crowden, all right, we'll let it go at that. But there are others who say you did meet him." "It's false--absolutely false!" roared Fogg, but as he spoke his face paled greatly. "I--I don't know this fellow, Crowden--never met him in my life. This is all a put-up job on your part to make trouble for me," and he glared savagely at both Songbird and Sam. "It's no put-up job, Mr. Fogg. We intend to get at the bottom of this sooner or later," answered Sam, as calmly as he could. "Come on, Songbird." "See here! you're not going to leave this house until I know just what you are driving at," roared the lawyer. "I won't have you besmirching my fair name!" "Your fair name!" returned Sam, sarcastically. "There is no necessity for you to talk that way, Mr. Fogg. I know you thoroughly. If you want to rake up the past you can do it, but I advise you not to do so." "I--I----" began the lawyer, and then stopped, not knowing how to proceed. "We might as well go," broke in Songbird. "But perhaps, Mr. Fogg, you haven't heard the end of this," added the would-be poet of Brill; and though the lawyer continued to storm and argue, the two chums left the house and were soon on the return to Brill. "I'm afraid we didn't gain anything by that move," was Sam's comment, as they rode along. "He'll be on his guard now, and that will make it harder than ever to connect him with this affair--provided he really is mixed up in it." "He acted pretty startled when we put it up to him," returned Songbird. He heaved a deep sigh. "Well, maybe some day this matter will be cleared up, but it doesn't look like it now." Several days passed, and Sam stuck to his lessons as hard as ever. Once or twice he thought of calling up Grace at Hope or of writing her a note, but each time he put it off, why, he could not exactly explain even to himself. But then came a rift in the clouds and the sun shone as brightly as ever. A note came from Grace, which he read with much satisfaction. A part of the communication ran as follows: "I was thinking all manner of mean things about you because you did not answer my note of last week, when--what do you think? The note came back to me, brought in by one of the smaller girls here, Jessie Brown. Jessie was going to town that day, and I gave her the note to post and she put it in the pocket of her coat, along with several other letters, so she says. Well, the pocket had a hole in it, and, as you might know, my own particular letter had to slip through that hole into the lining of the coat. The rest of the letters were mailed, but my letter remained in the lining until this morning, when Jessie came to me with tears in her eyes to tell of what had happened. I felt pretty angry over it, but glad to know that you were not guilty of having received the note and then not answering it. "In the note I told you how sorry I was to find that you had called here while I was away. You see, Ada Waltham's brother, Chester, came on in his new automobile--a big foreign affair, very splendid. He wanted to give Ada a ride, and invited me to go along, so I went, and we had a very nice time. Chester is an expert auto driver, and the way we flew along over the roads was certainly marvelous. He insisted upon it that we dine with him. And, oh, Sam! such a spread as it was! "You know he is a millionaire in his own right (Ada has a great lot of money too). We certainly had one grand time, and I shall never forget it. He got a beautiful bouquet for the table, and also bouquets for Ada and me to take home, along with boxes of the most beautiful chocolates I ever ate. But just the same, I am awfully sorry I wasn't at the seminary when you called, and I don't understand why you haven't been up since, or why you didn't telephone to me. "One of the girls here says they are organizing the Brill baseball nine for the coming season, and that they want you to play as you did last year. If you do join the nine, I hope you have the same success or more. And you can rest assured that I will be on the grandstand to offer you all the encouragement possible. I hope that Dick and Tom come on to see the game and bring Dora and Nellie along, and then we can have the nicest kind of a jolly party. Ada Waltham, as you may know, loves baseball games too, and she says that she is going to have Chester here at that time to take her over to Brill, unless somebody else turns up to accompany her." "All right, as far as it goes," mused Sam, on reading this note. "But I wish Chester Waltham would stay away. Of course I can't blame Grace for liking a ride in a big, foreign car and being invited out to such a first-class spread as she mentions, but, just the same, I wish she wouldn't go with him." However, the communication brightened his thoughts considerably, and it was only a little while later when he talked to the girl over the telephone and made an arrangement for a ride in the automobile on the following Saturday afternoon, Songbird and Minnie to accompany them. The four went off to Center Haven, where Sam spread himself on a dinner which was certainly all that could be desired. Grace was in one of her most winning moods, and when the young couple parted the cloud that had hovered over them seemed to be completely dispelled. As winter waned and the grass on the campus took on a greener hue, baseball matters came once more to the fore at Brill. Bob Grimes, who played at shortstop, was again the captain of the team, and it was generally understood that Spud Jackson would again occupy the position of catcher. "We're going to miss Tom Rover a good deal this year," said Bob to some of the others. During the year past Tom had been the candidate for head twirler against both Bill Harney and Dare Phelps and had shown that he was the superior of both of the others. "Well, you haven't got Tom Rover, so you've got to make the best of it," answered Stanley. "Phelps has been doing pretty well, I understand, so you might as well give him a chance." "Yes, I thought I'd do that," answered the team captain. "Harney isn't in it at all, and doesn't want even to try. I'll give Phelps a chance and also Jack Dudley." Dudley was a sophomore whose swift pitching had become the general talk of the college. He, however, was rather erratic, and liable to go to pieces in a crisis. As my old readers know, Sam had joined the team the year before only after considerable coaxing, and then merely as a substitute. During the middle of the great game he had been assigned to left field in place of a player who had twisted his foot. In that position he had caught a fly in a thoroughly marvelous manner, and he had also managed, when at the bat, to bring in a home run. "We've simply got to have you on the team, Sam," said the captain, a little later, when he caught the Rover boy in one of the corridors. "Your hanging back this year is rather hurting our chances of winning." "But, Bob, I want to pay attention to my lessons," pleaded Sam. "I can't afford to get behind." "You'll not get behind," was the answer. "Aren't we all striving to graduate? You ought to be willing to do as much as Spud and myself." "All right, then, Bob, if you are going to put it that way," was the answer, and thereupon Sam allowed his name to go on the list of prospective players and at once began training. After that matters moved along swiftly. The committee from Brill met with the committee from Roxley and arrangements were perfected for the coming game. As the contest had taken place the year previous at Roxley, it was, of course, decided that the game this year should be played at Brill. Then men were set at work to place the diamond in the best possible shape for the contest, and the grandstand was repaired, and a new set of bleachers put up to accommodate a larger crowd than ever. "This is a baseball year," announced Bob Grimes, "so we can expect a big rush of visitors." The nine had already won three games of minor importance. "They tell me Roxley has got the best team it ever put in the field," announced Stanley one day, after he had been over to the other institution. "They've got three dandy pitchers, and two outfielders who are crackerjacks at batting. One of their men told me that they expected to walk all over us." "Well, we'll see about that," returned Bob Grimes. "We've got a good team of our own, and I know every one of us will try to play his head off to win." CHAPTER XVI THE OPENING OF THE BALL GAME The day for the great baseball game between Brill and Roxley dawned clear and bright. Sam had received word that both of his brothers with their wives would be on, reaching Ashton early in the morning. He drove down to the depot in his automobile to meet the newcomers. When the train rolled into the station Dick Rover, as tall and handsome as ever, was the first to alight, quickly followed by his wife, Dora. Then came Tom and Nellie. "Hello, Sam, my boy!" exclaimed Dick, as he strode up and shook hands, quickly followed by his wife. "How are you these days? But it is needless to ask, for you look the picture of health." "Oh, I'm feeling fine," answered Sam, smiling broadly. "Ready to play winning baseball, I presume," came from Dora, as she gave him a warm smile. "Surest thing you know, Dora," he answered. "Oh, we've got to win from Roxley to-day!" "Yes, but you haven't got me to pitch for you to-day, Sam," broke in Tom, as he came up and shook hands. "Who is going to do the twirling for Brill?" "They are going to try Dare Phelps first, and if he can't make it, they will try Jack Dudley, one of the sophs." "Oh, yes, I remember Dudley when he was a freshman," answered Tom. "Pretty clever fellow, too." "How is it you didn't bring Grace with you, Sam?" questioned Nellie, as she took his hand. "I'm to take you two girls up to Hope after I leave Tom and Dick at Brill," explained the youngest Rover. "Then we are to get all of you girls directly after lunch. Grace wanted it that way." "My! but this is a touch of old times," remarked Dick, as he climbed into the automobile. "Let me take the wheel, Sam." "Certainly, if you want to," was the quick reply, and a few minutes later, with the oldest Rover running the machine, the whole party set off for Brill. "How are matters going in New York, Dick?" questioned Sam, while they rode along. "We are doing quite well, Sam. Of course, we are having a little difficulty in certain directions, but that is to be expected. You must remember in Wall Street the rivalries are very keen. I suppose some of our competitors would like to put us out of business." "What about that tour Tom mentioned?" "I think we can make it, Sam. I'll know more about it a little later. There is no hurry, you know, because you've got to graduate first," and Dick smiled knowingly at his brother. Songbird and some of the other collegians were waiting to welcome Dick and Tom, and as soon as they had left the automobile Sam continued on the way to Hope. "Oh! I'm so glad to see you!" cried Grace, as she rushed out and kissed her sister and her cousin. "Come right in. We are going to have a special lunch in your honor. Sam, I'm sorry I can't invite you, but you know what the rules are." "Never mind. Tom will be on hand at one-thirty promptly," answered the youth. "I hope you'll all be ready, for we can't delay, you know." "We'll be ready, don't fear," answered Grace. When Sam returned to Brill he found a crowd of the seniors surrounding his brothers, telling them of the many things that had happened in and around the college since they had left. "It's a jolly shame we can't have you in the box to-day, Tom," said Bob Grimes. "I'm afraid we'll need you sorely," he added rather anxiously. "Why don't you put William Philander Tubbs in?" suggested Tom, with a grin. "Don't you remember what a famous ball player he was?" And then there was a general laugh, at the recollection of a joke that had once been played on the dudish college student. The air was filled with talk of the coming game, and but scant attention was paid to the lunch provided for the collegians and their guests. As soon as the meal was over, Tom took the Rover's automobile and started for Hope to bring Grace and the others. When he arrived there he found his wife, Dora and Grace talking to Ada Waltham and her brother Chester, to whom he was introduced. "We are going over to the game," announced Chester Waltham. "Ada and I are going to take half a dozen of the young ladies." "Fine!" returned Tom. "The more the merrier! Don't forget to tell the girls to whoop her up for Brill." "I think the most of them will do that," said Ada Waltham; "although one or two of them are Roxley sympathizers." "Well, Brill can't have everything its own way," answered Tom. A few minutes later he was on the return with Grace, Nellie and Dora. When he arrived he found Sam awaiting them, and all walked down to the grandstand, where seats had been provided for the party. Grace and the others had just been made comfortable when Chester Waltham arrived with his sister and a number of others. The young millionaire came forward with a broad smile and was quickly introduced, and he lost no time in seating his sister next to Grace, while he sat directly behind the pair, with all the other girls he had brought close by. This arrangement did not altogether suit Sam, and he hurried off to the dressing-room to get into his baseball uniform in rather a doubtful frame of mind. A little later there was a grand shouting at the entrance to the field, and into sight came a large automobile truck containing a drum and fife corps and carrying a large Roxley banner. The truck was followed by a dozen or more automobiles containing the Roxley team and their fellow-students. The students had tin horns and wooden rattles. "Zip! Hurrah! Roxley!" was the cry, and then followed a great noise from the horns and rattles. "Brill! Brill! Brill!" was the counter cry, and then the furious din was taken up by the other side. After that the grandstand filled up rapidly and so did the bleachers, until there was not an available seat remaining. In the meanwhile, a parking place for automobiles and carriages at the far end of the field was also well patronized. "Some crowd, and no mistake!" was Stanley's comment, as he looked at the masses of humanity waving flags and banners and tooting their horns and using various other devices for making noise. "This is by far the biggest crowd we have ever had." "Roxley has sent word all around that they are going to bury us this year," returned another student standing by. "They claim they have a team that can't be beaten." Down in the dressing-room Bob was giving some final instructions to his men. "I want you to play from the word 'go,'" he said. "Sometimes a game is lost or won in the first inning. Don't let them get any kind of a lead if you can possibly help it." It had been decided almost at the last minute that instead of covering left field Sam should cover third base. There was a big cheer for the Roxley team when it made its appearance on the field, and another cheer when the Brill nine showed itself. Then came the toss-up, and it was decided that Brill should go to the bat first. The first man to the bat was a tall fellow who played center field, and as he came forward many of the Brill sympathizers cheered him lustily. "Now show 'em what you can do!" "Knock it over the back fence!" The ball came in and the batter swung for it and missed it. "Strike one!" "That's the way to do it, Muggs!" Again the ball came in, and this time there was a foul tip. "Foul! Strike two!" Following this second strike came two balls, over which the Brill contingent cheered. Then came a swift inshoot, which the batter missed by the fraction of an inch. "Strike three! Batter out!" sang out the umpire. "That's the way to do it, Muggs!" came the yell from the Roxley cohorts, and there followed a din of horns and rattles. The second man up for Brill managed to get to first, but the next one went out on a pop fly, and then the man on first was caught trying to steal to second. "That's the way to do it, Roxley! Keep it up!" And as a goose egg was put up for Brill on the score board the opponents cheered as wildly as ever. But if Roxley had hoped to score in that first inning, her expectations were doomed to disappointment. The first man up went out on a pop fly, the second on a foul, and although the third managed to reach second base on what should have really been a one-base hit, the fourth man up knocked an easy one to first which ended their hopes. It was not until the second inning that Sam came to the bat. There were two men out when he grasped the ashen stick and took his stand beside the home plate. He had a strike and two balls called on him, and then sent a clean hit between first and second bases. "Run, Sam, run!" yelled Dick. "Leg it, old man, leg it!" added Tom, and the youngest Rover certainly did speed for first, arriving there just a second before the ball. "Oh, if only he can get in!" cried Grace, clapping her hands. "It's a long way around to home plate," put in Chester Waltham. "He's got to have help to do it." A moment later the next man to the bat knocked an easy fly to second and that ended the chances for Sam's scoring, and another goose egg went up for Brill on the score board. In the end of the second inning Roxley was fortunate enough to open the play with a neat drive which brought the batter to second. Then came another one-base hit, and amid a wild yelling the runner from second slid in over the home plate. "Hurrah! Hurrah! A run for Roxley!" "That's the way to do it! Keep it up! Snow Brill under!" Bob Grimes walked up to Dare Phelps, who was occupying the pitcher's box. "Take it easy, Dare," he pleaded. "Don't let 'em rattle you." "They are not going to rattle me," responded Dare Phelps, and pitched the next batter out in one-two-three order. In the meantime, however, the man on first managed to steal second. A moment later he tried to reach third. The pitcher threw the ball to Sam, who leaped up into the air and caught it, coming down on the runner while he was still a foot from the bag. "Runner out!" cried the umpire, and Roxley's player arose rather crestfallen and limped off to the benches. "That's the way to do it, Sam. Nab 'em every time!" cried Tom. When the inning was ended Roxley had only the one run to its credit. Brill came to the bat for the third time with a sort of do-or-die look on the faces of the players. It was plucky little Spud who started a batting streak, getting safely to first and followed by another player who managed to reach second, landing Spud on third. Then came two outs. Before the inning was ended, however, two runs were placed on the board to the credit of Brill. "Two to one in favor of Brill!" cried one of the students. "Just wait, this inning isn't over yet!" cried one of the Roxley sympathizers. Then Roxley went to the bat, and because of a bad fumble on the part of the Brill second baseman, they managed to secure another run. "Two to two!" was the cry, as the figures went up on the big score board. "Anybody's game, so far," said Dick Rover, soberly, "but I do hope Brill wins." "And so do I," answered his brother Tom. CHAPTER XVII HOW THE GAME ENDED In the fourth inning Brill did its best to get in another run. There were two one-base hits made, but these were followed by a strike-out and two pop flies, so the hits availed nothing. "Such playing as that isn't helping us any," was Dick's remark in a low tone to Tom. "Well, those first two men up managed to find the ball," returned Tom, hopefully. But if Brill had not fared well in that inning, Roxley did no better, so far as bringing in runs were concerned. But the Roxley batters found Phelps quite easily, pounding out numerous fouls. "The score is two to two," remarked Chester Waltham, when the Brill team came up to the bat in the fifth inning. In this, with one man out, Sam managed to send a neat drive directly past the Roxley shortstop. He gained first with ease, and then, taking a desperate chance, slid safely to second. "Good work, Rover! Keep it up!" came from one of his chums. "That won't do him any good. They can't bring it in," called out a Roxley sympathizer, and he proved to be a true prophet, for the inning came to an end with no additional runs, Sam getting no chance to advance beyond the second bag. "Now, then, Phelps, keep cool," admonished Bob, when in the second half of the fifth inning the Brill pitcher passed the first batter on balls. "All right, I'll do my best," answered Dare Phelps. "But I must confess my arm is beginning to hurt me," he added. "Do you want to drop out?" questioned the captain, quickly. "Oh, no, not until they hit me more than they have," responded the Brill pitcher, grimly. There followed one out, but after that came some free hitting which brought in two runs. "Hurrah! Hurrah!" shouted the Roxley students. "Two to four in favor of Roxley! That's the way to do it! Snow 'em under!" "Steady, Phelps, steady," warned the Brill captain. But it was of no avail, and the only way Brill could bring that inning to a finish was by the clever work of two of the fielders in capturing two flies which looked as if they might be home runs. When the board showed the score of 2 to 4 Roxley went wild once more, while the followers of Brill looked correspondingly glum. "Maybe you had better give Jack Dudley a chance," suggested Bob to Dare Phelps, when the two walked into the benches. "Oh, let me try it just once more!" pleaded the pitcher. "Anybody might have let in those two runs." "All right, Phelps, I'll give you one more chance," answered Bob, somewhat sharply. "You know we don't want this game to go to Roxley if we can possibly help it." In the sixth inning Brill scored another goose egg. Then Roxley came once more to the bat, and on the first ball pitched by Phelps scored a home run, amid a yelling and cheering that could be heard for a great distance. "Whoop! That's the way to do it! Five to two in favor of Roxley!" "Keep it up, boys! Snow 'em under! Snow 'em under!" And then the Roxley crowd began a song, the refrain of which was: "We're here to-day to bury them!" The cheering was still at its height when Bob motioned to Jack Dudley, who had been warming up in a corner of the field, to come forward and take Dare Phelps' place. There was a cheer from Brill for the new pitcher, while Phelps retired rather crestfallen. "Now, then, Dudley, put 'em out in one-two-three order!" was the cry. "We've killed off one pitcher; now kill off the next!" came the cry from the Roxleyites. "Take it easy, Dudley," warned Bob. "Give 'em your inshoot and that new fadeaway." "I'll give 'em all that is in me," returned Jack Dudley, with a determined look on his lean, and somewhat angular, face. The first man up got two balls and two strikes. Then came a foul tip, followed by another strike. "Strike three! Batter out!" called the umpire. "Hurrah! That's the way to do it, Dudley!" The next man managed to get to first, but then came two more outs, and the sixth inning came to a close with the score still standing, Brill 2--Roxley 5. "That's some lead," remarked Chester Waltham. "Brill has got to get busy pretty quickly if it expects to win this game." "Oh, we'll get there, don't you worry," answered Tom, quickly, and then he shouted: "Go to it, fellows; go to it! Lambast the life out of that leather!" and at this cry there was a general laugh. The seventh inning proved a blank for both teams. Brill, however, managed to reach second, while Roxley was pitched out in one-two-three order by Dudley. "Well, Dudley held them down that time," remarked Dick Rover. "I hope he manages to keep the good work up." "Yes, but a pitcher can't win a ball game alone," answered Chester Waltham. "You've got to have some good batters." "Go to it, Brill! Go to it! This is your lucky inning!" yelled Tom, enthusiastically. "Get busy, everybody!" In the eighth inning the first man up for Brill went out on a pop fly. But then came a fine hit that took the next player safely to second. Then Sam walked to the plate. "That's the way to do it, Brill!" "Now, Rover, hit it for all you are worth!" It must be confessed that Sam felt a trifle nervous, so anxious was he to make some sort of a showing. He swung his ashen stick at the first ball pitched. "Strike one!" came from the umpire. "Take your time, Sam!" yelled Tom. "Make him give it to you where you want it!" Whether Sam heard the cry or not it would be hard to say, but he let the next ball go by, and then repeated this action. "Ball two!" called the umpire. "Oh, say! That was all right!" grumbled the Roxley catcher. "What do you want?" "Too far out," returned the umpire sharply, and then added: "Play ball!" The next one was a straight drive, and Sam swung at it with all the strength and skill he possessed. Crack! The ashen stick hit the leather, and the sphere went sailing far down into center field. "Go it, Rover, go it!" "Come on in, Orben!" Paul Orben, who had been the player to reach second, was already streaking up to third, and by the time Sam reached first Paul was legging it for the home plate. "Throw that ball up here! Throw that ball up!" yelled the second baseman to the center fielder, who was still chasing after the bouncing leather. Then amid a cloud of dust Paul slid in over the home plate while Sam, having reached second, was legging it rapidly for third. Up came the ball from the field to second, and then to third, but before it got there the youngest Rover was safely clutching the bag. "Whoop! Hurrah! That's the way to do it! One run in and another on the way." "Keep it up, Brill! You've struck your winning streak!" "Oh, dear! I do hope Sam can bring that run in!" came from Grace. "It might have been a home run if he had only run a little faster," remarked Chester Waltham. "Faster!" retorted Tom, quickly. "Why, he legged it like greased lightning! Most players would have gotten only two bags out of that hit." Following this batting came another out, but then the next man up managed to reach first, and amid a wild cheering on the part of the Brillites, and a loud tooting of horns, Sam rushed over the home plate. "Hurrah! Hurrah! Another run!" "That makes the score four to five!" "Keep up the good work, Brill!" But that was the end of the run getting for the time being. Then Roxley came to the bat, and amid the most intense feeling Jack Dudley managed to pitch out three men in succession and the score went up on the board: Brill 4--Roxley 5. "Now, fellows, this is our last chance," said Bob, as the team came in for the ninth inning. "Remember, one run will tie the score and two runs may win the game. Now every man up on the job." The first batter for Brill in the ninth inning was plainly nervous. He let two good balls go by and thereby had two strikes called on him. Then he made a wild pass at the next ball, knocking a short foul which the first baseman for Roxley gathered in by a sensational running leap. "One man gone! One man gone!" chanted the Roxley followers. "Now, then, get the other two." "Take your time, boys, take your time," cried Bob. "Make them give you just what you want." This advice was heeded, and as a result the next man got to first and on another one-base hit managed to reach third. Then came a one-bag drive that brought in a run and took the man on first to second. "Hurrah! Hurrah! That ties the score!" "Keep it up, Brill! Bring in all the runs you can!" Following the bringing in of the tying run, there came some field play between the pitcher and the basemen, and as a result the man who had reached first was called out trying to steal second. In the mean time the other runner tried to steal home, but had to stay on third. "Be careful, boys, be careful," pleaded Bob, and then a few seconds later came another base hit which brought in another run. "Good! Good! That's the way to do it, Brill!" "That makes the score six to five in favor of Brill!" "Bring in half a dozen more while you are at it!" "Hold them down. Don't let them get another run," pleaded the captain of Roxley's nine to his men. "We're going to make a dozen more," announced Tom Rover, gaily. But this was not to be, and a few minutes later the inning came to an end with the score standing: Brill 6--Roxley 5. "Now, then, Roxley, one run to tie the score and two to win the game!" was the cry from the visitors. "Lam out a couple of homers!" "Show 'em where the back fence is!" In that ninth inning Roxley came to the bat with a "do-or-die" look. "Now watch yourself, Dudley," whispered Bob to the pitcher. "Don't let them rattle you." "They are not going to rattle me," answered Dudley. Yet it was plainly to be seen that the sophomore was nervous, and that the strain of the situation was beginning to tell upon him. Nevertheless, amid a wild cheering on the part of Brill, he struck out the first man up. "That's the way to do it, Brill!" "It's all over but the shouting!" shrieked one Brill sympathizer. "Not much! Here is where we make half a dozen runs!" yelled a Roxleyite. The next batter up was a notoriously hard hitter. Dudley was afraid to give him something easy, and as a consequence the pitcher had four balls called on him and the batter went to first. Then came a drive to center field which took the man on first to second, while the batter reached first with ease. "That's the way to do it, Roxley! Now you've got 'em going!" With only one man out and two men on bases, Jack Dudley was more nervous than ever. Yet Bob did not have the heart to take him out of the box, and, besides, he had no pitcher on hand who was any better. "Hold 'em down, Dudley! Hold 'em down!" pleaded the captain. "Don't feed 'em any easy ones." And the pitcher nodded grimly, being too nervous to even answer. A ball was called and then a strike. Then Dudley fed the batter a straight one. Crack! The ashen stick met the sphere and sent it along just inside the third base line. "Run! Everybody run!" was the yell from the Roxley contingent, and while the batter dropped his stick and sped toward first, the man on that bag legged it for second and the man on second rushed madly toward third. For one brief instant it looked as if one, and possibly two, runs would be scored. But then, Sam, playing a little off third, made a wild leap into the air and pulled down the ball. Next, like a flash, he tagged the man sliding in toward the third bag. [Illustration: SAM MADE A WILD LEAP INTO THE AIR AND PULLED DOWN THE BALL.] "Batter out! Runner out!" announced the umpire. "Hurrah! Hurrah! Brill wins the game!" "Say! that was a dandy catch by Rover, wasn't it?" "Yes. And how neatly he put that runner out, too!" And then as the score, Brill 6--Roxley 5, was placed on the big board a wild yelling, tooting of horns, and sounding of rattles rent the air. Once more Brill had vanquished its old opponent. And everybody said that Sam Rover was the hero of the occasion. CHAPTER XVIII GOOD-BYE TO BRILL The celebration at Brill that evening was one long to be remembered. Bonfires blazed along the river front, and the students marched around them, and around the campus and the college buildings, singing songs and having a good time generally. The others had insisted that the Rovers take part in these festivities, and so the boys had taken the girls to Hope, where Dora and Nellie were to remain until the next day. "I must say I am mighty glad I came," said Dick to his brothers, as he surveyed the shouting and marching students. "This certainly takes me back to the days when I was here." "I'm going in for some fun," announced Tom, and was soon in the midst of the activities. The students played jokes on William Philander Tubbs, old Filbury, and on a number of others, and the fun-loving Rover helped them all he could. An attempt was also made to get the captured banners of the freshmen and sophomores from Sam's room, but this failed. "The boys are rather noisy to-night," said one of the professors to Dr. Wallington. "I agree with you, sir," returned the head of Brill, "but then they have something to be noisy about. Their victory was certainly well earned," and the doctor smiled indulgently. Many had come forward to congratulate Sam on his fine work in putting through a double play unassisted in the last inning. "It saved the day for Brill," announced Stanley, and many agreed with him. The great game had taken place on Saturday afternoon, so, as the next day was Sunday, Sam could do as he pleased. The Rovers had an early breakfast, and then lost no time in riding over to the seminary, where they found the others waiting for them. "Oh, Sam, your playing was simply wonderful!" declared Grace, as she beamed on him. "How you ever caught that fly in the last inning is beyond me." "Yes, and what do you think?" put in Grace's sister. "Mr. Waltham said he thought it was quite an ordinary play--that any good, all-around player could have done what Sam did!" "Maybe he was a bit jealous of Sam," was Dora's comment, and as she spoke she looked rather keenly at Grace, who, of a sudden, blushed deeply. "I suppose Waltham brought his sister and those girls back here last evening," said Sam. "Oh, yes," answered Nellie, "and they insisted that we join them in a little treat. Mr. Waltham drove down to Ashton for some ice cream, fancy crackers and candy, and we had quite a spread under the trees. It certainly was very nice of him to do it." "I suppose he's got so much money he doesn't know what to do with it," was Dick's comment. "He was asking me about that tour that we propose taking this summer," said Dora. "He added that he and his sister and maybe others were going to take a tour in his new car, but he hadn't decided on where they were going, and he thought it might be rather jolly if he joined our touring party." "Humph! I don't see----" began Sam, and then broke off suddenly. "It would be lovely to have Ada along," said Grace. "She is a splendid girl, and we've become quite chummy since Nellie and Dora went away." "Well, we haven't any time to settle about that tour just now," announced Dick. "Our train leaves in a couple of hours and you girls have got to pack up before we start for the Ashton depot." The mention of Chester Waltham, along with the fact that he might join them on their proposed automobile tour, put rather a damper on Sam's feelings. He acted very soberly, and his remarks to Grace were not half as cordial as they usually were. Evidently Sam's "nose was out of joint," although he was not willing to admit it, even to himself. All drove down to the Ashton depot, and there Sam and Grace said good-bye to the others, who were going on to the home farm at Valley Brook and then to New York City. On the return to the seminary Sam had hoped to have a long talk and an understanding with Grace, but unfortunately two girls turned up who wished to get back to Hope, and there was nothing for the Rover boy to do but to invite them to ride along, so that the confidential talk between them had to be abandoned. After the great ball game matters quieted down at Brill. All of the seniors were hard at work getting ready for the final examinations, which would start on the week following. "If you make as good a showing in the examinations as you made on the ball field, you sure will prove a winner," declared Bob to Sam one day. "Well, I'm going to do my level best, Bob," was the reply. "You see, neither Dick nor Tom had a chance to graduate, so I've got to make a showing for the entire family." During those days nothing further had been heard regarding Blackie Crowden or the missing money. Sam and Songbird had met Belright Fogg once on the streets of Ashton, but the lawyer had marched past without deigning to speak to them. "He's a foxy customer," was the comment of the would-be poet of Brill. "If he had anything to do with Blackie Crowden, he'll try his level best to keep it to himself." At last the examinations began. They were to continue for the best part of two weeks, and during that time Sam cut out all sports and confined himself to his studies with greater diligence than ever. He had several important papers to hand in, and he worked over these early and late, rewriting and polishing until there seemed to be absolutely nothing more that could be done. Songbird also was busy, for in addition to his studies and themes he had been asked by the class to write a poem in honor of the coming occasion. "I only wish I could write something that would bring in some cash," remarked the would-be poet one afternoon. Although he had not apprised Sam of that fact, Songbird had copied off several of his best poems and sent them to various publishers, hoping that they might prove acceptable and bring in some money which he might turn over to Mr. Sanderson as an evidence of what he hoped to do in the future. So far, however, he had not heard from any of the poems but one, which had been promptly returned. At last came the day when the examinations ended. All the themes written by the students had been handed in, and Sam found himself free to do as he pleased. He at once sought Grace by means of the telephone, hoping to get her to take an automobile ride with him. "I am sorry," she answered over the wire, "but I have still another examination to take and a theme to finish, so I don't dare to think of going out." "How have you made out so far?" questioned the youth. "I don't know, Sam. Sometimes I think I have done very well, and then again I am afraid that I missed a great many things. How did you make out?" "Oh, I think I'll pass, but how high up I don't know. I am hoping for great things, but I may be mistaken." And there the conversation had to come to an abrupt end, for a professor came in to use the Brill telephone. It must be confessed that Sam slept rather uneasily on the night before the morning on which the announcement concerning each student's standing was to be made. "I'm scared to death," came from Spud. "I missed a whole lot of questions." "So did I," put in Paul. "And I boned hard too," he added dismally. Finally came the announcement. Out of a class of sixty-five seniors, sixty-two had passed. Sam's name was at the head of the list with a percentage of ninety-seven; Songbird came fourth with a percentage of ninety-three; Spud had ninety-one, and Stanley the same; while Paul, William Philander Tubbs and a number of others were listed at from eighty to eighty-eight per cent. "Sam, allow me to congratulate you!" cried Songbird, as he came up to wring his friend's hand. "You certainly made a splendid showing." "You made a pretty good showing yourself," answered Sam, his face beaming. "Your folks will be mighty glad to hear of this," went on the would-be poet of Brill. "Why don't you telegraph to them?" "Just what I'm going to do," answered the Rover boy. "And I'm going to telephone to Hope, too," he added. "That's the talk. I wish I could telephone over to the Sandersons." "Never mind, Songbird, I'll drive you over there when I drive to the seminary," replied Sam. The days to follow were delightful ones for Sam. True to his promise, he took Songbird over to the Sanderson homestead and then visited Grace. The girl had passed third from the top of her class and was correspondingly delighted. "We had such dreadfully hard questions I thought I should never get through," she confessed to the youth when they were alone. "And you came out on top, Sam. Oh, it's wonderful--simply wonderful!" and she caught both his hands. "Well, I'm glad--glad for myself and glad for you, Grace," he answered, and looked her full in the eyes. She looked at him in return and blushed prettily. "Oh, Mr. Rover, allow me to congratulate you," came from somebody near by, and Ada Waltham came tripping up. "Grace told me all about your wonderful showing." "Ada made a splendid showing herself," answered Grace, before Sam could speak. "I was one point behind Grace," answered the rich girl, "and that certainly was wonderful for me. I never was very keen about studying--in fact, I didn't want to go to college, only I had to do it if I wanted to inherit the money that my uncle left me." "Oh, Sam! and to think our days of studying are over at last!" burst out Grace. "I can scarcely believe it." "I can't believe it myself, Grace," he answered. "It seems to me I've been going to school all my life. Just think of the years and years I put in at Putnam Hall Military Academy before I came to Brill!" "Yes, and to think of the years I put in at the Cedarville school before I came to Hope," returned Grace. "Now it is all over I feel quite old," and she laughed merrily. As was the usual custom, it had been decided that graduation exercises at Hope should take place two days before those at Brill, which would give ample opportunity for those desiring to do so to attend both functions. "My folks are all coming to the graduations," announced Grace, a day or two after the conversation just recorded. "Yes, and my folks will all be on hand," answered Sam. "Even Uncle Randolph and Aunt Martha are coming. Dear, old Aunt Martha!" he said. "She has been a regular mother to us boys ever since I can remember. I'm awfully glad she will be present, and I'll be mighty glad to have Uncle Randolph too, not to say anything about dear, old dad." After that there seemed to be so much to do and so many things to think about that time sped with amazing swiftness. The Rovers and the Lanings had engaged rooms at the leading hotel in Ashton, and arrived on the day previous to the graduation exercises at Hope. "Tell you what, education is a great thing!" remarked Mr. John Laning when speaking of the matter to Mr. Rover. "I didn't have much of a chance at it when I was a boy--I had to go out and scrap for a living--but I'm mighty glad that I had the means to give the girls the learning they've got." "You're right--it is a great thing," answered Mr. Anderson Rover. "I am only sorry now that Dick and Tom didn't have the chance to graduate as well as Sam. But, you know, I was very sick and somebody had to look after our business affairs. And what those boys have done for me is simply wonderful!" "The greatest boys that ever lived," announced Randolph Rover. "They used to bother the life out of me with their fun and noise, but now that they have settled down and made men of themselves I forgive them for all the annoyances." Sam's father had brought for him as a graduation present a very fine diamond scarf pin, while his uncle and aunt presented him with a handsomely engraved cardcase and Dick and the others brought him a ring set with a ruby. Grace's folks and the others had also brought several gifts of value for the girl, and to these Sam added a bracelet and the finest bouquet of flowers he could obtain in Ashton. The graduation exercises at Hope were exceedingly pretty. All the girls were dressed in white, and they formed a beautiful picture as they stood in a long line to receive their diplomas. The onlookers clapped vigorously, but no one with more fervor than did Sam when Grace received her roll. The exercises were followed by a reception that evening at which the fair girl graduates shone as they never had before. "And now for the big event at Brill!" said Dick, when on the way back to Ashton that evening. "Sam, aren't you a bit sorry to leave the old college?" "I certainly am, Dick. At the same time, now that you and Tom have buckled down to business, I feel that I ought to be doing likewise." "Yes, but all of you young folks are going on that tour first," announced the boys' father. "I think you have earned it, and I want you to have it. I'll supply all the funds necessary, and I'll see to it that everything goes right at the office while you are away." Never had Brill been so crowded as it was at those graduation exercises. Every seat in the college hall was occupied, and every doorway and open window held its group of eager onlookers. The Rover family had seats almost in the center of the auditorium, and all of the Lanings were with them. "Oh, it's grand! just grand!" murmured Aunt Martha, as she saw Sam and the rest of the senior class gathering. "Oh! how proud I am of that boy!" and the tears coursed freely down her cheeks. The valedictory address had been written by Sam and was delivered by the class orator, Stanley. This was followed by a class poem written by Songbird and delivered by a student named Wells. Sam's valedictory was received with loud clapping of hands. "A well written paper--very well written, indeed," was Dr. Wallington's comment, and a great number of visitors agreed with him. Songbird had worked hard over his class poem, which contained many allusions to local matters, and was received with many smiles and expressions of good humor. "Songbird is certainly becoming something of a poet," was Dick's comment. "If he keeps on, some day he'll become the simon-pure article." At last it was over, and Sam, with his sheepskin rolled up and tied with a ribbon, joined his folks. His father was the first to congratulate him, and then came old Aunt Martha, who wept freely as she embraced him. "I'm proud of you, Sam, proud of you!" she said, in a voice trembling with emotion. "What a pity your own mother couldn't be here to see you! But the good Lord willed it otherwise, so we must be content." "Sam, you've certainly done the family proud this day," announced his oldest brother. "To graduate at the top of the class is going some." "Well, I've got to do something for the Rover name," said the happy youth, modestly. There was another reception that night, and again the bonfires blazed along the bank of the river. The undergraduates "cut loose" as usual, but those who were to leave Brill forever were a trifle sober. "It's been a fine old college to go to," was Dick's comment. "You're right there, Dick," came from Tom. "A fine place, indeed!" "The best in the world!" answered Sam. He drew a deep breath. "No matter where I go in this old world of ours, I'll never forget my days at Brill." CHAPTER XIX GETTING READY FOR THE TOUR "And now for the grand tour!" "That's the talk, Sam! We ought to have the best time ever," returned his brother Tom. "Just to think of such an outing makes me feel five years younger," came from Dick Rover. "I like work as well as any one, but a fellow has got to break away once in a while." "And to think we are going away out to Colorado Springs and Pike's Peak!" burst out Dora. "And all the way in our automobiles!" added Nellie. "I hope we don't have any breakdowns." "So it's decided that we are to start Monday morning, is it?" asked Dick's wife. "Yes, Dora, provided it is clear," answered Sam. "Of course there is no use of our starting our trip in a storm. We'll probably get enough rain while we are on the way." "Look here, Sam, don't be a wet blanket!" cried Tom, catching his younger brother by the shoulder and whirling him around. "This trip is going to be perfectly clear from end to end. I've ordered nothing but sunshine and moonlight," and at this remark there was a general laugh. The young folks were assembled on the lawn in front of the old Rover homestead at Valley Brook. About two weeks had passed since Grace and Sam had graduated, and during that time the various arrangements for taking the tour to the West had been completed by the Rover boys. In the meantime, Fourth of July had been spent in Cedarville, at the Laning homestead, where all had had a glorious time. "I'm awfully sorry that Songbird and Minnie can't go with us on this trip," remarked Dick, "but I know exactly how poor Songbird feels." "Yes, he told me he felt he had to go to work," returned Sam. "He wants to do his best to earn that four thousand dollars." "That's some job for a fellow just out of college to undertake," was Tom's comment. "What is he going to do for a living?" "He has had a place offered to him by his uncle. He is to start at fifteen dollars a week, and he says his uncle will advance him as soon as he learns something about the business." "They haven't heard any more about that Blackie Crowden or the missing money?" questioned Nellie. "Not a word. And it looks to me now as if they never would hear anything." "More than likely that fellow has got out of the country," was Dick's comment. "Especially if he has learned that the police are after him." "Oh, you can't tell about that," broke in Tom. "He may be hiding within a mile or two of where the crime was committed." It had been decided that the touring party should take two automobiles--that belonging to the Rovers and a new machine which was the property of Mrs. Stanhope, Dora's widowed mother. The party was to consist of Dick and Tom and their wives, Sam and Grace and Mrs. Stanhope and Mrs. Laning. Uncle Randolph and Aunt Martha had also been invited to go along, but both had declined, stating that they preferred to remain on the farm. "I have some important scientific data on farming to gather," had been Randolph Rover's explanation, "and, besides that, I must oversee the building of that new addition to the house;" for since the marriage of Dick and Tom it had been decided to build a large wing on the old homestead, so that the young folks might be accommodated there whenever they cared to make a visit. Aleck Pop, the faithful old colored servant of the Rovers, was still at the farm, as was Jack Ness, the man of all work, and both did all they could to aid the boys and girls to get ready for the tour. "It's most won'erful how you young gen'lemen has done growed up," was Aleck Pop's comment. "It don't seem no time at all sence you all was boys at Putnam Hall," and he grinned broadly, showing a mouthful of ivories. "And to think two of 'em are married now and settled down!" added Jack Ness. "I can't hardly believe it. First thing you know we'll have a lot of young Rovers runnin' around this farm." "Well, if they is any young Robers aroun' yere, I's gwine to serve 'em jest like I served the others," answered Aleck Pop, and then went off, nodding his head vigorously to himself. The only drawback to the proposed tour, so far as Sam was concerned, was the fact that Chester Waltham and his sister Ada were going to accompany them as far as Colorado Springs. Then the Walthams proposed to continue to the Pacific Coast, while the Rovers were to return to the East. "Are those two people going in a big touring car all by themselves?" questioned Sam, when he heard of this arrangement. "They are not going to take the touring car, Sam," answered Grace. "Ada wrote me that her brother had purchased a new runabout--a very speedy and comfortable car--and they are going to use that instead." "Humph! I don't see why they had to stick themselves in with our crowd," grumbled the youngest Rover. "Why didn't they take the trip by themselves?" "Well, maybe I am to blame for that," answered Grace. "I told Ada all about our proposed trip, and said I was sorry that she couldn't go with us. You must remember she treated me very nicely while we were at the seminary, especially after Dora and Nellie left." "Oh, I don't object to Ada," answered Sam. "Just the same, I think it would be nicer if we could go off by ourselves. Chester Waltham and his sister don't seem to fit in with us exactly." "Well, I think Chester Waltham is a very nice young man, and certainly he has given me some splendid rides," answered Grace, and then walked off to join the others, leaving Sam to do some thinking which was not altogether agreeable. The start was to be made from the farm, and the Walthams had written that they would be on hand early, stopping for the night at the hotel in Cornville, some miles away. On the Friday before the Monday set for the start, all three of the Rover boys went down to New York City, to the offices of the newly formed Rover Company in Wall Street. They found their father in charge, and also several assistants, and everything seemed to be in good running order. Dick and Tom went over a number of business matters with their parent, and Mr. Rover declared that he could get along very well without the boys for at least a month or six weeks. After the visit to the offices Dick and Tom took Sam up to their apartments on Riverside Drive, where they packed a number of things wanted by themselves and Dora and Nellie. "Certainly a beautiful location," remarked Sam, as he walked to one of the front windows, to gaze out on the Hudson River. "It certainly is a fine place, Sam," answered Tom, "and Nellie and I enjoy it just as much as Dick and Dora do." Tom looked at his younger brother questioningly. "I suppose now that you have graduated, Sam, you and Grace will be joining us here some day?" "I don't know about that, Tom." Sam's face flushed painfully. "You see I--I----" and then he broke off, unable to proceed. "You don't mean there is anything wrong between you and Grace, do you?" demanded the brother, coming closer. Dick had gone to another room and so was out of hearing. "I can't say that anything is wrong exactly, Tom," returned Sam, hesitatingly. "You see, I--I----" "Is it that Chester Waltham?" demanded the other, quickly. Sam nodded. "Of course I can't blame him, and I can't blame Grace, for the matter of that. It isn't every girl who gets the chance to marry a young millionaire." "What! Has he proposed to her?" cried Tom. "Oh, no, I don't think that, Tom. But he has been very friendly." "Well, I wouldn't stand for it, Sam. I think Grace ought to marry you, and I would tell her so and have it settled." "That's all well enough to say, Tom. But just the same I haven't any right to stand in her light. I haven't got any such money to offer her as this millionaire----" "Rot! You've got enough money to make any girl comfortable, and that is all that is necessary. You go on in and win!" and Tom clapped his younger brother on the shoulder encouragingly. Then Dick entered, along with a maid left to take care of the apartments, and the talk came to an end. While the boys were doing this, the girls had gone to Cedarville, and there assisted Mrs. Stanhope and Mrs. Laning in getting ready for the tour. Dora's mother had a hired chauffeur to run her car, and this man was to bring the party to Valley Brook in the Stanhope machine. "I am very glad you are going, Mother," said Dora to her parent. "I am sure this trip will do you a world of good." For Mrs. Stanhope was not in the best of health and sometimes grew quite nervous when left too long to herself. "It will be a wonderful trip, no doubt," answered the mother, "and I am sure I shall enjoy it greatly, especially with all you young folks along to brighten matters up." "It will certainly be a wonderful tour for me," declared Mrs. Laning, who had always been more or less of a home body. "Gracious! Why, I can remember when I used to think a trip of ten or twenty miles on the steam cars was wonderful. Now just to think of our going hundreds and hundreds of miles in an automobile!" "The most wonderful part of it to me is that we can afford to have you take such a trip as that, Mother," chuckled John Laning. "Sakes alive! when I was a young man the height of my ambition was to own about fifty acres free and clear, along with a couple of horses and half a dozen cows. And now look at us--here we own over three hundred acres, got over fifty head of cattle, over two thousand chickens, and the finest orchards in this part of the state. I tell you we've got a lot to be thankful for," he added with great satisfaction. "But I'll miss you, John, while I'm away," said his faithful wife. "Don't you worry about me, Mother. I'd just as lief stay here and see all them big crops a-comin' in," announced the farmer. "That's fun enough for me. You go ahead with the young people and enjoy yourself. You've been in harness long enough and you deserve it." Mr. Laning had had his ears wide open during the visit of his daughters and Dora, and before his wife and the others left for Valley Brook he called Mrs. Laning aside. "What's this I hear about Grace going out with a young millionaire named Waltham?" he asked, curiously. "I can't tell you much more than what you've already heard, John," she answered. "I thought Grace had her eyes set on Sam Rover," went on the husband, looking sharply at his wife. "That is what I thought myself. But it seems this young millionaire has been calling on his sister at Hope, and he's been taking his sister and Grace out in his automobile and acting very nicely about it. Grace seems to be quite taken with him." "Huh! A young millionaire, eh? Maybe he's only amusing himself with her. You had better caution her about him." "No, John, I don't think that would do any good. In fact, it might do a great deal of harm," declared the wife. "Grace is old enough to know what she is doing." "Yes, but if she has made some promises to Sam Rover----" "I am not sure that she has made any promises. Sam has been very attentive to her,--but just because Tom married Nellie is no reason why Grace should marry Sam." "Oh, I know that. But, somehow, I thought they had it all settled between 'em, and I certainly like Sam. He's a nice, clean-cut boy." "Yes. I like Sam, too." Mrs. Laning heaved a deep sigh. "But, just the same, we had better not interfere. You know how it was when we got married," and she looked fondly at her husband. "You bet I do!" he returned, and then put his arm over her shoulder and kissed her gently. "Well, let us hope it all comes out for the best," he added, and walked off to go to work. CHAPTER XX A MOMENT OF PERIL "This is the life!" "That's right, Tom. This kind of touring suits me to death," returned Sam Rover. "Tom, how many miles an hour are you making?" broke in his wife. "Remember what you promised me--that you would keep within the limit of the law." "And that is just what I am doing, Nellie," he answered. "But it's mighty hard to do it, believe me, when you are at the wheel of such a fine auto as this. Why, I could send her ahead twice as fast if I wanted to!" "Don't you dare!" burst out Grace, who sat in the tonneau beside her sister. "If you do I'll make you let Sam drive." "He's got to let me drive anyway after dinner," said the youngest Rover boy. "That's the arrangement." It was the second day of the tour, and Valley Brook Farm, and in fact the whole central portion of New York State, had been left far behind. The weather had turned out perfect, and so far they had encountered very little in the way of bad roads. Once they had had to make a detour of two miles on account of a new bridge being built, but otherwise they had forged straight ahead. Tom and his wife, with Grace and Sam, occupied the first automobile, the remaining space in the roomy tonneau being taken up by various suitcases and other baggage. Behind this car came the one driven by Dick Rover. Beside him was his wife, with Mrs. Stanhope and Mrs. Laning behind them. Some distance to the rear was the third machine, a brand-new runabout, containing Chester Waltham and his sister Ada. Waltham had at first wished to take the lead, but had then dropped behind, stating he did not wish to get the others to follow him on any wrong road. "You go ahead," he had said to the Rovers. "Then if you go wrong you will have only yourselves to blame." "Well, we don't know any more about these roads than you do, Waltham," Dick had replied. "We are simply going by the guide book and the signs." "I hate to use up my brains studying an automobile guide," Chester Waltham had returned with a yawn. "When I am on an outing I like to take it just as easy as I possibly can." "It's a wonder you didn't bring a paid chauffeur along," had been Sam's comment. "I thought something of doing that, but my sister objected. She said if she was to go along I must run the car. You see, she wants me to risk my neck as well as her own," and the young millionaire had smiled grimly. They had been running for several miles over a road that was comparatively straight. On either side were tidy farms, with occasional farmhouses and barns. Now, however, the road became winding, and they soon passed into a patch of timber. "Four miles to the next town," announced Sam, as they rolled past a signboard. He looked at his watch. "Quarter after eleven. Do you think we had better stop there for dinner, Tom?" "No, we are going on to Fernwood, six miles farther," was the reply. "They say the hotel there is much better. And, believe me, when you get away from the big cities the best hotel you can find in a town is none too good." It had been rather warm on the open road, and all those in the automobiles welcomed the shade of the woods. "It's a pity we didn't bring our lunch along," said Dora to Dick, as they moved along at a slower rate of speed. "We could have had a good time picnicking along here." "Yes, we'll have to dine out in the woods sometimes on this trip," put in Mrs. Laning. "I like that sort of thing much better than taking all our meals in hotels or restaurants." The first automobile had reached a spring by the roadside, and here Tom came to a halt, presently followed by the others. Collapsible cups were handy, and all were ready for a drink of the pure, cool water which the spring afforded. "Fine! isn't it?" exclaimed Dick, after the ladies had been served and he had had a cupful himself. "You're right," answered Tom. "A good deal better than that bottled water we have down in the New York offices." "But it can't beat the water on the farm," said Sam. "I must say no matter where I go the water doesn't taste quite as good as that at Valley Brook." "Oh, that's only sentiment, Sam!" cried Grace. "Now, I think the water at Cedarville is just lovely." "I think you are taking a little chance in drinking from a spring like this," was Chester Waltham's comment. "It may be pure, and then again it may be full of all sorts of germs." "Sure! it may be full of tadpoles and bullfrogs, too," added Tom, gaily. "But you've got to take some chances in this life, as the fly said when he flew down into the molasses jug and got stuck there," and at this little joke there was a general smile. Beyond the spring the road went uphill for a long distance, and then took a turn to the southward, past more farms and over a bridge spanning a tiny stream. Then they came to a small town, looking dry, dusty and almost deserted in the midday, summer sun. "I am glad we didn't arrange to stop here," was Nellie's comment, as she glanced around. The sleepy little town was soon left behind, and once again they found themselves passing over a series of hills, dotted here and there with farms and patches of woodland. Then they came to a place which was very uneven and filled with rocks. "Got to be careful here unless we want to get a puncture," announced Tom, and at once reduced speed. They were running on another winding road which seemed to bear off to the northward. Here there was something of a cliff, with great, rocky boulders standing out in bold relief. Suddenly, as Tom reached a bend, he saw a man coming towards them. He was an Italian, and carried a small red flag in one hand. "Back! You-a git-a back!" cried the man, waving his red flag at them. "Blas'! Blas'! You git-a back!" The grade was downward and the man had appeared so suddenly that before Tom could bring the first automobile to a standstill he had gotten at least a hundred feet beyond the Italian, while the second car, run by Dick, was by the man's side. "What's the trouble here?" demanded Dick. "You git-a back! You git-a back!" exclaimed the Italian, frantically. "Blas' go off! You git-a back!" "Hi, Tom, come back here!" yelled Dick. "This fellow says there is a blast going off." Tom was already trying to heed the warning. He had stopped so suddenly, however, that he had stalled his engine and now he had to take time in which to use the electric starter. In the meanwhile, the Italian workman ran still farther back, to warn Chester Waltham and anybody else who might be coming along the road. "Oh, Tom! can you turn around?" questioned his wife anxiously. "Maybe you had better run the car backward," suggested Sam. He had noted the narrowness of the roadway and knew it would be no easy matter to turn around in such limited space. Besides that, there was a deep gully on one side, so that they would run the risk of overturning. "Yes, I'll back if Dick will only give me room," muttered Tom, as he pressed the lever of the self-starter. Then after the power was once more generated he threw in the reverse gear and allowed the car to back up. "That's the way to do it, Tom," yelled Dick. "Come on, I'll get out of the way," and he, too, began to back until he was close on to the Waltham runabout. "Look out! Don't bump into me!" yelled Chester Waltham, who for the moment seemed to be completely bewildered by what was taking place. "What's the matter anyway?" he demanded of the Italian. "Oh, Chester, there must be some danger!" shrieked his sister. "Say! they are both backing up. Maybe you had better back up too." "All right, if that's what they want," answered the young millionaire, and then in his hurry tried to reverse so quickly that he, too, stalled his engine. "Back up! Back up!" called out Dick. "We've got to get out of here! There is some sort of blasting going on ahead!" "Oh, Dick, be careful!" cried Mrs. Stanhope, and sprang up in the tonneau of the car in alarm, quickly followed by Mrs. Laning. "You will run into Mr. Waltham, sure!" wailed the latter. "Don't smash into me! Don't smash into me!" yelled the young millionaire in sudden terror. "If you bump into me you'll send me into the ditch!" By this time Dick's car was less than three feet away from the runabout, while Tom's machine was still some distance farther up the road. Boom! There was a distant explosion, not very loud; and following this came a clatter as of stones falling on the rocks. None of the stones, however, fell anywhere near the three machines. "Oh!" cried Grace. "Is that all there is to it?" queried Nellie, anxiously. "I don't know," returned Tom. He had now brought his automobile once more to a standstill. All in the three machines waited for a moment. Then they gazed enquiringly at the Italian who stood behind them. "Say, is that all the blasting there is?" demanded Chester Waltham. "Dat's heem," responded the foreigner. "He go off all right, boss. You go," and he waved the stick of his flag for them to proceed. "Some scare--and all for nothing," muttered Tom. "The way he carried on you would think they were going to shake down half of yonder cliff." "Oh, Tom, they don't dare to take chances," returned Nellie. "Why, if we had gone on we might have been showered with those stones we heard falling." "You fellows want to be careful how you back up," grumbled Chester Waltham. "You came pretty close to smashing into me." "Well, you should have backed up yourself when you heard us yell," retorted Dick, sharply. "We didn't know how bad that blast was going to be." Tom had already started forward, and in a moment more Dick and Chester Waltham followed. But hardly had they done this when the Italian on the road suddenly let out another yell. "Boss! Boss! You-a stop!" he cried. "You-a stop queek! De two-a blas'! You-a stop!" and he danced up and down in added alarm. Those who had gone on paid no attention to him, and an instant later passed around a corner of the cliff. As they did this they saw a man on the open hillside waving his arm and shouting something they could not understand. "Tom, something is wrong----" began Sam, when, of a sudden, his words were swallowed up in a fierce roar and rumble that seemed to shake the very ground beneath them. They saw a flash of fire in an opening of the cliff, and the next instant a burst of flames and smoke was followed by a rain of rocks all around them! CHAPTER XXI NEWS OF BLACKIE CROWDEN It was a moment of extreme peril, and what made it seem worse was the fact that the Rovers and the others could do nothing to save themselves. Rocks, small stones and dirt flew all around them, striking with loud noises the hoods and other metal parts of the automobiles, and even landing in the tonneaus of the larger cars. "Hold up the robes! Protect yourselves with the robes!" yelled Dick, but before the ladies could heed his words the rain of rocks, small stones and dirt had come to an end. "Great Cæsar! that's a fine happening!" groaned Tom, who had been hit on the shoulder by a fair-sized stone. He looked quickly at those in the car with him. "Any of you hurt?" "I got hit in the head with something," returned Sam. "But it didn't hurt very much. How about you?" and he looked at Grace and at Tom's wife. "I--I don't think I am hurt any," faltered Grace, as she looked at some stones and dirt on the robe over her lap. "I'm all right," answered Tom's wife. "But, oh dear! something--I think it must have been a big stone--flew directly past my face!" "I hope the others got off as well as we did," remarked Tom. "Let us go and see," and, suiting the action to the word, he left the machine, followed by his brother. The second car had a dent in the hood made by a stone as big as Tom's fist. All those in the automobile had been hit by some smaller stones and also covered with loose dirt, but no one had been seriously injured, although Mrs. Laning declared that some of the dirt had entered her left ear and also her eye. "Let me look at that eye," cried Mrs. Stanhope, as soon as she had recovered from the shock of the second blast. And then she went to work on the optic, and presently Mrs. Laning declared that the eye was as well as ever. As Chester Waltham and his sister had been farther back on the road, around the turn of the cliff, they had not felt the effects of the second explosion excepting a slight shower of dirt which had covered the front of the runabout. But the young millionaire and his sister were greatly excited, and the former got out of his machine to run up to the Italian with the red flag and shake his fist in the man's face. "You--you rascal!" he spluttered. "What do you mean by sending us into such peril as this? You ought to be put into prison!" "I-a, I-a forget heem," faltered the foreigner helplessly. "I tink only one blas'. I forget two blas'," and he looked very downhearted. But this time the man who had been up on the hillside came running to the scene of the mishap, followed by several of the workmen. "Anybody hurt?" sang out the man, who was an American in charge of the blasting gang. "Nothing very serious," answered Dick. "But it might have been," he added sharply. "You fellows ought to be more careful." "I told Tony to keep everybody back for two blasts," answered the man. "Why didn't you stay back until you heard the second blast?" "He told us to go on," answered Tom. "I make mistake," cried the Italian. "You forgive, boss," and he looked pleadingly at Dick and the others. "Well, you don't want to make any more mistakes like that," returned Dick. "If we had gotten a little closer somebody might have been killed." "That's the second time you have failed to obey orders, Tony," said the gang master, sternly. "You go on up to the shanty and get your time and clear out. I won't have such a careless man as you around." At these words the Italian looked much crestfallen. He began to jabber away in a mixture of English and his own tongue, both to his boss and to our friends. But the boss would not listen to him, and ordered him away, and then he departed, looking decidedly sullen. "I can't do anything with some of these fellows," explained the man in charge of the blasting. "I tell them just what to do, and sometimes they mind me and sometimes they don't. I'm very sorry this thing happened, but I'm thankful at the same time that you got through as well as you did," and he smiled a little. "You're not half as thankful as we are," put in Sam, dryly. "I hope there is no damage done to your cars, but if there is I'm willing to pay for it," went on the man. "A few dents, but I guess that is all," answered Dick, after a look at both the car he was driving and the one run by his brother. "We'll let those go, for we are on a tour and have no time to waste here." "All right, sir, just as you say. But here is my card; I don't want to sneak out of anything for which I'm responsible," continued the man. "If you find anything wrong later on you let me know and I'll fix it up with you." "We ought to sue this fellow for damages!" cried Chester Waltham, wrathfully. "It's an outrage to treat us like this." "Were you hurt in any way?" asked the man, quietly. "We got a lot of dirt and stones on the runabout," growled Waltham. "Oh, Chester! don't quarrel over the matter," entreated his sister, in a low tone. "The man didn't want to do it." "Oh, these follows are too fresh," grumbled the young millionaire. "The authorities ought to take them in hand," and then he reëntered his runabout, looking in anything but a happy mood. "Do you think we can go ahead on this road now?" asked Dick, after a few more words had passed between the Rovers and the man who had the blasting in charge. "I think so," was the reply. "Just wait a few minutes and I'll have my gang of men clear a way for you." He was evidently a fair and square individual who wanted to do the right thing in every particular, and the Rovers could not help but like him. "It was all that Italian's fault," remarked Sam to Tom, while they were waiting for the road to be cleared of the largest of the rocks. "If he had kept us back as he was ordered to do there would have been no trouble." "He looked mighty mad when he went off," was Tom's answer. "If that fellow in charge here doesn't look out, that chap may put up some job on him." Inside of ten minutes the man in charge of the blasting told them they could go ahead, and so on they went as before, with Tom again in the lead. As they passed by they saw numerous places along the face of the cliff where other blasting had taken place. The man had explained that the work was being done by the contractors in order to widen the road in that vicinity. About a mile and a half beyond the cliff, nestling in the midst of a number of pretty farms, they came to the town of Fernwood, the place at which they were to stop for their midday meal. They had the name of the leading hotel on their list, and found the hostelry a fairly large and comfortable one. "I think we'll want a good washing up after that experience," remarked Dick, when the automobiles had been placed in the hotel garage. "My! but that was a narrow escape!" and he shuddered at the recollection. "You fellows were mighty easy with that man," observed Chester Waltham. "He ought to have been made to suffer for his carelessness." "Well, if you want to sue him, Waltham, you go ahead and do it," said Dick somewhat sharply. He was beginning to like the young millionaire less and less the more he came in contact with him. A table had been reserved for the entire party, and soon the well-cooked meal put even Chester Waltham in better humor. Now that the danger from the blast was a thing of the past, they could afford to smile over the somewhat thrilling experience. "Maybe after this it would be a good idea to ride with the tops up," said Tom. "Only we'd have to make them stone proof as well as rainproof," and at this remark there was a general smile. "Remember, Tom, I'm to be at the wheel this afternoon," announced Sam, who thus far had not had much chance to do any steering on the trip. "All right, little boy, you for the pilot act!" returned his fun-loving brother, gaily. "But remember what the girls told you--no speeding. The law in this state is four and one-eighth miles an hour, except on turning corners, where it is two and one-sixteenth miles," and at this little joke there was a titter from the girls. As it was so warm during the middle of the day, it had been decided that they should not proceed on their tour until about three o'clock. This gave the ladies a chance to rest themselves, something which was particularly satisfying to Mrs. Stanhope and Mrs. Laning. "I think I'll take a look around the town," said Tom, after the ladies had gone to one of the upper rooms. "Will you go along?" and he looked enquiringly at his brothers and Chester Waltham. "I am going to write a letter to dad," answered Dick. "I think I'll write a letter myself and enjoy a smoke," came from the young millionaire. "I'm with you, Tom," returned his younger brother. "Let's go out and see if we can't capture a nice box of chocolates for the girls." Tom and Sam were soon on the way. The main street of Fernwood contained less than four blocks of stores, and there was a cross street with half a dozen other establishments. But the place was a railroad center and, consequently, was of quite some importance. Having walked up and down the main street, and procured a box of chocolates and a few other things, the two Rovers wandered off in the direction of the railroad station. A train had just come in, and they watched the passengers alight and then others get aboard. They were particularly interested in the discomfiture of a fat traveling salesman who came puffing up on the platform, a suitcase in each hand, just in time to see the train depart. The fat man was very angry, but this availed him nothing. "It's a shame! a shame!" howled the traveling salesman, as he threw his suitcases down in disgust. "I know that train left at least two minutes ahead of time," he stormed to the station master. "You're wrong there, mister," was the ready answer. "She was a minute late." "Nonsense! Nonsense!" stormed the disappointed individual. "I tell you she left ahead of time. I ought to sue the railroad company for this," and he shook his head savagely. "Gosh! we are up against people who want to sue everybody," was Sam's remark. "That fellow ought to join Chester Waltham, and then they could hire one lawyer to do the whole business." "I might have been here five minutes ago if I hadn't been a fool," stormed the fat salesman, as he looked for comfort at the two Rovers. "That comes from trying to be accommodating. I was headed for this place when down there at the Ludding House I met a fellow who wanted to know how to get to Stockbridge. He stuttered so that it took me about five minutes to find out what he wanted." "Stuttered, did he?" questioned Tom, curiously. "He sure did! He had an awful stutter with a funny little whistle in between. I wish I hadn't waited to listen to him. I might have had that train, confound it!" went on the fat salesman, pulling down his face. "Did you say that fellow stuttered and whistled?" broke in Sam eagerly. "He certainly did." "Will you tell me what kind of a looking man he was?" "Sure!" answered the salesman, and then started to give as good a description of the individual as his recollection would permit. "It must have been Blackie Crowden!" cried the youngest Rover, before the man had finished. "I don't know what his name was," said the salesman. "We want to catch that man the worst way," went on Sam. "Have you any idea where we can find him?" "He asked me the way to Stockbridge, so I suppose he was going there," was the reply. "Where is Stockbridge?" "It's down on the road past the Ludding House. It's about five miles from here." "Do you suppose the man was going to walk it?" "I don't know about that. You must remember I was in a hurry to catch the train. Hang the luck! I wish I hadn't stopped to talk to that man," went on the fat salesman. "And I'm very glad that you did stop to talk to him," returned Sam. He looked at his brother. "Come on, Tom, let us see if we can find Blackie Crowden." CHAPTER XXII ON THE TRAIL The Ludding House was on the side street of the town, about three blocks from the hotel at which our friends were stopping. When the two Rovers arrived there they found the dining-room had just closed and only two men and an elderly woman were in sight. "We are looking for a man who was around here--I think his name was Blackie Crowden," said Sam. "He is a man who stutters very badly." "Oh, yes, I remember that fellow," returned one of the men who worked around the hotel, "He was here for lunch." "Can you tell me where he is now?" "No, I cannot." "That man who stuttered so terribly said something about going to Stockbridge," put in the woman. "Perhaps he was going there." "On foot?" "I don't think so. Most likely he took the stage. That left about ten minutes ago." "Was the man alone?" asked Tom. "I think he was, although I am not sure. He came in during the lunch hour and after that I saw him talking to a salesman who had been staying here--a man who just went off on the train." "You mean a man who went off to catch the train," grinned Tom. "He didn't get it, and he's as mad as a hornet on that account." The two Rovers asked several more questions and found out that the stage which left Fernwood twice a day passed through Stockbridge on its way to Riverview, six miles farther on. "They used to use horses," explained the hotel man, "but last year Jerry Lagger got himself an auto, so he makes the run pretty quick these days." "Come on, Sam, let's get one of our autos and follow that stage," cried Tom, and set off on a run for the other hotel, quickly followed by his brother. They burst in on Dick just as the latter was posting the letter which he had written to their father. "Say! that would be great if it was Blackie Crowden and we could capture him," cried Dick, on hearing what they had to say. "You get the auto ready while I tell the others where we are going." "It's a pity Stockbridge and Riverview are not on our regular tour," was Sam's comment. "Oh, it's just as well," answered Tom. "We may have lots of trouble with this fellow Crowden, and it will be just as well if the girls and the ladies are not in it." One of the touring cars was quickly run to the front of the hotel, and a moment later Dick, who had rushed upstairs to explain matters to the others, came out and joined his brothers. Tom was at the wheel, and he lost no time in speeding up the car, and on they went along the dusty road in the direction of Stockbridge. "I do hope they catch that fellow and get back Mr. Sanderson's money," was Grace's comment, as she watched the departure of the touring car out of one of the upper windows of the hotel. "What's it all about?" asked Ada Waltham, who had not been present when Dick had burst in on the others. She was quickly told and then asked: "Why didn't they take my brother along with them?" "I don't know, I am sure, Ada," answered Grace. "Perhaps he wasn't around." "He was down in the writing-room with Dick." "Well, I am sure I don't know why he isn't with them," was the reply. "I don't think they are treating Chester just right," retorted the rich girl, rather abruptly, and then left the room with her nose tilted high in the air. "What a way to act!" murmured Nellie. "I am afraid that sooner or later we will have some sort of rupture with the Walthams," was Dora's comment. She gave a little sigh. "Too bad! I should hate to have anything happen to spoil this tour." "Well, I don't think the boys treat Chester Waltham just right," returned Grace, somewhat coldly. "They treat him as if he were a stranger--an outsider," and then she, too, left the room, leaving her sister and Dora to gaze at each other questioningly. Along the dusty road sped the touring car, Tom running as rapidly as safety would permit. Soon Fernwood was left far behind and they began to ascend a slight hill. Presently they came to a crossroad, and here they had to stop to study a much-faded signboard, so as to decide which was the proper road to take. Even then, as they continued their way, they were all a little doubtful. "That signboard was so twisted it didn't point right down this road," was Sam's comment. "It would be just like some boys to twist it out of shape just for the fun of sending folks on the wrong road." "Well, I played a joke like that myself, once," confessed Tom. "Then if we are on the wrong road on account of some boys' tricks, Tom, you'll simply be getting paid back for what you did," returned his older brother. Half a mile more was covered, and then the road grew rapidly worse. Tom had slowed down, and was just on the point of stopping when a low hissing sound reached the ears of all. "Good-night!" was Tom's comment. "What is it, Tom, a puncture?" queried Sam. "Oh, no, it's only a gas well trying to find its way to the surface of the ground," was the dry comment. "Everybody out and to work!" They leaped to the ground and soon saw that Sam's conjecture was correct. A sharp stone had cut into one of the front shoes, making a hole about as large in diameter as a slate pencil. "Might know a thing like this would happen just when we were in a hurry," grumbled Dick. "Never mind, now is our time to make a record," came cheerfully from Sam. He glanced at his watch. "Four minutes after two. Come on, let us see how quickly we can get that new tire on." All threw off their coats and caps and set to work in the shade of some trees. While one jacked up the car, another worked to get off the damaged shoe and inner tube. In the meanwhile, the third got ready another shoe with an inner tube, and thus working hand in hand the three got the new tire in place and pumped up in less than ten minutes. While Dick and Sam were putting away the tools, Tom walked a bit ahead on the road. He looked around a turn, and then came back much crestfallen. "Well, I'm paid back for monkeying with those road-signs years ago," he announced. "The fellows who fixed that sign some distance behind us have got one on me. This is nothing but a woods road, and ends in the timber right around the bend." "Which means that we have got to turn back and take the other road," put in Sam, quickly. "That's it! Some fun turning around here," was Dick's comment. "It's about as narrow as it was on that road where they were doing the blasting." "Oh, I guess I can make it," answered Tom; and then all got in the car once again. By going ahead and backing half a dozen times, Tom at last managed to get the touring car headed the other way. Then he put on speed once more and they raced off to where they had made the false turn. But all this had taken time and as a consequence, although they ran along the other highway at a speed of nearly forty miles an hour, they saw nothing of the auto-stage which had gone on ahead. "I guess this is Stockbridge," was Dick's comment, a little later, as they came in sight of a straggling village. Several buggies and farm wagons were in sight and likewise a couple of cheap automobiles, but nothing that looked like a stage. "Has the auto-stage from Fernwood got in yet?" questioned Sam of a storekeeper who sat in a tilted chair under the wooden awning of his establishment. "Yes, it got in some time ago," was the drawled-out reply of the storekeeper. "Then has it gone on to Riverview?" queried Dick. "Reckon it has, stranger." "Do you know if any passengers got off here?" asked Tom. "Old Mrs. Harrison got off." "Anybody else?" "I didn't see anybody else,--but then I wasn't watchin' very closely," explained the storekeeper. The only other persons in sight besides the storekeeper were two children, too small to be questioned about the stage passengers. The Rovers looked at each other questioningly. "Might as well go right through and follow that stage," said Dick. "If he is on board, there is no use of letting him get away. If he isn't, we can come back here and look for him." The others deemed this good advice, and in a moment more they left Stockbridge at a rate of speed which made the storekeeper leap up from his comfortable chair to gaze after them in amazement. "Some of them speeders," he murmured to himself. "If they don't look out they'll be took in for breakin' the law." For a mile or more the road outside of Stockbridge was fairly good. Beyond, it grew poorer and poorer, and Tom had to reduce speed once more for fear of another puncture, or a blowout. As they sped along the highway all the youths kept a sharp lookout for Blackie Crowden, but no one came in sight who answered in the least to the description of that individual. "I'm sure I'd know him if I saw him," said Sam, who had studied a copy of the man's photograph. "So would I," answered Tom. "He's got a face that is somewhat unusual;" and to this Dick agreed. On and on they went, the road now being little more than a country lane. Here the dust was about six inches deep, and a big cloud floated behind the machine. "Almost looks as if we were on the wrong road again," observed Dick. But hardly had he spoken when they came out to another crossroad. Here a signboard pointed to the left, and the highway was as good as any they had yet traveled. "Only one mile more!" cried Sam. "It won't take long to cover that," answered Tom, and then turned on the power, and in less than two minutes more they were approaching the center of Riverview, a fair-sized town located on the stream which gave it its name. "There is the auto-stage, drawn up in front of the hotel," announced Sam. "Yes. And it's empty," answered Dick. The driver of the auto-stage was at the town pump getting a drink of water. He looked at the three Rovers curiously as they confronted him. "Did I have a passenger that stuttered?" he repeated in answer to their question. "I sure did have such a fellow. Why, he stuttered wo'se than any man I ever heard. And he whistled too. Awful funny. Why, I had all I could do to keep from laughin' in his face." "We want to find that man very much and right away," announced Dick. "Will you let us know where you let him off?" "That's a funny thing, mister," announced the auto-stage driver. "You see, after we left Stockbridge I didn't have nobody in but that man. He paid me the fare to this place before I started. Then when we was about half-way here I looked around in the back of the stage and, by gum! he was gone." "Gone!" came from the three Rovers. "Yes, sir, he was gone. I looked back and there he stood on the side of the road. As soon as he saw that I saw him, he waved his hand to me and disappeared." CHAPTER XXIII BACK AT ASHTON The three Rovers listened in astonishment to what the auto-stage driver had to say concerning the sudden disappearance of Blackie Crowden. "Then he must have jumped from the stage while you were running," remarked Dick. "That's just what he did do, mister. And he took some chances, too, believe me, for I wasn't runnin' at less than twenty miles an hour." "Did he have any baggage with him?" questioned Tom. "He had a small handbag, that's all." "Would you remember the place where he jumped off?" came from Sam, eagerly. "Yes, it was on the road back of here--just before you turn into this highway." "You mean the road that was so thick with dust?" remarked Tom. "That's the place. He jumped off at a spot where the bushes are pretty thick, and there are three trees standin' close together just back of the bushes." "I think I know that place," said Dick. "There is a small white cottage on the hillside just behind it." "You've struck it," answered the stage driver. "I reckon as how he was goin' to call on somebody at the cottage. But why he didn't ask me to stop is a mystery. Why! he might have broken a leg gettin' off that way." "That man is a criminal, and he did it to throw you off his track," announced Sam. "Do you know what I think?" he continued to his brothers. "I think Blackie Crowden must have gotten on to the fact that we were at Fernwood, and made up his mind to clear out as soon as possible. Then he got afraid that we might question folks, including this stage driver, and so jumped from the auto-stage to throw us off his trail, provided we should follow the stage." "I guess you have struck the nail on the head, Sam," answered his oldest brother. "But come on, let us see if we can find some trace of him." And in less than a minute more they had turned their machine around and were heading for the spot mentioned to them by the stage driver. It was only a short run, and soon they halted beside the bushes hedging in three tall trees. Eagerly they looked around in all directions, but not a soul was in sight. "I'm going up to the farmhouse," announced Sam. "And I'll go with you," added Dick. "Tom, you stay down here and take a look around. If you see anything of him blow the auto horn three times." At the farmhouse the two Rovers found themselves confronted by an elderly man and his wife, who looked at them rather curiously. "No, there hasn't been anybody around here so far as I know," announced the farmer. "We haven't had a visitor for several days." "I was out to the well about five minutes ago," put in his wife, "and if anybody had come up to the house or the barn I'd have seen him." "The fellow we are after is a criminal," explained Dick, "so if you don't mind we'll take a look around for him." "A criminal!" cried the farmer. "Say, that's bad! Certainly look around all you please, and I hope if he is anywhere near you'll catch him. I'd go around with you myself, only I can't very well on account of this rheumatism of mine." The two Rovers walked around the cottage and the out-buildings but found not the least trace of Blackie Crowden. Then, rather crestfallen, they returned to the automobile. "Perhaps there's some mistake and it wasn't Crowden at all," was Sam's comment. "Well, it was a man who stuttered, anyway, and the general description fitted Crowden," answered his brother. When they reached the automobile, they found Tom gazing curiously at a piece of newspaper which he had picked up from the ground. It was rather crumpled, as if it had been used for wrapping purposes. "See anything of him, Tom?" asked Dick. "No," was the answer. "But look here. Do either of you recognize this print?" He held out the paper, which was the lower half of a newspaper page. Part of this was devoted to reading matter and the rest to advertisements. "Why, sure! I know that paper," cried Dick. "See that advertisement of The Russel Department Store and that advertisement of Betts' Shoe Store? That's a part of the _Knoxbury Weekly Leader_." "That's just what it is!" ejaculated Sam. "Where did you get that paper, Tom?" "Found it right here beside the bushes. It looks as if it had been used to wrap something in." "Then that proves two things," announced Dick, flatly. "One is that the man who stutters was really Blackie Crowden, for who else could have been here with something wrapped in a Knoxbury newspaper? And the other thing is that he did as the stage driver said--left that stage somewhere near here." "Right you are, Dick," returned his youngest brother, "but that doesn't answer the question--where is he now?" "I think he got on to the fact that we were in Fernwood, and that it was his business to get out just as quickly as he could," said Tom. "And if that is true it is more than likely that he is a good distance away from here by now and keeping to side roads where he thinks he will not be followed." "But what brought him to Fernwood in the first place?" questioned Sam. "Give it up. Of course, he may have friends or relatives here. But I don't know how we are going to find out the truth about that, and what good will it do us if we do?" A half hour was spent in that vicinity, the boys tramping up and down the road and through the fields and woods looking for some trace of the missing man. Then they returned to Fernwood. "I'm going down to the post-office to post our letters," announced Dick. "I'll see if the postmaster knows anything about Crowden." The postmaster of Fernwood was a young man and glad enough to give what information he could when he heard what Dick had to say. "Yes, that man was here several times," he remarked. "He seemed very anxious to get some letters, and he posted several letters himself, although whom they were addressed to I don't know." "You haven't any idea where he was stopping?" "Not the slightest." And this was all the postmaster could tell them. "No use of our staying here any longer," announced Tom, when the boys had rejoined the others at the hotel. "I guess Crowden just came to this out-of-the-way place to get and send mail." "Don't you think he'll come back, thinking there'll be some letters for him?" questioned his wife. "We'll take care of that," was the reply. "We'll notify the local authorities and also the postmaster, so if Crowden turns up again he'll be arrested at once;" and this matter was attended to before they left the town. Chester Waltham grumbled somewhat because the Rovers had not taken him along on the trip to Riverview, but the three brothers paid little attention to this, although Sam showed that he was rather anxious because of the way in which Grace stood up for the brother of her seminary chum. It had been planned that the tour from Valley Brook to the west should be taken through Ashton, so one morning a few days later found the whole party in the old college town. "Too bad that Brill and Hope are both closed for the season," remarked Dora. "We might have met some of our old friends." "Well, it doesn't make much difference to me," grinned back Sam. "It seems like only yesterday since I graduated." "I am glad my school days are over," announced Ada Waltham. "I never did care for studying." Before proceeding farther, the Rovers had decided to call on the Sandersons, so they went away from the hotel at Ashton, leaving the Walthams behind. A letter had been sent ahead to Minnie, so she was not much surprised at their arrival. Her appearance, however, shocked them greatly. From looking round and ruddy her face had taken on a pale and careworn look. "We are having all sorts of bad luck this year," she said, in answer to an inquiry of Dora, and while the boys had gone off to find Mr. Sanderson, who was at the barn. "First came the loss of that money. Then father was taken sick, and now he tells me that the crops this year are not going to be nearly as good as usual." "That is certainly too bad, Minnie," said Dora, sympathetically. "I wish we could do something to help you." She paused for a moment. "I suppose you hear from Songbird occasionally?" "Oh, yes, he writes to me regularly. He is hard at work, and last week he sent father a check for one hundred dollars. This, of course, is a good deal of money for the poor fellow to scrape together, but it isn't much towards four thousand dollars." "It certainly is too bad about the crops not being good," said Nellie, who, being the daughter of a farmer, knew exactly what such a calamity means to the average man who depends on the soil for his living. "Father wouldn't mind it so much if it was not for this interest on the mortgage. You see he had expected to pay the whole amount off and that, of course, would stop the interest. Now he has to pay the usual amount, two hundred and forty dollars a year, which, you see, is twenty dollars a month. It worries him a good deal." "Did you say Songbird sent him a hundred dollars?" questioned Grace, curiously. "Yes. It was money he had earned and some that his folks had given him. I am glad to say father didn't think much of accepting it at first," added Minnie, her face brightening a little. "But poor John urged it, so that at last he took it and sent it over to the bank." "Then I suppose Songbird and your father are on fairly good terms now," remarked Dora. "No, I am sorry to say that is not true, Dora. At first father seemed to get over it, but lately he has been as bitter as ever. You see, his sickness, and the bad crops, and the interest money to be paid on the mortgage, worry him a great deal, and he takes it all out on poor John. He sticks to it that John should have been more careful while he was carrying such a large amount." Minnie turned her face away and two tears stole down her cheeks. "It's a shame--an awful, burning shame! But what in the world am I to do?" "It surely is too bad, Minnie," said Dora, kindly, placing her arm around the girl's waist, while Nellie and Grace looked on sympathetically. "If we could help you at all we would do it. We have some news of Blackie Crowden, and the others have gone out to tell your father about it," and then she related what had occurred during the stop at Fernwood. "Oh! if only they could find that fellow and get back the money!" sobbed Minnie. "But maybe the most of it has been spent," she added, dolefully. "Oh, let us hope not!" cried Nellie. "He couldn't spend any such amount as that in so short a time." "He might if he drank and gambled it away," put in her sister. "Oh, wouldn't it be too bad if they did catch this Blackie Crowden and then found that he had squandered all that money!" CHAPTER XXIV AT THE FESTIVAL While Dora and her cousins were talking to Minnie the others had sought out Mr. Sanderson, who was down in the barn superintending the stowing away of some grain. The farmer listened with interest to what they had to tell him about Blackie Crowden, but shook his head dolefully. "I'm pretty well satisfied that they'll never get that money back for me now," he announced. "A fellow of that character would use up cash about as fast as he could lay hands on it." "Well, let us live in hopes," returned Dick, not knowing what else to say. The farmer asked them about their tour, and said he trusted that they would have a good time. Then Sam ventured to mention Songbird. "Better not talk to me about that young man," declared Mr. Sanderson, drawing down the corners of his mouth. "He may mean well enough, but he's not my kind, and I've told Minnie she had better stop having him call and also stop writing to him." "Oh, Mr. Sanderson! I think you are doing our chum an injustice," cried Sam. "It wasn't his fault that he was robbed of that four thousand dollars." "Humph! That's as how you look at it," grumbled the farmer. "I've said what I think, and I'll stick to it." And nothing that the Rovers could say would alter his decision in this matter. "Oh, I'm so sorry for Minnie I really don't know how to express myself," were Dora's words, when the party were once more on the way to the Ashton hotel. "If her father compels her to give up Songbird it will just about break her heart." "I don't believe she's the one to give up Songbird," answered Sam. "She isn't that kind of girl," and he looked at Grace. But her eyes at that moment were turned in another direction. He followed the look and saw that she was gazing at Chester Waltham, who, with his sister, had driven their car to meet the others. "There is one thing about this whole matter that worries me," said Dick, "and that is that when they catch this Blackie Crowden--and I think they'll land on the fellow sooner or later--most of the money may be gone. There will be some satisfaction in placing such a rascal behind the bars, but that won't give Mr. Sanderson his cash back nor lift that mortgage." "We've just got news and we thought we would let you know about it," cried Ada Waltham, as the runabout came to a standstill close to the other automobiles. "There is to be a grand festival at Larkinburg this evening, and if it is not necessary to stay in Ashton to-night we might as well go to that place and attend the festival. I received a letter at the Ashton post-office from two girls who used to go to Hope, and they are to be at the affair, and they write that it will be well worth attending." "Oh, yes, let us go to Larkinburg by all means!" cried Grace. "I know the two girls--Jennie Cross and Mabel Stanford. The festival will certainly be well worth while if they say so." "Let me see--how many miles is it to Larkinburg?" questioned Tom. "Only sixty, so we can make the run with ease if we start directly after lunch," answered Chester Waltham. The matter was talked over for a few minutes, and as a result it was decided to go ahead and make the town mentioned in ample time to attend the festival. "They are going to have a concert and some outdoor tableaux, with refreshments," said Grace. "Ada was telling me all about it." "Well, that will be much better than staying in Ashton doing nothing," returned Dora. "And, besides, we must be getting along on our trip. Dick says we are really a day behind in our schedule." During the stop at the Ashton hotel for lunch, Chester Waltham had been very attentive to Grace and had asked her if she did not wish to change places with his sister on the run to Larkinburg; but she had declined, offering some excuse which was far from satisfactory to the young millionaire. "I thought you were going to put in part of this tour with me," he had said, rather reproachfully. "Besides, if you will come in with me it will give Ada a chance to visit with the others." "Well, I'll ride with you some time," Grace had answered. "I want Ada to have as good a time as any of us." The long hours spent on the road had proved rather tiring to Mrs. Stanhope and Mrs. Laning, and when Larkinburg was reached they were glad enough to rest in a comfortable room which Dick engaged for them. "You young folks can go to the festival," said Mrs. Stanhope, with a smile. "We are going to stay here and go to bed early;" and so it was arranged. The festival was held in a large grove bordering a beautiful stream and located some distance from the center of the town. As soon as our friends had arrived they had called up the two former students of Hope, and it had been decided that these girls, along with their escorts, should join the others and all should attend the festival together. "We can easily pack the whole crowd in our three cars," announced Dick. "I can't carry any extra people in my runabout," complained Chester Waltham. "Of course, one of the fellows might stand on the running board, but----" "We'll take them, don't worry," answered Sam. "We've got some vacant seats, you know, and four extra won't count." The girls from Hope were a jolly pair and so were the two young men who accompanied them. All got in the Rovers' machines, and away they went, followed closely by the Waltham runabout. A parking space had been set aside, and there our friends found themselves surrounded by machines of all sorts, and a jolly, laughing crowd numbering several thousands of people. "Oh, how pretty!" burst from Grace's lips, as they strolled toward the place where the concert and the tableaux were to be given. A stage had been constructed among some trees and bushes with a background of the river, and here scores of lamps and lanterns twinkled forth. The seats were placed along a sloping bank, and soon the whole crowd was gathered to listen to the opening number of the concert. As soon as the machines were parked Chester Waltham, almost ignoring his sister, had devoted his attention to Grace, doing this while Sam was busy talking over some matters with his brothers. Waltham had walked over to the seats with Grace beside him, and now he saw to it that she was placed where he could talk to her with ease. This, of course, did not particularly suit Sam, but he was helpless in the matter and so made the best of it. The concert was a fine one and the tableaux, which were interspersed between the various musical numbers, were intensely interesting. "Certainly well worth attending," was Tom's comment, when that portion of the festival came to an end amid a loud clapping of hands. "And now for some refreshments," announced Dick. "Come on, let us hurry or the tables may all be filled," for some long tables decorated with lanterns had been set under the trees at one side of the grove. "My! but it is rather chilly here," was Grace's comment, when they were moving toward the tables. "I feel positively cold." "Didn't you bring your jacket?" questioned Sam. "Yes, but I left it in the auto." "I'll go and get it," he returned, and ran off to procure the garment. He found that more machines had come in, and it was some little while before he could locate their automobile and pick out the jacket. In the meanwhile, Chester Waltham, leaving his sister with the other girls from Hope, had gone on with Grace and seated her at one of the tables, with the others of the party opposite. There was but one vacant seat left next to Grace, and this the young millionaire appropriated. "I don't know what Sam will do when he gets here," remarked Grace, anxiously. "Oh, I guess he'll find a seat somewhere," answered Chester Waltham, coolly. The youngest Rover was rather surprised on getting back to find every seat filled and the young millionaire sitting beside the girl who was so dear to his heart, but he made no comment. He helped Grace don the jacket, and then stood back until there was a vacant seat at a table some distance away. "I think it was rather mean of Chester Waltham to appropriate that seat," whispered Nellie to Dora while they were being served. "I think so myself, Nellie," was the low reply. At last the festival came to an end, and all those in the crowd prepared to go home. "I hope you enjoyed your refreshments," said Sam, rather coolly, as he came up to Grace's side. "Why, yes, I enjoyed them very much," answered the girl. She looked at him rather pointedly. "Didn't you think the sandwiches and cake and other things were very nice?" "Nice enough," he grumbled. "Come on, let us get back to the hotel, I'm as tired as a dog," and he started to walk away, leaving the others to follow him. His words and the manner in which they were spoken rather nettled Grace, and she walked toward the automobiles in silence, with the others in front and behind her. But Chester Waltham remained at her side, and as they approached the machines he caught her by the arm. "Say, Grace, come on and take a ride with me," he half whispered. "It's a beautiful night. Come on, you don't want to go back to the hotel yet." "But what about Ada?" she questioned. "Oh, she can take your place in one of the other autos, can't she?" "I--I--suppose so," faltered Grace. She hardly knew how to go on. She did not wish particularly to take a ride with Waltham, and, at the same time, she was hurt over the way Sam had spoken to her. "See here, Sis," cried the young millionaire, "I am going to take Miss Laning back in my runabout. She says you can take her place with the Rovers." "Oh, all right, Chester," answered the sister. "Hope you have a nice time of it," she added to Grace. There was a large crowd down among the automobiles, and our friends had all they could do in the semi-darkness to get their machines out on the road in safety. "Where is Grace?" demanded Sam, as some of the others came up to him. He had just turned on the lights of both cars. "She is going to ride back with Chester," answered Ada Waltham. "You'll have to let me ride back with you," and she laughed lightly. "Oh, all right. Come ahead," returned the youngest Rover. He spoke as lightly as he could. He did not wish to let the others know his true feelings. There was a strange bitterness in his heart, and for the moment he wished that he had never come on this tour. CHAPTER XXV A CALL FOR ASSISTANCE Ada Waltham did all she could to make herself agreeable to Sam and the others, but the youngest Rover was in no mood for raillery, and on the way back to Larkinburg had but little to say. Chester Waltham had lost no time in assisting Grace into his runabout and in getting his car out of the congestion in the parking space. Then he put on speed, and soon the pair were whirled away out of the sight of the others. "It's a dandy night for a ride," was Tom's remark. There was some moonshine, and the stars glittered clear in the heavens overhead. "That is true, Tom," answered his wife, "but don't you think we had better get back to the hotel and go to bed? I heard Dick say something about a long day of it to-morrow." "Oh, yes, Nellie, we'll get back. It wouldn't be fair to go off and leave mother and Mrs. Stanhope alone." When they reached the hotel at Larkinburg the Rovers expected to find the Waltham runabout in the garage, and they were consequently somewhat surprised when they saw no sign of the machine. "We certainly couldn't have passed them on the road," observed Dick. He turned to his youngest brother. "You didn't see them, did you?" "No. They went on ahead," answered Sam, shortly; and his manner of speech showed that he was thoroughly out of sorts. Having placed the touring cars in the care of the garage keeper, the Rovers joined the others on the piazza of the hotel. Then Dora slipped upstairs to see if her mother and Mrs. Laning were all right. She found both of them sleeping soundly, and did not disturb them. Sam could not content himself with sitting down, and so lounged around in one place and another, and finally said he would go inside and write a letter to the folks at home. He was still writing when Tom came in to join him. "Sam, did Chester Waltham say anything about where he was going to take Grace?" asked Tom, as he sat down beside his brother. "No, he didn't say a word to me," was the short reply, and Sam went on writing. "Did Grace say anything?" "No." Tom said nothing for a moment, drumming his fingers on the writing table. At last he heaved something of a sigh. "Seems to me if they were going on a long ride they might have said something to us about it," he observed. "Nellie is rather worried." "Oh, I guess they've got a right to take a ride if they want to," came rather crossly from Sam. He finished his letter with a flourish, folded it, and rammed it into an envelope which he quickly addressed. "Oh, of course, but----" Tom did not finish, and as Sam, after stamping his letter, arose, he did the same. "I wonder if we had better stay up for them." "I think I'll go to bed." "Sam!" and Tom looked sharply at his younger brother. "Well, what's the use of staying up?" "A whole lot of use, Sam Rover, and you know it. If I were you I wouldn't let Chester Waltham ride over me." "Who says I am letting him ride over me?" retorted Sam; and now his manner showed that he was quite angry. "I say so," answered Tom, bluntly. "If you have got half the sand in you that I always thought you had, you wouldn't stand for it. All of us know how matters were going on between you and Grace. Now to let this fellow step in, even if he is a young millionaire, is downright foolish. If you really care for Grace it's up to you to go in and take her." "Yes, but suppose that she cares for Waltham and his money more than she cares for me?" asked Sam, hesitatingly. "Do you think Grace is the kind of a girl to be caught by money, Sam?" and now, as the two were in a deserted part of the hallway, Tom took his brother by both arms and held him firmly. "N--no, I--I can't say that exactly," faltered Sam. "But just the same, why does she favor him at all?" "Maybe it's because you haven't been as outspoken as you ought to be. It's one thing for a girl to know what you think of her, but just the same the average girl wants you to tell her so in plain words. Now, it may not be any of my business, but you know that I want you to be happy, and that I am unusually interested because of Nellie. It seems to me if I were you I'd go to Grace the first chance I had and have a clear understanding." "I--I can't go to her now. She's out with Waltham," stammered Sam. "Then hang around until they get back and see to it that you have a chance to talk with her before she goes to her room," returned Tom; and then, as some other people came up, the conversation had to come to an end. A half hour passed and Ada Waltham excused herself. "Chester and Grace must be having a fine ride," she observed on retiring, "otherwise they would have returned by this time." "Maybe they had a breakdown," observed Dick. "I've been told that some of the roads around here are far from good." "Oh, don't say that!" cried the girl. "Chester hates to have to make any repairs when he is alone. Time and again he has run to a garage on a flat tire rather than put another one on himself." Another half hour dragged by, and now Dora turned to whisper to Dick. "Don't you think we had better retire?" she asked. "I never supposed Grace was going to stay out as late as this." "No, we'll stay up," he answered. "Nellie has told Tom that she isn't going to bed until her sister gets back, so it won't do for us to leave them here on the piazza alone." "Mr. Rover! Telephone call for Mr. Rover!" came the announcement from a bellboy, as he appeared upon the piazza. "Which Mr. Rover?" demanded Sam, eagerly. "The party said any of 'em would do," answered the bellboy. "I'll go," said Sam, eagerly, before either of his brothers or their wives could speak. "All right, Sam. I'll follow in case you want me or any of the others," answered Tom. The telephone booths were located in the lobby of the hotel, and Sam was quickly shown to one of them. While he talked Tom stood by, but caught only a few words of what was said. "Hello!" "Oh, is this you, Sam?" came over the wire in Grace's voice. "I'm so glad! I have been trying to get somebody for the last ten minutes but they couldn't give me the hotel connection." "Where are you?" questioned the youth. "Has anything happened?" for the tone of the girl's voice indicated that she was very much agitated. "Oh, Sam! I want you or some of the others to come and get me," cried Grace. "The runabout has broken down, and I don't think Mr. Waltham can fix it. And we are miles and miles away from Larkinburg!" "A breakdown, eh? Why, sure, I'll come and get you, Grace. Where are you?" "I am at a farmhouse on the road between Dennville and Corbytown--the Akerson place. If you come, take the road to Dennville and then drive toward Corbytown. We'll hang a lantern on the stepping block, so you will know where to stop." "All right, Grace, I'll be there just as soon as I can make it," answered Sam; and then he added quickly: "You weren't hurt when the breakdown happened, were you?" "Not very much, although I was a good deal shaken up. Mr. Waltham had his face and his hand scraped by the broken wind-shield." "Well, you take good care of yourself, and I'll start right away," returned the youngest Rover, and after a few words more hung up the receiver. It did not take Sam long to acquaint the others with what had occurred, and then he ran down to the hotel garage to get out one of the touring cars. "Don't you think I had better go along?" asked Tom. "Chester Waltham may be in a fix and need assistance. And, besides, they may both be more hurt than Grace said." "Yes, I guess you'd better come," answered his brother. And soon, having received directions from the garage keeper as to how to get to Dennville, the pair were on the way. "How did Grace seem to be when you spoke to her?" questioned Tom, as Sam ran the car as rapidly as the semi-darkness of the night permitted. "She seemed to be all unstrung," was Sam's thoughtful reply. "Then the accident may have been worse than she admitted, Sam." "I hope not, but we'll soon see." And then, as a straight stretch of fairly good road appeared before them, Sam turned on the power and the touring car sped onward faster than ever. Inside of half an hour they reached Dennville, a sleepy little town, located in the midst of a number of hills. All the houses were dark and the stores closed up, and not a soul was in sight. They ran into the tiny public square and there found several signboards. "Here we are!" cried Sam. "Corbytown four miles this way," and he pointed with his hand. "We'll look at the other signboards first to see whether there is another road," answered his brother. But there was only the one, and so Sam turned the touring car into this, and they sped forward once more, but now at a reduced rate of speed, for the road was decidedly hilly and far from good. "What possessed Waltham to take such a road as this," remarked Tom, after they had passed a particularly bad spot. "Don't ask me!" was the reply. "It's no wonder he had a breakdown if he took this road on high speed." They were going up a long hill. At the top a large and well-kept farm spread out, and, beyond, the hill dropped away on a road that was worse than ever. "Hello! there's a light!" cried Tom, as they approached the house belonging to the farm. "I see it," answered his brother; and in a few seconds more they ran up to the horse-block and brought the touring car to a standstill, Sam, at the same time, sounding the horn. But the summons was unnecessary, for their approach had been eagerly looked for by Grace, and hardly had the machine come to a standstill when she flew out of the farmhouse to meet them. "Oh, I'm so glad you've come!" she burst out. "If you hadn't, I don't know what I should have done!" She was somewhat hysterical and on the verge of tears. "Are you sure that you're not hurt, Grace?" asked Sam, quickly; and as he spoke he caught her by one hand and placed an arm on her shoulder. "I--I don't think I am hurt, Sam," she faltered, and then looked rather tearfully into his face. "But it was an awful experience--awful!" and then as he drew a little closer she suddenly burst into a fit of weeping and rested her head on his shoulder. CHAPTER XXVI SAM FREES HIS MIND In spite of his fun-loving disposition, Tom Rover was a very wise young man, so as soon as he saw Grace resting on his brother's shoulder he promptly turned away, to interview the farmer and his wife who lived in the farmhouse and who had answered the girl's knock on their door. "I can't tell much about the accident," said Mr. Akerson. "Me and my wife were just goin' to bed when the young lady knocked on the door and begged us to take her in, and then asked if we had a telephone. She said she had been in an automobile breakdown, but she didn't give us many particulars, except to say that she thought the front axle of the machine was broken." "Well, a broken axle is bad enough," was Tom's prompt comment. "They are lucky that no necks were broken." "The poor girl was dreadfully shook up," put in Mrs. Akerson. "She just went on somethin' terrible. I had all I could do to quiet her at first." "Didn't the young man come here with her?" questioned Tom. "No. She said she had left him down on the road with the machine. She said he was all worked up over the accident." "I should think he would be," returned Tom, and said no more on the subject. Yet he thought it very strange that Chester Waltham had not accompanied Grace to the farmhouse and thus made certain that help was summoned. Tom and his brother had entered the sitting-room of the farmhouse. Next to it was a lit-up dining-room and to this Sam and Grace had walked, the latter between her sobs telling of what had happened. "Oh, Sam, it was dreadful!" cried Grace. "Mr. Waltham was so reckless. I couldn't understand him at all. When I said I would ride with him I supposed we were going right back to the hotel. But on the way he said it was too fine a night to go in yet, and begged me to go a little farther, and so finally I consented. Then he drove the car on and on, ever so many miles, until we reached Dennville." "But if you didn't want to go that far, Grace, why didn't you tell him?" "I did--several times. But he wouldn't listen to me. Of course, I didn't want to act rude, and when I told him to turn back he only laughed at me. Then, when we got to Dennville, and I told him that I positively would not go any farther, he said, 'Oh, yes, you will. We are going to have a good, long ride. I am going to make you pay up in full for not riding with me before.'" "The mean fellow!" murmured Sam. "I'd like to punch him for that." "Oh, but, Sam! that wasn't the worst of it," went on the girl; and now she blushed painfully and hung her head. "Then he started up on this side road and he ran the car as fast as ever. I was dreadfully scared, but he only laughed and told me to enjoy myself, and when the car bumped over some stones, and I was thrown against him, he put his arm around me and--and he did his best to kiss me!" "What!" "But I didn't allow it. I pushed him away, and when he laughed at me I told him that if he tried it again I would box his ears. Then, just after we had passed this place, he reached over and caught hold of me and tried to pull me toward him. Then I boxed him, just as I had said I would. That made him furious, and he put on a burst of speed, and the next minute there was a terrible bump and a crash, and both of us were almost thrown out of the car. The wind-shield was broken and also, I think, the front axle, and he was scratched in several places. Oh, it was awful!" And again Grace hid her face on Sam's shoulder. "Well, it served him right if he got hurt and if his runabout was ruined," was the youth's comment. He drew Grace closer to him than ever. "Then you didn't really care for him?" he whispered. "Oh, Sam, Sam! how can you ask such a question?" she murmured. "Because I didn't know. I thought---- You see, he--he is a millionaire, and----" "Why, Sam Rover! do you think that money would make any difference to me?" and now she raised her face to look him full in the eyes. "I am mighty glad to know it hasn't made any difference," he returned quickly; and then caught and held her tight once more. "I suppose you young men are goin' back to help the fellow with his busted machine," remarked Mr. Akerson to Tom. "I--I suppose so," returned Tom, slowly, and then looked toward Sam and Grace. "Oh, I don't want to go back!" cried the girl, quickly. "I want to return to the hotel in Larkinburg." "All right, I'll take you back, Grace," answered Sam. "If you say so, we'll leave Waltham right where he is." "I think it would be the right thing to do, Sam, under ordinary circumstances," was the reply. "But then we mustn't forget about Ada. She will be greatly worried if I come back and let her know that we left her brother out here on the open road with a broken machine." "I'll tell you what we'll do, Grace. You stay here and Tom and I will go down and see what Waltham has got to say for himself." He turned to the people of the house. "She can stay here a little longer, can't she? We'll make it all right with you." "Certainly she can stay," answered Mr. Akerson. "And there won't be anything to pay outside of the telephone toll, and that's only twenty cents." "Please don't stay too long," implored Grace, as the two Rovers hurried away. "Not a minute longer than is necessary," returned Sam. On the way down the hill to where the accident had occurred Sam gave his brother the particulars of the affair, not mincing matters so far as it concerned Chester Waltham. "I was thinking that that was about the way it would turn out," was Tom's dry comment. "With so much money, Waltham thinks he can do about as he pleases. I reckon now, Sam, you are sorry you didn't talk to Grace before." "I sure am, Tom!" was the reply, and Sam's tones showed what a weight had been taken from his heart. "I'm going to fix it up with Grace before another twenty-four hours pass." "That's the way to talk, boy! Go to it! I wish you every success!" and Tom clapped his brother on the shoulder affectionately. Even though all the lights were out, it did not take the two Rovers long to locate the disabled runabout, which rested among some stones on the side of the highway. As Grace had stated, the wind-shield was a mass of smashed glass, and the front axle had broken close to the left wheel. "They can certainly be thankful they didn't break their necks," was Tom's comment, as he walked around the wreck. "Waltham doesn't seem to be anywhere around here," returned Sam. "Wonder where he went to?" Both looked up and down the highway, and presently saw a figure approaching from down the road. It proved to be Chester Waltham. He was capless and walked with a limp. "Hello! Who are you?" challenged the young millionaire, and then as he drew closer he added: "Oh, the Rovers, eh? Did Grace get you on the 'phone?" "She did," answered Sam, and then added sharply: "You've made a nice mess of it here, haven't you?" "Say, I don't want any such talk from you," blustered the rich young man. Evidently he was in far from a good humor. "I'll say what I please, Waltham, without asking your permission," continued the youngest Rover. "You had no right to bring Miss Laning away out here against her wishes. It was a contemptible thing to do." "You talk as if you were my master," retorted Chester Waltham. "This isn't any of your affair and you keep out of it." "We are perfectly willing to keep out of it if you say so, Waltham," broke in Tom. "We came down here merely to see if we could help you in any way. But I see your front axle is broken, and you will have to get the garage people to help you out with that." "Where's Grace?" asked the young millionaire. The subject of the broken-down runabout did not seem to interest him. "She is up at the farmhouse on the hill," answered Tom. "And we are going to take her back to the Larkinburg hotel in our auto," added Sam. "Oh, all right, then, go ahead and do it." "Do you want to ride with us?" questioned Tom. "I don't know that I do. I'll stay here and take care of my runabout. If you'll tell my sister that I'm all right, that is all I want." "Very well, just as you say," answered Tom. He took his brother by the arm. "Come on, Sam, there is no use of wasting time here." "I'll be with you in a minute, Tom," was the younger brother's reply. "You go on ahead, I want to say just a few words more to Waltham." "No use of your getting into a fight, Sam," returned Tom in a low voice. "There won't be any fight unless he starts it." Tom walked slowly up the road, and Sam turned back to where Chester Waltham had settled himself on the mud-guard of the broken-down runabout. "See here, Waltham, I want to say a few words more to you," began Sam, and his tone of voice was such that the young millionaire leaped at once to his feet. "I want to warn you about how you treat Miss Laning in the future." "To warn me!" repeated Chester Waltham, not knowing what else to say. "Exactly! Up at the farmhouse she told me all of what took place between you. She was all unstrung and quite hysterical. Now this won't do at all, and I want you to know it. After this if you are going to travel with us you've got to act the gentleman and treat her like a lady." "Humph!" "No 'humph' about it. I mean just what I say. If you don't behave yourself and don't treat her like a lady I'll--I'll----" "Well, what will you do?" sneered Chester Waltham. "I'll tell you what I'll do," and now Sam shook his finger in the young millionaire's face. "I'll give you the soundest thrashing you ever had in your life!" "Ah! do you mean to threaten me?" "I certainly do." "When it comes to a thrashing, maybe two can play at that game," observed the young millionaire; but it was plainly to be seen that Sam's decided stand had disconcerted him. "All right, Waltham, I'll be ready for you. But remember what I said. We came out here to have a good time, and I am not going to allow you to spoil it for Miss Laning or for anybody else." "Humph! you make me tired," sneered the rich young man. "Go on, I don't want to be bothered with you any longer. The whole bunch of you is too namby-pamby for me. I think my sister and I could have a much better time if we weren't with you." "As far as you personally are concerned, you can't leave us any too quickly to suit me," returned Sam. "Is that so? Well, I guess you can call it off then so far as my sister and I are concerned. But if you think, Rover, that you have seen the last of this affair you are mistaken," went on the young millionaire, pointedly. "You think you are going to run things to suit yourself, don't you? Well, I'll put a spoke in your wheel--a spoke that you never dreamed of! You just wait and see!" and then Chester Waltham turned back and sat down once more on his wrecked runabout, leaving Sam to walk up the road to rejoin Tom in a very thoughtful mood. CHAPTER XXVII A TELEGRAM FROM NEW YORK It was not until the small hours of the morning that the two Rovers and Grace returned to the hotel in Larkinburg. They found Dick and his wife and Nellie anxiously awaiting their return. "Oh! I am so glad that you weren't hurt," cried Nellie, as she embraced her sister. "I was so worried," and she hugged her again and again. "You can rest assured, Nellie, that I'll never go out with Chester Waltham again! Never!" cried Grace. "Come on, I am going to my room. Good-night, everybody," she called back, and in another moment had retired from their view, followed by her sister. "Why, Sam! what does it mean?" cried Dora, as she looked on in bewilderment. "It means that Chester Waltham ought to have had a good thrashing," declared the youngest Rover; and then he and Tom told of what had occurred. "I guess it will be a good job done if we part company with the Walthams," remarked Dick, after the subject had been discussed for some time. "He is not of our class, even if he has money." "I feel rather sorry for his sister," added Dora. "Although once in a while she shows the same haughtiness of manner that Chester displays. It's too bad, too, for they might be really nice company." With so much excitement going on, it was small wonder that the Rover party did not come downstairs that morning until quite late. Sam was the first to show himself, he being anxious to know how Grace had fared. "Here is a letter for your brother, Mr. Rover," said the clerk at the desk, when Sam approached him. "It was left here by that Mr. Waltham." "Hand it over," returned the youth, and then added: "Did Mr. Waltham bring his wrecked runabout to the garage here?" "No, sir, he just came here, got his sister, paid his bill, and went off." "Oh, I see." Sam could not help but show his surprise. "I'll take this letter to my brother," he added, and hurried off. The communication was a short one, yet the Rovers and the others read it with interest. In it Chester Waltham said that in consideration of the way he had been treated by some members of the party he considered it advisable for his sister and himself to continue their tour separately. He added that he trusted Miss Laning did not feel any ill effects because of the breakdown on the road. "And just to think that Ada went off without saying good-bye!" cried Grace, when she saw the letter. "I didn't think she would be quite so mean as that." "Probably she took her brother's part. She usually did," returned her sister. "Well, I think we are well rid of them." "So do I," put in Tom. "Personally I don't care if we never see them again." "He said he was going to put a spoke in our wheel," mused Sam. "I wonder if he'll dare to do anything to harm us?" "Oh, it's likely he was talking through his hat," returned Dick; but for once the oldest Rover was mistaken. Now that our friends were by themselves there seemed to be a general air of relief. The only one of the party who was rather quiet was Grace, but Sam did everything he could to make it pleasant for her, and before nightfall she was as jolly as ever. The run during that day was through a particularly beautiful section of the country, and about one o'clock they stopped in a grove and partook of a lunch which had been put up for them at the Larkinburg hotel. Then they moved forward once again, with Dick and Tom at the steering wheels of the cars. "Still seventy-three miles to go if we want to make Etoria to-day," announced Dick, after consulting the guide book. "I'm afraid that will be quite a ride for you ladies," he added, turning to Mrs. Stanhope and Mrs. Laning. "Oh, yes, let us go on to Etoria by all means," pleaded Sam. "Any particular reason for going to that city?" asked Tom, quickly. "Yes, I've got a reason, but I'm not going to tell you," returned his younger brother. And then, as both Dick and Tom looked at him questioningly, he blushed and turned away. "Oh, go ahead. I think I can stand it," said Mrs. Stanhope, with a smile. "I am getting used to traveling," declared Mrs. Laning. "It's much more comfortable than I at first supposed it would be." Nightfall found them still ten miles from Etoria and Dick asked the others if they wished to stop anywhere along the way for supper. All declared, however, that they would rather keep on until the city was reached. "They tell me that they have got a dandy hotel there--something new," said Sam. "We ought to get first-class accommodations there." Etoria was a city of some fifty thousand inhabitants, with a long main street brightly lighted up. The new hotel was opposite a beautiful public park, an ideal location. Sam seemed to be in unusual haste to finish his supper, and immediately it was over he asked Grace if she would not take a walk with him. "We are going to do up the town, so don't worry if we get back a little late," he told Mrs. Laning, and then whispered something in her ear which made her smile and gaze at him fondly. They pursued their way along the main street of the town, and while doing so the youngest Rover kept his eyes on the various shops that were passed. At last they came to a large jewelry establishment and here he brought the girl to a halt. "It's open!" he cried. "That's what I call luck! I was afraid they would all be closed." Grace looked at the store, and at the display of jewelry in the window, and then looked at Sam. "I guess you know what it's going to be, Grace," he said rather tenderly, and looked her full in the eyes. "I want you to have just as good a one as Dora or Nellie." "Oh, Sam! I--I don't understand," she stammered. "It's an engagement ring. We are going in here and see what sort of rings this man has got. It looks like a reliable place." "Oh, Sam!" and now, blushing deeply, Grace clung to his arm. "An engagement ring?" "Sure! You ought to have had it long ago, then maybe we wouldn't have had any trouble." "There wasn't any trouble, Sam--at least, I didn't make any trouble," she repeated; and then, as he caught her arm and dragged her into the shop, she murmured: "Oh, I--I feel so funny to go into a store for a thing like that! Don't you think I had better wait outside?" "You can if you want to, after the jeweler has measured your finger, Grace. But what's the use of being so backward? As soon as we get back home you are going to be Mrs. Sam Rover, so you might as well get used to such things first as last." Fortunately for the young couple it was a very elderly man--quite fatherly in appearance--who came to wait on them. "A diamond ring?" he queried. "Why, certainly, I'll be pleased to show everything we have;" and then he measured Grace's finger, and brought forth several trays of glittering gems. Grace would have been satisfied with almost any of the rings, but Sam was rather critical and insisted upon obtaining a beautiful blue-white diamond which was almost the counterpart of the stone Dick had bestowed upon Dora. "Now you've got to promise to have this engraved by eight o'clock to-morrow morning," said the youngest Rover to the jeweler. "We are on an automobile tour and we can't wait any longer than that." And thereupon the shopkeeper promised that the order should be duly filled. "Oh, Sam, how extravagant you are!" murmured Grace, when the pair were returning to the hotel. "Why, that ring cost a dreadful lot of money." Her eyes were shining like stars. "It isn't a bit too good for such a girl as you," he declared stoutly, and then gave her hand a squeeze that meant a great deal. When they left Etoria the next morning Sam had the engagement ring tucked safely away in his pocket. He had confided in Dick, and the oldest Rover managed it so that that noon they stopped at a large country hotel and obtained the use of a private dining-room. This, Sam had decorated with flowers, and just before the meal commenced he slipped the engagement ring upon Grace's finger. "Oh, Sam! Oh, Grace!" shrieked Nellie when she saw the sparkling circlet on her sister's finger. "Oh! so that's what's going on, is it?" cried Dora, joyfully. "Grace, allow me to congratulate you," and then she kissed the girl and immediately afterward kissed Sam. Numerous other kisses and handshakes followed, and for the time being Sam and Grace were the happiest young people in the world. "Let us send telegrams home, announcing the affair," suggested the youngest Rover, after the meal was at an end. "I know dad, as well as Aunt Martha and Uncle Randolph, will be glad to hear of it." The telegrams were quickly prepared and sent off. In the messages Sam notified those at home where the touring party would be for the next ten days. After that several days slipped by quickly. The tourists had covered a good many miles and were now approaching the Mississippi River. The weather had been ideal, and not a single puncture or blowout had come to cause them trouble. Sam and Grace were much together, and, as the youngest Rover declared, "were having the time of their lives." "It's queer I don't get more word from New York," remarked Dick one evening, when they had reached a city which I shall call Pemberton. "Dad acknowledged that telegram of Sam's, but he didn't say a word about that Lansing deal or anything about the Bruno bonds." "Well, let us hope that no news is good news," returned Tom. "Anyway, I'm not going to worry until I know there is something to worry about." That evening came word from Valley Brook, stating that everything was going along well at the farm and that Mr. Anderson Rover was confining himself closely to business in New York. The Mississippi was crossed, and then the tourists headed in the direction of Colorado Springs. It was their intention to make the Springs the turning point of the trip, with a side trip by the cog railway to Pike's Peak. They would return by the way of Denver. Some days later found them in Topeka, where they had decided to rest up for a day or two. During that time only one short telegram had come from Mr. Anderson Rover, stating that the Bruno bonds had been sold at a fair profit, but that the Lansing deal was still uncertain. "We stand to win or lose quite a lot of money on that Lansing deal," Dick explained to Sam. "It's rather a peculiar affair. The whole thing is being engineered by a Wall Street syndicate." On the morning of the second day in Topeka, when Sam and Grace and some of the others had gone shopping, Dick heard one of the bellboys call his name. "Telegram," he said to Tom. "I hope this is from dad and that it contains good news." The telegram proved to be what is known as a Night Letter, and its contents caused the two Rovers much astonishment. The communication ran as follows: "Have been following up the Lansing deal closely. Affairs are getting rather clouded and I am afraid we may lose out. A new opposition has appeared, a combination headed by your former friend, Waltham. He is still in the West but his agents are working against us. He has also bought controlling interest in the Haverford deal. Evidently means to hit us as hard as possible. Will know more in a day or two and will let you know at once of any change in affairs. "ANDERSON ROVER." CHAPTER XXVIII CLOUDBURST AND FLOOD "I see it!" cried Tom. "That's the spoke Chester Waltham told Sam he would put in our wheel." "I guess you are right," returned his older brother. "Evidently Waltham is a meaner fellow than I took him to be. Just because Grace would not put up with his ungentlemanly attentions he evidently is going to do what he can to make trouble for us." "I don't understand what dad means by the Haverford deal," went on Tom, as he studied the telegram. "I thought that deal was closed long ago." "They thought of closing it, Tom, but at the last moment something went wrong and the men who were going into the matter withdrew. That put a large part of the burden on our shoulders. We have at least forty thousand dollars invested in it. Now, if Waltham has bought a controlling interest, as dad says, he will be able to swing it any way he pleases, just as he may be able to swing the Lansing deal, too." "How much money have we got locked up in that? The last I heard it was only about eight thousand dollars." "When I left, dad said he expected to put in another twelve thousand, which would make a total of twenty thousand dollars, Tom." "Phew! Then that makes a grand total of sixty thousand dollars in the two deals. Chester Waltham must have a lot of loose money, if he can jump into deals as big as those are at a moment's notice." "Oh, a young millionaire like Waltham can get hold of cash whenever he wants it," answered Dick. He ran his hand through his hair thoughtfully. "This looks bad to me. Perhaps I had better take a train back to New York without delay." "Oh, if you did that it would spoil the trip for Dora," protested his brother. "It's better to spoil the trip than to let Chester Waltham get the better of us." "Why not send a telegram asking if it will do any good for you to come home?" questioned Tom. And after a little discussion Dick decided to do this, and the telegram was sent without delay. A few hours later word came back that if Dick was needed his father would send for him. The stay in Topeka was extended to the best part of a week, for that night a furious rainstorm set in which lasted two days. The downpour was unusually heavy, and as a consequence many of the outlying roads became well-nigh impassable. During the last day of the storm Sam received a long letter from Songbird in which the would-be poet told of how he was working to make his way in the world and also earn some money that he might pay back the amount lost by Mr. Sanderson. He added that so far the authorities had been unable to find any further trace of Blackie Crowden. "It's too bad!" was Sam's comment, after he had read this communication. "Poor Songbird! I suppose he feels as bad as ever over the loss of that money." At last the sun once more broke through the clouds and the journey of the tourists was resumed. Close to the city the roads were in fairly good condition, but farther out they soon found evidences of the tremendous downpour of the days before. Deep gullies had been cut here and there, and occasionally they came across washed-out trees and brushwood. "We'll have to take it a bit slowly, especially after dark," remarked Dick. When they passed over some of the rivers they found the rushing waters reached almost to the flooring of the bridges; and on the second day out they found one bridge swept completely away, so that they had to make a detour of many miles to gain another crossing. "What a tremendous loss to some of these farmers," remarked Mrs. Laning, as they rolled past numerous cornfields where the stalks had been swept down and covered with mud. "I am glad to say we never had anything like this at Cedarville." "And we never had anything like it at Valley Brook either," returned Dick. "This is the worst washout I ever saw." At noon they stopped at a small town for dinner and there they heard numerous reports concerning the storm. In one place it had taken away a barn and a cowshed and in another it had undermined the foundations of several houses. "The water up to Hickyville was three feet deep in the street," said one man at the hotel. "The folks had to rescue people by boats and rafts. One man had four cows drowned, and up at Ganey Point a man lost all his pigs and two horses." The party had scarcely left that town when it began to rain again. The downpour, however, was for a time so light that they did not think it worth while to stop or to turn back. "We'll put the tops up," said Tom, "and maybe in a little while the clouds will blow away." But Tom's hopes were doomed to disappointment. The downpour was comparatively light for about an hour, but then, just as they were passing through a patch of timber, it suddenly came on with great fury. "Great Scott!" burst out Sam, as a gust of wind drove the rain under the automobile tops. "We'll have to put down the side curtains." "Right you are!" answered Dick; and then the machines were halted and all the curtains were lowered and fastened. But even this did not protect them entirely, for the wind drove the rain in between the numerous cracks of the covering. "How many miles to the next stopping place?" queried Nellie. "About thirty," answered Tom. "That is, if we go as far as we calculated to when we left this morning." "Oh, I don't see how we are going to make thirty miles more in such a storm as this!" cried her sister. "We'll be lucky to make any kind of stopping place," announced Dick, grimly. "Just listen to that!" There was a wild roaring of wind outside, and then came a flash of lightning followed by a deafening clap of thunder. "Oh! Oh!" came in a shriek from the girls; and involuntarily they placed their hands to their ears. "Richard, do you think it is safe to stay under the trees in such a storm as this?" questioned Mrs. Stanhope, fearfully. Before Dick could reply to this question there came more lightning and thunder, and then a crash in the woods as a big tree was laid low. "Oh, dear! Listen!" cried Nellie. "Suppose one of the trees should come down on the autos!" "That is what I was afraid of," added her mother. "I think we had better get out of here." "All right, if you say so," answered Dick. "I was only thinking about the awful wind. It's going to hit us pretty hard when we get out on the open road." The automobiles had drawn up side by side, so that those in one machine could converse with those in the other. Now Dick started up one of the touring cars and was followed a minute later by Tom, at the wheel of the other automobile. Once in the open air, those in the machines realized how furiously the wind was blowing and how heavily the rain was descending. The automobiles fairly shook and shivered in the blasts, and despite their efforts to keep themselves dry all those in the automobiles were speedily drenched. The downpour was so heavy that the landscape on all sides was completely blotted out. "Oh, Dick! what in the world shall we do?" gasped Dora, and it was plainly to be seen that she was badly frightened. "I'd turn in somewhere if I only knew where," answered her husband, trying his best to peer through the rain-spattered wind-shield. "I don't see anything like a house anywhere around, do you?" "No, I can't see a thing." Dick was running along cautiously, and now, of a sudden, he put on the brakes. Just ahead of him had appeared a flood of water, and how deep it was there was no telling. "Listen!" cried Mrs. Stanhope, when the automobile had come to a standstill. "Did I hear somebody calling?" Scarcely had she spoken when there came another vivid flash of lightning followed by more thunder, and then a downpour heavier than ever. As the lightning flashed out Dick was surprised to see a girl splashing through the water on the road and running toward them. "Look! Look!" he ejaculated. "Unless I am mistaken it's Ada Waltham!" "It is! It is!" exclaimed Dora. "What in the world is she doing out alone in such a downpour as this!" As the girl on the road came closer to the touring car Dick threw up one of the curtains, opened the door, and sprang out to meet her. "Oh, Mr. Rover!" gasped Ada Waltham, "is it really you? How fortunate! Won't you please help me?" "What's wrong?" he demanded quickly. "Chester! He's lost!" "Lost! Where?" "He tried to cross the river yonder in the storm, and the bridge broke and let the automobile down. I managed to save myself and jumped ashore, but he was carried off by the torrent." The rich girl clasped her hands nervously. "Oh, please save him, Mr. Rover! Please do!" By this time the second automobile had come up, and Dick waved to Tom to stop. Seeing that something was wrong, Tom quickly alighted, followed by Sam. "What's wrong?" came from both of the new arrivals, as they gazed at Ada Waltham in astonishment. "Miss Waltham says her brother is lost--that he has been carried off in the flood of yonder river," answered Dick. "Oh, please hurry!" burst out the girl eagerly. "Please hurry, or it will be too late! I don't think Chester can swim." "All right, we'll tell the others where we are going and then we'll do what we can," answered Dick. "But if that flood is very strong we may have----" Dick was unable to finish his speech. Just then there came more lightning followed by a deafening crash of thunder. Then the very heavens seemed to open, to let down a torrent of water which seemed to fairly engulf them. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" came from the women and the girls. "Oh! what a terrible storm!" "It is a cloudburst! That's what it is!" gasped Sam. "You're right!" ejaculated Tom. "Look! See how the water in the river is rising! It's a cloudburst and a flood!" Tom was right--there had been a cloudburst, but fortunately not directly over the heads of our friends, otherwise they might have perished in the terrible downpour which immediately followed. The catastrophe had occurred at a point about a mile farther up the river, and now the waters from this flood were coming down with great swiftness and rising higher and higher every instant. "We've got to get out of here," was Sam's comment. Already they were standing in water up to their ankles. "We've got to find higher ground." "Oh, Sam! Sam! please don't let my brother drown!" pleaded Ada Waltham, catching him by the arm. "We'll do what we can to save him, Ada, but we've got to save ourselves first," he answered. "See! there is a little hill ahead," came from Dick, as he did his best to look through the rain, which was coming down as heavily as ever. "Let us run to the top of the rise, then we'll be in less danger from the flood if the river gets much higher." He turned to the distracted girl. "Come, you had better go with us, then we will see what we can do for your brother." "Oh, Dick! Dick! If you don't hurry we'll be swept away, sure!" cried Dora, and then made room so that Ada might get in beside her. In a moment more the three Rovers had re-entered the touring cars, and then the machines were sent forward through the water, which was now nearly a foot deep on the roadway. "Oh! I never saw such a storm in my life," was Mrs. Laning's comment. "If only we get out of this alive!" breathed Mrs. Stanhope. Being naturally a very nervous woman, she was on the verge of a collapse. Running with care through the swirling water that covered the roadway, they at length reached a rise of ground several feet above the flood. Here they stopped at the highest point they could gain, bringing the machines side by side. When the storm had started in earnest the three Rovers had donned their raincoats. Now, with rain caps pulled well down over their heads, they once more alighted. "If you can show us where your auto went into the river we'll see if we can locate your brother," announced Dick to Ada Waltham. "Maybe he got out and is walking somewhere around here," he added, by way of encouragement. "Oh, dear! I'm so nervous I can scarcely stand!" gasped the girl, and when she reached the ground they had to support her. Splashing along through the water that covered the roadway, they slowly progressed until they gained a point where the youths felt it would be impossible for Ada Waltham to go any farther. "There is what is left of the bridge over yonder," cried the girl, pointing with her hand. The Rovers looked in that direction and saw a few sticks of timber sticking out of the swirling waters, which were running down stream as turbulently as ever. "I don't think there is any use of looking for Chester around that bridge," was Tom's remark. "Most likely he was carried down stream--how far there is no telling. I think the best thing we can do is to take a look farther down." "That is just my opinion," returned his older brother. "I think you had better return to the autos. It won't do any good for you to remain out in this storm," he continued to the girl. When the party got back to the cars they found a farmer and his grown son standing by the machines. "I was just telling the ladies you had better run your automobiles up to my place," said the farmer. "It's about ten or fifteen feet higher than this, and, consequently, just so much safer. Besides, the ladies can come into the house." "We want to find this young lady's brother. He was swept off the bridge yonder," returned Dick. "So the ladies were telling me," returned James Barlow. "You come up to the house, and I'll go out with you. We've got a big rowboat that may come in handy. Say! ain't this some storm? Worst let-down I've ever seen in these parts." CHAPTER XXIX THE RESCUE ON THE RIVER It did not take long to run the automobiles down the road and up a side lane leading to the farmer's house. Here the ladies got out, and then the machines were placed in a barn. "You will do all you can to find my brother?" wailed Ada Waltham, anxiously. "Yes, we'll do our level best," answered Dick; and Tom and Sam said practically the same. The Rovers consulted with Mr. Barlow and his son, James, and all five walked down as close to the edge of the river as the effects of the cloudburst would allow. They saw bushes, trees, and parts of buildings coming down the swiftly-flowing stream, the waters of which were now thick with mud. "Here is my rowboat," announced the farmer, pointing to where the craft was tied fast to a large tree. "You can use it if you want to, but it looks to me like rather a hopeless matter to try to do anything while the river is raging like this. You had better wait until it calms down a little." "The trouble of it is, it may then be too late," answered Tom. He looked at his brothers. "I think we can manage it," he added. The matter was discussed for fully a quarter of an hour, and during that time the storm seemed to let up a little. The first awful effects of the cloudburst were passing, and the water was going down slowly but surely. "We'll try it," announced Dick, at last. "If we can't manage the rowboat we'll come ashore farther down the stream." The craft was a substantial one, and there were two pairs of oars, and to these James Barlow added a sweep to be used as a rudder. Then the three Rovers embarked, Tom and Sam to do the rowing and the other brother to guide the craft. It was hard, dangerous work, as they realized as soon as they struck the current of the swollen stream. They were sent along pell-mell, and it was all they could do to keep themselves from crashing into one object or another on the way. "Look out, or you'll get upset!" yelled James Barlow to them, and then his voice was drowned out in the rushing and roaring of the elements around them. A half hour passed--which to the Rovers just then seemed almost an age. During that time the three kept their eyes wide open for a possible sight of Chester Waltham or anybody else who might have been carried away by the flood. "There is somebody!" suddenly called out Dick. "A man caught in a tree!" "Is it Waltham?" demanded Tom, quickly. "I can't make out. He is crouched in a heap on some limbs and is waving frantically for us." Not without additional peril did the Rovers turn the rowboat across the river, for the tree in which the man was crouching was on the shore opposite to that from which they had embarked. "Hello! there are two fellows in the tree!" announced Tom, as they drew closer. The second man crouched behind the trunk, so that they had not at first been able to see him. "Help! Help!" came from the fellow who had been waving so frantically to them. And now, as they drew still closer, they saw that the individual was Chester Waltham. The young millionaire was capless and coatless, and his face and hands were much scratched. "We're in luck, that's sure," was Tom's comment, in a low voice. "And I'm glad on his sister's account," added Sam. "When we bring the boat up beside the tree you lower yourself into it, Waltham," directed Dick. "But be careful how you do it or we'll upset. The current here is very swift." "Yes, yes, I'll be careful," answered the young millionaire in a voice which trembled so that he could scarcely speak. He was, of course, much surprised to discover that it was the Rovers who had come to his assistance. He was so exhausted that to get out of the tree in safety was all but impossible, and finally Dick had to assist him while Tom and Sam did all they could to hold the rowboat in position. "It's fine of you to come for me!" panted Chester Waltham, when he found himself safe in the rowboat. "Di-did my si-sister get you, or what?" "Yes, she escaped and told us of your plight," answered Dick, briefly. "Good for Ada! Now get me safe on shore once more and I'll pay you handsomely for your trouble." "You won't have to pay us a cent, Waltham," was Sam's quick reply. "Just sit still so that the boat doesn't go over." "Can I help you in any way?" "No. Sit still, that's all," came from Tom, sharply. The idea of having Waltham speak of paying them at such a time disgusted him. In the meantime the second fellow in the tree had moved down a limb or two with the idea of following Waltham into the rowboat. But now, as he looked at the three Rovers, he suddenly drew back. "Hi there! don't you want to come with us?" cried Dick, considerably astonished over the man's actions. To this the individual in the tree made no reply. He kept behind the trunk and finally waved a hand as if to motion them away. "Say! is that fellow crazy?" questioned Sam. "He must be," was Tom's comment. He turned to Chester Waltham. "Do you know him!" "No, he's a stranger to me. I tried to speak to him, but he was so scared and cold from the ducking he got he did nothing but chatter, so I couldn't understand him." "See here, it's foolish to stay up there," called out Dick. "Come on down and we'll take you ashore." "D-do-don't want to g-g-go," came the stuttered-out reply. "G-go-wheep!" came in a funny little whistle. "G-g-go a-away!" "Well, of all the scared fellows----" commenced Tom. "Great Scott! I wonder if that fellow can be Blackie Crowden!" ejaculated Sam. "G-g-go a-wa-way!" stuttered the man in the tree, and then tried to say something more, but the words only ended in a strange little whistle. "Sam, do you really think it can be the fellow who robbed Songbird?" demanded Dick. "What would he be doing away out here?" "Why, Blackie Crowden came from Denver or Colorado Springs," announced the youngest Rover. "Remember, we are not so many miles away from those places." He raised his voice. "You come down out of there, Crowden. We know you and we want you." At this command the man in the tree seemed much disturbed. He tried to speak, but because of his natural stutter and his terror of the situation through which he was passing, his effort was a failure. "If you don't come down, we'll haul you down," ordered Dick, finally, and then, after a little more urging, the fellow finally consented to come out of the tree, and dropped into the rowboat. "Blackie Crowden, as sure as fate!" murmured Sam, as soon as he got a good look at the fellow's features. "Well, if this isn't luck!" "Evidently you know this fellow," came from Chester Waltham, curiously. "We sure do!" declared Sam. "He's the man who knocked our college chum, John Powell, down on the road near Ashton and robbed him of four thousand dollars." "I di-didn't r-r-rob any bo-body," stuttered Blackie Crowden. "It's all a mi-mis-mis-mista-ta-take!" and he ended with his usual queer whistle. "We'll see about that later, Crowden," put in Dick, sternly. "Now you sit perfectly still or else maybe you'll go overboard and be drowned." It would be difficult to describe the joy with which Ada Waltham greeted her brother on his safe return. She flew into his arms and, as wet as he was, hugged him over and over again. "Oh! I was so afraid you'd be drowned, Chester!" and then she added quickly: "How grand it was for the Rovers to go to your assistance!" "It certainly was very fine of them to do it," returned the young millionaire. And now it must be admitted that he seemed very much disturbed in mind. "I'm going to pay them back, you see if I don't," he added, after a thoughtful pause. Blackie Crowden had done his best to make them believe that he was not guilty of the attack upon Songbird, but the Rovers would not listen to this, and put him through such a grilling that finally he broke down and confessed all. "I wouldn't have done the deed at all if it hadn't been that I was worried over another matter," he said amid much stuttering and whistling. "I ain't a bad man naturally, even though I do drink and gamble a little. If it hadn't been for a lawyer named Belright Fogg I would never have robbed the young man." "Belright Fogg!" came from the Rovers. "What has that shyster lawyer to do with it?" added Sam. "Do you know he is a shyster lawyer?" "We sure do!" added Tom, promptly. "Then you will understand me when I tell you how it was. Some time ago I was mixed up in a land transaction. It is a long story, and all I need to tell you is that Belright Fogg was in it, too. I did some things that I oughtn't to, and that gave Fogg a hold on me. Finally he claimed that I owed him three hundred dollars, and he said if I didn't pay up he would make it hot for me and maybe land me in jail. That got me scared and I said I'd get the money somehow. "Then by accident I saw Powell get the money from the bank, and I followed him on horseback, passed him, and took the cash, as you know. As soon as the deed was done I was sorry for it, but then it was too late," stuttered Blackie Crowden, and hung his head. "And did you go to Belright Fogg and give him the three hundred dollars?" queried Sam. "Yes. I met him in Leadenfield, at a road house kept by a Frenchman named Bissette." "Then I was right after all!" cried Sam. "I accused Fogg of meeting you, but he denied it." "Well, he got the three hundred all right enough," stuttered Crowden. "And how was it you tried to keep out of our sight in that flood?" asked Sam curiously. "Did you know us?" "I knew you--saw you follow me to the depot at Dentonville. You thought I got on that train. But I didn't--I took a night freight." "I see. That is why the authorities didn't spot you." "That's it. But you were asking about Fogg," continued Blackie Crowden, speculatively. "And did he know you had stolen the money?" demanded Dick, sharply. "I'm pretty sure he did, although he didn't ask any questions. He knew about the robbery, and he knew well enough that I didn't have any three hundred dollars of my own to give him." "What did you do with the rest of the money, Crowden? I hope you didn't spend it?" questioned Sam, anxiously. "Spend it!" came in a bitter stutter from the criminal. "I didn't get any chance to spend it. All I had was two hundred dollars!" "Then what became of the other thirty-five hundred?" questioned Tom. "It's in a room at the Ashton hotel, unless somebody found it and stole it." "At the Ashton hotel!" cried Sam. "That's it. You see, after I met Fogg I stopped at Ashton for one night and put up at the old hotel on the Cheesley turnpike. I hid the money in an out-of-the-way corner of a clothes closet, because I didn't want to carry it on my person. Then, when I was on the street, I heard that you were on my trail, and I got scared and I was afraid to go back to the hotel to get it." "Can you remember what room it was?" queried Tom. "Yes, it was a back room--number twenty-two. I put the money in a hole in the wall back of an upper shelf." "We had better notify the authorities at Ashton of this," said Tom to his brothers. "Let us telegraph to Songbird and tell him to go to Ashton," suggested Sam. "If the money is there, Songbird ought to have the fun of getting it and returning it to Mr. Sanderson." "All right, let's do it!" cried Dick; and so the matter was arranged. CHAPTER XXX MRS. SAM ROVER--CONCLUSION "Well, that's good news and I'm mighty glad to hear it." It was Dick who spoke, three days after the incidents recorded in the last chapter. Our friends had been staying at the farmhouse of Mr. Barlow. Blackie Crowden had been turned over to the local authorities, the oldest Rover making the charge against him. Crowden had pleaded for mercy, but the boys, while sympathizing with him, had thought it best to let the law take its course. Chester Waltham and his sister had also remained at the farmhouse, which fortunately was a large one, so that the whole party was not particularly crowded for room. The rescue of the young millionaire from the river had worked wonders, and he was now heartily ashamed of himself, not only for the way he had treated Grace but also on account of the instructions he had sent to his agents in Wall Street. "You can rest assured, Mr. Rover, that my opposition to your plans in New York will be withdrawn," he said to Dick. "I am going to telegraph to my agents as soon as I get a chance. And I want you and your brothers to understand that I appreciate thoroughly your goodness in coming to my rescue. It was a splendid thing to do. I am not going to insult you by offering you any reward--all I can say is that I thank you from the bottom of my heart." And that evening Chester Waltham and his sister had taken their departure, stating that the accident at the bridge had ended their idea of touring farther, and that they were going to take the first train they could get for the East. The thing that Dick called "good news" was a long "Night Letter" sent over the wires by Songbird. The former poet of Brill had received their message concerning Blackie Crowden, and also Belright Fogg, and had at once hurried to Ashton and to the hotel on the Cheesley turnpike. There, in room twenty-two, as mentioned by Crowden, he had found the package containing the thirty-five hundred dollars. Next he had called on Belright Fogg and had scared the shyster lawyer so completely that Fogg had returned the three hundred dollars received from Crowden with scarcely a protest. Then the happy youth had driven over to the Sanderson place. The Sandersons had been surprised to see him and amazed to learn that he had recovered so large a portion of the stolen money. "As I had already paid Mr. Sanderson one hundred dollars," wrote Songbird, "it made a total of thirty-nine hundred returned to him, and he told me that I need not bother about the other hundred. But I paid it just the same, for I had just been fortunate enough to sell six of my poems--two to a magazine and four to a weekly paper--for one hundred and sixty dollars. "Of course we had a grand time, and Mr. Sanderson has forgiven everything. He and Minnie think you are mighty smart fellows, and I agree with them. Minnie and I have fixed matters all up between us, and we are the happiest couple you ever saw. I don't know how to thank you enough for what you have done for me, and all I can add is, God bless you, every one!" "Good old Songbird!" murmured Sam, as he read the communication a second time. "I'll wager he feels a hundred per cent. better than he did." "And to think he sold six of his poems!" commented Tom. "I shouldn't wonder if he thinks more of that than he does of getting the money back," he added, somewhat drily. On the following day came another telegram, this time from Mr. Rover, stating that the opposition of the Waltham interests in Wall Street had been suddenly withdrawn. But he added that business matters in the metropolis were becoming more and more arduous for him, and he asked when Dick expected to get back. "I'm afraid it's getting too much for dear, old dad," was Dick's comment, on perusing this message. "I think the best thing I can do is to get back and help him." "Well, if you go back, I think I'll go back myself," said Tom. "Anyway, this tour seems to have come to a standstill, with so much rain." "I'm willing to go back if you fellows say so," put in Sam. "I'll wager he and Grace want to get ready for their wedding," remarked Tom, slily. "That's just what we do," returned Sam, boldly. "We're going to be married early this fall, aren't we, Grace?" and he gazed fondly at the girl, who nodded, and then turned away to hide her blushes. But the tour did not come to an end as quickly as might have been expected. On the day following it was such fair weather that they left the Barlow farm and started once more on their trip westward. Colorado Springs was soon gained, and, passing on to Manitou, they left the automobiles, and took the cog railway to the summit of Pike's Peak. Then, on the day following, they motored up to Denver. "We can ship our automobiles home by freight," said Dick, "and by returning by train we can be back in New York in no time." A week later found the entire party once more in the East. While Dick and Tom settled down to help their father at the offices in Wall Street, the others returned to Valley Brook and to Cedarville, to prepare for the coming wedding. "And where is it to be, Sam?" questioned Tom, when the brothers were on the point of parting. "Oh, it can only be in one place," was Sam's answer. "And I guess I know where that is," returned Tom, with a grin. Both Dick and Tom had been married in the Cedarville Union Church, a little stone edifice covered with ivy, which was located not a great distance from the homes of the Lanings and the Stanhopes, and also Putnam Hall. As before, it was a question if the numerous guests who were expected to the ceremony would be able to get into the building. But both Grace and Sam said they would have to make the best of it. As soon as the wedding invitations were issued, the presents began to come in, and they were fully as numerous and as costly as had been the gifts bestowed upon Dora and upon Nellie. From Mr. Rover came, as was to be expected, a bankbook containing an amount written therein which was the duplicate of that he had bestowed upon Dick and Dora and likewise upon Tom and Nellie. "You can always depend on dad," was Sam's comment, his voice choking a little. "The best dad anybody ever had!" "Indeed you are right!" answered the bride-to-be. "And I'm going to love him just as if he were my own father." Sam's own present to his bride was a gold wrist-watch set in diamonds and pearls--a beautiful affair over which the happy girl went wild with delight. At last came the eventful day, full of golden sunshine. All of the Rovers had arrived in Cedarville and were quartered at the hotel. Many other guests were at the Stanhope homestead and at the Laning farm, and still others--former cadets--had come back not only to attend the wedding but also to take another look at dear old Putnam Hall. Among the old guard who had thus presented themselves were Fred Garrison, Larry Colby, Bart Conners and Harry Blossom. Among those who had attended Brill were Stanley Browne, Spud Jackson, Bob Grimes and, of course, Songbird. "I'm engaged to Minnie," whispered the latter to the Rovers at the first opportunity. "We are going to be married just as soon as my income will permit. And what do you think? I've sold four more poems--got eighty dollars for them," and his face beamed as they had never seen it shine before. "I congratulate you, Songbird," returned Sam, heartily. "I certainly hope you get to be the best-known poet in the United States." "Oh, I don't know about that. I am going to buckle down to business. My uncle thinks I am doing wonderfully well, and he says if I keep on he is going to give me a substantial increase in salary after the first of the year. I'm going to write verses just as a side issue." As at the other weddings, the ceremony was set for high noon. Soon the guests began to arrive, and before long the old church was crowded to its capacity, with many standing up in the aisles and in the rear and even at the side windows, which were wide open. Captain Putnam, in full uniform and looking a little grayer than ever, was there, and with him, George Strong, his head assistant, with whom Sam had always been very friendly. There were also numerous girls there who had formerly attended Hope Seminary, and of these one was a flower girl and two were bridesmaids. Sam's best man was his old Putnam Hall chum, Fred Garrison, while among the ushers were Songbird, Stanley, Spud, Bob, and some others of his former classmates. Presently the organ pealed out and the minister appeared, followed a moment later by Sam. Then up the aisle came Grace on the arm of Mr. Laning, and daintily attired in white with a flowing veil beset with orange blossoms. "Oh, how pretty she looks!" said more than one; and they spoke the truth, for Grace certainly made a beautiful bride. The ceremony was a brief but solemn one, and then, as the organ pealed out joyously, the happy pair walked forth from the church, to enter an automobile which whirled them off to the Laning homestead. To that place they were followed by a great number of invited guests. An elaborate wedding dinner had been prepared, and an orchestra from the city had been hired, and all sat down to a feast of good things with music. "We'll have to give them a send-off--same as they gave me," said Tom to his brother Dick, while the festivities were at their height. "They'll be getting ready to go away soon." "Sure! we'll give them a send-off," returned the oldest brother. "Come on, let us get busy." Down at the barns an automobile was in readiness to take Sam and his bride away on their wedding trip. This car Dick and Tom and a number of others lost no time in decorating with white streamers and a placard which read: _We are on our wedding trip. Congratulate us._ "Aren't you going to stay to have a dance?" questioned Nellie of her sister, a little later. "Of course," answered Grace; and shortly after that she and Sam tripped around to the tuneful measures of a two-step. All of the young folks present joined in, the older folks looking on with much satisfaction. "I can hardly believe it," declared old Aunt Martha, as she took off her spectacles to wipe her eyes. "Why, it don't seem no time since Sam was just a baby!" The dancing continued for some time but then, of a sudden, came a cry from Dora: "Where are Sam and Grace? I don't see them anywhere." "They are gone! They have given us the slip!" "No, they've gone upstairs. Wait here, and we'll give them a shower." The young folks gathered in the hallway and out on the piazza, and a few minutes later Sam and Grace appeared, both ready for their tour. Then came a grand shower of rice and confetti, mingled with two or three old shoes, and in the midst of this the happy, laughing young couple escaped to the automobile which was now drawn up before the door. The chauffeur was ready for the start, and in an instant more the machine shot down the lane and out into the roadway. "Good-bye! Good-bye and good luck to you!" was the cry. "Good-bye, everybody!" came back from the touring car, and Sam and Grace stood up to wave their hands to those left behind. Then the touring car disappeared around a turn of the road, and they were gone. * * * * * And now let me add a few words more and thus bring to a close this long series of adventures in which the three Rover boys, Dick, Tom, and Sam, have played such an important part. A number of years have passed and many changes of importance have occurred. Mr. Anderson Rover has retired from active participation in The Rover Company, and Dick is now the president, with Tom secretary and Sam treasurer. The concern is doing remarkably well and all of the Rovers are reported to be wealthy. The father has returned to the farm at Valley Brook, where he lives in peace and comfort with Uncle Randolph and Aunt Martha, who, despite their years, are still in the best of health. A year after Sam's marriage to Grace, Songbird Powell married Minnie Sanderson. The would-be poet has made quite a business man of himself and, what perhaps is of even greater pleasure to himself, has had many of his poems accepted by our leading periodicals. When Sam was first married he went to live in an apartment close to those occupied by Dick and Tom, but two years later the three brothers had a chance to buy a beautiful plot of ground on Riverside Drive, facing the noble Hudson River, and on this they built three beautiful houses adjoining one another. "I guess we are in New York to stay," was the way the oldest brother had expressed himself, "and if that is so we may as well make ourselves as comfortable here as possible." Before the young folks moved into the new homes Dick and Dora were blessed with a little son, who later on was named John after Mr. John Laning. Little Jack, as he was always called by the others, was a wonderfully bright and clever lad and a great source of comfort to his parents. Later still the young couple had a daughter, whom they named Martha after Dick's aunt. Tom and Nellie had twin boys that were speedily christened Andy after Mr. Anderson Rover, and Randy after Tom's Uncle Randolph. Then Sam came along with a daughter, who was called Mary after Mrs. Laning and with a son, whom he called Fred after his old school chum, Fred Garrison. The young Rover boys had a great many qualities similar to those displayed by their fathers. Little Jack was as strong and sturdy as Dick had ever been, and young Fred had many of the peculiarities of Sam, while Andy and Randy, the twins, were the equal of their father, Tom, for creating fun. "I don't know what we're ever going to do with those kids," remarked Tom, one day, after Andy and Randy had played a big joke on Jack and Fred. "Some day they'll pull the house down over our ears." "Well, Andy and Randy are simply chips of the old block," laughed Dick Rover. "I suppose we'll all have to do as our folks did with us--send the lads off to some strict boarding school." "If I ever do send them off, I know where it will be," answered Tom Rover. "Our old Putnam Hall chum, Larry Colby, has opened a first-class military academy which he calls Colby Hall. If I ever send them away I think I'll send them to Larry." "That wouldn't be a half bad idea," put in Sam Rover. "Larry was always a first-class fellow and I don't doubt but what he is running a first-class school." "Well, those boys are too young yet to leave home," was Dick Rover's comment. "If they are to go to boarding school that must come later." A few years after that Jack, Andy and Randy, and Fred were sent to Colby Hall, and it is possible that some day I may tell you of what happened there to this younger generation of Rovers. Dick, Tom, and Sam were happy, and with good reason. They had the best of wives, and children that they dearly loved, and though they worked hard they were surrounded with every comfort. Every summer, and at Christmas time, they left New York either for Valley Brook or for Cedarville, there to receive the warmest of welcomes. Life looked rosy to all of them, and here we will leave them and say good-bye. THE END _This Isn't All!_ Would you like to know what became of the good friends you have made in this book? Would you like to read other stories continuing their adventures and experiences, or other books quite as entertaining by the same author? On the _reverse side_ of the wrapper which comes with this book, you will find a wonderful list of stories which you can buy at the same store where you got this book. _Don't throw away the Wrapper_ _Use it as a handy catalog of the books you want some day to have. But in case you do mislay it, write to the Publishers for a complete catalog._ THE FAMOUS ROVER BOYS SERIES By ARTHUR M. WINFIELD (EDWARD STRATEMEYER) Beautiful Wrappers in Full Color [Illustration] No stories for boys ever published have attained the tremendous popularity of this famous series. Since the publication of the first volume, The Rover Boys at School, some years ago, over three million copies of these books have been sold. They are well written stories dealing with the Rover boys in a great many different kinds of activities and adventures. Each volume holds something of interest to every adventure loving boy. A complete list of titles is printed on the opposite page. FAMOUS ROVER BOYS SERIES BY ARTHUR M. WINFIELD (Edward Stratemeyer) OVER THREE MILLION COPIES SOLD OF THIS SERIES. Uniform Style of Binding. Colored Wrappers. Every Volume Complete in Itself. THE ROVER BOYS AT SCHOOL THE ROVER BOYS ON THE OCEAN THE ROVER BOYS IN THE JUNGLE THE ROVER BOYS OUT WEST THE ROVER BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES THE ROVER BOYS IN THE MOUNTAINS THE ROVER BOYS ON LAND AND SEA THE ROVER BOYS IN CAMP THE ROVER BOYS ON THE RIVER THE ROVER BOYS ON THE PLAINS THE ROVER BOYS IN SOUTHERN WATERS THE ROVER BOYS ON THE FARM THE ROVER BOYS ON TREASURE ISLE THE ROVER BOYS AT COLLEGE THE ROVER BOYS DOWN EAST THE ROVER BOYS IN THE AIR THE ROVER BOYS IN NEW YORK THE ROVER BOYS IN ALASKA THE ROVER BOYS IN BUSINESS THE ROVER BOYS ON A TOUR THE ROVER BOYS AT COLBY HALL THE ROVER BOYS ON SNOWSHOE ISLAND THE ROVER BOYS UNDER CANVAS THE ROVER BOYS ON A HUNT THE ROVER BOYS IN THE LAND OF LUCK THE ROVER BOYS AT BIG HORN RANCH THE ROVER BOYS AT BIG BEAR LAKE THE ROVER BOYS SHIPWRECKED THE ROVER BOYS ON SUNSET TRAIL THE ROVER BOYS WINNING A FORTUNE GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK WESTERN STORIES FOR BOYS By JAMES CODY FERRIS Individual Colored Wrappers and Illustrations by WALTER S. ROGERS Each Volume Complete in Itself. Thrilling tales of the great west, told primarily for boys but which will be read by all who love mystery, rapid action, and adventures in the great open spaces. The Manly Boys, Roy and Teddy, are the sons of an old ranchman, the owner of many thousands of heads of cattle. The lads know how to ride, how to shoot, and how to take care of themselves under any and all circumstances. The cowboys of the X Bar X Ranch are real cowboys, on the job when required but full of fun and daring--a bunch any reader will be delighted to know. THE X BAR X BOYS ON THE RANCH THE X BAR X BOYS IN THUNDER CANYON THE X BAR X BOYS ON WHIRLPOOL RIVER THE X BAR X BOYS ON BIG BISON TRAIL THE X BAR X BOYS AT THE ROUND-UP THE X BAR X BOYS AT NUGGET CAMP THE X BAR X BOYS AT RUSTLER'S GAP THE X BAR X BOYS AT GRIZZLY PASS THE X BAR X BOYS LOST IN THE ROCKIES GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK Transcriber's Notes: --Handful of punctuation and printer inaccuracies were silently corrected. --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. --The author's long dash style has been preserved. 
60761	----	the good seed By MARK MALLORY _The island was drowning--if they failed to find some common ground, both of them were doomed._ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] They said--as they have said of so many frontiersmen just like him--that there must have been a woman in his past, to make him what he was. And indeed there had, but she was no flesh-and-blood female. The name of his lady was Victoria, whom the Greeks called Nike and early confounded with the Pallas Athena, that sterile maiden. And at the age of thirty-four she had Calvin Mulloy most firmly in her grasp, for he had neither wife nor child, nor any close friend worth mentioning--only his hungry dream for some great accomplishment. It had harried him to the stars, that dream of his. It had driven him to the position of top survey engineer on the new, raw planet of Mersey, still largely unexplored and unmapped. And it had pushed him, too, into foolishnesses like this latest one, building a sailplane out of scrap odds and ends around the Mersey Advance Base--a sailplane which had just this moment been caught in a storm and cracked up on an island the size of a city backyard, between the banks of one of the mouths of the Adze River. The sailplane was gone the moment it hit. Actually it had come down just short of the island and floated quickly off, what was left of it, while Calvin was thrashing for the island with that inept stroke of his. He pulled himself up, gasping, onto the rocks, and, with the coolness of a logical man who has faced crises before, set himself immediately to taking stock of his situation. He was wet and winded, but since he was undrowned and on solid land in the semitropics, he dismissed that part of it from his mind. It had been full noon when he had been caught in the storm, and it could not be much more than minutes past that now, so swiftly had everything happened; but the black, low clouds, racing across the sky, and the gusts of intermittent rain, cut visibility down around him. He stood up on his small island and leaned against the wind that blew in and up the river from the open gulf. On three sides he saw nothing but the fast-riding waves. On the fourth, though, shading his eyes against the occasional bursts of rain, he discerned a long, low, curving blackness that would be one of the river shores. There lay safety. He estimated its distance from him at less than a hundred and fifty yards. It was merely, he told himself, a matter of reaching it. * * * * * Under ordinary conditions, he would have settled down where he was and waited for rescue. He was not more than fifteen or twenty miles from the Advance Base, and in this storm they would waste no time waiting for him to come in, before starting out to search for him. No sailplane could survive in such a blow. Standing now, with the wind pushing at him and the rain stinging against his face and hands, he found time for a moment's wry humor at his own bad luck. On any civilized world, such a storm would have been charted and predicted, if not controlled entirely. Well, the more fool he, for venturing this far from Base. It was in his favor that this world of Mersey happened to be so Earthlike that the differences between the two planets were mostly unimportant. Unfortunately, it was the one unimportant difference that made his present position on the island a death trap. The gulf into which his river emptied was merely a twentieth the area of the Gulf of Mexico--but in this section it was extremely shallow, having an overall average depth of around seventy-five feet. When one of these flash storms formed suddenly out over its waters, the wind could either drain huge tidal areas around the mouths of the Adze, or else raise the river level within hours a matter of thirty feet. With the onshore wind whistling about his ears right now, it was only too obvious to Calvin that the river was rising. This rocky little bit sticking some twelve or fifteen feet above the waves could expect to be overwhelmed in the next few hours. He looked about him. The island was bare except for a few straggly bushes. He reached out for a shoot from a bush beside him. It came up easily from the thin layer of soil that overlaid the rocks, and the wind snatched it out of his hand. He saw it go skipping over the tops of the waves in the direction of the shore, until a wave-slope caught it and carried it into the next trough and out of sight. It at least, he thought, would reach the safety of the river bank. But it would take a thousand such slender stems, plaited into a raft, to do him any good; and there were not that many stems, and not that much time. Calvin turned and climbed in toward the center high point of the island. It was only a few steps over the damp soil and rocks, but when he stood upright on a little crown of rock and looked about him, it seemed that the island was smaller than ever, and might be drowned at any second by the wind-lashed waves. Moreover, there was nothing to be seen which offered him any more help or hope of escape. Even then, he was not moved to despair. He saw no way out, but this simply reinforced his conviction that the way out was hiding about him somewhere, and he must look that much harder for it. He was going to step down out of the full force of the wind, when he happened to notice a rounded object nestling in a little hollow of the rock below him, about a dozen or so feet away. * * * * * He went and stood over it, seeing that his first guess as to its nature had been correct. It was one of the intelligent traveling plants that wandered around the oceans of this world. It should have been at home in this situation. Evidently, however, it had made the mistake of coming ashore here to seed. It was now rooted in the soil of the island, facing death as surely as he; if the wind or the waves tore it from its own helplessly anchored roots. "Can you understand me?" he asked it. There was an odd sort of croaking from it, which seemed to shape itself into words, though the how of it remained baffling to the ear. It was a sort of supplemental telepathy at work, over and above the rough attempts to imitate human speech. Some of these intelligent plants they had got to know in this area could communicate with them in this fashion, though most could not. "I know you, man," said the plant. "I have seen your gathering." It was referring to the Advance Base, which had attracted a steady stream of the plant visitors at first. "Know any way to get ashore?" Calvin asked. "There is none," said the plant. "I can't see any, either." "There is none," repeated the plant. "Everyone to his own opinion," said Calvin. Almost he sneered a little. He turned his gaze once more about the island. "In my book, them that _won't_ be beat _can't_ be beat. That's maybe where we're different, plant." He left the plant and went for a walk about the island. It had been in his mind that possibly a drifting log or some such could have been caught by the island and he could use this to get ashore. He found nothing. For a few minutes, at one end of the island, he stood fascinated, watching a long sloping black rock with a crack in it, reaching down into the water. There was a small tuft of moss growing in the crack about five inches above where the waves were slapping. As he watched, the waves slapped higher and higher, until he turned away abruptly, shivering, before he could see the water actually reach and cover the little clump of green. For the first time a realization that he might not get off the island touched him. It was not yet fear, this realization, but it reached deep into him and he felt it, suddenly, like a pressure against his heart. As the moss was being covered, so could he be covered, by the far-reaching inexorable advance of the water. And then this was wiped away by an abrupt outburst of anger and self-ridicule that he--who had been through so many dangers--should find himself pinned by so commonplace a threat. A man, he told himself, could die of drowning anywhere. There was no need to go light-years from his place of birth to find such a death. It made all dying--and all living--seem small and futile and insignificant, and he did not like that feeling. * * * * * Calvin went back to the plant in its little hollow, tight-hugging to the ground and half-sheltered from the wind, and looked down on its dusky basketball-sized shape, the tough hide swollen and ready to burst with seeds. "So you think there's no way out," he said roughly. "There is none," said the plant. "Why don't you just let yourself go if you think like that?" Calvin said. "Why try to keep down out of the wind, if the waves'll get you anyway, later?" The plant did not answer for a while. "I do not want to die," it said then. "As long as I am alive, there is the possibility of some great improbable chance saving me." "Oh," said Calvin, and he himself was silent in turn. "I thought you'd given up." "I cannot give up," said the plant. "I am still alive. But I know there is no way to safety." "You make a lot of sense." Calvin straightened up to squint through the rain at the dark and distant line of the shore. "How much more time would you say we had before the water covers this rock?" "The eighth part of a daylight period, perhaps more, perhaps less. The water can rise either faster or more slowly." "Any chance of it cresting and going down?" "That would be a great improbable chance such as that of which I spoke," said the plant. Calvin rotated slowly, surveying the water around them. Bits and pieces of flotsam were streaming by them on their way before the wind, now angling toward the near bank. But none were close enough or large enough to do Calvin any good. "Look," said Calvin abruptly, "there's a fisheries survey station upriver here, not too far. Now, I could dig up the soil holding your roots. If I did that, would you get to the survey station as fast as you could and tell them I'm stranded here?" "I would be glad to," said the plant. "But you cannot dig me up. My roots have penetrated into the rock. If you tried to dig me up, they would break off--and I would die that much sooner." "You would, would you?" grunted Calvin. But the question was rhetorical. Already his mind was busy searching for some other way out. For the first time in his life, he felt the touch of cold about his heart. Could this be fear, he wondered. But he had never been afraid of death. Crouching down again to be out of the wind and rain, he told himself that knowledge still remained a tool he could use. The plant must know something that was, perhaps, useless to it, but that could be twisted to a human's advantage. "What made you come to a place like this to seed?" he asked. "Twenty nights and days ago, when I first took root here," said the plant, "this land was safe. The signs were good for fair weather. And this place was easy of access from the water. I am not built to travel far on land." "How would you manage in a storm like this, if you were not rooted down?" "I would go with the wind until I found shelter," said the plant. "The wind and waves would not harm me then. They hurt only whatever stands firm and opposes them." "You can't communicate with others of your people from here, can you?" asked Calvin. "There are none close," said the plant. "Anyway, what could they do?" "They could get a message to the fisheries station, to get help out here for us." "What help could help me?" said the plant. "And in any case they could not go against the wind. They would have to be upwind of the station, even to help you." "We could try it." "We could try it," agreed the plant. "But first one of my kind must come into speaking range. We still hunt our great improbable chance." * * * * * There was a moment's silence between them in the wind and rain. The river was noisy, working against the rock of the island. "There must be something that would give us a better chance than just sitting here," said Calvin. The plant did not answer. "What are you thinking about?" demanded Calvin. "I am thinking of the irony of our situation," said the plant. "You are free to wander the water, but cannot. I can wander the water, but I am not free to do so. This is death, and it is a strange thing." "I don't get you." "I only mean that it makes no difference--that I am what I am, or that you are what you are. We could be any things that would die when the waves finally cover the island." "Right enough," said Calvin impatiently. "What about it?" "Nothing about it, man," said the plant. "I was only thinking." "Don't waste your time on philosophy," said Calvin harshly. "Use some of that brain power on a way to get loose and get off." "Perhaps that and philosophy are one and the same." "You're not going to convince me of that," said Calvin, getting up. "I'm going to take another look around the island." * * * * * The island, as he walked around its short margin, showed itself to be definitely smaller. He paused again by the black rock. The moss was lost now, under the water, and the crack was all but under as well. He stood shielding his eyes against the wind-driven rain, peering across at the still visible shore. The waves, he noted, were not extreme--some four or five feet in height--which meant that the storm proper was probably paralleling the land some distance out in the gulf. He clenched his fists in sudden frustration. If only he had hung on to the sailplane--or any decent-sized chunk of it! At least going into the water then would have been a gamble with some faint chance of success. He had nowhere else to go, after rounding the island. He went back to the plant. "Man," said the plant, "one of my people has been blown to shelter a little downstream." Calvin straightened up eagerly, turning to stare into the wind. "You cannot see him," said the plant. "He is caught below the river bend and cannot break loose against the force of the wind. But he is close enough to talk. And he sends you good news." "Me?" Calvin hunkered down beside the plant. "Good news?" "There is a large tree torn loose from the bank and floating this way. It should strike the little bit of land where we are here." "Strike it? Are you positive?" "There are the wind and the water and the tree. They can move only to one destination--this island. Go quickly to the windward point of the island. The tree will be coming shortly." Calvin jerked erect and turned, wild triumph bursting in him. "Good-by, man," said the plant. But he was already plunging toward the downstream end of the island. He reached it and, shielding his eyes with a hand, peered desperately out over the water. The waves hammered upon his boots as he stood there, and then he saw it, a mass of branches upon which the wind was blowing as on a sail, green against black, coming toward him. * * * * * He crouched, wrung with impatience, as the tree drifted swiftly through the water toward him, too ponderous to rise and fall more than a little with the waves and presenting a galleonlike appearance of mass and invincibility. As it came closer, a fear that it would, in spite of the plant's assurances, miss the island, crept into his heart and chilled it. It seemed to Calvin that it was veering--that it would pass to windward of the island, between him and the dimly seen shore. The thought of losing it was more than he could bear to consider; and with a sudden burst of panic, he threw himself into the waves, beating clumsily and frantically for it. The river took him into its massive fury. He had forgotten the strength of it. His first dive took him under an incoming wave, and he emerged, gasping, into the trough behind, with water exploding in his face. He kicked and threw his arms about, but the slow and futile-seeming beatings of his limbs appeared helpless as the fluttering of a butterfly in a collector's net. He choked for air, and, rising on the crest of one wave, found himself turned backward to face the island, and being swept past it. Fear came home to him then. He lashed out, fighting only for the solid ground of the island and his life. His world became a place of foam and fury. He strained for air. He dug for the island. And then, suddenly, he felt himself flung upon hard rock and gasping, crawling, he emerged onto safety. He hung there on hands and knees, battered and panting. Then the remembrance of the tree cut like a knife to the core of his fear-soaked being. He staggered up, and, looking about, saw that he was almost to the far end of the island. He turned. Above him, at the windward point, the tree itself was just now grounding, branches first, and swinging about as the long trunk, caught by the waves, pulled it around and onward. With an inarticulate cry, he ran toward it. But the mass of water against the heavy tree trunk was already pulling the branches from their tanglings with the rock. It floated free. Taking the wind once more in its sail of leaves, it moved slowly--and then more swiftly on past the far side of the island. He scrambled up his side of the island's crest. But when he reached its top and could see the tree again, it was already moving past and out from the island, too swiftly for him to catch it, even if he had been the swimmer he had just proved himself not to be. He dropped on his knees, there on the island's rocky spine, and watched it fade in the grayness of the rain, until the green of its branches was lost in a grayish blob, and this in the general welter of storm and waves. And suddenly a dark horror of death closed over him, blotting out all the scene. * * * * * A voice roused him. "That is too bad," said the plant. He turned his head numbly. He was kneeling less than half a dozen feet from the little hollow where the plant still sheltered. He looked at it now, dazed, as if he could not remember what it was, nor how it came to talk to him. Then his eyes cleared a little of their shock and he crept over to it on hands and knees and crouched in the shelter of the hollow. "The water is rising more swiftly," said the plant. "It will be not long now." "No!" said Calvin. The word was lost in the sound of the waves and wind, as though it had never been. Nor, the minute it was spoken, could he remember what he had meant to deny by it. It had been only a response without thought, an instinctive negation. "You make me wonder," said the plant, after a little, "why it hurts you so--this thought of dying. Since you first became alive, you have faced ultimate death. And you have not faced it alone. All things die. This storm must die. This rock on which we lie will not exist forever. Even worlds and suns come at last to their ends, and galaxies, perhaps even the Universe." Calvin shook his head. He did not answer. "You are a fighting people," said the plant, almost as if to itself. "Well and good. Perhaps a life like mine, yielding, giving to the forces of nature, traveling before the wind, sees less than you see, of a reason for clawing hold on existence. But still it seems to me that even a fighter would be glad at last to quit the struggle, when there is no other choice." "Not here," said Calvin thickly. "Not now." "Why not here, why not now," said the plant, "when it has to be somewhere and sometime?" Calvin did not answer. "I feel sorry for you," said the plant. "I do not like to see things suffer." Raising his head a little and looking around him, Calvin could see the water, risen high around them, so that waves were splashing on all sides, less than the length of his own body away. "It wouldn't make sense to you," said Calvin then, raising his rain-wet face toward the plant. "You're old by your standards. I'm young. I've got things to do. You don't understand." "No," the plant agreed. "I do not understand." * * * * * Calvin crawled a little closer to the plant, into the hollow, until he could see the vibrating air-sac that produced the voice of the plant. "Don't you see? I've got to do something--I've got to feel I've accomplished something--before I quit." "What something?" asked the plant. "I don't _know_!" cried Calvin. "I just know I haven't! I feel thrown away!" "What is living? It is feeling and thinking. It is seeding and trying to understand. It is companionship of your own people. What more is there?" "You have to do something." "Do what?" "Something important. Something to feel satisfied about." A wave, higher than the rest, slapped the rock a bare couple of feet below them and sent spray stinging in against them. "You have to say, 'Look, maybe it wasn't much, but I did this.'" "What kind of this?" "How do I know?" shouted Calvin. "Something--maybe something nobody else did--maybe something that hasn't been done before!" "For yourself?" said the plant. A higher wave slapped at the very rim of their hollow, and a little water ran over and down to pool around them. Calvin felt it cold around his knees and wrists. "Or for the doing?" "For the doing! For the doing!" "If it is for the doing, can you take no comfort from the fact there are others of your own kind to do it?" Another wave came in on them. Calvin moved spasmodically right up against the plant and put his arms around it, holding on. "I have seeded ten times and done much thinking," said the plant--rather muffledly, for Calvin's body was pressing against its air-sac. "I have not thought of anything really new, or startling, or great, but I am satisfied." It paused a moment as a new wave drenched them and receded. They were half awash in the hollow now, and the waves came regularly. "I do not see how this is so different from what you have done. But I am content." Another and stronger wave rocked them. The plant made a sound that might have been of pain at its roots tearing. "Have you seeded?" "No," said Calvin, and all at once, like light breaking at last into the dark cave of his being, in this twelfth hour, it came to him--all of what he had robbed himself in his search for a victory. Choking on a wave, he clung to the plant with frenzied strength. "Nothing!" The word came torn from him as if by some ruthless hand. "I've got nothing!" "Then I understand at last," said the plant. "For of all things, the most terrible is to die unfruitful. It is no good to say we _will_ not be beaten, because there is always waiting, somewhere, that which can beat us. And then a life that is seedless goes down to defeat finally and forever. But when one has seeded, there is no ending of the battle, and life mounts on life until the light is reached by those far generations in which we have had our own small but necessary part. Then our personal defeat has been nothing, for though we died, we are still living, and though we fell, we conquered." But Calvin, clinging to the plant with both arms, saw only the water closing over him. "Too late--" he choked. "Too late--too late--" "No," bubbled the plant. "Not too late yet. This changes things. For I have seeded ten times and passed on my life. But you--I did not understand. I did not realize your need." * * * * * The flood, cresting, ran clear and strong, the waves breaking heavily on the drowned shore by the river mouth. The rescue spinner, two hours out of Base and descending once again through the fleeting murk, checked at the sight of a begrimed human figure, staggering along the slick margin of the shore, carrying something large and limp under one arm, and with the other arm poking at the ground with a stick. The spinner came down almost on top of him, and the two men in it reached to catch Calvin. He could hardly stand, let alone stumble forward, but stumble he did. "Cal!" said the pilot. "Hold up! It's us." "Let go," said Calvin thickly. He pulled loose, dug with his stick, dropped something from the limp thing into the hole he had made, and moved on. "You out of your head, Cal?" cried the co-pilot. "Come on, we've got to get you back to the hospital." "No," said Calvin, pulling away again. "What're you doing?" demanded the pilot. "What've you got there?" "Think-plant. Dead," said Calvin, continuing his work. "_Let go!_" He fought weakly, but so fiercely that they did turn him loose again. "You don't understand. Saved my life." "Saved your life?" The pilot followed him. "How?" "I was on an island. In the river. Flood coming up." Calvin dug a fresh hole in the ground. "It could have lived a little longer. It let me pull it ahead of time--so I'd have something to float to shore on." He turned exhaustion-bleared eyes on them. "Saved my life." The pilot and the co-pilot looked at each other as two men look at each other over the head of a child, or a madman. "All right, Cal," said the pilot. "So it saved your life. But how come you've got to do this? And what _are_ you doing, anyhow?" "What am I doing?" Calvin paused entirely and turned to face them. "What am I doing?" he repeated on a rising note of wonder. "Why, you damn fools, I'm doing the first real thing I ever did in my life! I'm saving the lives of these seeds!" 
27669	----	Transcriber's Note The punctuation and spelling from the original text have been faithfully preserved. Only obvious typographical errors have been corrected. DEDICATION. TO THE SURVIVING SUFFERERS OF THE APPALLING CALAMITY AT JOHNSTOWN AND NEIGHBORING VILLAGES THIS WORK WHICH RELATES THE THRILLING STORY OF THE GREAT DISASTER IS DEDICATED. THE JOHNSTOWN HORROR!!! OR VALLEY OF DEATH, BEING A COMPLETE AND THRILLING ACCOUNT OF THE AWFUL FLOODS AND THEIR APPALLING RUIN, CONTAINING Graphic Descriptions of the Terrible Rush of Waters; the great Destruction of Houses, Factories, Churches, Towns, and Thousands of Human Lives; Heartrending Scenes of Agony, Separation of Loved Ones, Panic-stricken Multitudes and their Frantic Efforts to Escape a Horrible Fate. COMPRISING THRILLING TALES OF HEROIC DEEDS; NARROW ESCAPES FROM THE JAWS OF DEATH; FRIGHTFUL HAVOC BY FIRE; DREADFUL SUFFERINGS OF SURVIVORS; PLUNDERING BODIES OF VICTIMS, ETC. TOGETHER WITH Magnificent Exhibitions of Popular Sympathy; Quick Aid from every City and State; Millions of Dollars Sent for the Relief of the Stricken Sufferers. By JAMES HERBERT WALKER, THE WELL KNOWN AUTHOR. FULLY ILLUSTRATED WITH SCENES OF THE GREAT CALAMITY. H.J. SMITH & CO., 249 South Sixth St., Philadelphia CHICAGO, ILL.: NOS. 341-351 DEARBORN ST. KANSAS CITY, MO.: NO. 614 EAST SIXTH ST. OAKLAND, CAL. NO. 1605 TELEGRAPH AVE. COPYRIGHTED, 1889. PREFACE The whole country has been profoundly startled at the Terrible Calamity which has swept thousands of human beings to instant death at Johnstown and neighboring villages. The news came with the suddenness of a lightning bolt falling from the sky. A romantic valley, filled with busy factories, flourishing places of business, multitudes of happy homes and families, has been suddenly transformed into a scene of awful desolation. Frightful ravages of Flood and Fire have produced in one short hour a destruction which surpasses the records of all modern disasters. No calamity in recent times has so appalled the civilized world. What was a peaceful, prosperous valley a little time ago is to-day a huge sepulchre, filled with the shattered ruins of houses, factories, banks, churches, and the ghastly corpses of the dead. This book contains a thrilling description of this awful catastrophe, which has shocked both hemispheres. It depicts with graphic power the terrible scenes of the great disaster, and relates the fearful story with masterly effect. The work treats of the great storm which devastated the country, deluging large sections, sweeping away bridges, swelling rivulets to rivers, prostrating forests, and producing incalculable damage to life and property; of the sudden rise in the Conemaugh River and tributary streams, weakening the dam thrown across the fated valley, and endangering the lives of 50,000 people; of the heroic efforts of a little band of men to stay the flood and avert the direful calamity; of the swift ride down the valley to warn the inhabitants of their impending fate, and save them from instant death; of the breaking away of the imprisoned waters after all efforts had failed to hold them back; of the rush and roar of the mighty torrent, plunging down the valley with sounds like advancing thunder, reverberating like the booming of cannon among the hills; of the frightful havoc attending the mad flood descending with incredible velocity, and a force which nothing could resist; of the rapid rise of the waters, flooding buildings, driving the terrified inhabitants to the upper stories and roofs in the desperate effort to escape their doom; of hundreds of houses crashing down the surging river, carrying men, women and children beyond the hope of rescue; of a night of horrors, multitudes dying amid the awful terrors of flood and fire, plunged under the wild torrent, buried in mire, or consumed in devouring flames; of helpless creatures rending the air with pitiful screams crying aloud in their agony, imploring help with outstretched hands, and finally sinking with no one to save them. Whole families were lost and obliterated, perishing together in a watery tomb, or ground to atoms by floating timbers and wreck; households were suddenly bereft--some of fathers, others of mothers, others of children, neighbors and friends; frantic efforts were made to rescue the victims of the flood, render aid to those who were struggling against death, and mitigate the terrors of the horrible disaster. There were noble acts of heroism, strong men and frail women and children putting their own lives in peril to save those of their loved ones. The terrible scene at Johnstown bridge, where thousands were consumed was the greatest funeral pyre known in the history of the world. It was ghastly work--that of recovering the bodies of the dead; dragging them from the mire in which they were imbedded, from the ruins in which they were crushed, or from the burning wreck which was consuming them. Hundreds of bodies were mutilated and disfigured beyond the possibility of identifying them, all traces of individual form and features utterly destroyed. There were multitudes of corpses awaiting coffins for their burial, putrefying under the sun, and filling the air with the sickening stench of death. There were ghouls who robbed the bodies of the victims, stripping off their jewels--even cutting off fingers to obtain rings, and plundering pockets of their money. Summary vengeance was inflicted upon prowling thieves; some of whom were driven into the merciless waters to perish, while others were shot or hanged by the neck until they were dead. The burial of hundreds of the known and unknown, without minister or obsequies, without friend or mourner, without surviving relatives to take a last look or shed a tear, was one of the appalling spectacles. There was the breathless suspense and anxiety of those who feared the worst, who waited in vain for news of the safety of their friends, and at last were compelled to believe that their loved ones had perished. The terrible shock attending the horrible accounts of the great calamity, was followed by the sudden outburst and exhibition of universal grief and sympathy. Despatches from the President, Governors of States, and Mayors of Cities, announced that speedy aid would be furnished. The magnificent charity that came to the rescue with millions of dollars, immense contributions of food and clothing, personal services and heroic efforts, is one impressive part of this graphic story. Rich and poor alike gave freely, many persons dividing their last dollar to aid those who had lost their all. These thrilling scenes are depicted, and these wonderful facts are related, in THE JOHNSTOWN HORROR, by eye-witnesses who saw the fatal flood and its direful effects. No book so intensely exciting has ever been issued. The graphic story has an awful fascination, and will be read throughout the land. CONTENTS. PAGE CHAPTER I. The Appalling News, 17 CHAPTER II. Death and Desolation, 50 CHAPTER III. The Horrors Increase, 74 CHAPTER IV. Multiplication of Terrors, 104 CHAPTER V. The Awful Work of Death, 116 CHAPTER VI. Shadows of Despair, 129 CHAPTER VII. Burial of the Victims, 146 CHAPTER VIII. Johnstown and its Industries, 154 CHAPTER IX. A View of the Wreck, 164 CHAPTER X. Thrilling Experiences, 182 CHAPTER XI. New Tales of Horror, 208 CHAPTER XII. Pathetic Scenes, 246 CHAPTER XIII. Digging for the Dead, 270 CHAPTER XIV. Hairbreadth Escapes, 288 CHAPTER XV. Terrible Pictures of Woe, 334 CHAPTER XVI. Stories of the Flood, 380 CHAPTER XVII. One Week after the Great Disaster, 432 CHAPTER XVIII. A Walk Through the Valley of Death, 455 CHAPTER XIX. A Day of Work and Worship, 479 CHAPTER XX. Millions of Money for Johnstown, 489 [Illustration: RECOVERING THE BODIES OF VICTIMS.] [Illustration: THE BREAK IN THE SOUTH FORKS DAM.] [Illustration: IN THE PACK-SADDLE, ON THE CONEMAUGH, PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD.] [Illustration: RUINS IN MAIN STREET, JOHNSTOWN.] [Illustration: A GRAVEL-TRAIN RUNS AWAY FROM THE ADVANCING FLOOD.] [Illustration: IMMENSE GAP IN THE BROKEN DAM, AS SEEN FROM THE INSIDE.] [Illustration: FRIGHTFUL STRUGGLES FOR LIFE.] [Illustration: THE FLOOD STRIKES THE CAMBRIA IRON WORKS.] [Illustration: HOUSES AND HUMAN BEINGS LOST IN THE FLOOD.] [Illustration: TEARING DOWN HOUSES IN JOHNSTOWN.] [Illustration: SOLDIERS GUARDING A HUNGARIAN THIEF.] [Illustration: DISTRIBUTING RELIEF AT THE PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD STATION.] [Illustration: IDENTIFYING THE DEAD.] [Illustration: RELIEF CORPS CROSSING THE ROPE BRIDGE.] [Illustration: SEARCHING FOR LOST RELATIVES.] [Illustration: MAIN STREET, JOHNSTOWN, IN FRONT OF MERCHANT'S HOTEL.] THE JOHNSTOWN HORROR or Valley of Death. CHAPTER I. The Appalling News. On the advent of Summer, June 1st, the country was horror-stricken by the announcement that a terrible calamity had overtaken the inhabitants of Johnstown, and the neighboring villages. Instantly the whole land was stirred by the startling news of this great disaster. Its appalling magnitude, its dreadful suddenness, its scenes of terror and agony, the fate of thousands swept to instant death by a flood as frightful as that of the cataract of Niagara, awakened the profoundest horror. No calamity in the history of modern times has so appalled the civilized world. The following graphic pen-picture will give the reader an accurate idea of the picturesque scene of the disaster: Away up in the misty crags of the Alleghanies some tiny rills trickle and gurgle from a cleft in the mossy rocks. The drippling waters, timid perhaps in the bleak and lonely fastness of the heights, hug and coddle one another until they flash into a limpid pool. A score of rivulets from all the mountain side babble hither over rocky beds to join their companions. Thence in rippling current they purl and tinkle down the gentle slopes, through bosky nooks sweet with the odors of fir tree and pine, over meads dappled with the scarlet snap-dragon and purple heath buds, now pausing for a moment to idle with a wood encircled lake, now tumbling in opalescent cascade over a mossy lurch, and then on again in cheerful, hurried course down the Appalachian valley. None stays their way. Here and there perhaps some thrifty Pennsylvania Dutchman coaxes the saucy stream to turn his mill-wheel and every league or so it fumes and frets a bit against some rustic bridge. From these trifling tourneys though, it emerges only the more eager and impetuous in its path toward the towns below. The Fatal River. Coming nearer, step by step, to the busy haunts of men, the dashing brook takes on a more ambitious air. Little by little it edges its narrow banks aside, drinks in the waters of tributaries, swells with the copious rainfall of the lower valley. From its ladder in the Alleghanies it catches a glimpse of the steeples of Johnstown, red with the glow of the setting sun. Again it spurts and spreads as if conscious of its new importance, and the once tiny rill expands into the dignity of a river, a veritable river, with a name of its own. Big with this sounding symbol of prowess it rushes on as if to sweep by the teeming town in a flood of majesty. To its vast surprise the way is barred. The hand of man has dared to check the will of one that up to now has known no curb save those the forest gods imposed. For an instant the waters, taken aback by this strange audacity, hold themselves in leash. Then, like erl-king in the German legends, they broaden out to engulf their opponent. In vain they surge with crescent surface against the barrier of stone. By day, by night, they beat and breast in angry impotence against the ponderous wall of masonry that man has reared, for pleasure and profit, to stem the mountain stream. The Awful Rush of Waters. Suddenly, maddened by the stubborn hindrance, the river grows black and turgid. It rumbles and threatens as if confident of an access of strength that laughs at resistance. From far up the hillside comes a sound, at first soft and soothing as the fountains of Lindaraxa, then rolling onward it takes the voluminous quaver of a distant waterfall. Louder and louder, deeper and deeper, nearer and nearer comes an awful crashing and roaring, till its echoes rebound from the crags of the Alleghanies like peals of thunder and boom of cannon. On, on, down the steep valley trumpets the torrent into the river at Jamestown. Joined to the waters from the cloud kissed summits of its source, the exultant Conemaugh, with a deafening din, dashes its way through the barricade of stone and starts like a demon on its path of destruction. Into its maw it sucks a town. A town with all its hundreds of men and women and children, with its marts of business, its homes, its factories and houses of worship. Then, insatiate still, with a blast like the chaos of worlds dissolved, it rushes out to new desolation, until Nature herself, awe stricken at the sight of such ineffable woe, blinds her eyes to the uncanny scene of death, and drops the pall of night upon the earth. Destruction Descended as a Bolt of Jove. A fair town in a western valley of Pennsylvania, happy in the arts of peace and prospering by its busy manufactures, suddenly swept out of existence by a gigantic flood and thousands of lives extinguished as by one fell stroke--such has been the fate of Johnstown. Never before in this country has there happened a disaster of such appalling proportions. It is necessary to refer to those which have occurred in the valleys of the great European rivers, where there is a densely crowded population, to find a parallel. The Horrors Unestimated. At first the horror was not all known. It could only be imperfectly surmised. Until a late hour on the following night there was no communication with the hapless city. All that was positively known of its fate was seen from afar. It was said that out of all the habitations, which had sheltered about twelve thousand people before this awful doom had befallen, only two were visible above the water. All the rest, if this be true, had been swallowed up or else shattered into pieces and hurled downward into the flood-vexed valley below. What has become of those twelve thousand inhabitants? Who can tell until after the waters have wholly subsided? Of course it is possible that many of them escaped. Much hope is to be built upon the natural exaggeration of first reports from the sorely distressed surrounding region and the lack of actual knowledge, in the absence of direct communication. But what suspense must there be between now and the moment when direct communication shall be opened! Heedless of Fate. The valley of the Conemaugh in which Johnstown stood lies between the steep walls of lofty hills. The gathering of the rain into torrents in that region is quick and precipitate. The river on one side roared out its warning, but the people would not take heed of the danger impending over them on the other side--the great South Fork dam, two and a half miles up the valley and looming one hundred feet in height from base to top. Behind it were piled the waters, a great, ponderous mass, like the treasured wrath of fate. Their surface was about three hundred feet above the deserted town. If Noah's neighbors thought it would be only a little shower the people of Johnstown were yet more foolish. The railroad officials had repeatedly told them that the dam threatened destruction. They still perversely lulled themselves into a false security. The blow came, when it did, like a flash. It was as if the heavens had fallen in liquid fury upon the earth. It was as if ocean itself had been precipitated into an abyss. The slow but inexorable march of the mightiest glacier of the Alps, though comparable, was not equal to this in force. The whole of a Pyramid, shot from a colossal catapult, would not have been the petty charge of a pea shooter to it. Imagine Niagara, or a greater even than Niagara, falling upon an ordinary collection of brick and wooden houses. An Inconceivable Force. The South Fork Reservoir was the largest in the United States, and it contained millions of tons of water. When its fetters were loosened, crumbling before it like sand, a building or even a rock that stood in its path presented as much resistance as a card house. The dread execution was little more than the work of an instant. The flood passed over the town as it would over a pile of shingles, covering over or carrying with it everything that stood in its way. It bounded down the valley, wreaking destruction and death on each hand and in its fore. Torrents that poured down out of the wilds of the mountains swelled its volume. All along from the point of its release it bore débris and corpses as its hideous trophies. In a very brief time it displayed some of both, as if in hellish glee, to the horrified eyes of Pittsburg, seventy-eight miles west of the town of Johnstown that had been, having danced them along on its exultant billows or rolled them over and over in the depths of its dark current all the way through the Conemaugh, the Kiskiminitas and the Allegheny river. It was like a fearful monster, gnashing its dripping jaws in the scared face of the multitude, in the flesh of its victims. One eye-witness of the effects of the deluge declares that he saw five hundred dead bodies. Hundreds were counted by others. It will take many a day to make up the death roll. It will take many a day to make up the reckoning of the material loss. If any pen could describe the scenes of terror, anguish and destruction which have taken place in Conemaugh Valley it could write an epic greater than the "Iliad." The accounts that come tell of hairbreadth escapes, heartrending tragedies and deeds of heroism almost without number. A Climax of Horror. As if to add a lurid touch of horror to the picture that might surpass all the rest a conflagration came to mock those who were in fear of drowning with a death yet more terrible. Where the ruins of Johnstown, composed mainly of timber, had been piled up forty feet high against a railroad bridge below the town a fire was started and raged with eager fury. It is said that scores of persons were burned alive, their piercing cries appealing for aid to hundreds of spectators who stood on the banks of the river, but could do nothing. Western Pennsylvania is in mourning. Business in the cities is virtually suspended and all minds are bent upon this great horror, all hearts convulsed with the common sorrow. Heartrending Scenes and Heroic Struggles for Life. Another eye-witness describes the calamity as follows: A flood of death swept down the Alleghany Mountains yesterday afternoon and last night. Almost the entire city of Johnstown is swimming about in the rushing, angry tide. Dead bodies are floating about in every direction, and almost every piece of movable timber is carrying from the doomed city a corpse of humanity, drifting with the raging waters. The disaster overtook Johnstown about six o'clock last evening. As the train bearing the writer sped eastward, the reports at each stop grew more appalling. At Derry a group of railway officials were gathered who had come from Bolivar, the end of the passable portion of the road westward. They had seen but a small portion of the awful flood, but enough to allow them to imagine the rest. Down through the Packsaddle came the rushing waters. The wooded heights of the Alleghanies looked down in wonder at the scene of the most terrible destruction that ever struck the romantic valley of the Conemaugh. The water was rising when the men left at six o'clock at the rate of five feet an hour. Clinging to improvised rafts, constructed in the death battle from floating boards and timbers, were agonized men, women and children, their heartrending shrieks for help striking horror to the breasts of the onlookers. Their cries were of no avail. Carried along at railway speed on the breast of this rushing torrent, no human ingenuity could devise a means of rescue. With pallid face and hair clinging wet and damp to her cheek, a mother was seen grasping a floating timber, while on her other arm she held her babe, already drowned. With a death-grip on a plank a strong man just giving up hope cast an imploring look to those on the bank, and an instant later he had sunk into the waves. Prayers to God and cries to those in safety rang above the roaring waves. The special train pulled into Bolivar at half-past eleven last night, and the trainmen were there notified that further progress was impossible. The greatest excitement prevailed at this place, and parties of citizens are out all the time endeavoring to save the poor unfortunates that are being hurled to eternity on the rushing torrent. Attempts at Rescue. The tidal wave struck Bolivar just after dark, and in five minutes the Conemaugh rose from six to forty feet and the waters spread out over the whole country. Soon houses began floating down, and clinging to the débris were men, women and children shrieking for aid. A large number of citizens at once gathered on the county bridge, and they were reinforced by a number from Garfield, a town on the opposite side of the river. They brought a number of ropes and these were thrown over into the boiling waters as persons drifted by in efforts to save some poor beings. For half an hour all efforts were fruitless, until at last, when the rescuers were about giving up all hope, a little boy, astride a shingle roof, managed to catch hold of one of the ropes. He caught it under his left arm and was thrown violently against an abutment, but managed to keep hold, and was successfully pulled on to the bridge amid the cheers of the onlookers. His name was Hessler and his rescuer was a trainman named Carney. The lad was at once taken to the town of Garfield and was cared for. The boy was aged about sixteen. His story of the frightful calamity is as follows: The Alarm. "With my father I was spending the day at my grandfather's house in Cambria City. In the house at the time were Theodore, Edward and John Kintz, and John Kintz, Jr.; Miss Mary Kintz, Mrs. Mary Kintz, wife of John Kintz, Jr.; Miss Treacy Kintz, Mrs. Rica Smith, John Hirsch and four children, my father and myself. Shortly after five o'clock there was a noise of roaring waters and screams of people. We looked out the door and saw persons running. My father told us to never mind, as the waters would not rise further. "But soon we saw houses being swept away, and then we ran up to the floor above. The house was three stories, and we were at last forced to the top one. In my fright I jumped on the bed. It was an old fashioned one, with heavy posts. The water kept rising and my bed was soon afloat. Gradually it was lifted up. The air in the room grew close and the house was moving. Still the bed kept rising and pressed the ceiling. At last the posts pushed against the plaster. It yielded and a section of the roof gave way. Then suddenly I found myself on the roof, and was being carried down stream. Saved. "After a little this roof began to part, and I was afraid I was going to be drowned, but just then another house with a shingle roof floated by, and I managed to crawl on it, and floated down until nearly dead with cold, when I was saved. After I was freed from the house I did not see my father. My grandfather was on a tree, but he must have been drowned, as the waters were rising fast. John Kintz, Jr., was also on a tree. Miss Mary Kintz and Mrs. Mary Kintz I saw drown. Miss Smith was also drowned. John Hirsch was in a tree, but the four children were drowned. The scenes were terrible. Live bodies and corpses were floating down with me and away from me. I would see persons, hear them shriek, and then they would disappear. All along the line were people who were trying to save us, but they could do nothing, and only a few were caught." This boy's story is but one incident, and shows what happened to one family. No one knows what has happened to the hundreds who were in the path of the rushing water. It is impossible to get anything in the way of news save meagre details. An eye-witness at Bolivar Block Station tells a story of unparalleled heroism that occurred at the lower bridge which crosses the Conemaugh at this point. A. Young, with two women was seen coming down the river on a part of the floor. At the upper bridge a rope was thrown down to them. This they all failed to catch. Between the two bridges he was noticed to point towards the elder woman, who, it is supposed, was his mother. He was then seen to instruct the women how to catch the rope that was lowered from the other bridge. Down came the raft with a rush. The brave man stood with his arms around the two women. Unavailing Courage. As they swept under the bridge he seized the rope. He was jerked violently away from the two women, who failed to get a hold on the rope. Seeing that they would not be rescued, he dropped the rope and fell back on the raft, which floated on down the river. The current washed their frail craft in toward the bank. The young man was enabled to seize hold of a branch of a tree. He aided the two women to get up into the tree. He held on with his hands and rested his feet on a pile of driftwood. A piece of floating débris struck the drift, sweeping it away. The man hung with his body immersed in the water. A pile of drift soon collected and he was enabled to get another insecure footing. Up the river there was a sudden crash, and a section of the bridge was swept away and floated down the stream, striking the tree and washing it away. All three were thrown into the water and were drowned before the eyes of the horrified spectators just opposite the town of Bolivar. Early in the evening a woman with her two children was seen to pass under the bridge at Bolivar clinging to the roof of a coal house. A rope was lowered to her, but she shook her head and refused to desert the children. It was rumored that all three were saved at Cokeville, a few miles below Bolivar. A later report from Lockport says that the residents succeeded in rescuing five people from the flood, two women and three men. One man succeeded in getting out of the water unaided. They were taken care of by the people of the town. A Child's Faith. A little girl passed under the bridge just before dark. She was kneeling on a part of a floor and had her hands clasped as if in prayer. Every effort was made to save her, but they all proved futile. A railroader who was standing by remarked that the piteous appearance of the little waif brought tears to his eyes. All night long the crowd stood about the ruins of the bridge which had been swept away at Bolivar. The water rushed past with a roar, carrying with it parts of houses, furniture and trees. The flood had evidently spent its force up the valley. No more living persons were being carried past. Watchers with lanterns remained along the banks until daybreak, when the first view of the awful devastation of the flood was witnessed. Along the bank lay remnants of what had once been dwelling houses and stores; here and there was an uprooted tree. Piles of drift lay about, in some of which bodies of the victims of the flood will be found. Rescuing parties are being formed in all towns along the railroad. Houses have been thrown open to refugees, and every possible means is being used to protect the homeless. Wrecking Trains to the Rescue. The wrecking trains of the Pennsylvania Railroad are slowly making their way east to the unfortunate city. No effort was being made to repair the wrecks, and the crews of the trains were organized into rescuing parties, and an effort will be made to send out a mail train this morning. The chances are that they will go no further east than Florence. There is absolutely no news from Johnstown. The little city is entirely cut off from communication with the outside world. The damage done is inestimable. No one can tell its extent. The little telegraph stations along the road are filled with anxious groups of men who have friends and relatives in Johnstown. The smallest item of news is eagerly seized upon and circulated. If favorable they have a moment of relief, if not their faces become more gloomy. Harry Fisher, a young telegraph operator who was at Bolivar when the first rush began, says:--"We knew nothing of the disaster until we noticed the river slowly rising and then more rapidly. News then reached us from Johnstown that the dam at South Fork had burst. Within three hours the water in the river rose at least twenty feet. Shortly before six o'clock ruins of houses, beds, household utensils, barrels and kegs came floating past the bridges. At eight o'clock the water was within six feet of the road-bed of the bridge. The wreckage floated past without stopping for at least two hours. Then it began to lessen, and night coming suddenly upon us we could see no more. The wreckage was floating by for a long time before the first living persons passed. Fifteen people that I saw were carried down by the river. One of these, a boy, was saved, and three of them were drowned just directly below the town. It was an awful sight and one that I will not soon forget." Hundreds of animals lost their lives. The bodies of horses, dogs and chickens floated past. The little boy who was rescued at Bolivar had two dogs as companions during his fearful ride. The dogs were drowned just before reaching the bridge. One old mule swam past. Its shoulders were torn, but it was alive when swept past the town. Saved from a Watery Grave to Perish by Flames. After a long, weary ride of eight or nine miles over the worst of country roads New Florence, fourteen miles from Johnstown, was reached. The road bed between this place and Bolivar was washed out in many places. The trackmen and the wreck crews were all night in the most dangerous portions of the road. The last man from Johnstown brought the information that scarcely a house remained in the city. The upper portion above the railroad bridge had been completely submerged. The water dammed up against the viaduct, the wreckage and débris finishing the work that the torrent had failed to accomplish. The bridge at Johnstown proved too stanch for the fury of the water. It is a heavy piece of masonry, and was used as a viaduct by the old Pennsylvania Canal. Some of the top stones were displaced. The story reached here a short time ago that a family consisting of father and mother and nine children were washed away in a creek at Lockport. The mother managed to reach the shore, but the husband and children were carried out into the Conemaugh to drown. The woman is crazed over the terrible event. A Night of Horror. After night settled down upon the mountains the horror of the scenes was enhanced. Above the roar of the water could be heard the piteous appeals from the unfortunate as they were carried by. To add also to the terror of the night, a brilliant illumination lit up the sky. This illumination could be plainly seen from this place. A message received from Sang Hollow stated that this light came from a hundred burning wrecks of houses that were piled upon the Johnstown Bridge. A supervisor from up the road brought the information that the wreckage at Johnstown was piled up forty feet above the bridge. The startling news came in that more than a thousand lives had been lost. This cannot be substantiated. By actual count one hundred and ten people had been seen floating past Sang Hollow before dark. Forty-seven were counted passing New Florence and the number had diminished to eight at Bolivar. The darkness coming on stopped any further count, and it was only by the agonizing cries that rang out above the waters that it was known that a human being was being carried to death. An Irresistible Torrent. The scenes along the river were wild in the extreme. Although the water was subsiding, still as it dashed against the rocks that filled the narrow channel of the Conemaugh its spray was carried high up on the shore. The towns all along the line of the railroad from Johnstown west had received visitations. Many of the houses in New Florence were partially under water. At Bolivar the whole lower part of the town was submerged. The ride over the mountain road gave one a good idea of the cause of this disaster. Every creek was a rushing river and every rivulet a raging torrent. The ground was water soaked, and when the immense mountain district that drains into the Conemaugh above South Fork is taken into consideration the terrible volume of water that must have accumulated can be realized. Gathering, as it did, within a few minutes, it came against the breast of the South Fork dam with irresistible force. The frightened inhabitants along the Conemaugh describe the flood as something awful. The first rise came almost without warning, and the torrent came roaring down the mountain passes in one huge wave, several feet in height. After the first swell the water continued to rise at a fearful rate. Daylight Brings No Relief. The gray morning light does not seem to show either hope or mitigation of the awful fears of the night. It has been a hard night to everybody. The overworked newspaper men, who have been without rest and food since yesterday afternoon, and the operators who have handled the messages are already preparing for the work of the day. There has been a long wrangle over the possession of a special train for the press between rival newspaper men, and it has delayed the work of others who are anxious to get further east. Even here, so far from the washed-out towns, seven bodies have been found. Two were in a tree, a man and a woman, where the flood had carried them. The country people are coming into the town in large numbers telling stories of disaster along the river banks in sequestered places. Floating Houses. John McCarthey, a carpenter, who lives in Johnstown, reached here about four o'clock. He left Johnstown at half-past four yesterday afternoon and says the scene then was indescribable. The people had been warned early in the morning to move to the highlands, but they did not heed the warning, although it was repeated a number of times up to one o'clock, when the water poured into Cinder street several feet deep. Then the houses began rocking to and fro, and finally the force of the current carried buildings across streets and vacant lots and dashed them against each other, breaking them into fragments. These buildings were full of the people who had laughed at the cry of danger. McCarthey says that in some cases he counted as many as fifteen persons clinging to buildings. McCarthey's wife was with him. She had three sisters, who lived near her. They saw the house in which these girls lived carried away, and then they could endure the situation no longer and hurried away. The husband feared his wife would go crazy. They went inland along country roads until they reached here. It is said to be next to impossible to get to Johnstown proper to-day in any manner except by rowboat. The roads are cut up so that even the countrymen refuse to travel over them in their roughest vehicles. The only hope is to get within about three miles by a special train or by hand car. The Dead Cast Up. Nine dead bodies have been picked up within the limits of this borough since daylight. None of them has yet been recognized. Five are women. One woman, probably twenty-five years old, had clasped in her arms a babe about six months old. The body of a young man was discovered in the branches of a huge tree which had been carried down the stream. All the orchard crops and shrubbery along the banks of the river have been destroyed. The body of another woman has just been discovered in the river here. Her foot was seen above the surface of the water and a rope was fastened about it. A Roof as a Raft. John Weber and his wife, an old couple, Michael Metzgar and John Forney were rescued near here early this morning. They had been carried from their home in Cambria City on the roof of the house. There were seven others on the roof when it was carried off, all of whom were drowned. They were unknown to Weber, having drifted on to the roof from floating débris. Weber and wife were thoroughly drenched and were almost helpless from exposure. They were unable to walk when taken off the roof at this place. They are now at the hotel here. Hundreds of people from Johnstown and up river towns are hurrying here in search of friends and relatives who were swept away in last night's flood. The most intense excitement prevails. The street corners are crowded with pale and anxious people who tell of the calamity with bated breath. Squire Bennett has charge of the dead bodies, and he is having them properly cared for. They are being prepared for burial, but will be held here for identification. Four boys have just come from the river bank above here. They say that on the opposite side a number of bodies can be seen lying in the mud. They found the body of a woman on this side badly bruised. R.B. Rodgers, Justice of the Peace at Nineveh, has wired the Coroner at Greensburg that one hundred dead bodies have been found at that place, and he asks what is to be done with them. From this one can estimate that the loss of life will reach over one thousand. A report has just been received that twenty persons are on an island near Nineveh and that men and women are on a partly submerged tree. A report has just reached here that at least one hundred people were consumed in the flames at Johnstown last night, but it cannot be verified here. The air is filled with thrilling and most incredible stories, but none of them have as yet been confirmed. It is certain, however, that even the worst cannot be imagined. Warnings Remembered Too Late. It is very evident that more lives have been lost because of foolish incredulity than from ignorance of the danger. For more than a year there have been fears of an accident of just such a character. The foundations of the dam were considered to be shaky early last spring and many increasing leakages were reported from time to time. According to people who live in Johnstown and other towns on the line of the river, ample time was given to the Johnstown folks by the railroad officials and by other gentlemen of standing and reputation. In dozens, yes, hundreds of cases, this warning was utterly disregarded, and those who heeded it early in the day were looked upon as cowards, and many jeers were uttered by lips that now are cold among the rank grass beside the river. There has grown up a bitter feeling among the surviving sufferers against those who owned the lake and dam, and damage suits will be plentiful by and by. The dam in Stony Creek, above Johnstown, broke about noon yesterday and thousands of feet of lumber passed down the stream. It is impossible to tell what the loss of life will be, but at nine o'clock the Coroner of Westmoreland county sent a message out saying that 100 bodies had been recovered at Nineveh, halfway from here to Johnstown. Sober minded people do not hesitate to say that 1,200 is moderate. Fire's Awful Work. "How can anybody tell how many are dead?" said a railroad engineer this morning. "I have been at Long Hollow with my train since eleven o'clock yesterday, and I have seen fully five hundred persons lost in the flood." J.W. Esch, a brave railroad employee, saved sixteen lives at Nineveh. The most awful culmination of the awful night was the roasting of a hundred or more persons in mid-flood. The ruins of houses, old buildings and other structures swept against the new railroad bridge at Johnstown, and from an overturned stove or some such cause the upper part of the wreckage caught fire. There were crowds of men, women and children on the wreck, and their screams were soon heard. They were literally roasted on the flood. Soon after the fire burned itself out other persons were thrown against the mass. There were some fifty people in sight when the ruins suddenly broke up and were swept under the bridge into the darkness. The latest news from Johnstown is that but two houses could be seen in the town. It is also said that only three houses remain in Cambria City. The first authentic news was from W.N. Hays, of the Pennsylvania Railroad Company, who reached New Florence at nine o'clock. He says the valley towns are annihilated. Destruction at Blairsville. The flood in the Conemaugh River at this point is the heaviest ever known here. At this hour the railroad bridge between here and Blairsville intersection has been swept away, and also the new bridge at Coketon, half a mile below. It is now feared that the iron bridge at the lower end of this town will go. A living woman and dead man, supposed to be her husband, were seen going under the railroad bridge. They were seen to come from under the bridge safely, but shortly disappeared and were seen no more. A great many families lose their household goods. The river is running full of timber, houses, goods, etc. The loss will be heavy. The excitement here is very great. The river is still rising. There are some families below the town in the second story of their houses who cannot get out. It is feared that if the water goes much higher the loss of life will be very great. The railroad company had fourteen cars of coal on their bridge when it went down, and all were swept down the river. The town bridge has just succumbed to the seething floods, whose roar can be heard a long distance. The water is still rising and it is thought that the West Pennsylvania Railroad will be without a single bridge. It is reported that a man went down with the Blairsville bridge while he was adjusting a headlight. Havoc about Altoona. The highest and most destructive flood that has visited this place for fifty years occurred yesterday. It has been raining continuously for the past twenty-four hours. The Juniata river is ten feet above low water mark and is still rising. The lower streets of Gaysport bordering on the river bank are submerged, and the water is two feet deep on the first floors of the houses there. The water rose so rapidly that the people had to be removed from the houses in boats and wagons. Three railroad trestles and a number of bridges over the streams have been carried away, and railroad travel between this place and the surrounding towns has been interrupted. Property of all kinds was carried off. The truck gardens and grain fields along the river were utterly destroyed, and the fences carried away. The iron furnaces and rolling mills at this place and Duncanville were compelled to shut down on account of the high water. Keene & Babcock lost 300,000 brick in the kiln ready to burn, G.W. Rhodes 350,000, and Joseph Hart 15,000. It is estimated that the flood has done over $50,000 damage in this vicinity. The fences of the Blair County Agricultural Society were destroyed. Alarm at York. Last night was one of great alarm here. It rained steadily all day, some of the showers being severe. The great flood of 1884 is forcibly recalled. Many families are moving out. At half-past one A.M. a general alarm was sounded on the bells of the city. The flood in the Susquehanna River here reached its greatest height about six o'clock this morning, when all bridges save one were under water. Business places and residences in the low section were flooded to a great extent, and the damage in this city alone amounts to $25,000 so far. The injury to the Spring Grove paper mills near this city is heavy. By noon the water had fallen sufficiently to restore travel over nearly all the bridges. A number of bridges in the county have been swept away, and the loss in the county exclusive of the city is estimated at $100,000. In attempting to catch some driftwood James McIlvaine lost his balance and fell into the raging current and was drowned. Seven bodies have been taken from the water and débris on the river banks at New Florence. One body has also been taken from the river at this point, that of a young girl. None of them have been identified. The whole face of the country between here and New Florence is under water, and houses, bridges and buildings fill the fields and even perch upon the hillside all the way to Johnstown. Great flocks of crows are already filling the valley, while buzzards are almost as frequently seen. The banks of the river are lined with people who are looking as well for booty as for bodies. Much valuable property was carried away in the houses as well as from houses not washed away. The river has fallen again into its channel, and nothing in the stream itself except its red, angry color shows the wild horror of last night. It has fallen fully twenty feet since midnight, and by to-night it will have attained its normal depth. Painful Scenes. At all points from Greensburg to Long Hollow, the limit of the present trouble, scores of people throng the stations begging and beseeching railroad men on the repair trains to take them aboard, as they are almost frenzied with anxiety and apprehension in regard to their friends who live at or near Johnstown. Strong men are as tearful as the women who join in the request. Pitiable sights and scenes multiply more and more rapidly. The Conemaugh is one great valley of mourning. Those who have not lost friends have lost their house or their substance, and apparently the grief for the one is as poignant as for the other. They Were Warned. The great volume of water struck Johnstown about half-past five in the afternoon. It did not find the people unprepared, as they had had notice from South Fork that the dam was threatening to go. Many, however, disregarded the notice and remained in their houses in the lower part of the city and were caught before they could get out. Superintendent Pitcairn, of the Pennsylvania Railroad, who has spent the entire day in assisting not only those who were afflicted by the flood, but also in an attempt to reopen his road, went home this morning. Before he left he issued an order to all Pennsylvania Railroad employees to keep a sharp lookout for bodies, both in the river and in the bushes, and to return them to their friends. Assistant Superintendent Trump is still on the ground near Lone Hollow directing the movements of gravel and construction trains, which are arriving as fast as they can be fitted up and started out. The roadbeds of both the Pennsylvania and the West Pennsylvania railroads are badly damaged, and it will cost the latter, especially from the Bolivar Junction to Saltsburg, many thousands of dollars to repair injuries to embankments alone. In Pittsburg there was but one topic of conversation, and that was the Johnstown deluge. Crowds of eager watchers all day long besieged the newspaper bulletin boards and rendered streets impassable in their vicinity. Many of them had friends or relatives in the stricken district, and "Names!" "Names!" was their cry. But there were no names. The storm which had perhaps swept away their loved ones had also carried away all means of communication and their vigil was unrewarded. It is not yet known whether the telegraph operator at Johnstown is dead or alive. The nearest point to that city which can be reached to-night is New Florence, and the one wire there is used almost constantly by orders for coffins, embalming fluid and preparing special cars to carry the recovered dead to their homes. Along the banks of the now turbulent Allegheny were placed watchers for dead bodies, and all wreckage was carefully scanned for the dead. The result of this vigilance was the recovery of one body, that of a woman floating down on a pile of débris. Seven other bodies were seen, but could not be reached owing to the swift moving wreckage by which they were surrounded. A Heartrending Sight. A railroad conductor who arrived in the city this morning said:--"There is no telling how many lives are lost. We got as far as Bolivar, and I tell you it is a terrible sight. The body of a boy was picked up by some of us there, and there were eleven bodies recovered altogether. I do not think that anyone got into Johnstown, and it is my opinion that they will not get in very soon. No one who is not on the grounds has any idea of the damage done. It will be at least a week before the extent of this flood is known, and then I think many bodies will never be recovered." Assistant Superintendent Wilson, of the West Pennsylvania Railroad, received the following despatch from Nineveh to-day:-- "There appears to be a large number of people lodged in the trees and rubbish along the line. Many are alive. Rescuing parties should be advised at every station." Another telegram from Nineveh said that up to noon 175 bodies had been taken from the river at that point. The stage of water in the Allegheny this afternoon became so alarming that residents living in the low-lying districts began to remove their household effects to a higher grade. The tracks of the Pittsburgh and Western Railroad are under water in several places, and great inconvenience is felt in moving trains. Criminal Negligence. It was stated at the office of the Pennsylvania Railroad early this morning that the deaths would run up into the thousands rather than hundreds, as was at first supposed. Despatches received state that the stream of human beings that was swept before the floods was pitiful to behold. Men, women and children were carried along frantically shrieking for help. Rescue was impossible. Husbands were swept past their wives, and children were borne along at a terrible speed to certain death before the eyes of their terrorized and frantic parents. It was said at the depot that it was impossible to estimate the number whose lives were lost in the flood. It will simply be a matter of conjecture for several days as to who was lost and who escaped. The people of Johnstown were warned of the possibility of the bursting of the dam during the morning, but very few if any of the inhabitants took the warning seriously. Shortly after noon it gave way about five miles above Johnstown, and sweeping everything before it burst upon the town with terrible force. Everything was carried before it, and not an instant's time was given to seek safety. Houses were demolished, swept from their foundations and carried in the flood to a culvert near the town. Here a mass of all manner of débris soon lodged, and by evening it had dammed the water back into the city over the tops of many of the still remaining chimneys. The Dam Always a Menace. Assistant Superintendent Trump, of the Pennsylvania, is at Conemaugh, but the officials at the depot had not been able to receive a line from him until as late as half-past two o'clock this morning. It was said also that it will be impossible to get a train through either one way or the other for at least two or three days. This applies also to the mails, as there is absolutely no way of getting mails through. "We were afraid of that lake," said a gentleman who had lived in Johnstown for years, "we were afraid of that lake seven years ago. No one could see the immense height to which that artificial dam had been built without fearing the tremendous power of the water behind it. I doubt if there was a man or woman in Johnstown who at some time or other had not feared and spoken of the terrible disaster that has now come. "People wondered and asked why the dam was not strengthened, as it certainly had become weak, but nothing was done, and by and by they talked less and less about it as nothing happened, though now and then some would shake their heads as though conscious that the fearful day would come some time when their worst fears would be transcended by the horror of the actual occurrence. Converted Into a Lake. "Johnstown is in a hollow between two rivers, and that lake must have swept over the city at a depth of forty feet. It cannot be, it is impossible that such an awful thing could happen to a city of ten thousand inhabitants, and if it has, thousands have lost their lives, and men are to blame for it, for warnings have been uttered a thousand times and have received no attention." The body of a Welsh woman, sixty years of age, was taken from the river near the suspension bridge, at ten o'clock this morning. Four other bodies were seen, but owing to the mass of wreckage which is coming down they could not be recovered, and passed down the Ohio River. A citizens' meeting has been called to devise means to aid the sufferers. The Pennsylvania Railroad officials have already placed cars on Liberty street for the purpose of receiving provisions and clothing, and up to this hour many prominent merchants have made heavy donations. Anxiety of the People. The difficulty of obtaining definite information added tremendously to the excitement and apprehension of the people in Pittsburgh who had relatives and friends at the scene of the disaster. Members of the South Fork Club, and among them some of the most eminent men in the Pittsburgh financial and mercantile world, were in or near Johnstown, and several of them were accompanied by their wives and families. There happened to be also quite a number of residents of Johnstown in Pittsburgh, and when the news of the horror was confirmed and the railroads bulletined the fact that no trains would go east last night the scene at Union Depot was profoundly pathetic and exciting. But two trains were sent out by the Pennsylvania road from the Union station at Pittsburgh. A despatch states that the Cambria Iron Company's plant on the north side of the Conemaugh River at Johnstown is a complete wreck. Until this despatch was received it was not thought that this portion of the plant had been seriously injured. It was known that the portion of the plant located on the south bank of the river was washed away, and this was thought to be the extent of the damage to the property of that immense corporation. The plant is said to be valued at $5,000,000. [Illustration] CHAPTER II. Death and Desolation. The terrible situation on the second day after the great disaster only intensifies the horror. As information becomes more full and accurate, it does not abate one tittle of the awful havoc. Rather it adds to it, and gives a thousand-fold terror to the dreadful calamity. Not only do the scenes which are described appear all the more dreadful, as is natural, the nearer they are brought to the imagination, but it seems only too probable that the final reckoning in loss of life and material wealth will prove far more stupendous than has even yet been supposed. The very greatness of the destruction prevents the possibility of an accurate estimate. Beneath the ghastly ruins of the once happy towns and villages along the pathway of the deluge, who shall say how many victims lie buried? Amid the rocks and woods that border the broad track of the waters, who shall say how many lie bruised and mangled and unrecognizable, wedged between boulders or massed amid débris and rubbish, or hidden beneath the heaped-up deposits of earth, and whether all of them shall ever be found and given the last touching rites? Already the air of the little valley, which four days ago was smiling with all the health of nature and the contentment of industrious man, is waxing pestiferous with the awful odor of decaying human bodies. Buzzards, invited by their disgusting instinct, gather for a promised feast, and sit and glower on neighboring perches or else circle round and round in the blue empyrean over the location of unfriended corpses, known only to their keen sense of smell or vision. But another kind of buzzard, more disgusting, more hideous, more vile, has hastened to this scene of woe and anguish and desolation to exult over it to his profit. Thugs and thieves in unclean hordes have mysteriously turned up at Johnstown and its vicinity, as hyenas in the desert seem to spring bodily out of the deadly sand whenever the corpse of a gallant warrior, abandoned by his kind, lies putrefying in the night. There is a cry from the afflicted community for the policing of the devastated region, and there is no doubt it is greatly needed. Happily, Nemesis does not sleep this time in the face of such provocation as is given her by these atrociously inhuman human beings. It is a satisfaction to record that something more than a half dozen of them have been dealt with as promptly and as mercilessly as they deserve. For such as they there should be no code of pity. There is an inexhaustible store of pathos and heroism in the tale of this disaster. Of course, in all of its awful details it never can be fitly written. One reason is that too many of the witnesses of its more fearful phases "sleep the sleep that knows not waking." But there is a greater reason, and that is that there is a point in the intenser actuality of things at which all human language fails to do justice to it. Yet--as simply told as possible--there are many incidents of this great tragedy which nothing has ever surpassed or ever can surpass in impressiveness. It is a consolation, too, that human nature at such times does betray here and there a gleam of that side of it which gives forth a reflection of the ideal manhood or womanhood. Bits of heroism and of tender devotedness scattered throughout this dark, dismal picture of destruction and despair light it up with wonderful beauty, and while they bring tears to the eyes of the sternest reader, will serve as a grateful relief from the pervading hue of horror and blackness. There is the very gravest need of vigorous relief measures in favor of the survivors of the flood. A spontaneous movement in that direction has been begun, but as yet lacks the efficiency only to be derived from a general and organized co-operation. Complete Annihilation. When Superintendent Pitcairn telegraphed from Johnstown to Pittsburgh Friday night that the town was annihilated he came very close to the facts of the case, although he had not seen the ill-fated city. To say that Johnstown is a wreck is but stating the facts of the case. Nothing like it was ever seen in this country. Where long rows of dwelling houses and business blocks stood forty-eight hours ago, ruin and desolation now reign supreme. The losses, however, are as nothing compared to the frightful sacrifices of precious human lives. During Sunday Johnstown has been drenched with the tears of stricken mortals, and the air is filled with sobs that come from breaking hearts. There are scenes enacted here every hour and every minute that affect all beholders profoundly. When brave men die in battle, for country or for principle, their loss can be reconciled to the stern destinies of life. When homes are torn asunder in an instant, and the loved ones hurled from the arms of loving and devoted mothers, there is an element of sadness connected with the tragedy that touches every heart. _The loss of life is simply dreadful. The most conservative people declare that the number will reach 5000, while others confidently assert that 8000 or 10,000 have perished._ How Johnstown Looks after Flood and Fire Have Done Their Worst. An eye-witness writing from Pittsburgh says:--We have just returned from a trip through what is left of Johnstown. The view from beyond is almost impossible to describe. To look upon it is a sight that neither war nor catastrophe can equal. House is piled upon house, not as we have seen in occasional floods of the the Western rivers, but the remains of two and four storied buildings piled upon the top of one another. The ruins of what is known as the Club House are in perhaps the best condition of any in that portion of the town, but it is certainly damaged beyond possibility of repair. _On the upper floor five bodies are lying unidentified._ One of them, a woman of genteel birth, judging by her dress, is locked in one of the small rooms to prevent a possibility of spoliation by wreckers, who are flocking to the spot from all directions and taking possession of everything they can get hold of. Here and there bodies can be seen sticking in the ruins. Some of the most prominent citizens are to be seen working with might and main to get at the remains of relatives whom they have located. _There is no doubt that, wild as the estimates of the loss of life and damage to property have been, it is even larger than there is any idea of._ Close on to 2,000 residences lie in kindling wood at the lower end of the town. Freaks of the Flood. An idea of the eccentricity of the flood may be gathered from the fact that houses that were situated at Woodvale and points above Johnstown are piled at the lower end of the town, while some massive houses have been lifted and carried from the lower end as far as the cemetery at the extreme upper portion of the town. All through the ruins are scattered the most costly furniture and store goods of all kinds. Thieves are Busy. I stood on the keyboard and strings of a piano while I watched a number of thieves break into the remnants of houses and pilfer them, while others again had got at a supply of fine groceries and had broken into a barrel of fine brandy, and were fairly steeping themselves in it. I met quite a number of Pittsburghers in the ruins looking for friends and relatives. If the skiffs which were expected from Pittsburgh were there they would be of vast assistance in reaching the ruins, which are separated by the stream of water descending from the hills. A great fear is felt that there will be some difficulty in restoring the stream to its proper channel. Its course now lies right along Main street, and it is about two hundred yards wide. Something should be done to get the bodies of the dead decently taken care of. The ruins are reeking with the smell of decaying bodies. Right at the edge of the ruins the decaying body of a stout colored woman is lying like the remains of an animal, without any one to identify and take care of it. Lynching the Ghouls. A number of Hungarians collected about a number of bodies at Cambria which had been washed up and began rifling the trunks. After they had secured all the contents they turned their attention to the dead. The ghastly spectacle presented by the distorted features of those who had lost their lives during the flood had no influence upon the ghouls, who acted more like wild beasts than human beings. They took every article from the clothing on the dead bodies, not leaving anything of value or anything that would serve to identify the remains. After the miscreants had removed all their plunder to dry ground a dispute arose over a division of the spoils. A pitched battle followed and for a time the situation was alarming. Knives and clubs were used freely. As a result several of the combatants were seriously wounded and left on the ground, their fellow countrymen not making any attempt to remove them from the field of strife. JOHNSTOWN, PA., June 2, 11 A.M. _They have just hung a man over near the railroad to the telegraph pole for cutting the finger off of a dead woman in order to get a ring._ Vengeance, Swift and Sure. The way of the transgressor in the desolated valley of the Conemaugh is hard indeed. Each hour reveals some new and horrible story of suffering and outrage, and every succeeding hour brings news of swift and merited punishment meted out to the fiends who have dared to desecrate the stiff and mangled corpses in the city of the dead, and torture the already half crazed victims of the cruelest of modern catastrophes. As the roads to the lands round about are opened tales of almost indescribable horror come to light, and deeds of the vilest nature, perpetrated in the darkness of the night, are brought to light. Followed by Avenging Farmers. Just as the shadows began to fall upon the earth last evening a party of thirteen Hungarians were noticed stealthily picking their way along the banks of the Conemaugh toward Sang Hollow. Suspicious of their purpose, several farmers armed themselves and started in pursuit. Soon their most horrible fears were realized. The Hungarians were out for plunder. Lying upon the shore they came upon the dead and mangled body of a woman upon whose person there were a number of trinkets and jewelry and two diamond rings. In their eagerness to secure the plunder, the Hungarians got into a squabble, during which one of the number severed the finger upon which were the rings, and started on a run with his fearful prize. The revolting nature of the deed so wrought upon the pursuing farmers, who by this time were close at hand, that they gave immediate chase. Some of the Hungarians showed fight, but being outnumbered were compelled to flee for their lives. Nine of the brutes escaped, but four were literally driven into the surging river and to their death. The inhuman monster whose atrocious act has been described was among the number of the involuntary suicides. Another incident of even greater moment has just been brought to notice. Anxious to be a Murderer. At half-past eight this morning an old railroader who had walked from Sang Hollow stepped up to a number of men who were congregated on the platform stations at Curranville and said:--"Gentlemen, had I a shotgun with me half an hour ago I would now be a murderer, yet with no fear of ever having to suffer for my crime. "Two miles below here I watched three men going along the banks _stealing the jewels from the bodies of the dead wives and daughters of men who have been robbed of all they held dear on earth._" He had no sooner finished the last sentence than five burly men, with looks of terrible determination written on their faces, were on their way to the scene of plunder, one with a coil of rope over his shoulder and another with a revolver in his hand. In twenty minutes, so it is stated, they had overtaken two of the wretches, who were then in the act of cutting pieces from the ears and fingers from the hands of the bodies of two dead women. Brutes at Bay. With revolver leveled at the scoundrels the leader of the posse shouted, "Throw up your hands or I'll blow your heads off!" With blanched faces and trembling forms they obeyed the order and begged for mercy. They were searched, and as their pockets were emptied of their ghastly finds the indignation of the crowd intensified, and when _a bloody finger of an infant, encircled with two tiny gold rings_, was found among the plunder in the leader's pocket, a cry went up "_Lynch them! Lynch them!_" _Without a moment's delay ropes were thrown around their necks and they were dangling to the limbs of a tree, in the branches of which an hour before were entangled the bodies of a dead father and son._ After the expiration of a half hour the ropes were cut, and the bodies lowered and carried to a pile of rocks in the forest on the hill above. It is hinted that an Allegheny county official was one of the most prominent actors in this justifiable homicide. Another case of attempted lynching was witnessed this evening near Kernville. The man was observed stealing valuable articles from the houses. He was seized by a mob, a rope was placed around his neck and he was jerked up into the air. The rope was tied to the tree and his would-be lynchers left him. Bystanders cut him down before he was dead. The other men did not interfere and he was allowed to go. The man was so badly scared that he could not give his name if he wanted to do so. Two colored men were shot while robbing the dead bodies, by the Pittsburgh police, who are doing guard about the town. Fiends in Human Form. To one who saw bright, bustling Johnstown a week ago the sight of its present condition must cause a thrill of horror, no matter how callous he might be. I doubt if any incident of war or flood ever caused a more sickening sight. Wretchedness of the most pathetic kind met the gaze on every side. _Unlawfulness runs riot._ If ever military aid was needed now is the time. _The town is perfectly overrun with thieves_, many of them from Pittsburgh. The Hungarians are the worst. They seem to operate in regular organized bands. In Cambria City this morning they entered a house, drove out the occupants at the point of revolvers and took possession. They can be constantly seen carrying large quantities of plunder to the hills. The number of drunken men is remarkable. Whiskey seems marvelously plenty. Men are actually carrying it around in pails. Barrels of the stuff are constantly located among the drifts, and men are scrambling over each other and fighting like wild beasts in their mad search for it. At the cemetery, at the upper end of the town, I saw a sight that rivals the inferno. A number of ghouls had found a lot of fine groceries, among them a barrel of brandy, with which they were fairly stuffing themselves. One huge fellow was standing on the strings of an upright piano singing a profane song, every little while breaking into a wild dance. A half dozen others were engaged in a hand-to-hand fight over the possession of some treasure stolen from a ruined house, and the crowd around the barrel were yelling like wild men. The cry for help increases every hour. Something must be done to get the bodies decently taken care of. The ruins are reeking with the smell of decaying bodies. At the very edge of the ruins the body of a large colored woman, in an advanced state of decomposition, is lying like the body of an animal. Watched Their Friends Die. The fire in the drift above the bridge is still burning fiercely and will continue to do so for several days. The skulls of six people can be seen sticking up out of the ruins just above the east end of the bridge. Nothing but the blackened skulls can be seen. They are all together. The sad scenes will never all be written. One lady told me this morning of seeing her mother crushed to pieces just before her eyes and the mangled body carried off down the stream. William Yarner lost six children and saved a baby about eighteen months old. His wife died just three weeks ago. An aged German, his wife and five daughters floated down on their house to a point below Nineveh, where the house was wrecked. The five daughters were drowned, but the old man and his wife stuck in a tree and hung there for twenty-four hours before they could be taken off. Died Kissing Her Babe. One of the most pitiful sights of this terrible disaster came to my notice this afternoon, when the body of a young lady was taken out of the Conemaugh River. The woman was apparently quite young, though her features were terribly disfigured. Nearly all the clothing except the shoes was torn off the body. The corpse was that of a mother, for although cold in death the woman clasped a young male babe apparently not more than a year old tightly in her arms. The little one was huddled close up to its mother's face, who when she realized their terrible fate, had evidently raised the babe to her lips to imprint upon its little lips the last motherly kiss it was to receive in this world. The sight was a pathetic one and turned many a stout heart to tears. Among the miraculous escapes to be recorded in connection with the great disaster is that of George J. Leas and his family. He resided on Iron street. When the rush of water came there were eight people on the roof. The little house swung around off its moorings and floated about for nearly half an hour before it came up against the bank of drift above the stone bridge. A three-year-old girl with sunny golden hair and dimpled cheeks prayed all the while that God would save them, and it seemed that God really answered the prayer of this innocent little girl and directed the house against the drift, enabling every one of the eight to get off. Mrs. Leas carried the little girl in her arms, and how she got off she doesn't know. Every house around them, she said, was crushed, and the people either killed or drowned. Thugs at Their Work. One of the most dreadful features of this catastrophe has been the miserable weakness displayed by the authorities of Johnstown and the surrounding boroughs. Johnstown needed them sadly for forty-eight hours. There is supposed to be a Burgess, but like most burgesses he is a shadowy and mythical personage. If there had been concerted and intelligent action the fire in the débris at the dam could have been extinguished within a short time after it started. Too many cooks spoiled this ghastly broth. Even now if dynamite or some other explosive was intelligently applied the huge mass of wreckage which has up to the present time escaped the flame, and no doubt contains a number of bodies, could be saved from fire. This, however, is a matter of small import compared with the immunity granted the outrageous and open graveyard robbery and disgusting thievery which have thriven bravely since Friday morning. Foreigners and natives carrying huge sacks, and in some instances even being assisted by horses and carts, have been busily engaged hunting corpses and stealing such valuables as were to be found in the wreckage. Dozens of barrels of strong liquor have been rescued by the Hungarian and Polish laborers from among the ruins of saloons and hotels and the contents of the same have been freely indulged in. This has led to an alarming debauchery, which is on the increase. All day the numbers of the drunken crowd have been augmented from time to time by fresh arrivals from the surrounding districts. Those who have suffered from the tidal wave have become much embittered against the law breakers. There have been many small fights and several small riots in consequence. This has been regarded with apprehension by the State authorities, and Adjutant General Hastings has arrived at Johnstown to examine into the condition of affairs and to guard the desolated district with troops. The Eighteenth regiment, of Pittsburgh, has tendered its services to this work, but has received no reply to its tender. General Hastings estimates that the loss of life is at least eight thousand. An employee of J.L. Gill, of Latrobe, says he and thirty-five other men were in a three-story building in Johnstown last night. They had been getting out logs for the Johnstown Lumber Company. The man says that the building was swept away and all the men were drowned except Gill and his family. Handling the Dead. The recovery of bodies has taken up the time of thousands all day. The theory now is that most of those killed by the torrent were buried beneath the débris. To-day's work in the ruins in a large degree justifies this assumption. I saw six bodies taken out of one pile of rubbish not eight feet square. The truth is that bodies are almost as plentiful as logs. The whirl of the waters puts the bodies under and the logs and boards on top. The rigidity of arms standing out at right angles to the bloated and bruised bodies show that death in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases took place amid the ruins--that is after the wreck of houses had closed over them. Dr. D.G. Foster, who has been here all day, is of the opinion that most of the victims were killed by coming into violent contact with objects in the river and not by drowning. He found many fractured skulls and on most heads blows that would have rendered those receiving them instantly unconscious, and the water did the rest. _Not fewer than three hundred bodies have been taken from the river and rubbish to-day._ It has been the labor of all classes of citizens, and marvellous work has been accomplished. The eastern end of Main street, through which the waters tore most madly and destructively, and in which they left their legacy of wrecked houses, fallen trees and dead bodies in a greater degree than in any other portion of the city, has been cleared and the remains of over fifty have been taken out. All over town the searchers have been equally successful. As soon as a body is found it is placed on a litter and sent to the Morgue, where it is washed and placed on a board for several hours to await identification. [Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE MORGUE.] The Morgue is the Fourth-ward school house, and it has been surrounded all day by a crowd of several thousand people. At first the crowd were disposed to stop those bearing the stretchers, uncover the remains and view them, but this was found to be prolific not only of great delay, also scenes of agony that not even the bearers could endure. Now a litter is guarded by a file of soldiers with fixed bayonets, and the people are forced aside until the Morgue is reached. It is astonishing to find how small a number of injured are in the city. Few survived. It was death or nothing with the demon of the flood. Now that an adequate idea of what has befallen them has been reached, and the fact that a living has still to be made, that plants must be taken care of, that contracts must be filled, the business people of the city are giving their attention to the future. Vice President and Director James McMillan, of the Cambria Iron Company, says their loss has been well nigh incalculable. They are not daunted, but will to-morrow begin the work of clearing up the ruins of their mills preparatory to rebuilding and repairing their works. They will also immediately rebuild the Gautier Iron Works. This is the disposition of all. "Our pockets are light," they say, "but if nothing happens all of us will be in business again." The central portion of Johnstown is as completely obliterated as if it had never had foundation. The river has made its bed upon the sites of hundreds of dwellings, and a vast area of sand, mud and gravel marks the old channel. It is doubtful whether it will be possible even to reclaim what was once the business portion of the city. The river will have to be returned to its old bed in order to do this. Among the lost is H.G. Rose, the District Attorney of Cambria county, whose body was among the first discovered. Governor Foraker, of Ohio, this afternoon sent five hundred tents to this city. They will be pitched on the hillside to-morrow. They are sadly needed, as the buildings that are left are either too damp or too unsafe for occupancy. Burying the Dead. The work of burying the dead began this morning and has been kept up till late this evening. The bruising of the bodies by logs and trees and other débris and other exposure in the water have tended to hasten decomposition, which has set in in scores of cases, making interment instantly necessary. Bodies are being buried as rapidly as they are identified. The work of Pittsburgh undertakers in examining the dead has rendered it possible to keep all those embalmed two or three days longer, but this is desirable only in cases where identification is dubious and no claimants appear at all. To-day the cars sent out from Pittsburgh with provisions for the living were hastily cleared in order to contain the bodies of the dead intended for interment in suburban cemeteries and in graveyards handy to the city. Formality is dispensed with. In some instances only the undertaker and his assistants are present, and in others only one or two members of the family of the dead. The dead are more plentiful than the mourners. Death has certainly dealt briefly with the stricken city. "Let the dead bury the dead" has been more nearly exemplified in this instance than in any other in this country's history. The magnitude of the horror increases with the hours. It is believed that not less than two thousand of the drowned found lodgment beneath the _omnium gatherum_ in the triangle of ground that the Conemaugh cut out of the bank between the river and the Pennsylvania Railroad bridge. The Greatest Funeral Pyre in History. The victims were not upon it, but were parts of it. Whole houses were washed into the apex of the triangle. Hen coops, pigstys and stables were added to the mass. Then a stove ignited the mass and the work of cremation began. It was a literal breast of fire. The smoke arose in a huge funnel-shaped cloud, and at times it changed to the form of an hour glass. At night the flames united would light up this misty remnant of mortality. The effect upon the living, both ignorant and intelligent, was the same. That volume of smoke with its dual form, produced a feeling of awe in many that was superior in most cases to that felt in the awful moment of the storm's wrath on Friday. Hundreds stood for hours regarding the smoke and wondering whether it foreboded another visitation more dire than its predecessor. The people hereabouts this morning awoke to find that nothing was left but a mass of ashes, calcined human bones, stoves, old iron and other approximately indestructible matter, from which only a light blue vapor was arising. General Hastings took precautions to prevent the extension of the fire to another huge pile, a short distance away, and this will be rummaged to-day for bodies of flood victims. The Pittsburgh undertakers have contributed more to facilitate the preparation of the dead for the graves than all others besides. There was a disposition on the part of many foreigners and negroes to raid the houses, and do an all around thieving business, but the measures adopted by the police had a tendency to frighten them off in nearly every case. One man was caught in the act of robbing the body of an old woman, but he protested that he had got nothing and was released. He immediately disappeared, and it was found afterward that he had taken $100 from the pocket of the corpse. A half-breed negro yesterday and this morning was doing a thriving business in collecting hams, shoulders, chickens and even furniture. He had thieves in his employ, and while to some of them he was paying regular salaries, others were doing the work for a drink of whiskey. The authorities stopped this thing very suddenly, but not until a number of the people threatened to lynch the half breed. In one or two instance very narrow escapes from the rope were made. Thousands of coffins and rough boxes have already arrived, and still the supply is short. They are brought in marked to some undertaker, who has a list of his dead, and as fast as the coffins come he writes the name of its intended tenant and tells the friends (when there are any) where to find it. How a Funeral Takes Place. Two of them go after it, and, carrying it between them to the Morgue or to their homes, place the body in it and take it to the burial grounds. One unfortunate feature of the destruction is the fact that some one has been drowned from nearly every house in the city, and teams are procurable only with the greatest difficulty. Dead horses are seen everywhere. In one stable two horses, fully harnessed, bridled and ready to be taken out, stand dead in their stable, stiff and upright. In a sand pile near the Pennsylvania Railroad depot a horse's hind feet, rump and tail are all that can be seen of him. He was caught in the rapidly running waters and had been driven into the sand. The following telegram from Johnstown has been received at Pittsburg: "For God's sake tell the sight-seers to keep away from Johnstown for the present. What we want is people to work, not to look on. Citizen's Committee." Three trains have already been sent out with crowded cargoes of sight-seers. At every station along the road excited crowds are waiting for an opportunity to get aboard. That's what would have happened to the owners of South Fork if they had put in an appearance. There is great indignation among the people of Johnstown at the wealthy Pittsburghers who own South Fork. They blame them severely for having maintained such a frightfully dangerous institution there. The feeling among the people was intense. If any of the owners of the dam had put in an appearance in Johnstown they would have been lynched. The dam has been a constant menace to this valley ever since it has been in existence, and the feeling, which has been bitter enough on the occasion of every flood hitherto, after this horrible disaster is now at fever heat. Without seeing the havoc created no idea can be given of the area of the desolation or the extent of the damage. Only One Left to Mourn. An utterly wretched woman stood by a muddy pool of water, trying to find some trace of a once happy home. She was half crazed with grief, and her eyes were red and swollen. As I stepped to her side she raised her pale and haggard face, crying: "They are all gone. Oh God be merciful to them. My husband and my seven dear little children have been swept down with the flood and I am left alone. We were driven by the raging flood into the garret, but the waters followed us there. Inch by inch it kept rising until our heads were crushing against the roof. It was death to remain. So I raised a window and one by one placed my darlings on some drift wood, trusting to the Great Creator. As I liberated the last one, my sweet little boy, he looked at me and said: 'Mamma, you always told me that the Lord would care for me; will he look after me now?' "I saw him drift away with his loving face turned toward me, and with a prayer on my lips for his deliverance he passed from sight forever. The next moment the roof crashed in and I floated outside to be rescued fifteen hours later from the roof of a house in Kernville. If I could only find one of my darlings, I could bow to the will of God, but they all are gone. I have lost everything on earth now but my life, and I will return to my old Virginia home and lay me down for my last great sleep." A handsome woman, with hair as black as a raven's wing, walked through the depot, where a dozen or more bodies were awaiting burial. Passing from one to another, she finally lifted the paper covering from the face of a woman, young and with traces of beauty showing through the stains of muddy water. With a cry of anguish she reeled backward, to be caught by a rugged man who chanced to be passing. In a moment or so she had calmed herself sufficiently to take one more look at the features of her dead. She stood gazing at the unfortunate as if dumb. Finally turning away with another wild burst of grief she said:-- "And her beautiful hair all matted and her sweet face bruised and stained with mud and water." The dead woman was the sister of the mourner. The body was placed in a coffin a few minutes later and sent away to its narrow house. These incidents are but fair samples of the scenes familiar to every turn in this stricken city. [Illustration: THE AWFUL RUSH OF WATERS.] CHAPTER III. The Horror Increases. During the night thirty-three bodies were brought to one house. As yet the relief force is not perfectly organized and bodies are lying around on boards and doors. Within twenty feet of where this was written the dead body of a colored woman lies. Provision has been made by the Relief Committee for the sufferers to send despatches to all parts of the country. The railroad company has a track through to the bridge. The first train arrived about half-past nine o'clock this morning. A man in a frail craft got caught in the rapids at the railroad bridge, and it looked as if he would increase the already terrible list of dead, but fortunately he caught on a rock, where he now is and is liable to remain all day. The question on every person's lips is--Will the Cambria Iron Company rebuild? The wire mill is completely wrecked, but the walls of the rolling mill are still standing. If they do not resume it is a question whether the town will be rebuilt. The Hungarians were beginning to pillage the houses, and the arrival of police was most timely. Word had just been received that all the men employed by Peabody, the Pittsburgh contractor, have been saved. The worst part of this disaster has not been told. Indeed, the most graphic description that can be written will not tell half the tale. No pen can describe nor tongue tell the vastness of this devastation. I walked over the greater part of the wrecked town this morning, and one could not have pictured such a wreck, nor could one have imagined that an entire town of this size could be so completely swept away. A.J. Haws, one of the prominent men of the town, was standing on the hillside this morning, taking a view of the wreck. He said: "I never saw anything like this, nor do I believe any one else ever did. No idea can be had of the tremendous loss of property here. It amounts up into the millions. I am going to leave the place. I never will build here." I heard the superintendents and managers of the Cambria Iron Works saying they doubted if the works will be rebuilt. This would mean the death blow to the place. Mr. Stackhouse, first vice-president of the iron works, is expected here to-day. Nothing can be done until a meeting of the company is held. Preparations for Burial. Adjutant General Hastings, who is in charge of the relief corps at the railroad station, has a force of carpenters at work making rough boxes in which to bury the dead. They will be buried on the hill, just above the town, on ground belonging to the Cambria Iron Company. The graves will be numbered. No one will be buried that has not been identified without a careful description being taken. General Hastings drove fifty-eight miles across the country in order to get here, and as soon as he came took charge. He has the whole town organized, and in connection with L.S. Smith has commenced the building of bridges and clearing away the wrecks to get out the dead bodies. [Illustration: PREPARATIONS FOR BURIAL.] General Hastings has a large force of men clearing private tracks of the Cambria Iron Company in order that the small engines can be put to work bringing up the dead that have been dragged out of the river at points below. The bodies are being brought up and laid out in freight cars. Mr. Kittle, of Ebensburg, has been deputized to take charge of the valuables taken from the bodies and keep a registry of them, and also to note any marks of identification that may be found. A number of the bodies have been stripped of rings or bracelets and other valuables. Over six hundred corpses have now been taken out on the south side of Stony Creek, the greater portion of which have been identified. Send Us Coffins. Preparations for their burial are being carried on as rapidly as possible, and "coffins, coffins," is the cry. No word has been received anywhere of any being shipped. Even rough boxes will be gladly received. Those that are being made, and in which many of the bodies are being buried, are of rough unplaned boards. One hundred dead bodies are laid out at the soap factory, while two hundred or more people are gathered there that are in great distress. Boats are wanted. People have the greatest difficulty in getting to the town. Struggling for Order. Another account from Johnstown on the second day after the disaster says: The situation here has not changed, and yesterday's estimates of the loss of life do not seem to be exaggerated. Six hundred bodies are now lying in Johnstown, and a large number have already been buried. Four immense relief trains arrived last night, and the survivors are being well cared for. Adjutant General Hastings, assisted by Mayor Sanger, has taken command at Johnstown and vicinity. Nothing is legal unless it bears the signature of the former. The town itself is guarded by Company H, Sixth regiment, Lieutenant Leggett in command. New members were sworn in by him, and they are making excellent soldiers. Special police are numerous, and the regulations are so strict that even the smoking of a cigar is prohibited. General Hastings expresses the opinion that more troops are necessary. Mr. Alex. Hart is in charge of the special police. He has lost his wife and family. Notwithstanding his great misfortune he is doing the work of a Hercules in his own way. Firemen and Soldiers Arriving. Chief Evans, of the Pittsburgh Fire Department, arrived this evening with engines and several hose carts, with a full complement of men. A large number of Pittsburgh physicians came on the same train. A squad of Battery B, under command of Lieutenant Brown, the forerunners of the whole battery, arrived at the improvised telegraph office at half-past six o'clock. Lieutenant Brown went at once to Adjutant General Hastings and reported for duty. A portion of the police force of Pittsburgh and Alleghany are on duty, and better order is maintained than prevailed yesterday. Communication has been restored between Cambria City and Johnstown by a foot bridge. The work of repairing the tracks between Sang Hollow and Johnstown is going on rapidly, and trains will probably be running by to-morrow morning. Not less than fifteen thousand strangers are here. The unruly element has been put down and order is now perfect. The Citizen's Committee are in charge and have matters well organized. A proclamation has just been issued that all men who are able to work must report for work or leave the place. "We have too much to do to support idlers," says the Citizen's Committee, "And will not abuse the generous help that is being sent by doing so." From to-morrow all will be at work. Money now is greatly needed to meet the heavy pay rolls that will be incurred for the next two weeks. W. C. Lewis, Chairman of the Finance Committee, is ready to receive the same. Fall of the Wall of Water. Mr. Crouse, proprietor of the South Fork Fishing Club Hotel, came to Johnstown this afternoon. He says:-- "When the dam of Conemaugh Lake broke the water seemed to leap, scarcely touching the ground. It bounded down the valley, crashing and roaring, carrying everything before it. For a mile its front seemed like a solid wall twenty feet high." Freight Agent Dechert, when the great wall that held the body of water began to crumble at the top sent a message begging the people of Johnstown for God's sake to take to the hills. He reports no serious accidents at South Fork. Richard Davis ran to Prospect Hill when the water raised. As to Mr. Dechert's message, he says just such have been sent down at each flood since the lake was made. The warning so often proved useless that little attention was paid to it this time. "I cannot describe the mad rush," he said. "At first it looked like dust. That must have been the spray. I could see houses going down before it like a child's play blocks set on edge in a row. As it came nearer I could see houses totter for a moment, then rise and the next moment be crushed like egg shells against each other." To Rise Phoenix-like. James McMillin, vice-president of the Cambria Iron Works, was met this afternoon. In a conversation he said: "I do not know what our loss is. I cannot even estimate, as I have not the faintest idea what it may be. The upper mill is totally wrecked--damaged beyond all possibility of repairs. The lower mill is damaged to such an extent that all machinery and buildings are useless. "The mills will be rebuilt immediately. I have sent out orders that all men that can must report at the mill to-morrow to commence cleaning up. I do not think the building was insured against a flood. The great thing we want is to get the mill in operation again." [Illustration: THE BRIDGE, WHERE A THOUSAND HOUSES, JAMBED TOGETHER, CAUGHT FIRE.] [Illustration: IN THE VALLEY OF DEATH.] [Illustration: A MOTHER AND CHILD PERISH TOGETHER.] [Illustration: SWEPT AWAY BY THE TORRENT.] [Illustration: LYNCHING AND DROWNING THIEVES.] [Illustration: DISTRIBUTING SUPPLIES TO THE DESTITUTE.] [Illustration: A CRAZED SOLDIER COMMITS SUICIDE.] [Illustration: MADE ORPHANS BY THE FLOOD.] [Illustration: A FATHER'S DESPAIR AT THE LOSS OF HIS FAMILY.] [Illustration: VALLEY OF THE CONEMAUGH NEAR JOHNSTOWN.] [Illustration: MEETING OF FRIENDS AND RELATIVES AFTER THE FLOOD.] [Illustration: MOTHER AND BABE CAST UP BY THE WATERS.] [Illustration: RELIEF FOR JOHNSTOWN-PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD STATION, PHILADELPHIA.] [Illustration: THE MILITIA AT REST.] The Gautier Wire Works was completely destroyed. The buildings will be immediately rebuilt and put in operation as soon as possible. The loss at this point is complete. The land on which it stood is to-day as barren and desolate as if it were in the midst of the Sahara Desert. The Cambria Iron Company loses its great supply stores. The damage to the stock alone will amount to $50,000. The building was valued at $150,000, and is a total loss. The company offices which adjoins the store was a handsome structure. It was protected by the first building, but nevertheless is almost totally destroyed. The Dartmouth Club, at which employees of the works boarded, was carried away in the flood. It contained many occupants at the time. None were saved. Estimates of the losses of the Cambria Iron Company given are from $2,000,000 to $2,500,000. But little of this can be recovered. History of the Works. The Cambria Iron Works at Johnstown were built in 1853. It was the second largest plant of its kind in the country, and was completely swept away. Its capacity of finished steel per annum was 180,000 net tons of steel rails and 20,000 net tons of steel in other shapes. The mill turned out steel rails, spike bars, angles, flats, rounds, axles, billets and wire rods. There were nine Siemens and forty-two reverbatory heating furnaces, one seven ton and two 6,000 pound hammers and three trains of rolls. The Bessemer Steel Works made their first blow July 10, 1871, and they contained nine gross ton converters, with an annual capacity of 200,000 net tons of ingots. In 1878 two fifteen gross tons Siemens open-hearth steel furnaces were built, with an annual capacity of 20,000 net tons of ingots. The Cambria Iron Company also owns the Gautier Steel Works at Johnstown, which were erected in 1878. The rolling mill produced annually 30,000 net tons of merchant bar steel of every size and for every purpose. The wire mill had a capacity alone of 30,000 tons of fence wire. There are numerous bituminous coal mines near Johnstown, operated by the Cambria Iron Company, the Euclid Coal Company and private persons. There were three woolen mills, employing over three hundred hands and producing an annual product valued at $300,000. Awful Work of the Flames. Fifty acres of town swept clean. One thousand two hundred buildings destroyed. Eight thousand to ten thousand lives lost. That is the record of the Johnstown calamity as it looked to me just before dark last night. Acres of the town were turned into cemeteries, and miles of the river bank were involuntary storage rooms for household goods. From the half ruined parapet at the end of the stone railroad bridge, in Johnstown proper, one sees sights so gruesome that none but the soulless Hungarian and Italian laborers can command his emotions. _At my right is a fiery pit that is now believed to have been the funeral pyre of almost a thousand persons._ Streets Obliterated. The fiercest rush of the current was straight across the lower, level part of Johnstown, where it entirely obliterated Cinder, Washington, Market, Main and Walnut streets. These streets were from a half to three-quarters of a mile in length, and were closely crowded along their entire course with dwellings and other buildings, and there is now no more trace of streets or houses than there is at low tide on the beach at Far Rockaway. In the once well populated boroughs of Conemaugh and Woodvale there are to-night literally but two buildings left, one the shell of the Woodvale Woolen Mill and the other a sturdy brick dwelling. The buildings which were swept from twenty out of the thirty acres of devastated Johnstown were crowded against the lower end of the big stone bridge in a mass 200 yards wide, 500 yards broad and from 60 to 100 feet deep. They were crushed and split out of shape and packed together like playing cards. When you realize that in nearly every one of these buildings there were at least one human being, while in some there were as many as seventy-five, it is easy to comprehend how awful it was when this mass began to burn fiercely last night. It was known that a large number of persons were imprisoned in the débris, for they could be plainly seen by those on shore, but it was not until people stopped to think and to ask themselves questions, which startled them in a ghastly way, that the fact became plain that instead of a pitiful hundred or two of victims at least a thousand were in that roaring, crackling, loathsome, blazing mass upon the surface of the water and in the huge, inaccessible arches of the big bridge. Charred Bodies. Charred bodies could be seen here and there all through the glowing embers. There was no attempt to check the fire by the authorities, nor for that matter did they try to stop the robbing of the dead, nor any other glaring violation of law. The fire is spreading toward a large block of crushed buildings further up the stream. There is a broad stretch of angry water above and below, while over there, just opposite the end of the bridge, is the ruin of the great Cambria Iron Works, which have been damaged to the extent of over $1,000,000. The Gautier Steel Works have been wiped away, and are represented by a loss of $1,000,000 and a big hole. The Holbert House, owned by Renford Brothers, has entirely disappeared. It was a five story building, was the leading hotel of Johnstown, and contained a hundred rooms. Of the seventy-five guests who were in it when the flood came, only eight have been saved. Most of them were crushed by the fall of the walls and flooring. Hundreds of searching parties are looking in the muddy ponds and among the wreckage for bodies and they are being gathered in ghastly heaps. In one building among the bloated victims, I saw a young and well-dressed man and woman, still locked in each other's arms, a young mother with her babe pressed with delirious tenacity to her breast, and on a small pillow was a tiny babe a few hours old, which the doctors said must have been born in the water. It is said that 720 bodies have so far been recovered, or have been located. The coroner of Westmoreland county is ordering coffins by the carload. In the Raging Waters. A dispatch from Derry says: In this city the poor people in the raging waters cried out for aid that never came. More than one brave man risked his life in trying to save those in the flood. Every hour details of some heroic action are brought to light. In many instances the victims displayed remarkable courage and gave their chances for rescue to friends with them. Sons stood back for mothers, and were lost while their parents were taken out. Many a son went down to a watery grave that a sister or a father might be saved. Such instances of sacrifice in the face of fearful danger are numerous. The Force of the Waters. One can estimate the force of the water when it is known that it carried locomotives down the mountain side and turned them upside down where they are now lying. Long trains of cars have been derailed and carried great distances from the railroads. The first sight that greeted the men at nine this morning was the body of a beautiful woman lying crushed and mangled under the ponderous wheels of a gondola car. The clothing was torn to shreds. Dr. Berry said that he never saw such intense pain pictured on a face before. Terrible Stories. At this time of writing it is impossible to secure the names of any of the lost. Every person one meets along the road has some horrible tale of drowned and dead bodies recovered. One thousand people or more were buried and crushed in the great fire. The flats below Conemaugh are full of cars with many dead bodies lying under them. At Sang Hollow a man named Duncan sat on the roof of a house and saw his father and mother die in the attic below him. The poor fellow was powerless to help them, and he stood there wringing his hands and tearing his hair. A man was seen clinging to a tree, covered with blood. He was lost with the others. Long after dark the flames of fire shot high above the burning mass of timber, lighting the vast flood of rushing waters on all sides. The Dead. Dead bodies are being picked up. The train master, E. Pitcairn, has been working manfully directing the rescuing of dead bodies at Nineveh. In a ten acre field seventy-five bodies were taken out within a half mile of each other. Of this number only five were men, the rest being women and children. Many beautiful young girls, refined in features and handsomely dressed, were found, and women and young mothers with their hair matted with roots and leaves are constantly being removed. The wrecking crew which took out these bodies are confident that 150 bodies are lying buried in the sand and under the débris on those low-lying bottom lands. Some of the bodies were horribly mangled, and the features were twisted and contorted as if they had died in the most excrutiating agony. Others are found lying stretched out with calm faces. Many a tear was dropped by the men as they worked away removing the bodies. An old lady with fine gray hair was picked up alive, although every bone in her body was broken. Judging from the number of women and children found in the swamps of Nineveh, the female portion of the population suffered the most. A Fatal Tree. Mr. O'Conner was at Sang Hollow when the flood began. He remained there through the afternoon and night, and he states that there was a fatal tree on the island against which a number of people were dashed and instantly killed. Their bodies were almost tied in a knot doubled over the tree by the force of the current. Mr. O'Conner says that the first man who came down had his brains knocked out against this obstruction. In fact, those who hit the tree met the same fate and were instantly killed under the pile of driftwood collected there. He could give no estimate of the number lost at this point, but says that it is certainly large. Braves Death for His Family. One of the most thrilling incidents of the disaster was the performance of A.J. Leonard, whose family reside in Morrellville, a short distance below this point. He was at work here, and hearing that his house had been swept away determined at all hazards to ascertain the fate of his family. The bridges having been carried away he constructed a temporary raft, and clinging to it as close as a cat to the side of a fence, he pushed his frail craft out in the raging torrent and started on a chase which, to all who were watching, seemed to mean an embrace in death. Heedless of cries "For God's sake go back, you will be drowned," and "Don't attempt it," he persevered. As the raft struck the current he threw off his coat and in his shirt sleeves braved the stream. Down plunged the boards and down went Leonard, but as it rose he was seen still clinging. A mighty shout arose from the throats of the hundreds on the banks, who were now deeply interested, earnestly hoping he would successfully ford the stream. Down again went his bark, but nothing, it seemed, could shake Leonard off. The craft shot up in the air apparently ten or twelve feet, and Leonard stuck to it tenaciously. Slowly but surely he worked his boat to the other side of the stream, and after what seemed an awful suspense he finally landed amid ringing cheers of men, women and children. The last seen of him he was making his way down a mountain road in the direction of the spot where his house had lately stood. His family consisted of his wife and three children. An Angel in the Mud. The Pennsylvania Railroad Company's operators at Switch Corner, which is near Sang Hollow, tell thrilling stories of the scenes witnessed by them on Friday afternoon and evening. Said one of them: "In order to give you an idea of how the tidal wave rose and fell, let me say that I kept a measure and timed the rise and fall of the water, and in forty-eight minutes it fell four and a half feet. "I believe that when the water goes down about seventy-five children and fifty grown persons will be found among the weeds and bushes in the bend of the river just below the tower. "There the current was very strong, and we saw dozens of people swept under the trees, and I don't believe that more than one in twenty came out on the other side." "They found a little girl in white just now," said one of the other operators. "Good God!" said the chief operator, "she isn't dead, is she!" "Yes; they found her in a clump of willow bushes, kneeling on a board, just about the way we saw her when she went down the river." Turning to me he said:-- "That was the saddest thing we saw all day yesterday. Two men came down on a little raft, with a little girl kneeling between them, and her hands raised and praying. She came so close to us we could see her face, and that she was crying. She had on a white dress and looked like a little angel. She went under that cursed shoot in the willow bushes at the bend like all the rest, but we did hope she would get through alive." "And so she was still kneeling," he said to his companion, who had brought the unwelcome news. "She sat there," was the reply, "as if she were still praying, and there was a smile on her poor little face, though her mouth was full of mud." All agreed in saying that at least one hundred people were drowned below Nineveh. Direful Incidents. The situation at Johnstown grows worse as fuller particulars are being received in Pittsburgh. This morning it was reported that three thousand people were lost in the flood. In the afternoon this number was increased to six thousand, and at this writing despatches place the number at ten thousand. It is the most frightful destruction of life that has ever been known in the United States. Vampires at Hand. It is stated that already a large gang of thieves and vampires have descended on and near the place. Their presumed purpose is to rob the dead and ransack the demolished buildings. The Tenth regiment of the Pennsylvania National Guard has been ordered out to protect property. A telegram from Bolivar says Lockport did not suffer much, but that sixty-five families were turned out of their homes. The school at that place is filled with mothers, fathers, daughters and children. Noble Acts of Heroism. Edward Dick, a young railroader living in the place, saw an old man floating down the river on a tree trunk whose agonized face and streaming gray hair excited his compassion. He plunged into the torrent, clothes and all, and brought the old man safely ashore. Scarcely had he done this when the upper story of a house floated by on which Mrs. Adams, of Cambria, and her two children were borne. He plunged in again, and while breaking through the tin roof of the house cut an artery in his left wrist, but, although weakened with loss of blood, succeeded in saving both mother and children. George Shore, another Lockport swimmer, pulled out William Jones, of Cambria, who was almost exhausted and could not possibly have survived another twenty minutes in the water. John Decker, who has some celebrity as a local pugilist, was also successful in saving a woman and boy, but was nearly killed in a third attempt to reach the middle of the river by being struck by a huge log. The most miraculous fact about the people who reached Bolivar alive was how they passed through the falls halfway between Lockport and Bolivar. The seething waters rushed through that barrier of rock with a noise which drowned that of all the passing trains. Heavy trees were whirled high in the air out of the water, and houses which reached there whole were dashed to splinters against the rocks. A Tale of Horror. On the floor of William Mancarro's house, groaning with pain and grief, lay Patrick Madden, a furnace man of the Cambria Iron Company. He told of his terrible experience in a voice broken with emotion. He said: "When the Cambria Iron Company's bridge gave way I was in the house of a neighbor, Edward Garvey. We were caught through our own neglect, like a great many others, and a few minutes before the houses were struck Garvey remarked that he was a good swimmer, and could get away no matter how high the water rose. Ten minutes later I saw him and his son-in-law drowned. "No human being could swim in that terrible torrent of débris. After the South Fork reservoir broke I was flung out of the building and saw, when I rose to the surface of the water, my wife hanging upon a piece of scantling. She let it go and was drowned almost within reach of my arm and I could not help or save her. I caught a log and floated with it five or six miles, but it was knocked from under me when I went over the dam. I then caught a bale of hay and was taken out by Mr. Morenrow." A despatch from Greensburg says the day express, which left Pittsburgh at eight o'clock on Friday morning was lying at Johnstown in the evening at the time the awful rush of waters came down the mountains. We have been informed by one who was there that the coach next to the baggage car was struck by the raging flood, and with its human freight cut loose from the rest of the train and carried down the stream. All on board, it is feared, perished. Of the passengers who were left on the track, fifteen or more who endeavored to flee to the mountains were caught, it is thought, by the flood, and likewise carried to destruction. Samuel Bell, of Latrobe, was conductor on the train, and he describes the scene as the most appalling and heartrending he ever witnessed. A special despatch from Latrobe says:--"The special train which left the Union Station, Pittsburgh, at half-past one arrived at Nineveh Station, nine miles from Johnstown, last evening at five o'clock. The train was composed of four coaches and locomotive, and carried, at the lowest calculation, over nine hundred persons, including the members of the press. The passengers were packed in like sardines and many were compelled to hang out upon the platform. A large proportion of the passengers were curiosity seekers, while there was a large sprinkling of suspicious looking characters, who had every appearance of being crooks and wreckers, such as visit all like disasters for the sole purpose of plundering and committing kindred depredations." When the train reached Nineveh the report spread through it that a number of bodies had been fished out of the water and were awaiting identification at a neighboring planing mill. I stopped off to investigate the rumor, while the balance of the party journeyed on toward Sang Hollow, the nearest approach to Johnstown by rail. I visited Mumaker's planing mills and found that the report was true. [Illustration: TAKING DEAD BODIES FROM A ROOF.] All day long the rescuers had been at work, and at this writing (six o'clock) they have taken out seventy-eight dead bodies, the majority of whom are women and children. The bodies are horribly mutilated and covered with mud and blood. Fifteen of them are those of men. Their terribly mutilated condition makes identification for the present almost impossible. One of the bodies found was that of a woman, apparently about thirty-five years of age. Every conveyance that could be used has been pressed into service. Latrobe is all agog with excitement over the great disaster. Almost every train takes out a load of roughs and thugs who are bent on mischief. They resemble the mob that came to Pittsburgh during the riots. Measures of Relief. Pittsburgh is in a wild state of excitement. A large mass meeting was held yesterday afternoon and in a short space of time $1,000 was subscribed for the sufferers. The Pennsylvania company has been running trains every hour to the scene of the disaster or as near it as they can get. Provisions and a large volunteer relief corps have been sent up. The physicians have had an enthusiastic meeting at which one and all freely offered their services. The latest project is to have the wounded and the survivors who fled to the hillsides from the angry rush of waters brought to Pittsburgh. The Exposition Society has offered the use of its splendid new building as a temporary hospital. All the hospitals in the city have also offered to care for the sufferers free of charge to the full limit of their capacity. Word has been received at Allegheny Junction, twenty-two miles above Pittsburgh, from Leechburg that a woman and two children were seen floating past there at five o'clock yesterday morning on top of some wreckage. They were alive, and their pitiful cries for help drew the attention of the people on the shore. Some men got a boat and endeavored to reach the sufferers. As they rowed out in the stream the woman could be heard calling to them to save the children first. The men made a gallant effort. It was all without avail, as the strong current and floating masses of débris prevented them from reaching the victims, and the latter floated on down the stream until their despairing cries could no longer be heard. Mrs. Chambers, of Apollo, was swept away when her house was wrecked during the night. She had gone to bed when the flood came and she had not time to dress. Fortunately she managed to secure a hold on some wreckage which was being carried past her. She kept her hold until her cries were heard by some men a short distance above Leechburg. They got out a boat and succeeded in reaching her, and took her to a house near the bank of the river. When they got her there it was found that she was badly bruised and all her clothing had been torn off by the débris with which she had come in contact, leaving her entirely naked. She was also rescued at Natrona. A Lucky Change of Residence. Mr. F.J. Moore, of the Western Union office in this city, is giving thanks to-day for the fortunate escape of his wife and two children from the devastated city. As if by some foreknowledge of the impending disaster, Mr. Moore had arranged to have his family move yesterday from Johnstown and join him in this city. Their household goods were shipped on Thursday, and yesterday just in time to save themselves, the little party departed in the single train which made the trip between Johnstown and Pittsburgh. I called on Mrs. Moore at her husband's apartments, No. 4 Webster avenue, and found her completely prostrated by the news of the final catastrophe, coupled with the dangerous experience through which she and her little ones had passed. "Oh, it was terrible," she said. "The reservoir had broken, and before we got out of the house the water filled the cellar, and on the way to the depot it was up to the carriage bed. Our train left at a quarter to two P.M., and at that hour the flood had commenced to rise with terrible rapidity. Houses and sheds were carried away, and two men were drowned almost under our very eyes. People gathered on the roofs to take refuge from the water which poured into the lower rooms of their dwellings, and many families took fright and became scattered beyond hope of being reunited. Just as the train pulled out I saw a woman crying bitterly. Her house had been flooded and she had escaped, leaving her husband behind, and her fears for his safety made her almost crazy. Our house was in the lower part of the town, and it makes me shudder to think what would have happened had we remained in it an hour longer. So far as I know we were the only passengers from Johnstown on the train, and therefore I suppose we are the only persons who got away in time to escape the culminating disaster." Mrs. Moore's little son told me how he had seen the rats driven out of their holes by the flood and running along the tops of the fences. Mr. Moore endeavored to get to Johnstown yesterday, but was prevented by the suspension of traffic and says he is very glad of it. What the Eye Hath Seen. The scenes at Heanemyer's planing mill at Nineveh, where the dead bodies are lying, are never to be forgotten. The torn, bruised and mutilated bodies of the victims are lying in a row on the floor of the planing mill which looks more like the field of Bull Run after that disasterous battle than a work shop. The majority of the bodies are nude, their clothing having been torn off. All along the river bits of clothing--a tiny shoe, a baby dress, a mother's evening wrapper, a father's coat, and in fact every article of wearing apparel imaginable may be seen hanging to stumps of trees and scattered on the bank. One of the most pitiful sights of this terrible disaster came to my notice this afternoon when the body of a young lady was taken out of the Conemaugh river. The woman was apparently quite young, though her features were terribly disfigured. Nearly all the clothing excepting the shoes was torn off the body. The corpse was that of a mother, for although cold in death she clasped a young male babe, apparently not more than a year old, tightly in her arms. The little one was huddled close up to the face of the mother, who when she realized their terrible fate had evidently raised it to her lips to imprint upon its lips the last kiss it was to receive in this world. The sight forced many a stout heart to shed tears. The limp bodies, with matted hair, some with holes in their heads, eyes knocked out and all bespattered with blood were a ghastly spectacle. Story of The First Fugitives. The first survivors of the Johnstown wreck who arrived in the city last night were Joseph and Henry Lauffer and Lew Dalmeyer, three well known Pittsburghers. They endured considerable hardship and had several narrow escapes with their lives. Their story of the disaster can best be told in their own language. Joe, the youngest of the Lauffer brothers, said:-- "My brother and I left on Thursday for Johnstown. The night we arrived there it rained continually, and on Friday morning it began to flood. I started for the Cambria store at a quarter past eight on Friday, and in fifteen minutes afterward I had to get out of the store in a wagon, the water was running so rapidly. We then arrived at the station and took the day express and went as far as Conemaugh, where we had to stop. The limited, however got through, and just as we were about to start the bridge at South Fork gave way with a terrific crash, and we had to stay there. We then went to Johnstown. This was at a quarter to ten in the morning, when the flood was just beginning. The whole city of Johnstown was inundated and the people all moved up to the second floor. Mountains of Water. "Now this is where the trouble occurred. These poor unfortunates did not know the reservoir would burst, and there are no skiffs in Johnstown to escape in. When the South Fork basin gave way mountains of water twenty feet high came rushing down the Conemaugh River, carrying before them death and destruction. I shall never forget the harrowing scene. Just think of it! thousands of people, men, women and children, struggling and weeping and wailing as they were being carried suddenly away in the raging current. Houses were picked up as if they were but a feather, and their inmates were all carried away with them, while cries of 'God help me!' 'Save me!' 'I am drowning!' 'My child!' and the like were heard on all sides. Those who were lucky enough to escape went to the mountains, and there they beheld the poor unfortunates being crushed among the débris to death without any chance of being rescued. Here and there a body was seen to make a wild leap into the air and then sink to the bottom. "At the stone bridge of the Pennsylvania company people were dashed to death against the piers. When the fire started there hundreds of bodies were burned. Many lookers-on up on the mountains, especially the women, fainted." Mr. Lauffer's brother, Harry, then told his part of the tale, which was not less interesting. He said:--"We had the most narrow escapes of anybody, and I tell you we don't want to be around when anything of that kind occurs again. "The scenes at Johnstown have not in the least been exaggerated, and indeed the worst is to be heard. When we got to Conemaugh and just as we were about to start the bridge gave way. This left the day express, the accommodation, a special train and a freight train at the station. Above was the South Fork water basin, and all of the trains were well filled. We were discussing the situation when suddenly, without any warning, the whistles of every engine began to shriek, and in the noise could be heard the warning of the first engineer, 'My God! Rush to the mountains, the reservoir has burst.' Then, with a thundering like peal came the mad rush of waters. No sooner had the cry been heard than those who could with a wild leap rushed from the train and up the mountains. To tell this story takes some time, but the moments in which the horrible scene was enacted were few. Then came the tornado of water, leaping and rushing with tremendous force. The waves had angry crests of white and their roar was something deafening. In one terrible swath they caught the four trains and lifted three of them right off the track, as if they were only a cork. There they floated in the river. Think of it, three large locomotives and finely varnished Pullmans floating around, and above all the hundreds of poor unfortunates who were unable to escape from the car swiftly drifting toward death. Just as we were about to leap from the car I saw a mother, with a smiling, blue eyed baby in her arms. I snatched it from her and leaped from the train just as it was lifted off of the track. The mother and child were saved, but if one more minute had elapsed we all would have perished." Beyond the Power of Words. During all of this time the waters kept rushing down the Conemaugh and through the beautiful town of Johnstown, picking up everything and sparing nothing. The mountains by this time were black with people, and the moans and sighs from those below brought tears to the eyes of the most stony hearted. There in that terrible rampage were brothers, sisters, wives and husbands, and from the mountain could be seen the panic stricken marks in the faces of those who were struggling between life and death. I really am unable to do justice to the scene, and its details are almost beyond my power to relate. Then came the burning of the débris near the Pennsylvania Railroad bridge. The scene was too sickening to endure. We left the spot and journeyed across country and delivered many notes, letters, etc., that were intrusted to us. We rode thirty-one miles in a buckboard, then walked six miles, reached Blairsville and journeyed again on foot to what is called the "Bow," and from thence we arrived home. On our way we met Mr. F. Thompson, a friend of ours, who resides in Nineveh, and he stated that rescuing parties were busy all day at Annom. One hundred and seventy-five bodies were recovered at that place. An old couple about sixty years of age were rescued from a tree, on which they came floating down the stream. They were clasped in each other's arms. President Harrison's private secretary, Elijah Halford, and wife, were on the train which was swept away, but escaped and were in the mountains when I left. Among the lost are Colonel John P. Linton and his wife and children. Colonel Linton was prominent in the Grand Army of the Republic and in the Knights of Pythias and other orders. He was formerly Auditor General of Pennsylvania. [Illustration: NINEVEH STATION, WHERE TWO HUNDRED BODIES WERE FOUND.] CHAPTER IV. Multiplication of Terrors. The handsome brick High School Building is damaged to such an extent that it will have to be rebuilt. The water attained the height of the window sills of the second floor. Its upper stories formed a refuge for many persons. All Saturday afternoon two little girls could be seen at the windows frantically calling for aid. They had spent all night and the day in the building, cut off from all aid. Without food and drinking water their condition was lamentable. Late in the evening the children were removed to higher ground and properly cared for. A number of persons had been taken from this building earlier in the day, but in the excitement the children were forgotten. Their names could not be obtained. Death in Many Forms. Morrell Institute, a beautiful building and the old homestead of the Morrell family, is totally ruined. The water has weakened the walls and foundations to such an extent that there is danger of its collapsing. Many families took refuge in this building and were saved. Now that the waters have receded there is danger from falling walls. All day long the crashing of walls could be heard across the river. Before daybreak this morning the sounds could not but make one shudder at the very thought of the horrible deaths that awaited many who had escaped the devastating flood. Library Hall was another of the fine buildings of the many in the city that is destroyed. Of the Episcopal church not a vestige remains. Where it once stood, there is now a placid lake. The parsonage is swept away, and the rector of the church, Rev. Mr. Diller, was drowned. Buried Under Falling Buildings. The church was one of the first buildings to fall. It carried with it several of the surrounding houses. Many of them were occupied. The victims were swept into the comparatively still waters at the bridge, and there met death either by fire or water. James M. Walters, an attorney, spent the night in Alma Hall and relates a thrilling story. One of the most curious occurrences of the whole disaster was how Mr. Walters got to the hall. He has his office on the second floor. His home is at No. 135 Walnut street. He says he was in the house with his family when the waters struck it. All was carried away. Mr. Walters' family drifted on a roof in another direction. He passed down several streets and alleys until he came to the hall. His dwelling struck that edifice and he was thrown into his own office. Long, Dark Night of Terror. About two hundred persons had taken refuge in the hall, and were on the second, third and fourth stories. The men held a meeting and drew up some rules, which all were bound to respect. Mr. Walters was chosen president. Rev. Mr. Beale was put in charge of the first floor, A.M. Hart of the second floor, Doctor Matthews of the fourth floor. No lights were allowed, and the whole night was spent in darkness. The sick were cared for. The weaker women and children had the best accommodations that could be had, while the others had to wait. The scenes were most agonizing. Heartrending shrieks, sobs and moans pierced the gloomy darkness. The crying of children mingled with the suppressed sobs of the women. Under the guardianship of the men all took more hope. No one slept during all the long dark night. Many knelt for hours in prayer, their supplications mingling with the roar of the waters and the shrieks of the dying in the surrounding houses. In all this misery two women gave premature birth to children. Here is a Hero. Dr. Matthews is a hero. Several of his ribs were crushed by a falling timber and his pains were most severe, yet through all he attended the sick. When two women in a house across the street shouted for help he with two other brave young men climbed across the drift and ministered to their wants. No one died during the night, but women and children surrendered their lives on the succeeding day as a result of terror and fatigue. Miss Rose Young, one of the young ladies in the hall, was frightfully cut and bruised. Mrs. Young had a leg broken. All of Mr. Walters' family were saved. While the loss of property about Brookville, the lumber centre of Pennsylvania, by the great flood has been enormous, variously estimated at from $250,000 to $500,000, not a single life has been lost. At least there have been none reported so far, and I have travelled over the line from Red Bank, on the Valley road, to Dubois, on the low grade division. Every creek is swollen to many times its natural size. A great deal of the low-lying farm lands and roads in places have water enough over them to float an ordinary steamboat. Leaving Pittsburgh Saturday morning on the valley road, we ran past millions and millions of feet of lumber. From the city to the junction opposite Freeport the river was almost choked with débris of broken and shattered houses. In places the river was fairly black with floating masses of lath, shingles, roofs, floors and other lumber that had formerly been houses. The sight was appalling and spoke louder than any pen can describe. At Red Bank the river was filled with a different kind of lumber, including huge saw logs ready for cutting. From the estimates of an old lumber man who was on the train I was told that between the stations named we passed at least ten million feet of lumber, which means a loss of fully $100,000 to the owners. A big portion of this came out of the Clarion river, the estimated money loss from that section alone being anywhere from $500,000 to $750,000. All along the Allegheny river were gathered people trying to catch the logs, risking their lives, for the logs swept down the river in a current that was running fully ten miles an hour. The work was very hazardous. The catchers are allowed by law six and a quarter cents for each log captured, and the river was almost lined with people trying to save the property. At Red Bank, which we left at noon, there were at least six feet of water expected from Oil City, and with it, according to the reports from up the river, was an immense amount of lumber. Leaving the valley road at Red Bank we went up the low grade division to Bryant, where immense sawmills, the largest in the vicinity are located. The current was rushing along at a rate anywhere from twelve to fifteen miles an hour, tossing the huge logs around like so many toothpicks and carrying everything before them. So great was the current and mass of logs that the big iron bridge at Reynoldsville, sixteen miles above Brookville, was swept away, as were two wagon bridges and several small foot bridges. Hundreds Homeless and Suffering. Many houses here and there along Red Bank Creek were turned upside down, some of them floating clear away, while the more secure ones were flooded with water clear into the second floors. Many of the smaller cottages and shanties were covered, leaving only the peaks of the roofs sticking out to show the spots that families had but a few hours before called home. All along the railroad track was piled the few household effects, furniture, bedding, tables and clothes which the poor owners had saved before they were forced out on the high ground. These same people had gone to bed last evening thinking themselves safe from the high water, only to be wakened about midnight by the noise of the rushing floods and the huge saw logs bumping against their homes. The very narrow escapes that some of them made while getting their families into places of safety would fill many pages of this book. Floating to Safety on Saw Logs. One man had to mount the different members of his family on logs. The mother and children alike sat astride of them, and then, with the father on the other end, were poled across to the high ground. Another man, whose house was in a worse place, swam ashore and, throwing a rope back to the mother, who was surrounded on the porch of the house by the children, yelled for her to tie one end to the little ones so he could pull them over the fast running water. This operation was continued until the entire family was rescued. Willing workers from the neighborhood were not long in getting huge bonfires started, and with the aid of these and dry clothing brought in haste by people whose homes stood on higher ground the family were soon warmed. The same willing hands hastily constructed sheds, and with immense bonfires the people were kept warm till daylight. Others, more fortunate, were able to save enough from their houses to make themselves comfortable for a short season of camping. One poor family I noticed had saved enough carpet to make a tent out of, and under this temporary shelter the mother was doing her best to prepare a meal and attend to her other household duties. Sheltered by Friendly Neighbors. In Brookville a great many houses were submerged, but no lives were lost. While the people were driven from their homes, they were more fortunate than the people of Bryants, because they could at once find shelter under the roofs of the neighbors' houses. All of the saw mills, the chief industry of the town, were closed down. Some because the water was over the first floor, and others because their entire working force were on the creek trying to construct temporary booms, by which they expected to save at least a portion of the property from being swept away. One man rigged a boom with the aid of a cable 1,600 feet long and thick enough to hold the heaviest steamer. About fifty logs were chained together for further protection. This arrangement for a time checked the mass of logs, but just when everybody was thinking it would stop the output a small dam gave way, bringing down with it another half million feet of lumber. When this struck the temporary boom it parted, as if the huge cable was a piece of thread, and the logs shot past. Just at Bryants, however, a gorge formed shortly after two o'clock Friday afternoon, and within a remarkably short time there was a pile of logs wedged in that stretched back fully a quarter of a mile and the top of which was more than ten feet high. This of course changed the course of the stream a little, but the natural gorge had saved enough logs to amount to more than $100,000 in money. The following comments by one of our journals sum up the situation after receiving the dreadful news of the three preceding days: The Great Calamity. The appalling catastrophy which has spread such awful havoc through the teeming valley of the Conemaugh almost surpasses belief and fairly staggers imagination. Without yet measuring its dire extent, enough is known to rank it as the greatest calamity of the natural elements which this country has ever witnessed. Nothing in our history short of the deadly blight of battle has approached this frightful cataclysm, and no battle, though destroying more life, has ever left such a ghastly trail of horror and devastation. It seems more like one of those terrible convulsions of nature from which we have hitherto been happily spared, but which at rare intervals have swallowed up whole communities in remote South American or oriental lands. Ingenious and masterful as the human intellect is in guiding and controlling the ordinary forces of nature, how impotent and insignificant it appears in the presence of such a transcendent disaster! It is well nigh inconceivable that a great section throbbing with populous towns, and resonant with the hum of industry, should be wiped out in the twinkling of an eye by a mighty, raging torrent, more consuming than fire and more violent than the earthquake. The suddenness of the blow and the impossibility of communicating with the scene add to the terror of the event. The sickening spectacle of ruin and death which will be revealed when the veil of darkness is lifted is left to conjecture. The imagination can scarcely picture the dread realities, and it would be difficult to overdraw the awful features of a calamity which has every element of horror. The River and Lake. Nature is so framed at the fated point for such a disaster that man was called upon for unceasing vigilance. The Conemaugh makes its channel through a narrow valley between high ranges. Numerous streams drain the surrounding mountains into its current. Along its course swarm frequent hamlets busy with the wealth dug from the seams of the earth. The chief of these towns, the seat of an immense industry, lies in a little basin where the gap broadens to take in a converging stream and then immediately narrows again, no outlet save the constricted waterway. High above stands a great lake which is held in check only by an artificial barrier, and which, if once unchained, must pour its resistless torrent through this narrow gorge like a besom of destruction overwhelming everything before it. There were all the elements of an unparalleled disaster. Years of immunity had given a feeling of security for all time without some extraordinary and unexpected occasion. But the occasion appeared when in unforseen force the rains descended and the floods came, and to-day desolation reigns. A Direful Calamity. It is impossible yet to measure the extent of the calamity. But the destruction of life and property must be something that it is appalling to think of, and the sorrow and suffering to follow are incalculable. A solemn obligation devolves upon the people of the whole country. We can not remedy the past but we can alleviate the present and the future. Thousands of families are homeless and destitute; thousands are without means of support; perchance, thousands are bereft of the strong arms upon which they have relied. There is an instant, earnest demand for help. Let there be immediate, energetic, generous action. Let us do our part to relieve the anguish and mitigate the suffering of a community upon whom has fallen the most terrible visitation in all our history. An Historic Catastrophe. When an American Charles Reade wishes in the future to weave into the woof of his novel the account of some great public calamity he will portray the misfortune which overwhelmed the towns and villages lying in the valley of the Conemaugh River. The bursting of a reservoir, and the ensuing scenes of death and destruction, which are so vividly described in "Put Yourself in His Place," were not the creatures of Mr. Reade's imagination, but actual occurrences. The novelist obtained facts and incidents for one of the most striking chapters in all of his works from the events which followed the breaking of the Dale Dyke embankment at Sheffield, England, in March, 1864, when 238 lives were lost and property valued at millions was destroyed. It will need even more vivid and vigorous descriptive powers than Mr. Reade possessed to adequately delineate the scene of destruction and death now presented in Johnstown and the adjacent villages. The Sheffield calamity, disastrous as it proved to be, was a small affair when compared with this latest reservoir accident. The Mill River reservoir disaster of May, 1874, with its 200 lives lost and $1,500,000 of property destroyed, almost sinks into insignificance beside it. The only recorded calamity of the kind which anywhere approaches it occurred in Estrecho de Rientes, in Spain, in April, 1802, when a dam burst and drowned 600 persons and swept $7,000,000 worth of property away. But above all these calamities in sad pre-eminence will stand the Conemaugh disaster. But dark as the picture is, it will doubtless be relieved by many acts of heroism. The world will wait to learn if there was not present at Conemaugh some Myron Day, whose ride on his bareback steed before the advancing wall of water that burst from Mill River Dam in 1874, shouting to the unsuspecting people as he rode: "The reservoir is breaking! The flood is coming! Fly! Fly for your lives," was the one mitigating circumstance in that scene of woe and destruction. When the full story of the Conemaugh calamity is told it will, doubtless, be found that there were many deeds of heroism performed, many noble sacrifices made and many an act as brave as any performed on the field of battle. Already we are told of husbands and mothers who preferred to share a watery grave with their wives and children sooner than accept safety alone. Such a calamity, while it makes the heart sick with its story of death and suffering, always serves to bring out the better and higher qualities in men and women, and to illustrate how closely all mankind are bound together by ties of sympathy and compassion. This fact will be made evident now by the open-handed liberality which will quickly flow in to relieve the suffering, and, as far as possible, to repair the loss caused by this historic calamity. CHAPTER V. The Awful Work of Death. The record of June 3rd continues as follows: The horror of the situation does not lessen. The latest estimate of the number of dead is an official one by Adjutant General Hastings, and it places the number between 12,000 and 15,000. The uncovering of hundreds of bodies by the recession of the waters has already filled the air with pestilential odors. The worst is feared for the surviving population, who must breathe this poisoned atmosphere. Sharp measures prompted by sheer necessity have resulted in an almost complete subsidence of cowardly efforts to profit by the results of the disaster. Thieves have slunk into places of darkness and are no longer to be seen at their unholy work. All thoughts are now fixed upon the hideous revelation that awaits the light of day, when the waters shall have entirely quitted the ruins that now lie beneath them, and shall have exposed the thousands upon thousands of corpses that are massed there. A sad and gloomy sky, almost as sad and gloomy as the human faces under it, shrouded Johnstown to-day. Rain fell all day and added to the miseries of the wretched people. The great plain where the best part of Johnstown used to stand was half covered with water. The few sidewalks in the part that escaped the flood were inches thick with black, sticky mud, through which tramped a steady procession of poor women who are left utterly destitute. The tents where the people are housed who cannot find other shelter were cold and cheerless. A Great Tomb. The town seemed like a great tomb. The people of Johnstown have supped so full of horrors that they go about in a sort of a daze and only half conscious of their griefs. Every hour, as one goes through the streets, he hears neighbors greeting each other and then inquiring without show of feeling how many each had lost in his family. To-day I heard a gray haired man hail another across the street with this question. "I lost five; all are gone but Mary and I," was the reply. "I am worse off than that," said the first old gentleman. "I have only my grandson left. Seven of us gone." And so they passed on without apparent excitement. They and everyone else had heard so much of these melancholy conversations that somehow the calamity had lost its significance to them. They treat it exactly as if the dead persons had gone away and were coming back in a week. The Ghastly Search. The melancholy task of searching the ruins for more bodies went on to-day in the soaking rain. There were little crowds of morbid curiosity hunters around each knot of workingmen, but they were not residents of Johnstown. All their curiosity in that direction was satiated long ago. Even those who come in from neighboring towns with the idea of a day's strange and ghastly experiences did not care to be near after they had seen one body exhumed. There were hundreds and thousands of these visitors from the country to-day. The effect of the dreadful things they saw and heard was to drive most of them to drink. By noon the streets were beginning to be full of boisterous and noisy countrymen, who were trying to counteract the strain on their nerves with unnatural excitement. Then the chief of police, foreseeing the unseemly sights that were likely to disgrace the streets, drove out and kept out all the visitors who had not some good reason for their presence. After that and far into the evening all the country roads were filled with drunken stragglers, who were trying to forget what they had seen. One thing that makes the work of searching for the bodies very slow is the strange way that great masses of objects were rolled into intricate masses of rubbish. Horrible Masses. As the flood came down the valley of the South Fork it obliterated the suburb of Woodvale, where not a house was left, nor a trace of one. The material they had contained rolled on down the valley, over and over, grinding it up to pulp and finally leaving it against an unusually firm foundation or in the bed of an eddy. The masses contain human bodies, but it is slow work to pick them to pieces. In the side of one of them I saw the remnants of a carriage, the body of a harnessed horse, a baby cradle and a doll, a tress of woman's hair, a rocking horse, and a piece of beefsteak still hanging on a hook. [Illustration: THE REMAINS OF CAMBRIA CITY.] The city is now very much better patrolled than it has been at any time since the flood occurred. Many members of the police force of Pittsburgh came in and offered their services. One of them showed his spirit during the first hour by striking a man, whom he saw opening a trunk among the rubbish, a tremendous blow over the head which knocked him senseless. Several big trunks and safes lie in full sight on the desolate plain in the lower part of the town, but no one dared to touch them after that. The German Catholic Church at Cambria City, a short distance west of Johnstown, is almost a complete wreck. Rather a singular coincidence in connection with the destruction of the above is that the Immaculate Conception, that stood in the northwest corner of the lecture rooms, stands just as it was when last seen. The figure, which is wax, was not even scratched, and the clothes, which are made of white silk and deep duchess lace, were spotless. This seems strange, when the raging water destroyed everything else in the building. Hundreds of persons visited the place during the day. Ten Bodies an Hour. Bodies are now being brought in at lower Cambria at the rate of ten per hour. A man named Dougherty tells a thrilling story of a ride down the river on a log. When the waters struck the roof of the house on which he had taken shelter he jumped astride a telegraph pole, riding a distance of some twenty-three miles, from Johnstown to Bolivar, before he was rescued. Many inquiries have been made as to why the militia did not respond when ordered out by Adjutant General Hastings. "In the first place it is beyond the General's authority to order troops to a scene of this kind unless the Governor first issues a proclamation, then it becomes his duty to issue orders." The General said he was notified that the Pittsburgh troops, consisting of the Fourteenth and Eighteenth regiments, had tendered their services, and no doubt would have been of great service. The General consulted with the Chief Burgess of Johnstown and Sheriff of Cambria county in regard to calling the troops to the scene, but both officials strenuously objected, as they claimed the people would object to anything of this kind. As a proof of this not a breach of peace was committed last night in Johnstown and vicinity. It has not been generally believed that the district in the neighborhood of Kernville would be so extremely prolific of corpses as it has proven to be. I visited that part of the town where both the river and Stony Creek have done their worst. I found that within the past twenty-four hours almost one thousand bodies had been recovered or were in sight. The place is one great repository of the dead. The Total May Never be Known. The developments of every hour make it more and more apparent that the exact number of lives lost in the Johnstown horror will never be known. All estimates made to this time are conservative, and when all is known will doubtless be found to have been too small. Over one thousand bodies have been found since sunrise to-day, and the most skeptical concede that the remains of thousands more rest beneath the débris above the Johnstown bridge. The population of Johnstown, the surrounding towns and the portion of the valley affected by the flood is, or was, from 50,000 to 55,000. Numerous leading citizens of Johnstown, who survived the flood, have been interviewed, and the concensus of opinion was that fully thirty per cent of the residents of Johnstown and Cambria had been victims of the continued disasters of fire and water. If this be true, the total loss of life in the entire valley cannot be less than seven or eight thousand and possibly much greater. Of the thousands who were devoured by the flames and whose ashes rest beneath the smoking débris above Johnstown bridge, no definite information can ever be obtained. Hundreds Carried Miles Away. As little will be learned of hundreds that sank beneath the current and were borne swiftly down the Conemaugh only to be deposited hundreds of miles below on the banks and in the driftwood of the raging Ohio. Probably one-third of the dead will never be recovered, and it will take a list of the missing weeks hence to enable even a close estimate to be made of the number of lives that were lost. That this estimate can never be accurate will be understood when it is remembered that in many instances whole families and their relatives were swept away, and found a common grave beneath the wild waste of waters. The total destruction of the city leaves no data to even demonstrate that the names of these unfortunates ever found place on the pages of eternity's history. "All indications point to the fact that the death list will reach over five thousand names, and in my opinion the missing will reach eight thousand in number," declared General D.H. Hastings to-night. At present there are said to have been twenty-two hundred bodies recovered. The great difficulties experienced in getting a correct list is the great number of morgues. There is no central bureau of information, and to communicate with the different dead houses is the work of hours. The journey from the Pennsylvania Railroad morgue to the one in the Fourth ward school house in Johnstown occupies at least one hour. This renders it impossible to reach all of them in one day, particularly as some of the morgues are situated at points inaccessible from Johnstown. At six o'clock in the evening the 630th body had been recovered at the Cambria depository for corpses. None Left to Care for the Dead. Kernville is in a deplorable condition. The living are unable to take care of the dead. The majority of the inhabitants of the town were drowned. A lean-to of boards has been erected on the only street remaining in the town. This is the headquarters for the committee that controls the dead. As quickly as the dead are brought to this point they are placed in boxes and then taken to the cemetery and buried. A supply store has opened in the town. A milkman who was overcharging for milk narrowly escaped lynching. The infuriated men appropriated all his milk and distributed it among the poor and then drove him out of the town. The body of the Hungarian who was lynched in an orchard was removed by his friends during the night. There is but one street left in the town. About one hundred and fifty-five houses are standing where once there stood a thousand. None of the large buildings in what was once a thriving little borough have escaped. One thousand people is a low estimate of the number of lives lost from this town, but few of the bodies have been recovered. It is directly above the ruins and the bodies have floated down into them, where they burned. A walk through the town revealed a desolate sight. Only about twenty-five able-bodied men have survived and are able to render any assistance. Men and women can be seen with black eyes, bruised faces and cut heads. Useless Calls for Help. The appearance of some of the ladies is heartrending. They were injured in the flood, and since that have not slept. Their faces have turned a sickly yellow and dark rings surround the eyes. Many have succumbed to nervous prostration. For two days but little assistance could be rendered them. The wounded remained uncared for in some of the houses cut off by the water, and died from their injuries alone. Some were alive on Sunday, and their shouts could be heard by the people on the shore. A man is now in a temporary jail in what is left of the town. He was caught stealing a gold watch. A shot was fired at him but he was not wounded. The only thing that saved him from lynching was the smallness of the crowd. His sentence will be the heaviest that can be given him. Services in the chapel from which the bodies were buried consisted merely of a prayer by one of the survivors. No minister was present. Each coffin had a descriptive card on it, and on the graves a similar card was placed, so that bodies can be removed later by friends. There are about thirty Catholic priests and nuns here. The sisters are devoting themselves to the cure of the sick and injured in the hospitals, while the priests are doing anything and everything and making themselves generally useful. Bishop Phelan, who reached here on Sunday evening, returned to Pittsburgh on the three o'clock train yesterday afternoon. He has organized the Catholic forces in this neighborhood, and all are devoting themselves to hard work assiduously. Mr. Derlin, who heeded the warning as to the danger of the dam, had hurried his wife and two children to the hills, but returned himself to save some things from his house. While in the building the flood struck it and swept it away, jamming it among a lot of other houses and hurling them all around with a regular churning motion. Mr. Derlin was in a fix, but went to his top story, clambered to the roof and escaped from there to solid structures and then to the ground. His property was entirely ruined, but he thinks himself fortunate in saving his family. Where Woodvale once stood there is now a sea of mud, broken but rarely by a pile of wreckage. I waded through mud and water up the valley to-day over the site of the former village. As has been often stated, nothing is standing but the old woollen mills. The place is swept bare of all other buildings but the ruins of the Gautier wire mill. The boilers of this great works were carried one hundred yards from their foundations. Pieces of engines, rolls and other machinery were swept far away from where they once stood. The wreck of a hose carriage is sticking up out of the mud. It belonged to the crack company of Johnstown. The engine house is swept away and the cellar is filled with mud, so that the site is obliterated. A German watchman was on guard at the mill when the waters came. He ran for the hillside and succeeded in escaping. He tells a graphic story of the appearance of the water as it swept down the valley. He declares that the first wave was as high as the third story of a house. The place is deserted. No effort is being made to clean off the streets. The mire has formed the grave for many a poor victim. Arms and legs are protruding from the mud and it makes the most sickening of pictures. General Hastings' Report. In answer to questions from Governor Beaver, Adjutant-General Hastings has telegraphed the following: "Good order prevailed throughout the city and vicinity last night. Police arrangements are excellent. Not one arrest made. No need of sending troops. The Mayor of Johnstown and the Sheriff of Cambria county, with whom I am in constant communication, request that no troops be sent. I concur in their judgment. There is a great outside clamor for troops. Do not send tents. Have nine hundred here, which are sufficient. I advise you to make a call on the general public for money and other assistance. "About two thousand bodies have been rescued and the work of embalming and burying the dead is going on with regularity. There is plenty of medical assistance. We have a bountiful supply of food and clothing to-day, and the fullest telegraphic facilities are afforded and all inquiries are promptly answered. "Have you any instructions or inquiries? The most conservative estimates here place the number of lives lost at fully 5,000. The prevailing impression is that the loss will reach from 8,000 to 10,000. There are many widows and orphans and a great many wounded--impossible to give an estimate. Property destroyed will reach $25,000,000. The popular estimate will reach $40,000,000 to $50,000,000. "I will issue a proclamation to-night to the people of the country and to all who sympathize with suffering to give aid to our deeply afflicted people. Tell them to be of good cheer, that the sympathies of all our people, irrespective of section, are with them, and wherever the news of their calamity has been carried responses of sympathy and aid are coming in. A single subscription from England just received is for $1,000." Grand View Cemetery has three hundred buried in it. All met death in the flood. They have thirty-five men digging graves. Seven hundred dead bodies in the hospital on Bedford street, Conneaut. One hundred dead bodies in the school-house hospital, Adam street, Conneaut. Three hundred bodies found to-day in the sand banks along Stony Creek, vicinity of the Baltimore and Ohio; 182 bodies at Nineveh. [Illustration: ON A MISSION OF MERCY.] CHAPTER VI. Shadows of Despair. Another graphic account of the fearful calamity is furnished by an eye-witness: The dark disaster of the day with its attendant terrors thrilled the world and drew two continents closer together in the bonds of sympathy that bind humanity to man. The midnight terrors of Ashtabula and Chatsworth evoked tears of pity from every fireside in Christendom, but the true story of Johnstown, when all is known, will stand solitary and alone as the acme of man's affliction by the potent forces to which humanity is ever subject. The menacing clouds still hover darkly over the valley of death, and the muttering thunder that ever and anon reverberates faintly in the distance seems the sardonic chuckle of the demon of destruction as he pursues his way to other lands and other homes. The Waters Receding. But the modern deluge has done its worst for Johnstown. The waters are rapidly subsiding, but the angry torrents still eddy around Ararat, and the winged messenger of peace has not yet appeared to tell the pathetic tale of those who escaped the devastation. It is not a hackneyed utterance to say that no pen can adequately depict the horrors of this twin disaster--holocaust and deluge. The deep emotions that well from the heart of every spectator find most eloquent expression in silence--the silence that bespeaks recognition of man's subserviency to the elements and impotence to avert catastrophe. The insignificance of human life is only fully realized by those who witness such scenes as Johnstown, Chatsworth and Ashtabula, and to those whose memory retains the picture of horror the dread experience cannot fail to be a fitting lesson. A Dreary Morning. This morning opened dark and dreary. Great drops of rain fell occasionally and another storm seems imminent. Every one feels thankful though that the weather still remains cold, and that the gradual putrefaction of the hundreds of bodies that still line the streams and lie hidden under the miles of driftwood and débris is not unduly hastened. The peculiar stench of decaying human flesh is plainly perceptible to the senses as one ascends the bank of Stony Creek for a half mile along the smouldering ruins of the wreck, and the most skeptical now conceive the worst and realize that hundreds--aye, perhaps thousands--of bodies lie charred and blackened beneath this great funeral pyre. Searchers wander wearily over this smoking mass, and as occasionally a sudden shout comes over the waters, the patient watchers on the hill realize that another ghastly discovery has been added to that long list of revelations that chill every heart and draw tears to the eyes of pessimists. From the banks many charred remains of victims of flames and flood are plainly visible to the naked eye, as the retreating waters reluctantly give up their dead. Beneath almost every log or blackened beam a glistening skull or the blanched remnants of ribs or limbs mark all that remains of life's hopes and dreams. Since ten o'clock last night the fire engines have been busy. Water has been constantly playing on the burning ruins. At times the fire seems almost extinguished, but fitful flames suddenly break out afresh in some new quarter, and again the water and flames wage fierce combat. The Count is Still Lacking. As yet there is no telling how many lives have been lost. Adjutant General Hastings, who has charge of everything, stated this morning that he supposed there were at least two thousand people under the burning débris, but the only way to find out how many lives were lost was to take a census of the people now living and subtract that from the census before the flood. Said he, "In my opinion there are any way from twelve thousand to fifteen thousand lost." Up to this morning people living here who lost whole families or parts of families hardly seemed to realize what a dreadful calamity had befallen them. To-day, however, they are beginning to understand the situation. Agony is stamped on the faces of every one, and it is truly a city of mourning. The point of observation is on the hillside, midway between the woolen mills of Woodvale and Johnstown proper, which I reached to-day after a journey through the portions of the city from which the waters, receding fast, are revealing scenes of unparalleled horror. From the point on the hillside referred to an excellent view of the site of the town can be obtained. Here it can be seen that from the line of the Pennsylvania Railroad, which winds along the base of Prospect Hill, to a point at which St. John's Catholic Church formerly stood, and from the stone bridge to Conemaugh, on the Conemaugh River, but twelve houses by actual count remain, and they are in such a condition as to be practically useless. To any one familiar with the geography of the iron city of Cambria county this will convey a vivid idea of a swarth averaging one-half mile in width and three miles in length. In all the length and breadth of the most peaceful and costly portion of Johnstown not a shingle remains except those adhering to the buildings mentioned. Houses Upside Down. But do not think for an instant that this comprehends in full the awfulness of the scene. What has just been mentioned is a large waste of territory swept as clean as if by a gigantic broom. In the other direction some few of the houses still remain, but they are upside down, piled on top of each other, and in many ways so torn asunder that not a single one of them is available for any purpose whatever. It is in this district that the loss of life has been heartrending. Bodies are being dug up in every direction. On the main street, from which the waters have receded sufficiently to render access and work possible, bodies are being exhumed. They are as thick as potatoes in a field. Those in charge seem to have the utmost difficulty in securing the removal of bodies after they have been found. The bodies are lying among the mass of wrecked buildings as thick as flies. The fire in the drift above the bridge is under control and is being rapidly smothered by the Pittsburgh firemen in charge of the work. About seven o'clock this morning a crowd of Battery B boys discovered a family of five people in the smoking and burned ruins above the bridge. They took out father, mother and three children, all terribly burned and mutilated. The little girl had an arm torn off. Finding the Dead. The work of rescuing the bodies from the mud and débris has only fairly begun, and yet each move in that direction reveals more fully the horrible extent of the calamity. It is estimated that already 1,800 corpses have been found in all parts of the valley and given some little attention. Many of them were so mangled as to be beyond identification. A regularly organized force of men has been at work most of the day upon the mass of débris about the stone bridge. Early in the forenoon ten bodies were found close together. There was nothing to identify them, as they were burnt almost to a crisp. Several of them must have belonged to one household, as they were taken from under the blackened timbers of a single roof. [Illustration: THE VILLAGE OF JOHNSTOWN BEFORE THE FLOOD.] Soon after a man, woman and child were taken from the ruins. The child was clasped in the arms of the woman, and the trio were evidently husband, wife and child. It is a most distressing sight to see the relatives of people supposed to be lost standing around and watching every body as it is pulled out, and acting more like maniacs than sensible people. As the work progressed the number of the ghastly finds increased. The various parties of workmen turned out from ten to fifteen bodies and fragments of bodies an hour all day long. Many of the corpses found had valuables still clasped in their hands. One woman taken from the mill this morning had several diamond rings and earrings, a roll of government bonds and some money clasped in her hands. She was a widow, and was very wealthy. Her body has been embalmed and is at the house of relatives. Suicide Brought Relief. From under the large brick school-house 124 bodies were taken last night and to-day, and in every corner and place the bodies are being found and buried as fast as possible. The necessity for speedy burial is becoming manifest, and the stench is sickening. A number of bodies have been found with a bullet hole in them, showing conclusively that in their maddening fright suicide was resorted to by many. Work was commenced during the day on the south side of the town. It is supposed that five hundred or six hundred bodies will be found in that locality. About twelve o'clock ten bodies were taken out of the wreck near the Cambria Library. On account of the bruised and mangled condition, some having faces crushed in, it was impossible to identify them. It is supposed they were guests at the Hurlbert House, which is completely demolished. Eight bodies were recovered near the Methodist Church at eleven o'clock. It is said that fully one hundred and fifty bodies were found last evening in a sort of pocket below the Pennsylvania Railroad signal tower at Sang Hollow, where it was expected there would be a big find. Kernville One Vast Morgue. Over one thousand bodies have been taken from the river, dragged from the sluggish pools of mud or dug out of the sand about Kernville during the day. Three hundred of them were spread out upon the dry sand along the river's bank at one time this afternoon. The sight is one that cannot be described, and is one of the most distressing ever witnessed. A crowd of at least five hundred were gathered around, endeavoring to find the bodies of some friends or relatives. There were no coffins there at the time and the bodies had to be laid on the ground. However, five hundred coffins are on the way here, and the undertakers have sent for five hundred additional ones. Kernville from now on will be the place where most of the bodies will be found. The water has fallen so much that it is possible to get at the bodies. However, all the bodies have to be dug out of the sand, and it causes no end of work. It is thought that most of the bodies that will be found at Kernville are under a large pile of débris, about an acre in length. This is where most of the buildings drifted, and it is natural to suppose that the bodies floated with them. A rain is now falling, but this does not interfere with the work. Most of the rescuing party have been up for two days, yet they work with a determination that is wonderful. Nineveh, the City of the Dead. Nineveh is literally a city of the dead. The entire place is filled with corpses. At the depot eighty-seven coffins were piled up and boxed. On the streets coffin boxes covered the sidewalks. Improvised undertaking shops have embalmed and placed in their shrouds 198 persons. The dead were strewn about the town in all conceivable places where their bodies would be protected from the thoughtless feet of the living. Most of the bodies embalmed last night had been taken out of the river in the morning by the people at Nineveh, who worked incessantly night and day searching the river. The bodies when found were placed in a four-horse wagon, frequently twelve at a time, and driven away. Of the bodies taken out near Moorhead fully three-fourths are women and the rest children. But few men are found there. In one row at the planing mill to-day were eighteen children's bodies awaiting embalming. Next to them was a woman whose head had been crushed in so as to destroy her features. On her hand were three diamond rings. Dr. Graff, of the State Board of Health, stationed at Nineveh, states that up till ten o'clock this morning they had embalmed about two hundred bodies, and by noon to-day would about double that number, as they were fishing bodies out of the river at this point at the rate of one every five minutes. In the driftwood and débris bodies are being exhumed, and an additional force of undertakers has been despatched to this place. In a Charnel House. At the public school-house the scene beggars description. Boards have been laid from desk to desk, and as fast as the hands of a large body of men and women can put the remains in recognizable shape they are laid out for possible identification and removed as quickly as possible. Seventy-five still remain, although many have been taken away, and they are being brought in every moment. It is something horrifying to see one portion of the huge school taken up by corpses, each with a clean white sheet covering it, and on the other side of the room a promiscuous heap of bodies in all sorts of shapes and conditions, looking for all the world like decaying tree trunks. Among the number identified are two beautiful young ladies named respectively Mrs. Richardson, who was a teacher in the kindergarten school, and Miss Lottie Yost, whose sister I afterwards noticed at one of the corners near by, weeping as if her very heart was broken. Not a single acquaintance did she count in all of the great throng who passed her by, although many tendered sincere sympathy, which was accentuated by their own losses. Lost and Found. At the station of Johnstown proper this morning the following names were added to the list of bodies found and identified: Charles Marshall, one of the engineers Cambria Company. A touching incident in connection with his death is that he had been married but a short time and his widow is heartbroken. Order at any Cost. Ex-Sheriff C.L. Dick, who was at one time Burgess of Johnstown, has charge of a large number of special deputies guarding the river at various points. He and a posse of his men caught seven Hungarians robbing dead bodies in Kernville early this morning, and threw them all into the river and drowned them. He says he has made up his mind to stand no more nonsense with this class of persons, and he has given orders to his men to drown, shoot or hang any man caught stealing from the dead. He said the dead bodies of the Huns can be found in the creek. Sheriff Dick, or "Chall" as he is familiarly called, is a tall, slim man, and is well known in Pittsburgh, principally to sportsmen. He is a first-class wing shot, and during the past year he has won several live bird matches. He is slow to anger, but when forced into a fight his courage is unfailing. Shooting Looters on the Wing. Dick wears corduroy breeches, a large hat, a cartridge belt, and is armed with a Winchester rifle. He is a crack shot and has taken charge of the deputies in the wrecked portion of the city. Yesterday afternoon he discovered two men and a woman cutting the finger from a dead woman to get her rings. The Winchester rifle cracked twice in quick succession, and the right arm of each man dropped, helplessly shattered by a bullet. The woman was not harmed, but she was so badly frightened that she will not rob corpses again. Some five robbers altogether were shot during the afternoon, and two of them were killed. The lynchings in the Johnstown district so far number from sixteen to twenty. Treasure Lying Loose. Notwithstanding this, and the way that the town is most thoroughly under martial law, the pilfering still goes on. The wreck is a gold mine for pilferers. A Hungarian woman fished out a trunk down in Cambria City yesterday, and on breaking it open found $7,500 in it. Another woman found a jewel box containing several rings and a gold watch. In one house in Johnstown there is $1,700 in money, but it is impossible to get at it. Hanged and Riddled with Bullets. Quite an exciting scene took place in the borough of Johnstown last night. A Hungarian was discovered by two men in the act of blowing up the safe in the First National Bank Building with dynamite. A cry was raised, and in a few minutes a crowd had collected and the cry of "Lynch him!" was raised, and in less time than it takes to tell it the man was strung up to a tree in what was once about the central portion of Johnstown. Not content with this the Vigilance Committee riddled the man's body full of bullets. He remained hanging to the tree for several hours, when some person cut him down and buried him with the other dead. The stealing by Hungarians at Cambria City and points along the railroad has almost ceased. The report of several lynchings and the drowning of two Italians while being pursued by citizens yesterday, put an end to the pilfering for a time. While Deputy Sheriff Rose was patrolling the river bank he found two Hungarians attempting to rob several bodies, and at once gave chase. The men started for the woods when he pulled out a pistol and shot twice, wounding both men badly. From the latest reports the men are still living, but they are in a critical condition. Cutting Off a Head for a Necklace. It is reported that two Hungarians found the body of a lady between Woodvale and Conemaugh who had a valuable necklace on. The devils dragged her out of the water and severed her head from her body to get the necklace. At eleven o'clock to-day the woods were being scoured for the men who are supposed to be guilty of the crime. Pickets Set, Strangers Excluded. Up till noon to-day General Hastings has had his headquarters on the east side of the river, but this morning he came over to the burning débris, followed by about one hundred and twenty-five men carrying coffins. He started to work immediately, and has ordered men from Philadelphia, Harrisburg, and all eastern towns to do laboring work. The Citizen's Committee are making desperate efforts to preserve peace, and the Hungarians at Cambria City are being kept in their houses by men with clubs, who will not permit them to go outside. There seems considerable race prejudice at Cambria City, and trouble may follow, as both the English and Hungarians are getting worked up to a considerable extent. The Sheriff has taken charge of Johnstown and armed men are this morning patrolling the city. The people who have been properly in the limits are permitted to enter the city if they are known, but otherwise it is impossible to get into the town. The regulation seems harsh, but it is a necessity. Troops Sent Home. Battery B, of Pittsburgh, arrived in the city this morning under command of Lieutenant Sheppard, who went to the quarters of Adjutant-General Hastings in the railroad watch tower. The General had just got up, and as the officer approached the General said:-- "Who sent you here?" "I was sent here by the Chamber of Commerce," replied the Lieutenant. "Well, I want to state that there are only four people who can order you out, viz.:--The Governor, Adjutant-General, Major General and the Commander of the Second Brigade. You have committed a serious breach of discipline, and my advice to you is to get back to Pittsburgh as soon as possible, or you may be mustered out of service. I am surprised that you should attempt such an act without any authority whatever." This seemed to settle the matter, and the battery started back to Pittsburgh. In justice to Lieutenant Sheppard it might be stated that he was told that an order was issued by the Governor. General Hastings stated afterwards that the sending down of the soldiers was like waving a red flag, and it would only tend to create trouble. He said everything was quiet here, and it was an insult to the citizens of Johnstown to send soldiers here at present. Extortioners Held in Check. A riot was almost caused by the exorbitant prices that were charged for food. One storekeeper in Millville borough was charging $5 a sack for flour and seventy-five cents for sandwiches on Sunday. This caused considerable complaint and the citizens grew desperate. They promptly took by force all the contents of the store. As a result this morning all the stores have been put under charge of the police. An inventory was taken and the proprietor was paid the market price for his stock. A strong guard is kept at the office of the Cambria Iron Company. Saturday was pay day at the works, and $80,000 is in the safe. This became known, and the officials are afraid that an attempt would be made to rob the place. Sheriff Dick and a posse of his men got into a riot this afternoon with a crowd of Hungarians at Cambria City. The Hungarians got the better of him, and he called on a squad of Battery B boys, who charged with drawn sabres, and soon had the crowd on the run. Men Hard at Work. Order is slowly arising out of chaos. The survivors are slowly realizing what is the best course to pursue. The great cry is for men. Men who will work and not stand idly by and do nothing but gaze at the ruins. The following order was posted on a telegraph pole in Johnstown to-day:-- "Notice--During the day men who have been idle have been begged to aid us in clearing the town, and many have not refused to work. We are now so organized that employment can be found for every man who wants to work, and men offered work who refuse to take the same and who are able to work must leave Johnstown for the present. We cannot afford to feed men who will not work. All work will be paid for. Strangers and idlers who refuse to work will be ejected from Johnstown. "By order of Citizens' Committee." Turning Away the Idlers. Officers were stationed at every avenue and railroad that enters the town. All suspicious looking characters are stopped. But one question is asked. It is, "Will you work?" If an affirmative answer is given a man escorts him to the employment bureau, where he is put to work. If not, he is turned back. The committee has driven one or two men out of the town. There is a lot of idle vagabond negroes in Johnstown who will not work. It is likely that a committee will escort them out of town. They have caused the most trouble during the past terrible days. It is a fact, although a disagreeable one to say, that not a few of the relief committees who came to this city, came only out of curiosity and positively refused to do any work, but would hang around the cars eating food. The leaders of the committee then had to do all the work. They deserve much credit. Begging for Help. An old man sat on a chair placed on a box at the intersection of two streets in Johnstown and begged for men. "For God's sake," he said, "can we not find men. Will not some of you men help? Look at these men who have not slept for three days and are dropping with fatigue. We will pay well. For God's sake help us." Tears rolled down his cheeks as he spoke. Then he would threaten the group of idlers standing by and again plead with them. Every man it seems wants to be a policeman. CHAPTER VII. Burial of the Victims. Hundreds have been laid away in shallow trenches without forms, ceremonies or mourners. All day long the work of burial has been going on. There was no time for religious ceremonies or mourning and many a mangled form was coffined with no sign of mourning save the honest sympathy of the brave men who handled them. As fast as the wagons that are gathering up the corpses along the stream arrive with their ghastly loads they are emptied and return again to the banks of the merciless Conemaugh to find other victims among the driftwood in the underbrush, or half buried in the mud. The coffins are now beginning to arrive, and on many streets on the hillside they are stacked as high as the second and third story windows. At Kernville the people are not so fortunate. It would seem that every man is his own coffin maker, and many a man can be seen here and there claiming the boards of what remains of his house in which perhaps he has found the remains of a loved one, and busily patching them together with nails and hoops or any available thing to hold the body. When the corpses are found they are taken to the nearest dead house and are carefully washed. They are then laid out in rows to await identification. Cards are pinned to their breasts as soon as they are identified, and their names will be marked on the headboards at the graves. Wholesale Funerals. There were many rude funerals in the upper part of the town. The coffins were conveyed to the cemeteries in wagons, each one carrying two, three or more. At Long View Cemetery and at one or two other points long trenches have been dug to receive the coffins. The trenches are only about three feet deep, it being thought unnecessary to bury deeper, as almost all the bodies will be removed by friends. Nearly three hundred bodies were buried thus to-day. There will be no public ceremony, no funeral dirge, and but few weeping mourners. The people are too much impressed with the necessity of immediate and constant work to think of personal grief. The twenty-six bodies taken to the hose house in Minersville were buried shortly after ten o'clock yesterday morning. Of the twenty-six, thirteen were identified. Eight women, a baby and four men were buried without having been identified. All day yesterday men were engaged in burying the dead. They ran short of coffins, and in order to dispose of the rapidly decomposing bodies they built rough boxes out of the floating lumber that was caught. In this way they buried temporarily over fifty bodies in the cemetery just above the town. Putrefaction of dead bodies threatens the health of the whole region. Now that the waters are fast shrinking back from the horrid work of their own doing and are uncovering thousands of putrid and ill-smelling corpses the fearful danger of pestilence is espied, stalking in the wake of more violent destruction. The air is already reeking with infectious filth, and the alarm is widespread among the desolated and overwrought population. Cremation Best. Incident to this phase of the situation the chief sensation of the morning was the united remonstrance of the physicians against the extinguishment of the burning wreck of the demolished town which is piled up against the bridge. They maintain, with a philosophy that to anxious searchers seems heartless, that hundreds, if not thousands, of lifeless and decaying bodies lie beneath this mass of burning ruins. "It would be better," they say, "to permit Nature's greatest scavenger--the flames--to pursue his work unmolested than to expose to further decay the horde of putrefying bodies that lie beneath this débris. There can be but one result. Days will elapse before the rubbish can be sufficiently removed to permit the recovery of these bodies, and long before that every corpse will be a putrid mass, giving forth those frightful emanations of decaying human flesh that in a crowded community like this can have but one result--the dreadful typhus. Every battlefield has demonstrated the necessity of the hasty interment of decaying bodies, and the stench that already arises is a forerunner of impending danger. Burn the wreck, burn the wreck." Sorrow Rejects Safety. A loud cry of indignation arose from the lips of the vast multitude and the warnings of science were lost in the eager demands of those that sought the remains of the near and dear. The hose was again turned upon the hissing mass, and rapidly the flames yielded to the supremacy of water. It is almost impossible to conceive the extent of these smoking ruins. An area of eight or ten acres above the dam is covered to a depth of forty feet with shattered houses, borne from the resident centre of Johnstown. In each of these houses, it is estimated, there were from one to twenty or twenty-five people. This is accepted as data upon which to estimate the number that perished on this spot, and if the data be correct the bodies that lie beneath these ruins must run well up into the thousands. Members of the State Board of Health arrived in Nineveh this morning and determined to proceed at once to dredge the river, to clean it of the dead and prevent the spreading of disease. To this end they have wired the State Department to furnish them with the proper appliances. Drinking Poisoned Water. From other points in this and connecting valleys the same fear of pestilence is expressed. The cities of Pittsburgh and Allegheny, which have a population of three hundred and fifty thousand and drink the waters of the Allegheny River, down which corpses and débris from Johnstown must flow unless stopped above, are in danger of an epidemic. The water is to-day thick with mud, and bodies have been found as far south of here as Beaver, a distance of thirty miles below Pittsburgh. To go this distance the bodies followed the Conemaugh from Johnstown to the Kiskiminetas, at Blairsville, joining the Allegheny at Freeport, and the Ohio here, the entire distance from this point being about one hundred and fifty miles. "This is a very serious matter," said a prominent Pittsburgh physician who is here to me to-day, "and one that demands the immediate attention of the Board of Health officials. The flood of water that swept through Johnstown has cleaned out hundreds of cesspools. These and the barnyards' manure and the dirt from henneries and swamps that were swept by the waters have all been carried down into the Allegheny River. In addition to this there are the bodies of persons drowned. Some of these will, in all likelihood, be secreted among the débris and never be found. Hundreds of carcasses of animals of various kinds are also in the river. Typhus Dreaded. "These will decay, throwing out an animal poison. This filth and poisonous matter is being carried into the Allegheny, and will be pumped up into the reservoir and distributed throughout the city. The result is a cause for serious apprehension. Take, for example, the town of Hazleton, Pa. There the filth from some outhouse was carried into the reservoir and distributed through the town. The result was a typhoid fever epidemic and hundreds of people lost their lives. The water that we are drinking to-day is something fearful to behold." The municipal authorities of Pittsburgh have issued a notice embodying the above facts. Sanitary Work. A message was received by the Relief Committee this morning confirming the report that for the health of the cities of Pittsburgh and Allegheny it is absolutely necessary that steps be taken immediately to remove the bodies and drift from the river, and begging the committee to take early action. The contract for clearing the river was awarded to Captain Jutte, and he will start up the Allegheny this afternoon as far as Freeport, and then work down. His instructions are to clear the river thoroughly of anything that might in any way affect the water supply. Helping Hands. The work of relief at the scene of the great disaster is going on rapidly. The Alliance (Ohio) Relief Committee arrived here this morning on a special train with five carloads of provisions. The party is composed of the most prominent iron and steel merchants of Alliance. They have just returned from a tour of the ruined town. They have been up to Stony Creek, a distance of five miles and up the Conemaugh River toward South Fork, a distance of two miles. [Illustration: DISTRIBUTING SUPPLIES FROM THE RELIEF TRAIN.] In describing their trip, one of their number said:--"I tell you the half has never been told. It is impossible to tell the terrible tale. I thought I had seen horrible sights, and I served five years in the War of the Rebellion, but in all my life it has never been my lot to look upon such ghastly sights as I have witnessed to-day. "While making the circuit of the ruined places we saw 103 bodies taken out of the débris along the bank of the river and Stony Creek. Of this number, we identified six of the victims as our friends." [Illustration: SCENE ON SOUTH CLINTON STREET.] CHAPTER VIII. Johnstown and Its Industries. At this point of our narrative a sketch of Johnstown, where the most frightful havoc of the flood occurred, will interest the reader. The following description and history of the Cambria Iron Company's Works, at Johnstown, is taken from a report prepared by the State Bureau of Industrial Statistics: The great works operated by the Cambria Iron Company originated in a few widely separated charcoal furnaces, which were built by pioneer iron workers in the early years of this century. It was chartered under the general law authorizing the incorporation of iron manufacturing companies, in the year 1852. The purpose was to operate four old-fashioned charcoal furnaces, located in and about Johnstown, some of which had been erected many years before. Johnstown was then a village of 1300 inhabitants. The Pennsylvania Railroad had only been extended thus far in 1852, and the early iron manufacturers rightly foresaw a great future for the industry at this point. Immense Furnaces. Coal, iron and limestone were abundant, and the new railroad would enable them to find ready markets for their products. In 1853 the construction of four coke furnaces was commenced, and it was two years before the first was completed, while some progress was made on the other three. England was then shipping rails into this country under a low duty, and the iron industry, then in its infancy, was struggling for existence. The furnaces at Johnstown labored under greater difficulties in the years between 1852 and 1861 than can be appreciated at this late day. Had it not been for a few patriotic citizens in Philadelphia, who loaned their credit and means to the failing company, the city of Johnstown would possibly never have been built. Notwithstanding the protecting care of the Philadelphia merchants, the company in Johnstown was unable to continue in business, and suspended in 1854. Among its heaviest creditors in Philadelphia were Oliver Martin and Martin, Morrell & Co. More money was subscribed, but the establishment failed again in 1855. D. J. Morrell, however, formed a new company with new credit. Recovery From a Great Fire. The year of 1856, the first after the lease was made, was one of great financial depression, and the following year was worse. To render the situation still more gloomy a fire broke out in June, 1857, and in three hours the large mill was a mass of ruins. Men stood in double ranks passing water from the Conemaugh river, 300 yards distant, with which to fight the flames. So great was the energy, determination and financial ability of the new company that in one week after the fire the furnaces and rolls were once more in operation under a temporary structure. At this early stage in the manufacturing the management found it advisable to abandon the original and widely separated charcoal furnaces and depend on newly constructed coke furnaces. As soon as practicable after the fire a permanent brick mill was erected, and the company was once more fully equipped. When the war came and with it the Morrill tariff of 1861 a broader field was opened up. Industry and activity in business became general; new life was infused into every enterprise. In 1862 the lease by which the company had been successfully operated for seven years expired, and by a reorganization the present company was formed. Advent of Steel Rails. A new era in the manufacture of iron and steel was now about to dawn upon the American people. In this year 1870 there were 49,757 tons of steel produced in the United States, while in 1880 the production was 1,058,314 tons. Open hearth steel, crucible steel and blister steel, prior to this, had been the principal products, but were manufactured by processes too slow and too expensive to take the place of iron. The durability of steel over iron, particularly for rails, had long been known, but its cost of production prevented its use. In 1857 one steel rail was sent to Derby, England, and laid down on the Midland Railroad, at a place where the travel was so great that iron rails then in use had to be renewed sometimes as often as once in three months. In June, 1873, after sixteen years of use, the rail, being well worn, was taken out. During its time 1,250,000 trains, not to speak of the detached engines, etc., had passed over it. This was the first steel rail, now called Bessemer rail, ever used. [Illustration: MAP OF THE CONEMAUGH VALLEY.] About ten years ago the Cambria Iron Company arranged with Dr. J.H. Gautier & Sons, of Jersey City, to organize a limited partnership association under the name of "The Gautier Steel Company, Limited," to manufacture, at Johnstown, wire and various other forms of merchant steel. Within less than a mile from the main works extensive mills were erected and the business soon grew to great proportions. In a few years so much additional capital was required, owing to the rapidly increasing business, that Dr. Gautier, then far advanced in life, wished to be relieved of the cares and duties incident to the growing trade, and the Cambria Iron Company became the purchaser of his works. "The Gautier Steel Company, Limited," went out of existence and the works are now known as the "Gautier Steel Department of Cambria Iron Company." Description of the Works. The blast furnaces, steel works and rolling mills of the company are situated upon what was originally a river flat, where the valley of the Conemaugh expanded somewhat just below the borough of Johnstown, and now forming part of Millville Borough. The arrangement of the works has been necessarily governed by the fact that they have gradually expanded from the original rolling-mill and four old style blast furnaces to their present character and capacity of which some idea may be obtained by the condensed description given below. The Johnstown furnaces, Nos. 1, 2, 3 and 4, form one complete plant, with stacks seventy-five feet high, sixteen feet diameter of bosh. Steam is generated in forty boilers, fired by furnace gas, for eight vertical direct-acting blowing engines. Nos. 5 and 6 blast furnaces form together a second plant with stacks seventy-five feet high, nineteen feet diameter of bosh. No. 5 has iron hot blast stoves and No. 6 has four Whitwell fire-brick hot blast stoves. The furnaces have together six blowing engines exactly like those at Nos. 1, 2, 3 and 4 furnaces. The engines are supplied with steam by thirty-two cylinder boilers. Marvelous Machinery. The Bessemer plant was the sixth started in the United States (July, 1871). The main building is 102 feet in width by 165 feet in length. The cupolas are six in number. Blast is supplied from eight Baker rotary pressure blowers driven by engines sixteen inches by twenty-four inches, at 110 revolutions per minute. The cupolas are located on either side of the main trough, into which they are tapped, and down which the melted metal is directed into a ten-ton ladle set on a hydraulic weighing platform, where it is stored until the converters are ready to receive it. There are two vessels of eight and a half tons capacity each, the products being distributed by a hydraulic ladle crane. The vessels are blown by three engines. The Bessemer works are supplied with steam by a battery of twenty-one tubular boilers. The best average, although not the very highest work done in the Bessemer department is 103 heats of eight and a half tons each for twenty-four hours. The best weekly record reached 1,847 tons of ingots, the best monthly record of 20,304 tons, and the best daily output, 900 tons ingots. All grades of steel are made in the converters from the softest wire and bridge stock to spring steel. All the special stock, that is other than rails, is carefully analyzed by heats, and the physical properties are determined by a tension test. Ponderous Steam-Hammers. The open hearth building, 120 feet in width by 155 feet in length, contains three Pernot revolving hearth furnaces of fifteen tons capacity each, supplied with natural gas. A separate pit with a hydraulic ladle crane of twenty tons capacity is located in front of each pan. In a portion of the mill building, originally used as a puddle mill, is located the bolt and nut works, wherein are made track bolts and machine bolts. This department is equipped with bolt-heading and nut making machines, cutting, tapping and facing machines, and produces about one thousand kegs of finished track bolts, of 200 pounds each, per month, besides machine bolts. Near this, also, are located the axle and forging shops, in the old puddle mill building. The axle shop has three steam hammers to forge and ten machines to cut off, centre and turn axles. The capacity of this shop is 100 finished steel axles per day. All axles are toughened and annealed by a patented process, giving the strongest axle possible. In the forging plant, located in the same building, there is an 18,000 pound Bement hammer, and a ten-ton traveling crane to convey forgings from the furnaces to the hammer. There are two furnaces for heating large ingots and blooms for forgings. A ventilating fan supplies fresh air to the mills through pipes located overhead, and having outlets near the heating furnaces. One hundred thousand cubic feet of fresh air per minute is distributed throughout the mills. The mill has in addition to its boilers, over the heating-furnaces, a brick and iron building, located near the rail mill, 205 feet long and 45 feet wide, containing twenty-four tubular boilers, aggregating about 2000 horse-power. Tons of Barbed Wire. The "Gautier Steel Department" consists of a brick building 200 feet by 500 feet, where the wire is annealed, drawn and finished; a brick warehouse 373 feet by 43 feet; many shops, offices, etc.; the barb wire mill, 50 feet by 256 feet, where the celebrated Cambria Link barb wire is made; and the main merchant mill, 725 feet by 250 feet. These mills produce wire, shafting, springs, plowshare, rake and harrow teeth and other kinds of agricultural implement steel. In 1887 they produced 50,000 tons of this material, which was marketed mainly in the Western states. Grouped with the principal mills are the foundries, pattern and other shops, drafting offices, time offices, etc., all structures being of a firm and substantial character. The company operates about thirty-five miles of railroad tracks, employing in this service twenty-four locomotives, and it owns 1500 cars. In the fall of 1886 natural gas was introduced into the works. Building up Johnstown. Anxious to secure employment for the daughters and widows of the employees of the company who were willing to work, its management erected a woolen mill which now employs about 300 persons. Amusements were not neglected, and the people of Johnstown are indebted to the company for the erection of an opera house, where dramatic entertainments are given. The company owns 700 houses, which are rented exclusively to employees. The handsome library erected by the company and presented to the town was stocked with nearly 7000 volumes. The Cambria Hospital is also under the control of the beneficial association of the works. The Cambria Clubhouse is a very neat pressed brick building on the corner of Main and Federal streets. It was first operated in 1881, and is used exclusively for the entertainment of the guests of the company and such of their employees as can be accommodated. The store building occupied by Wood, Morrell & Co., limited, is a four-story brick structure on Washington street, with three large store rooms on the first floor, the remainder of the building being used for various forms of merchandise. Including the surrounding boroughs, Kernville, Morrellville and Cambria City, all of which are built up solidly to Johnstown proper, the population is about 30,000. The Cambria Iron Company employs, in Johnstown, about 7500 people, which would certainly indicate a population of not less than 20,000 depending upon the company for a livelihood. A large proportion of the population of Johnstown are citizens of foreign birth, or their immediate descendants. Those of German, Irish, Welsh and English birth or extraction predominate, with a few Swedes and Frenchmen. As a rule the working people and their families are well dressed and orderly; in this they are above the average. Most of the older workmen of the company, owing largely to its liberal policy, own their houses, and many of them have houses for rent. CHAPTER IX. View of the Wreck. Each visitor to the scene of the great disaster witnessed sights and received impressions different from all others. The following graphic account will thrill every reader: The most exaggerative imagination cannot too strongly picture the awful harvest of death, the wreck which accompanied that terrible deluge last Friday afternoon. I succeeded in crossing from the north side of the Little Conemaugh, a short distance above the point, to the sandy muddy desert strewn with remnants of the buildings and personal property of those who know not their loss. It is almost an impossibility to gain access to the region, and it was accomplished only after much difficulty in crossing the swiftly running stream. Standing at a point in this abode of thousands of dead the work of the great flood can be more adequately measured than from any one place in the devastated region. Here I first realized the appalling loss of life and the terrible destruction of property. It was about ten o'clock when the waters of Stony Creek rose, overflowed their banks and what is known as the "flats," which includes the entire business portion of the city of Johnstown. The Little Conemaugh was running high at the same time, and it had also overreached the limit of its banks. The water of both streams soon submerged the lower portion of the town. Up to this time there was no intimation that a terrible disaster was imminent. The water poured into the cellars of the houses in the lower districts and rose several inches in the streets, but as that had occurred before the people took no alarm. Shortly after twelve o'clock the first drowning occurred. This was not because of the deluge, it was simply the carelessness of the victim, who was a driver for the Cambria Iron Company, in stepping into a cellar which had been filled with water. The water continued to rise, and at twelve o'clock had reached that part of the city about a block from the point between Stony Creek and the Little Conemaugh. Topography of the Place. The topography of Johnstown is almost precisely like that of Pittsburgh, only in a diminished degree. Stony Creek comes in from the mountains on the northeast, and the Little Conemaugh comes in from the northwest, forming the Conemaugh at Johnstown, precisely as the Allegheny and Monongahela form the Ohio at Pittsburgh. On the west side of Stony Creek are mountains rising to a great height, and almost perpendicularly from the water. On the north side of the Conemaugh River mountains equally as high as those on Stony Creek confine that river to its course. The hills in Johnstown start nearly a half mile from the business section of the city. This leaves a territory between the two rivers of about four hundred acres. This was covered by costly buildings, factories and other important manufactories. When the waters of South Fork and Little Conemaugh broke over their banks into that portion of the city known as the "flats," the business community turned its attention to putting endangered merchandise in a place of safety. First Alarm. In the homes of the people the women began gathering household articles of any kind that may have been in the cellar. Little attention was paid to the water beyond this. Looking from the "flats" at Johnstown toward and following the Pennsylvania Railroad tracks, which wind along the Little Conemaugh, the village of Woodville stands, or did stand, within sight of the "flats," and is really a continuation of the city at this point. The mountains on the south side of the Little Conemaugh rise here and form a narrow valley where Woodville was located. Next joining this, without any perceptible break in the houses, was the town of East Conemaugh. The extreme eastern limit of East Conemaugh is about a mile and a half from Johnstown "flats." A Narrow Chasm. The valley narrows as it reaches eastward, and in a narrow chasm three miles from Johnstown "flats" is the little settlement of Mineral Point. A few of the houses have found a place on the mountain side out of harm's way, and so they still stand. At East Conemaugh there is located a roundhouse of the Pennsylvania Railroad, for the housing of locomotives used to assist trains over the mountains. The inhabitants of this place were all employees of the Pennsylvania and the Gautier Steel Works, of the Cambria Iron Company. The inhabitants numbered about 1,500 people. Like East Conemaugh, 2,000 or 2,500 people, who lived at Woodville, were employees of the same corporation and the woolen mills located there. Just below Woodville the mountains upon the south bank of the Conemaugh disappear and form the commencement of the Johnstown "flats." The Gautier Steel Works of the Cambria Iron Company are located at this point, on the south bank. The Pennsylvania Railroad traverses the opposite bank, and makes a long curve from this point up to East Conemaugh. Timely Warning to Escape. At what is known as the point where Stony Creek and the Little Conemaugh form the Conemaugh the mountains followed by Stony Creek take an abrupt turn northward, and the waters of the Little Conemaugh flow into the Conemaugh at right angles with these mountains. A few hundred feet below this point the Pennsylvania Railroad bridge crosses the Conemaugh River. The bridge is a massive stone structure. From the east end of the bridge there is a heavy fill of from thirty to forty feet high to Johnstown Station, a distance of a quarter of a mile. Within a few feet of the station a wagon bridge crosses the Little Conemaugh, five hundred feet above the point connecting the "flats" and the country upon the north side of the river. The Cambria Iron Company's Bessemer department lies along the north bank of the Conemaugh, commencing at the fill, and extends for over two miles down the Conemaugh River upon its northern bank. Below the Cambria Iron Company's property is Millville Borough, and on the hill back of Millville Borough is Minersville properly--the Second ward of Millville Borough. The First ward of Millville was washed away completely. While the damage from a pecuniary sense was large, the loss of life was quite small, inasmuch as the people had timely warning to escape. Below the Pennsylvania Railroad Bridge at Johnstown, upon the south bank of the Conemaugh, was the large settlement of Cambria. It had a population of some five thousand people. At Cambria the mountain retreats for several hundred feet, leaving a level of two or three hundred acres in extent. Just below the bridge the Conemaugh River makes a wide curve around this level. About eight or nine hundred houses stood upon this level. Below Cambria stands Morrellville, a place about equal in size to Cambria. From this description of the location of Johnstown and neighboring settlements the course of the waters may be better understood when described. It was about ten minutes to three o'clock Friday afternoon when Mr. West, of the local office of the Pennsylvania Railroad at Johnstown, received a dispatch from the South Fork station, advising him to notify the inhabitants that the big dam in the South Fork, above the city, was about to break. He at once despatched couriers to various parts of the city, and a small section was notified of the impending danger. The messenger was answered with, "We will wait until we see the water." Others called "Chestnuts!" and not one in fifty of the people who received the warning gave heed to it. The Débris of Three Towns. With the waters standing several inches deep in the streets of the "flats" of the city the deluge from South Fork Lake, burst the dam and rushed full upon Johnstown shortly after five o'clock on Friday afternoon the last day of May. First it swept the houses from Mineral Point down into East Conemaugh. When the flood reached East Conemaugh the town was wiped out. This mass of débris was borne on to Johnstown, reinforced by the material of three towns. The Gautier steel department of the Cambria Iron Company was the first property attacked in the city proper. Huge rolls, furnaces and all the machinery in the great mills, costing $6,000,000, were swept away in a moment, and to-day there is not the slightest evidence that the mill ever stood there. Swept From the Roofs. Westward from this point the flood swept over the flats. The houses, as soon as the water reached them, were lifted from their foundation and hurled against their neighbors'. The people who at the first crash of their property managed to reach the roof or some other floating material were carried on until their frail support was driven against the next obstruction, when they went down in the crash together. The portion of the "flats" submerged is bounded by Clinton street to the Little Conemaugh River, to the point at Stony Creek, then back to Clinton street by way of Bedford. This region has an area of one mile square, shaped like a heart, and in this district there are not more than a dozen buildings that are not total wrecks. Ten per cent. of this district is so covered with mud, stones, rocks and other material, where costly buildings once stood, that it will require excavating from eight to twenty feet to reach the streets of the city. Remnants of the City. Of the houses standing there is the Methodist church, the club house, James McMillen's residence, the Morrell mansion, Dr. Lohman's house and the First ward school building. The Fourth ward school house and the Cambria Iron Works' general office building are the only buildings standing on the north side of the river from the Pennsylvania Railroad bridge to the limits of the "flats." The Pennsylvania Railroad, from its station in Johnstown City nearly to Wilmore, a distance of seven miles, had a magnificent road bed of solid rock. From East Conemaugh to the point in Johnstown opposite the Gautier Steel Works, this road bed, ballast and all are gone. Only a few rails may occasionally be seen in the river below. Freaks of the Flood. When the crash came in Johnstown the houses were crushed as easily by the huge mass as so many buildings of sand, making much the same sound as if a pencil were drawn over the slats of a shutter. Houses were torn from their foundations and torn to pieces before their occupants realized their danger. Hundreds of these people were crushed to death, while others were rescued by heroic men; but the lives of the majority were prolonged a few minutes, when they met a more horrible death further down the stream. There is a narrow strip extending from the club house to the point which, in some singular manner, escaped the mass of filling that was distributed on the flats. This strip is about 200 feet wide, 300 long and from 3 to 20 feet deep. What queer turn the flood took to thus spare this section, when the surrounding territory was covered with mud, stones and other material, is a mystery. It is, however, one of the remarkable turns of the flood. The German Catholic Church is standing, but is in an exceedingly shaky condition and may fall at any minute. This and Dr. Lohman's residence are the only buildings on the plot standing between Main street, Clinton street, Railroad street and the Little Conemaugh. The destruction of life in this district was too awful to contemplate. It is estimated that not more than one thousand people escaped with their lives, and it is believed that there were fully five thousand persons remaining in the district when the flood came down. The flood wiped out the "flat" with the exception of the buildings noted. The water was twenty feet high here and hurled acres upon acres of houses against the Pennsylvania Railroad bridge which held it and dammed the water up until it was forty feet high. The mass accumulated until the weight became so great that it broke through the fill east of the bridge and the débris started out of the temporary reservoir with an awful rush. It was something near five o'clock when the fill broke. The water rushed across the Cambria flats and swept every house away with the exception of a portion of a brewery. There is nothing else standing in this district which resembles a house. The Johnstown Post Office Building, with all the office money and stamps, was carried away in the flood. The Postmaster himself escaped with great difficulty. The dam broke in the centre at three o'clock on Friday afternoon, and at four o'clock it was dry. That great body of water passed out in one hour. Park & Van Buren, who are building a new draining system at the lake, tried to avert the disaster by digging a sluiceway on one side to ease the pressure on the dam. They had about forty men at work and did all they could, but without avail. The water passed over the dam about a foot above its top, beginning at about half-past two. Whatever happened in the way of a cloud burst took place during the night. There had been but little rain up to dark. When the workmen woke in the morning the lake was very full and was rising at the rate of a foot an hour. It kept on rising until at two o'clock it first began breaking over the dam and undermining it. Men were sent three or four times during the day to warn people below of their danger. The Break Two Hundred Feet Wide. When the final break came, at three o'clock, there was a sound like tremendous and continued peals of thunder; rocks, trees and earth were shot up into mid-air in great columns, and then the wave started down the ravine. A farmer, who escaped, said that the water did not come down like a wave, but jumped on his house and beat it to fragments in an instant. He was safe upon the hillside, but his wife and two children were killed. At the present time the lake looks like a cross between the crater of a volcano and a huge mud puddle with stumps of trees and rocks scattered over it. There is a small stream of muddy water running through the centre of the lake site. The dam was seventy feet high and the break is about two hundred feet wide, and there is but a small portion of the dam left on either side. No damage was done to any of the buildings belonging to the club. The whole south fork is swept, with not a tree standing. There are but one or two small streams showing here and there in the lake. A great many of the workmen carried off baskets full of fish caught in the mud. Three Millions Indemnity. It is reported that the Sportsman's Association, which owned the South Fork dam, was required to file an indemnity bond of $3,000,000 before their charter was issued. When the bill granting them these privileges was before the Legislature the representatives from Cambria and Blair counties vigorously opposed its passage and only gave way, it is said, upon condition that such an indemnifying bond was filed. This bond was to be filed with the prothonotary of Cambria county. Father Boyle, of Ebensburg, said the records at the county seat had no trace of such a bond. He found the record of the charter, but nothing about the bond. As the association is known to be composed of very wealthy people, there is much talk here of their being compelled to pay at least a part of the damages. The Rain Did It. It begins to dawn on us that the catastrophe was brought about not merely by the bursting of the dam of the old canal reservoir, but by a rainfall exceeding in depth and area all previously recorded phenomena of the kind. The whole drainage basin of the Kiskiminetas, and more particularly that of the Conemaugh, was affected. An area of probably more than 600 square miles poured its precipitation through the narrow valley in which Johnstown and associate villages are located. It is easy to see how, with a rainfall similar to that which caused the Butcher Run disaster of a few years ago, fully from thirty to fifty times as much water became destructive. The whole of the water of the lake would pass Suspension Bridge at Pittsburgh inside of from seven to ten minutes, while the gorge at Johnstown, narrowed by the activity of mines for generations past, was clearly insufficient to allow a free course for Stony Creek alone, which is a stream heading away up in Somerset county, twenty-five or thirty miles south of Johnstown. That the rainfall of the entire Allegheny Mountain system was unprecedented is clearly demonstrated to any one who has watched the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers for the past three days, and this view may serve to correct the impression in the public mind that would localize the causes of the widespread disaster to the bursting of any single dam. Danger Was Anticipated. Charles Parke, of Philadelphia, the civil engineer in the employ of the South Fork Fishing Club, in company with George C. Wilson, ex-United States District Attorney, and several other members of the club, reached Johnstown and brought with them the first batch of authoritative news from Conemaugh Lake, the bursting of which, it is universally conceded, caused the disaster. Mr. Parke was at first averse to talking, and seemed more interested in informing his friends in the Quaker City that he was still in the land of the living. On being pressed he denied most emphatically that the dam had burst, and proceeded to explain that he first commenced to anticipate danger on Friday morning, when the water in the lake commenced to rise at a rapid rate. Immediately he turned his force of twenty-five Italians to opening an extra waste sluiceway in addition to the one that had always answered before. The five members of the club on hand all worked like horses, but their efforts were in vain, and at three o'clock the supporting wall gave way with a sound that seemed like distant thunder and the work was done. The Governor's Appeal. HARRISBURG, Pa., June 3, 1886.--The Governor issued the following:-- "COMMONWEALTH OF PENNSYLVANIA, } "EXECUTIVE CHAMBER, } "HARRISBURG, Pa., June 3, 1889. } "TO THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES:-- "The Executive of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania has refrained hitherto from making any appeal to the people for their benefactions, in order that he might receive definite and reliable information from the centres of disaster during the late floods, which have been unprecedented in the history of the State or nation. Communication by wire has been established with Johnstown to-day. The civil authorities are in control, the Adjutant General of the State cooperating with them; order has been restored and is likely to continue. Newspaper reports as to the loss of life and property have not been exaggerated. "The valley of the Conemaugh, which is peculiar, has been swept from one end to the other as with the besom of destruction. It contained a population of forty thousand to fifty thousand people, living for the most part along the banks of a small river confined within narrow limits. The most conservative estimates place the loss of life at 5,000 human beings, and of property at twenty-five millions. [The reader will understand that this and previous estimates were the first and were far too small.] Whole towns have been utterly destroyed. Not a vestige remains. In the more substantial towns the better buildings, to a certain extent, remain, but in a damaged condition. Those who are least able to bear it have suffered the loss of everything. "The most pressing needs, so far as food is concerned, have been supplied. Shoes and clothing of all sorts for men, women and children are greatly needed. Money is also urgently required to remove the débris, bury the dead, and care temporarily for the widows and orphans and for the homeless generally. Other localities have suffered to some extent in the same way, but not in the same degree. "Late advices seem to indicate that there is great loss of life and destruction of property along the west branch of the Susquehanna and in localities from which we can get no definite information. What does come, however, is of the most appalling character, and it is expected that the details will add new horrors to the situation. Generous Responses. "The responses from within and without the State have been most generous and cheering. North and South, East and West, from the United States and from England, there comes the same hearty, generous response of sympathy and help. The President, Governors of States, Mayors of cities, and individuals and communities, private and municipal corporations, seem to vie with each other in their expressions of sympathy and in their contributions of substantial aid. But, gratifying as these responses are, there is no danger of their exceeding the necessities of the situation. Organized Distribution. "A careful organization has been made upon the ground for the distribution of whatever assistance is furnished. The Adjutant General of the State is there as the representative of the State authorities and giving personal attention, in connection with the Chief Burgess of Johnstown and a committee of relief to the distribution of the help which is furnished. "A large force will be employed at once to remove the débris and bury the dead, so as to avoid disease and epidemic. "The people of the Commonwealth and others whose unselfish generosity is hereby heartily appreciated and acknowledged may be assured that their contributions will be made to bring their benefactions to the immediate and direct relief of those for whose benefit they are intended. "JAMES A. BEAVER. "By the Governor, CHARLES W. STONE, Secretary of the Commonwealth." Alive to the Situation. The Masonic Relief Committee which went from Pittsburgh to Johnstown telegraphed President Harrison, urging the appointment of a national commission to take charge of sanitary affairs at the scene of the disaster. It was urged that the presence of so many decaying corpses would breed a pestilence there, besides polluting the water of the streams affecting all the country between Pittsburgh and New Orleans. The disasters in Pennsylvania were the subject of a conference at the White House between the President, General Noble, the Secretary of the Interior, and Surgeon General Hamilton. The particular topic which engaged their attention was the possibility of the pollution of the water-supply of towns along the Conemaugh river by the many dead bodies floating down the stream. The President was desirous that this new source of danger should be cut off, if any measures which could be taken by the government could accomplish it. It was suggested that the decomposition of so much human flesh and the settling of the decomposing fragments into the bed of the stream might make the water so foul as to breed disease and scatter death in a new form among the surviving dwellers in the valley. Not Afraid of a Plague. Surgeon General Hamilton expressed the opinion that the danger was not so great as might be supposed. There would be no pollution from those bodies taken from the river before decomposition set in, and the force of the freshet would tend to clear the river bed of any impurities in it rather than make new deposits. The argument which had the most weight, however, with the President was the efficiency of the local authorities. Pennsylvania has a State Board of Health and is a State with ample means at her disposal, both in money and men, and if there is any danger of this sort her local officials were able to deal with it. This was practically the decision of the conference. The gentlemen will meet again, if necessary, and stand ready to render every assistance which the situation calls for, but they will leave the control of the matter with the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania until it appears that she is unable to cope with it. Governor Beaver to the President. The following telegram was received by President Harrison from Governor Beaver, who made his way from York to Harrisburg:-- "HARRISBURG, Pa., June 3, 1889. "To the PRESIDENT, Washington:-- "The Sheriff of Cambria county says everything is quiet and that he can control the situation without the aid of troops. The people are fairly housed and good order prevails. The supply of food so far is equal to the demand, but supplies of food and clothing are still greatly needed. "Conservative estimates place the loss of life at from five thousand to ten thousand, and loss of property at from $25,000,000 to $40,000,000. The people are at work heroically, and will have a large force to-morrow clearing away the débris. "The sympathies of the world are freely expressed. One telegram from England gives $1,000. I will issue a general appeal to the public to-night. Help comes from all quarters. Its universality greatly encourages our people. I will communicate with you promptly if anything unusual occurs. "JAMES A. BEAVER." CHAPTER X. Thrilling Experiences. JOHNSTOWN, Pa., June 3, 1889.--Innumerable tales of thrilling individual experiences, each one more horrible than the others, are told. Frank McDonald, a conductor on the Somerset branch of the Baltimore and Ohio, was at the Pennsylvania Railroad depot in this place when the flood came. He says that when he first saw the flood it was thirty feet high and gradually rose to at least forty feet. "There is no doubt that the South Fork Dam was the cause of the disaster," said Mr. McDonald. "Fifteen minutes before the flood came Decker, the Pennsylvania Railroad agent read me a telegram that he had just received saying that the South Fork Dam had broken. As soon as he heard this the people in station, numbering six hundred, made a rush for a hill. I certainly think I saw one thousand bodies go over the bridge. The first house that came down struck the bridge and at once took fire, and as fast as the others came down they were consumed. Saw a Thousand Persons Burn. "I believe I am safe in saying that I saw one thousand bodies burn. It reminded me of a lot of flies on fly paper struggling to get away, with no hope and no chance to save them. [Illustration: THE WRECKED HOUSES BURNING AT THE PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD BRIDGE.] "I have no idea that had the bridge been blown up the loss of life would have been any less. They would have floated a little further with the same certain death. Then, again, it was impossible for any one to have reached the bridge in order to blow it out, for the waters came so fast that no one could have done it. "I saw fifteen to eighteen bodies go over the bridge at the same time. "I offered a man $20 to row me across the river, but could get no one to go, and finally had to build a boat and get across that way." It required some exercise of acrobatic agility to get into or out of the town. A slide, a series of frightful tosses from side to side, a run and you had crossed the narrow rope bridge which spanned the chasm dug by the waters between the stone bridge and Johnstown. Crossing the bridge was an exciting task. Yet many women accomplished it rather than remain in Johnstown. The bridge pitched like a ship in a storm. Within two inches of your feet rushed the muddy waters of the Conemaugh. There were no ropes to guide one and creeping was more convenient than walking. One had to cross the Conemaugh at a second point in order to reach Johnstown proper. This was accomplished by a skiff ferry. The ferryman clung to a rope and pulled the load over. Confusion Worse Confounded. It is impossible to describe the appearance of Main street. Whole houses have been swept down this one street and become lodged. The wreck is piled as high as the second story windows. The reporter could step from the wreck into the auditorium of the Opera House. The ruins consists of parts of houses, trees, saw logs, reels from the wire factory. Many houses have their side walls and roofs torn up, and you can walk directly into what had been second story bedrooms, or go in by way of the top. Further up town a raft of logs lodged in the street and did great damage. The best way to get an idea of the wreck is to take a number of children's blocks, place them closely together and draw your hand through them. At the commencement of the wreckage, which is at the opening of the valley of the Conemaugh, one can look up the valley for miles and not see a house. Nothing stands but an old woolen mill. As Seen by an Eye-Witness. Charles Luther is the name of the boy who stood on an adjacent elevation and saw the whole flood. He said he heard a grinding noise far up the valley, and looking up he could see a dark line moving slowly toward him. He saw that it was made up of houses. On they came like the hand of a giant clearing off his tables. High in the air would be tossed a log or beam, which fell back with a crash. Down the valley it moved sedately and across the little mountain city. For ten minutes nothing but moving houses were seen, and then the waters came with a roar and a rush. This lasted for two hours, and then it began to flow more steadily. The pillaging of the houses in Johnstown is something awful to contemplate and describe. It makes one feel almost ashamed to call himself a man and know that others who bear the same name have converted themselves into human vultures, preying on the dead. Men are carrying shotguns and revolvers, and woe betide the stranger who looks even suspiciously at any article. Goods of great value were being sold in town to-day for a drink of whiskey. A supply store has been established in the Fourth ward in Johnstown. A line of men, women and children, extending for a square, waited patiently to have their wants supplied. An Improvised Morgue. The school house has been converted into a morgue, and the dead are being buried from this place. A hospital has been opened near by and is full of patients. One of the victims was removed from a piece of wreckage in which he had been imprisoned three days. His leg was broken and his face badly bruised. He was delirious when rescued. In some places it is said the railroad tracks were scooped out to a depth of twenty feet. A train of cars, all loaded, were run on the Conemaugh bridge. They, with the bridge, now lie in the wreckage at this point. The Pennsylvania Railroad loses thirty-five engines and many cars. Fire Still Raging. The cling-cling-clang of the engines has a homelike sound. The fire has spread steadily all day and the upper part of the drift is burning to-night. The fire engine is stationed on the river bank and a line of hose laid far up the track to the coal mine. The flames to-night are higher than ever before, and by its light long lines of the curious can be seen along the banks. [Illustration: FIREMEN ON DUTY AT THE BRIDGE.] The natural gas has been shut off, owing to the many leaks in Johnstown. No fire is allowed in the city. The walls of many houses are falling. Their crash can be heard across the river, where the newspaper men are located. In the walk through the town to-day the word "danger," could be noticed, painted by the rescuers on the walls. Cremated. One of the Catholic churches in the town was burned on Saturday. A house drifted down against it and set it on fire. A funeral was being held at the church at the time of the flood. The congregation deserted the church and the body was burned with the building. Two large trees passed entirely through a brick Catholic church located near the centre of the town. The building still stands, but is a total wreck. Colonel Norman M. Smith, of Pittsburgh, while returning from Johnstown after a visit to Adjutant General Hastings, was knocked from the temporary bridge into the river and carried down stream a couple of hundred yards before he was able to swim ashore. He was not hurt. A Lucky Escape. O.J. Palmer, travelling salesman for a Pittsburgh meat house, was on the ill-fated day express, one car of which was washed away. He narrowly escaped drowning, and tells a horrible tale of his experience on that occasion. The engineer, the fireman and himself, when they saw the flood coming, got upon the top of the car, and when the coach was carried away they caught the driftwood, and fortunately it was carried near the shore and they escaped to the hills. Mr. Palmer walked a distance of twenty miles around the flooded district to a nearby railroad station on this side. Freaks of the Disaster. A novel scene was witnessed yesterday near Johnstown borough. Some women who managed to escape from the town proper had to wear men's clothes, as their own had been torn off by the flood. The force of the flood can be estimated by the fact that it carried three cars a mile and a half and the tender of an engine weighing twelve tons was carried fourteen miles down the river. A team of horses which was standing on Main street just before the flood was found a mile and a quarter below the town yesterday. The damage to the Cambria Iron Works was not so great as at first reported. The ends of the blooming mill and open hearth furnace buildings were crushed in by the force of the flood. The water rushed through the mill and tore a great pile of machinery from its fastenings and caused other damage. The Bessemer steel mill is almost a ruin. The rolling and wire mills and the six blast furnaces were not much damaged. This morning the company put a large force of men at work and are making strenuous efforts to have at least a portion of the plant in operation within a few weeks. This has given encouragement to the stricken people of Johnstown, and they now seem to have some hope, although so many of their loved ones have met their death. The mill yard, with its numerous railroad tracks, is nothing but a waste. Large piles of pig metal were scattered in every direction. All the loose débris is being gathered into heaps and burned. Hurled to a Place of Safety. A pitiful sight was that of an old, gray haired man named Norn. He was walking around among the mass of débris, looking for his family. He had just sat down to eat his supper when the crash came, and the whole family, consisting of wife and eight children, were buried beneath the collapsed house. He was carried down the river to the railroad bridge on a plank. Just at the bridge a cross-tie struck him with such force that he was shot clear upon the pier and was safe. But he is a mass of bruises and cuts from head to foot. He refused to go to the hospital until he found the bodies of his loved ones. Heroism in Bright Relief. A Paul Revere lies somewhere among the dead. Who he is is now known, and his ride will be famous in history. Mounted on a grand, big bay horse, he came riding down the pike which passes through Conemaugh to Johnstown, like some angel of wrath of old, shouting his warning: "Run for your lives to the hills! Run to the hills!" A Cloud of Ruin. The people crowded out of their houses along the thickly settled streets awe-struck and wondering. No one knew the man, and some thought he was a maniac and laughed. On and on, at a deadly pace, he rode, and shrilly rang out his awful cry. In a few moments, however, there came a cloud of ruin down the broad streets, down the narrow alleys, grinding, twisting, hurling, overturning, crashing--annihilating the weak and the strong. It was the charge of the flood, wearing its coronet of ruin and devastation, which grew at every instant of its progress. Forty feet high, some say, thirty according to others, was this sea, and it travelled with a swiftness like that which lay in the heels of Mercury. On and on raced the rider, on and on rushed the wave. Dozens of people took heed of the warning and ran up to the hills. Poor, faithful rider, it was an unequal contest. Just as he turned to cross the railroad bridge the mighty wall fell upon him, and horse, rider and bridge all went out into chaos together. A few feet further on several cars of the Pennsylvania Railroad train from Pittsburgh were caught up and hurried into the caldron, and the heart of the town was reached. The hero had turned neither to right nor left for himself, but rode on to death for his townsmen. He was overwhelmed by the current at the bridge and drowned. A party of searchers found the body of this man and his horse. He was still in the saddle. In a short time the man was identified as Daniel Periton, son of a merchant of Johnstown, a young man of remarkable courage. He is no longer the unknown hero, for the name of Daniel Periton will live in fame as long as the history of this calamity is remembered by the people of this country. A Devoted Operator. Mrs. Ogle, the manager of the Western Union, who died at her post, will go down in history as a heroine of the highest order. Notwithstanding the repeated notifications which she received to get out of reach of the approaching danger, she stood by the instruments with unflinching loyalty and undaunted courage, sending words of warning to those in danger in the valley below. When every station in the path of the coming torrent had been warned she wired her companion at South Fork, "This is my last message," and as such it shall always be remembered as her last words on earth, for at that very moment the torrent engulfed her and bore her from her post on earth to her post of honor in the great beyond. Another Hero. A telegraph operator at the railroad station above Mineral Point, which is just in the gorge a short distance below the dam, and the last telegraph station above Conemaugh, had seen the waters rising, and had heard of the first break in the dam. Two hours before the final break came he sent a message to his wife at Mineral Point to prepare for the flood. It read: "Dress the three children in their best Sunday clothes. Gather together what valuables you can easily carry and leave the house. Go to the stable on the hillside. Stay there until the water reaches it; then run to the mountain. The dam is breaking. The flood is coming. Lose no time." His wife showed the message to her friends, but they laughed at her. They even persuaded her to not heed her husband's command. The wife went home and about her work. Meanwhile the telegraph operator was busy with his ticker. Down to Conemaugh he wired the warning. He also sent it on to Johnstown, then he ticked on, giving each minute bulletins of the break. As the water came down he sent message after message, telling its progress. Finally came the flood. He saw houses and bodies swept past him. His last message was: "The water is all around me; I cannot stay longer, and, for God's sake, all fly." Then he jumped out of his tower window and ran up the mountain just in time to save himself. A whole town came past as he turned and looked. Great masses of houses plunged up. He saw people on roofs yelling and crying, and then saw collisions of houses, which caused the buildings to crush and crumble like paper. Racing with Death. All the time he felt that his family were safe. But it was not so with them. When the roar of approaching water came the people of Mineral Point thought of their warning. The wife gathered her children and started to run. As she went she forgot her husband's advice to go to the mountain and fled down the street to the lowlands. Suddenly she remembered she had left the key of her home in the door. She took the children and ran back. As she neared the house the water came and forced them up between the two houses. The only outlet was toward the mountain, and she ran that way with her children. The water chased her, but she and the children managed to clamber up far enough to escape. Thus it was that an accident saved their lives. Only three houses and a school-house were saved at Mineral Point. A Dangerous Venture. One of the most thrilling incidents of the disaster was the performance of A.J. Leonard, whose family reside in Morrellville. He was at work, and hearing that his house had been swept away determined at all hazards to ascertain the fate of his family. The bridges having been carried away he constructed a temporary raft, and clinging to it as close as a cat to the side of a fence, he pushed his frail craft out into the raging torrent and started on a chase which, to all who were watching, seemed to mean an embrace in death. Heedless of cries "For God's sake go back, you will be drowned." "Don't attempt it," he persevered. As the raft struck the current he pulled off his coat and in his shirt sleeves braved the stream. Down plunged the boards and down went Leonard, but as it arose he was seen still clinging. A mighty shout arose from the throats of the hundreds on the banks, who were now deeply interested, earnestly hoping he would successfully ford the stream. Down again went his bark, but nothing, it seemed, could shake Leonard off. The craft shot up in the air apparently ten or twelve feet, and Leonard stuck to it tenaciously. Slowly but surely he worked his boat to the other side of the stream, and after what seemed an awful suspense he finally landed amid ringing cheers of men, women and children. The last seen of him he was making his way down a mountain road in the direction of the spot where his house had lately stood. His family consisted of his wife and three children. A Thrilling Escape. Henry D. Thomas, a well-known dry goods merchant, tells the following story: "I was caught right between a plank and a stone wall and was held in that position for a long time. The water came rushing down and forced the plank against my chest. I felt as if it were going through me, when suddenly the plank gave way, and I fell into the water. I grabbed the plank quickly and in some unaccountable way managed to get the forepart of my body on it, and in that way I was carried down the stream. All around me were people struggling and drowning, while bodies floated like corks on the water. Some were crying for help, others were praying aloud for mercy and a few were singing as if to keep up their courage. A large raft which went by bore a whole family, and they were singing, 'Nearer my God to Thee.' In the midst of their song the raft struck a large tree and went to splinters. There were one or two wild cries and then silence. The horror of that time is with me day and night. It would have driven a weak-minded person crazy. "The true condition of things that night can never be adequately described in words. The water came down through a narrow gorge, which in places was hardly two hundred feet wide. The broken dam was at an elevation of about five hundred feet above Johnstown. The railroad bridge across the Conemaugh River is at the lower side of Johnstown, and the river is joined there by another mountain stream from the northeast. It was here that the débris collected and caught fire, and I doubt if it will ever be known how many perished there. The water came down with the speed of a locomotive. The people there are absolutely paralyzed--so much so that they speak of their losses in a most indifferent way. I heard two men in conversation. One said: 'Well, I lost a wife and three children.' 'That's nothing,' said the other; 'I lost a wife and six children.'" The Sudden Break. A man named Maguire was met on his way from South Fork to Johnstown. He said he was standing on the edge of the lake when the walls burst. The waters were rising all day and were on a level with a pile of dirt which he said was above the walls of the dam. All of a sudden it burst with a report like a cannon and the water started down the mountain side, sweeping before it the trees as if they were chips. Bowlders were rolled down as if they were marbles. The roar was deafening. The lake was emptied in an hour. At the time there were about forty men at work up there, building a new draining system at the lake for Messrs. Parke and Van Buren. They did all they could to try and avert the disaster by digging a sluiceway on one side to ease the pressure on the dam, but their efforts were fruitless. "It was about half-past two o'clock when the water reached the top of the dam. At first it was just a narrow white stream trickling down the face of the dam, soon its proportions began to grow with alarming rapidity, and in an extremely short space of time a volume of water a foot in thickness was passing over the top of the dam. "There had been little rain up to dark. Whatever happened in the way of a cloud burst took place during the night. When the workmen woke in the morning the lake was very full and was rising at the rate of a foot an hour. "When at two o'clock the water began to flow over the dam, the work of undermining began. Men were sent three or four times during the day To Warn the People below of their danger. At three o'clock there was a sound like tremendous and continued peals of thunder. The earth seemed to shake and vibrate beneath our feet. "There was a rush of wind, the trees swayed to and fro, the air was full of fine spray or mist: then looking down just in front of the dam we saw trees, rocks and earth shot up into mid-air in great columns. It seemed as though some great unseen force was at work wantonly destroying everything; then the great wave, foaming, boiling and hissing, dashing clouds of spray hundreds of feet in height as it came against some obstruction in the way of its mad rush, clearing everything away before it, started on its terrible death-dealing mission down the fatal valley." Engineer Henry's Awful Race. Engineer Henry, of the second section of the express train, No. 8, which was caught at Conemaugh, tells a thrilling story. His train was caught in the midst of the wave and were the only cars that were not destroyed. "It was an awful sight," he said. "I have often seen pictures of flood scenes, and I thought they were exaggerations, but what I witnessed last Friday changes my former belief. To see that immense volume of water, fully fifty feet high, rushing madly down the valley, sweeping everything before it, was a thrilling sight. It is engraved indelibly on my memory. Even now I can see that mad torrent carrying death and destruction before it. "The second section of No. 8, on which I was, was due at Johnstown about 10.15 in the morning. We arrived there safely, and were told to follow the first section. When we arrived at Conemaugh the first section and the mail were there. Washouts further up the mountain prevented our going, so we could do nothing but sit around and discuss the situation. The creek at Conemaugh was swollen high, almost overflowing. The heavens were pouring rain, but this did not prevent nearly all the inhabitants of the town from gathering along its banks. They watched The Waters Go Dashing by and wondered whether the creek could get much higher. But a few inches more and it would overflow its banks. There seemed to be a feeling of uneasiness among the people. They seemed to fear that something awful was going to happen. Their suspicions were strengthened by the fact that warning had come down the valley for the people to be on the lookout. The rains had swelled everything to the bursting point. The day passed slowly, however. "Noon came and went, and still nothing happened. We could not proceed, nor could we go back, as the tracks about a mile below Conemaugh had been washed away, so there was nothing for us to do but to wait and see what would come next. "Some time after 3 o'clock Friday afternoon I went into the train despatcher's office to learn the latest news. I had not been there long when I heard a fierce whistling from an engine away up the mountain. Rushing out I found dozens of men standing around. Fear had blanched every cheek. The loud and continued whistling had made every one feel that something serious was going to happen. In a few moments I could hear a train rattling down the mountain. About five hundred yards above Conemaugh the tracks make a slight curve and we could not see beyond this. The suspense was something awful. We did not know what was coming, but no one could get rid of the thought that something was wrong at the dam. "Our suspense was not very long, however. Nearer and nearer the train came, the thundering sound still accompanying it. There seemed to be something behind the train, as there was a dull, rumbling sound which I knew did not come from the train. Nearer and nearer it came; a moment more and it would reach the curve. The next instant there burst upon our eyes a sight that made every heart stand still. Rushing around the curve, snorting and tearing, came an engine and several gravel cars. The train appeared to be putting forth every effort to go faster. Nearer it came, belching forth smoke and whistling long and loud. But The Most Terrible Sight was to follow. Twenty feet behind came surging along a mad rush of water fully fifty feet high. Like the train, it seemed to be putting forth every effort to push along faster. Such an awful race we never before witnessed. For an instant the people seemed paralyzed with horror. They knew not what to do, but in a moment they realized that a second's delay meant death to them. With one accord they rushed to the high lands a few hundred feet away. Most of them succeeded in reaching that place and were safe. [Illustration: AN ENGINEER'S TERRIFIC RACE IN THE VALLEY OF DEATH.] "I thought of the passengers in my train. The second section of No. 8 had three sleepers. In these three cars were about thirty people, who rushed through the train crying to the others 'Save yourselves!' Then came a scene of the wildest confusion. Ladies and children shrieked and the men seemed terror-stricken. I succeeded in helping some ladies and children off the train and up to the highlands. Running back, I caught up two children and ran for my life to a higher place. Thank God, I was quicker than the flood! I deposited my load in safety on the high land just as it swept past us. "For nearly an hour we stood watching the mad flood go rushing by. The water was full of débris. When the flood caught Conemaugh it dashed against the little town with a mighty crash. The water did not lift the houses up and carry them off, but crushed them one against the other and broke them up like so many egg shells. Before the flood came there was a pretty little town. When the waters passed on there was nothing but Few Broken Boards to mark the central portion of the city. It was swept as clean as a newly brushed floor. When the flood passed onward down the valley I went over to my train. It had been moved back about twenty yards, but it was not damaged. About fifty persons had remained in the train and they were safe. Of the three trains ours was the luckiest. The engines of both the others had been swept off the track and one or two cars in each train had met the same fate. "What saved our train was the fact that just at the curve which I mentioned the valley spread out. The valley is six or seven hundred yards broad where our train was standing. This, of course, let the floods pass out. It was only twenty feet high when it struck our train, which was about in the middle of the valley. "This fact, together with the elevation of the track, was all that saved us. We stayed that night in the houses in Conemaugh that had not been destroyed. The next morning I started down the valley and by 4 o'clock in the afternoon had reached Conemaugh furnace, eight miles west of Johnstown. Then I got a team and came home. "In my tramp down the valley I saw some awful sights. On the tree branches hung shreds of clothing torn from the unfortunates as they were whirled along in the terrible rush of the torrent. Dead bodies were lying by scores along the banks of the creeks. One woman I helped drag from the mud had tightly clutched in her hand a paper. We tore it out of her hand and found it to be a badly water-soaked photograph. It was probably a picture of the drowned woman." Over the Bridge. Frank McDonald, a railroad conductor, says: "I certainly think I saw 1,000 bodies go over the bridge. The first house that came down struck the bridge and at once took fire, and as fast as they came down they were consumed. I believe I am safe in saying I saw 1,000 bodies burn. It reminded me of a lot of flies on fly-paper struggling to get away, with no hope and no chance to save them. I have no idea that had the bridge been blown up the loss of life would have been any less. They would have floated a little further with the same certain death. Then, again, it was impossible for any one to have reached the bridge in order to blow it up, for the waters came so fast that no one could have done it. I saw fifteen to eighteen bodies go over the bridge. At the same time I offered a man twenty dollars to row me across the river, but could get no one to go, and I finally had to build a boat and get across that way." Nothing seems to have withstood the merciless sweep of the mighty on-rush of pent-up Conemaugh. As for the houses of the town a thousand of them lie piled up in a smouldering mass to the right of Conemaugh bridge. At the present moment, away down in its terrible depths, this mass of torn and twisted timbers and dead humanity is slowly burning, and the light curling smoke that rises as high almost as the mountain, and the sickening smell that comes from the centre of this fearful funeral pile tell that the unseen fire is feeding on other fuel than the rafters and roofs that once sheltered the population of Johnstown. A Ghastly Scene. The mind is filled with horror at the supreme desolation that pervades the whole scene. It is small wonder that the pen cannot in the hands of the most skillful even pretend to convey one-hundredth part of what is seen and heard every hour in the day in this fearful place. At the present moment firemen and others are out on that ghastly aggregation of woodwork and human kind jammed against the unyielding mass of arched masonry. Round them curls the white smoke from the smouldering interior of the heaped up houses of Johnstown. Every now and then the gleam of an axe and a group of stooping forms tell that another ghastly find has been made, and a whisper goes round among the hundreds of watchers that other bodies are being brought to light. How many hundreds or thousands there are who found death by fire at this awful spot will never be known, and the people are already giving up hopes of ever reaching the knowledge of how their loved and lost ones met their doom, whether in the fierce, angry embrace of the waters of Conemaugh, or in the deadly grip of the fire fiend, who claimed the homes of Johnstown for his own above the fatal bridge. Every hour it becomes more and more apparent that the exact number of lives lost will never be known. Up to the present time the disposition has been to under rather than overestimate the number of lives sacrificed. A Mother Rescued by Her Daughter. A daughter of John Duncan, superintendent of the Johnstown Street Car Company, had an awful struggle in rescuing her mother and baby sister. Mrs. Duncan and family had taken refuge on a roof, when a large log came floating down the river, striking the house with immense force, knocking Mrs. Duncan and daughter into the fast running river. Seeing what had happened, Alvania, her fifteen-year-old daughter, leaped into the water, and after a hard struggle landed both on the roof of the house. The members of the Cambria Club tell of their battle for life in the following manner: They were about to sit down to dinner when they heard the crash, and knowing what had occurred they started for the attic just as the flood was upon them. When the members were assured of their safety they at once commenced saving others by grasping them as they floated by on tree tops, houses, etc. In this manner they saved seventy persons from death. The Clock Stopped at 5.20. One of the queerest sights in the centre of the town is a three-story brick residence standing with one wall, the others having disappeared completely, leaving the floors supported by the partitions. In one of the upper rooms can be seen a mantel with a lambrequin on it and a clock stopped at twenty minutes after five. In front of the clock is a lady's fan, though from the marks on the wall-paper the water has been over all these things. In the upper part of the town, where the back water from the flood went into the valley with diminished force, there are many strange scenes. There the houses were toppled over one after another in a row, and left where they lay. One of them was turned completely over and stands with its roof on the foundations of another house and its base in the air. The owner came back, and getting into his house through the windows walked about on his ceiling. Out of this house a woman and her two children escaped safely and were but little hurt, although they were stood on their heads in the whirl. Every house has its own story. From one a woman shut up in her garret escaped by chopping a hole in the roof. From another a Hungarian named Grevins leaped to the shore as it went whirling past and fell twenty-five feet upon a pile of metal and escaped with a broken leg. Another is said to have come all the way from very near the start of the flood and to have circled around with the back water and finally landed on the flats at the city site, where it is still pointed out. CHAPTER XI. New Tales of Horror. The accounts contained in the foregoing chapters bring this appalling story of death down to June 4th. We continue the narrative as given from day to day by eye-witnesses, as this is the only method by which a full and accurate description of Johnstown's unspeakable horror can be obtained. On the morning of June 5th one of the leading journals contained the following announcements, printed in large type, and preceding its vivid account of the terrible situation at Johnstown. Death, ruin, plague! Threatened outbreak of disease in the fate stricken valley. Awful effluvia from corpses! Swift and decisive means must be taken to clear away the masses of putrefying matter that underlie the wreck of what was once a town. Proposed use of explosives. Crowds of refugees are already attacked by pneumonia and the germs of typhus pervade both air and water. Victims yet unnumbered. Dreadful discoveries hourly made! Heaps of the drowned, the mangled and the burned are found in pockets between rocks and under packed accumulations of sand! Pennsylvania regiments ordered to the scene to keep ward over an afflicted and heartbroken people. Blame where it belongs. The ears of the inhabitants were dulled to fear by warnings many times repeated--forty-two years ago the dam broke--vivid stories of witnesses of the great tragedy--the owners of the lake must bear a gigantic burden of remorse--sufferings of survivors! These were the terrible headings in a single issue of a newspaper. A registry of the living who were residents of Johnstown prior to the flood was begun to-day. Out of a total population of 39,400 the names of only 10,600 have been recorded. This may give an approximate idea of the number of those who lost their lives. Gaunt Menace of Pestilence. The most important near fact of to-day is the increasing danger of pestilence. As the work of disengaging the bodies of the dead progresses the horrible peril becomes more and more apparent. There is need of the speediest possible measures to offset the gravity of the sanitary situation. From every part of the stricken valley the same cry of alarm arises, for at every point where the dead are being discovered, as the waters continue to abate, the same peril exists. The use of explosives, especially dynamite, has been discussed. There is some opposition to it, but it may yet be resorted to. The great mass of ruins at the Pennsylvania Railroad bridge, which is still smoking and smouldering, is a ghastly mine of human flesh and bones in all sorts of hideous shapes, and unless desperate means are employed, cannot be cleared away in weeks to come. [Illustration: READING THE HORRIBLE NEWS.] Still, vigorous work in that direction is being performed, and explosives will be used in a limited degree to further it. This great work may be divided into two parts--the clearing away of the mass of débris lodged against the Pennsylvania Railroad bridge, and the examination and removal of the many wrecked buildings which mark the site of Johnstown. Order Out of Chaos. Slowly something like order is beginning to appear in the chaos of destruction. Enough militia came to-day to put the town under strict martial law. Four hundred men of the Fourteenth regiment, of Pittsburgh, are here. There will be no more tramping over the ruins by ungoverned mobs. There will be no more fears of rioting. The supplies of food are constantly growing. The much needed money is beginning to come in, though not at all needless relief committees are beginning to go out. Better quarters for the sufferers are being provided. Better arrangements for systematic relief are made. Something of the deep gloom has been dispelled, though Johnstown is still the saddest spot on earth. The systematic attempt to clear up the ruins at the gorge and get out the bodies imprisoned there began to-day. The expectations of ghastly discoveries were more than realized. Scores of burned and mangled bodies were removed. Freaks of the Torrent. The great waste where the city stood looked a little different to-day. Some attempt was made to clear up the rubbish, and fires were burning in a dozen places to get rid of it. Tents for the soldiers and some of the sufferers were put up in the smooth stretch of sand where a great, five story hardware store used to stand. The dead animals that were here and there in the débris were removed, to the benefit of the towns-people's health. Curious things come to light where the rubbish was cleared away. The solid cobblestone pavement had been scooped up by the force of the water and in some places swept so far away that there was not a sign of it. Behind a house that was resting on one corner was found a wickerwork baby carriage full of mud, but not injured or scratched in the least nor yet buried in the mud, but looking as if it had been rolled there and left. Very close to it was a piece of railroad iron that must have been carried half a mile, bent as it it were but common wire. Exactly on the site of a large grocery store was a box of soap and a bundle of clothespins, while of all the brick and stone, of which the store was built, and all the heavy furniture it contained there was not the slightest trace. Many articles of wearing apparel were found here, but no bodies could be discovered in the whole stretch of the plain, from which it is inferred that most of the deaths occurred at the gorge or else the flood swept them far away. Reminders of a Broken Home. One of the few buildings that are left in this part of town is the fine house of Mr. Geranheiser, of the Cambria Iron Company. It presents a queer spectacle--that is common here but has not often been seen before. The flood reached almost to the second floor and was strong enough to cut away about half the house, leaving the rest standing. The whole interior of the place can be seen just as the frightened inmates left it. The carpets are torn up from the first floor, but the pictures are still hanging on the walls and an open piano stands against the wall full of mud; a Brussels carpet being halfway out of the second story on the side where the wreck was and showing exactly how high the water came. There was a centre table in the room and an open book on it. Chairs stood about the room and the pictures were on the walls, and half of the room was gone miles away. Seven Acres of Wreckage. Just below the bare plain where the business block of Johnstown stood, and above the stone arch bridge on which the Pennsylvania Railroad crossed the river, are seven acres of the wreckage of the flood. The horrors that have been enacted in that spot, the horrors that are seen there every hour, who can attempt to describe? Under and amid that mass of conglomerate rubbish are the remains of at least one thousand persons who died the most frightful of deaths. This is the place where the fire broke out within twenty minutes after the flood. It has burned ever since. The stone arch bridge acted as a dam to the flood, and five towns were crushing each other against it. A thousand houses came down on the great wave of water, and were held there a solid mass in the jaws of a Cyclopean vise. A kitchen stove upset. The mass took fire. A thousand people were imprisoned in these houses. A thousand more were on the roofs. For most of them there was no escape. The fire swept on from house to house. The prisoners saw it coming and shrieked and screamed with terror, and ran up and down their narrow quarters in an agony of fear. Sights to Freeze Their Blood. Thousands of people stood upon the river bank and saw and heard it all and still were powerless to help. They saw people kneeling in the flames and praying. They saw families gathered together with their arms around each other and waiting for death. They saw people going mad and tearing their hair and laughing. They saw men plunge into the narrow crevices between the houses and seek death in the water rather than wait its coming in the flames. Some saw their friends and some their wives and children perishing before them, and some in the awful agony of the hour went mad themselves and ran shrieking to the hillsides, and stronger men laid down on the ground and wept. All that night and all the next day, and far into the morning of Monday, these dreadful shrieks resounded from that place of doom. The fire burned on, aided by the fire underneath, added to by fresh fuel coming down the river. All that time the people stood helpless on the bank and heard those heartrending sounds. What could they do? They could not fight the fire. Every fire engine in the town lay in that mass of rubbish smashed to bits. For hours they had to wait until they could get telegraph word to surrounding towns, and hours more until the fire engines arrived at noon on Monday. Wrecks of Five Iron Bridges. The shrieks ceased early in the morning. Men had began to search the ruins and had taken out the few that still lived. The fire engines began to play on the still smouldering fire. Other workmen began to remove the bodies. The fire had swept over the whole mass from shore to shore and burned it to the water. A great field of crushed and charred timbers was all that was left. The flood had gorged this in so tightly that it made a solid bridge above the water. A tremendous, irresistible force had ground and churned and macerated the débris until it was a confused, solid, almost welded, conglomerate, stretching from shore to shore, jammed high up against the stone bridge and extending up the river a quarter of a mile, perhaps half as wide. In this tangled heap and crush of matter were the twisted wrecks of five iron bridges, smashed locomotives, splintered dwellings and all their contents; human beings and domestic animals, hay and factory machinery; the rich contents of stores and brick walls ground to powder--all the products of human industry, all the elements of human interests, twisted, turned, broken in a mighty mill and all thrown together. A Sickening Spectacle. I walked over this extraordinary mass this morning and saw the fragments of thousands of articles. In one place the roofs of forty frame houses were packed in together just as you would place forty bended cards one on top of another. The iron rods of a bridge were twisted into a perfect spiral six times around one of the girders. Just beneath it was a woman's trunk, broken up and half filled with sand, with silk dresses and a veil streaming out of it. From under the trunk men were lifting the body of its owner, perhaps, so burned, so horribly mutilated, so torn from limb to limb, that even the workmen, who have seen so many of these frightful sights that they have begun to get used to them, turned away sick at heart. I saw in one place a wrecked grocery store--bins of coffee and tea, flour, spices and nuts, parts of the counter and safe mingled together. Near it was the pantry of the house, still partly intact, the plates and saucers regularly piled up, a waiter and a teapot, but not a sign of the woodwork, not a recognizable outline of a house. In another place a halter, with a part of a horse's head tied to a bit of a manger, and a mass of hay and straw about, but no other signs of the stable in which the horse was burned. Two cindered towels, a cake of soap in a dish, and a bit of carpet were taken to indicate the location of a hotel. I saw a child's skull in a bed of ashes, but no sign of a body. Recognized by Fragments. In another place was a human foot and crumbling indications of a boot, but no signs of a body. A hay rick, half ashes, stood near the centre of the gorge. Workmen who dug about it to-day found a chicken coop, and in it two chickens, not only alive but clucking happily when they were released. A woman's hat, half burned; a reticule, with a part of a hand still clinging to it; two shoes and part of a dress told the story of one unfortunate's death. Close at hand a commercial traveller had perished. There was his broken valise, still full of samples, fragments of his shoes and some pieces of his clothing. Scenes like these were occurring all over the charred field where men were working with pick and axe and lifting out the poor, shattered remains of human beings, nearly always past recognition or identification, except by guesswork, or the locality where they were found. Articles of domestic use scattered through the rubbish helped to tell who some of the bodies were. Part of a set of dinner plates told one man where in the intangible mass his house was. In one place was a photograph album with one picture recognizable. From this the body of a child near by was identified. A man who had spent a day and all night looking for the body of his wife, was directed to her remains by part of a trunk lid. Dead Bodies Caressed. Poor old John Jordan, of Conemaugh! Many a tear ran over swarthy cheeks for him to-day. All his family, his wife and children, had been swept from his sight in the flood. He wandered over the gorge yesterday looking for them, and last night the police could not bring him away. At daylight he found his wife's sewing machine and called the workmen to help him. First they found a little boy's jacket that he recognized and then they came upon the rest of them all buried together, the mother's burned arms still clinging to the little children. Then the white headed old man sat down in the ashes and caressed the dead bodies and talked to them just as if they were alive until some one came and led him quietly away. Without a protest he went to the shore and sat down on a rock and talked to himself, and then got up and disappeared on the hills. To Blow Up the Gorge. Was this the only such scene the day saw? There were scores like it. People worked in ruins all day to find their relatives and then went home with horrible uncertainty. People found what they were looking for and fainted at the sight. People looked and cried aloud and came and stood on the banks all day, afraid to look and still afraid to go away. The burned bodies are not the only ones in the gorge. Under the timbers and held down in the water there must be hundreds that escaped the fire, but were drowned. To get at these the gorge is to be blown up with dynamite. The sanitary reasons for such a step are becoming hourly more apparent. It is the belief of the physicians that a pestilence will be added to the other horrors of the place if such a thing is not done. All day the bodies have been brought to shore. Those that were not recognized were carried on stretchers to the Morgue. One hundred and twenty of the identified bodies were carried over the bridge in one procession. Relief work for the suffering goes on at the headquarters of the Relief Committee on that little, muddy, rubbish-filled street which escaped destruction at the edge of the flood. The building is a wretched shanty, once a Hungarian boarding-house, and a long line of miserable women stretches out in front of it all day waiting for relief. They are the unfortunate who have lost everything in the flood. Quarters for five thousand of these people are provided in tents on the hillside. For provisions they are dependent on the charity of the country. Bread and meat are served out to them on the committee's order. They are the most mournful and pitiable sight. There was not one in the line who had not lost some one dear to her. Most of them were the wives of merchants or laborers who went down in the disaster. They were the sole survivors of their families. Very few had any more clothes than they wore when their houses were washed away. They stood there for hours in the rain yesterday without any protection, soaked with the drizzle, squalid and utterly forlorn--a sight to move a heart of stone. Silent Sufferers. They did not talk to one another as women generally do even when they are not acquainted. They got no words of sympathy from any one, and they gave none. Not a word was spoken along the whole line. They simply stood and waited. In truth there is nothing about the survivors of the disaster that strikes one so forcibly as their evident inability to comprehend their misfortune and the absence of sympathetic expressions among them. It is not because they are naturally stolid, but the whole thing is so vast and bears upon them so heavily they cannot grasp it. People in California know much more about the disaster than any resident of Johnstown knows; more information about it can be gotten from towns-people forty miles away than from those who saw it. The people here are not at all lacking in sympathy or kindliness of heart, but what words of sympathy would have any meaning in such a tremendous catastrophe? Every person of Johnstown has lost a relative or a friend, and so has every other resident he meets. They seem to see instinctively that condolence would be meaningless. Famine Happily Averted. On the west side of the lower town one or two little streets are left from the flood. They are crowded all the time with the survivors. As I have gone among them I have heard nothing but such conversations as this, which is literally reproduced:-- "Hello, Will! Where's Jim?" "He's lost." "Is that so! Goodby." Another was:-- "Good morning, Mr. Holden; did you save Mrs. Holden?" "No; she went with the house. You lost your two boys, didn't you?" "Yes. Good morning." Two women met on the narrow rope bridge which spans the creek. As they passed one said:-- "How about Aunt Mary?" "Oh, she's lost; so is Cousin Hattie." It gives an outside listener a strange sensation to hear people talk thus with about as little emotion as they would talk about the weather. But the people of Johnstown had so much to do with death that they think about nothing else. I will undertake to say that half the people have not the slightest idea what day of the week or month this is. A Rope Bridge of Sighs. To get from one part of the town to another it is necessary to cross the river or creek which is now flowing over the sites of business blocks. Of course every vestige of a bridge was swept far away, and to take their places two ropes have been hung from high timbers built upon the sandy island that was the city's site. On these ropes narrow boards are tied. The whole structure is not more than four feet wide, and it hangs trembling over the water in a way that makes nervous people shudder. Over this frail thing hundreds of people crowd every hour, and why there has not been another disaster is something no one can understand. The river is rising steadily, and all the afternoon the middle of the bridge sagged down into the water, but the people kept on struggling across. Many of them carried coffins containing bodies from the Morgue. There are no express wagons, no hearses--scarcely any vehicles of any kind in the town--and all the coffins have to be carried on the shoulders of the men. Coffins are a dreadfully common sight. It is impossible to move a dozen steps in any direction without meeting one or very likely a procession of of them. One hundred of them were piled up in front of the Morgue this morning. Twice as many more were on the platform of the Pennsylvania station. Carloads of coffins were being unloaded from freight cars below town and carried along the roads. Almost every house has a coffin in it. Every boat that crosses the river carries one, and rows of them stood by the bank to receive the bodies. Merely a Mud Plain. There is a narrow fringe of houses on each side of the empty plain, which escaped because they were built on higher ground. Fine brick blocks and paved streets filled the business part of the town, which was about a mile long and half a mile wide. Where these blocks stood mud is in some places six feet deep. Over and through it all is scattered an extraordinary collection of rubbish--boilers, car wheels, fragments of locomotives, household furniture, dead animals, clothing, sewing machines, goods from stores, safes, passenger and street cars, some half buried in the sand, some all exposed, helter-skelter. It is simply impossible to realize the tremendous force exercised by the flood, though the imagination is assisted by the presence of heavy iron beams twisted and bent, railroad locomotives swept miles away, rails torn up, the rocks and banks slashed away, and brick walls carried away, leaving no traces of their foundations. The few stone houses that resisted the shock were completely stripped of all their contents and filled four feet deep with sand and powdered débris. A Glimpse from a Window. As I write this, seated within a curious circular affair, which was once a mould for sewer pipe, are two operators busy with clicking instruments. The floor is a foot deep with clay. There are no doors. There are no windows which boast of glass or covering of any kind. The lookout embraces the bulk of the devastated districts. Just below the windows are the steep river banks, covered with a miscellaneous mass thrown up by the flood. The big stone bridge is crowded with freight cars loaded with material for repairing the structure and with people who are eager to see something horrible. That Funeral Pyre. The further half of the bridge which was swept away has been replaced by a trembling wooden affair, wide enough only for two persons to walk abreast. To the left of the bridge and across the river are the great brick mills of the Cambria Iron and Steel Company, crushed and torn out of a semblance to workshops. Just in front of the office is what has been called the "funeral pyre," and which threatens to become a veritable breeding spot of pestilence. Just before me a group of red-capped firemen are directing a stream of water upon such portions of the mass as can be reached from the shore. Where Death Was Busiest. Over to the right, at the edge of a muddy lagoon which marks the limit of the levelling rush of the mad torrent, there are dozens and dozens of buildings leaning against each other in the oddest sort of jumble. The spectacle would be ludicrous if it were not so awfully suggestive of the tragic fate of the inmates. Behind this border land are the regions where death was wofully busy. In some streets a mile from any railroad track locomotives and cars are scattered among the smouldering ruins. In the river the rescuers are busy, and so are the Hungarians and native born thieves. Men take queer souvenirs away sometimes. One came up the bank a short time ago with a skull and two leg bones, all blackened and burned by the fire. There is, of course, no business done, and those who have been spared have little to do save watch for a new phase of the greatest tragedy of the kind in modern history. On Prospect Hill is a town of tents where the homeless are housed and fed, and where also a formidable city of the dead has been just prepared. Such are some of the scenes visible from the window. The Skeleton of Its Former Self. The water has receded in the night almost as rapidly as it came, and behind it remains the sorriest sight imaginable. The dove that has come has no green leaf of promise, for its wings are draped with the hue of mourning and desolation. There now lies the great skeleton of dead Johnstown. The great ribs of rocky sand stretch across the chest scarred and covered with abrasions. Acres of mud, acres of wreckage, acres of unsteady, tottering buildings, acres of unknown dead, of ghastly objects which have been eagerly sought for since Friday; acres of smoky, streaming ruin, of sorrow for somebody, lie out there in the sunshine. Like Unto Arcadia After the Fire. The awful desolation of the scene has been described often enough already to render a repetition of the attempt here unnecessary. These descriptions have been as truthful and graphic as it is possible for man to make them; but none have been adequate--none could be. Where once stood solid unbroken blocks for squares and squares, with basements and subcellars, there is now a level plain as free from obstruction or excavation as the fair fields of Arcadia after they had been swept by the British flames. The major and prettier portion of the beautiful city has literally been blotted from the face of the earth. Disease Succeeds to Calamity. Up the ragged surface of Prospect Hill, whither hundreds of terrified people fled for safety Friday night, I scrambled this afternoon. I came upon a pneumonia scourge which bids fair to do for a number of the escaped victims what the flood could not. Death has pursued them to their highest places, and terror will not die. Every little house on the hill--and there are a hundred or two of them--had thrown its doors open to receive the bruised, half-clad fugitives on the dark day of the deluge, and every one was now a crude hospital. Half the women who had scaled the height were so overcome with fright that they have been bedridden ever since. There had been pneumonia on the hill, but only a few cases. To-day, however, several fresh cases developed among the the flood fugitives, and a local physician said the prospects for a scourge are all too promising. The enfeebled condition of the patients, the unhealthy atmosphere pervading the valley and the necessarily close quarters in which the people are crowded render the spread of the disease almost certain. The Military Called Out. At the request of the Sheriff, Adjutant General Hastings called out the Fourteenth regiment of Pittsburgh, who are to be stationed at Johnstown proper, to guard the buildings and against emergencies. Other reasons are known to exist for this precaution. Bodies were recovered to-day that have been robbed by the ghouls. It is known that one lady had several hundred dollars in her possession just before the disaster, but when the body was recovered there was not a cent in her pocket. The Hungarians attacked a supply wagon between Morrellville and Cambria City to-day. The drivers of the wagon repulsed them, but they again returned. A second fight ensued, but after lively scrambling the Hungarians were again driven away. After that drivers and guards of supply wagons were permitted to go armed. General Hastings was seen later in the day, and when asked what caused him to order the militia said: "There is no need of troops to quell another disturbance, but now there are at least two thousand men at work in Johnstown clearing up the débris, and I think that it will not hurt to have the Fourteenth regiment here, as they can guard the banks and all valuables. The Sheriff consulted me in the matter. He stated that his men were about worn out, and he thought that we had better have some soldiers. So I ordered them." The people, aroused by repeated outrages, are bitterly hounding the Hungarians, and a military force is essential to see that both sides preserve order. Indignant Battery B. A number of the members of Battery B and the Washington infantry, who were ordered back from Johnstown, are very indignant at Adjutant General Hastings, who gave the order. They claim that General Hastings not only acted without a particle of judgment, but when they offered to act as picket, do police duty or anything else that might be required of them, they state that they were treated like dogs. They also insist that their services are badly needed for the reason that the hills surrounding Johnstown are swarming with tramps, who are availing themselves of every opportunity to secure plunder from the numerous wrecks or dead bodies. They told the General that they came more as private citizens than as soldiers, and were willing to do what they could. The General abruptly ordered them back to Pittsburgh. Lieutenant Gammel, who had charge of the men, said: "We would like to have stayed but we had to obey orders and we took the first train for home. Even the short time we were there the fifty-five men had pulled out thirty-five bodies." Members of the battery said: "This is a fine Governor we have, and as for Hastings, the least said about his actions the better." The Adjutant General's order calling out the Fourteenth regiment and ordering them to this place is not looked upon as being altogether a wise move by many citizens. Narrow Escape from Lynching. About eleven o'clock this morning, Captain W.R. Jones, of Braddock, and his men discovered a man struggling in the hands of an angry crowd on Main street. The crowd were belaboring the man with sticks and fists, and Captain Jones entered the house where the disturbance occurred, and the man shouted: "I have a right here, and am getting what belongs to my folks!" The crowd then demanded that he show what he had in his possession. He reluctantly produced a handful of jewelry from his pocket, among which was a gold watch, which was no sooner shown than a gentleman who was standing nearby claimed it as his own, saying that the house where they were standing was the residence of his family. He then proceeded to identify clearly the property. The crowd, convinced of the thief's guilt, wanted to lynch him, but after an exciting scene Captain Jones pacified them. The man was escorted out of town by officers, released and ordered not to return. Johnstown Succored. There will be no more charity except for the helpless. The lengthening of the death roll has fearfully shortened the list to be provided for. There is now an abundance of food and clothing to satisfy the present necessities of all who are in need. Beginning to-morrow morning, June 5th, aid will not be extended to any who are able to work except in payment for work. All the destitute who are able and willing will be put to work clearing up the wreck in the river and the wastes where the streets stood. They will be paid $2.50 and $3.00 per day for ordinary laboring work, and thus obtain money with which to buy provisions, which will be sold to them at reduced prices. Those who will not work will be driven off. The money collected will be paid out in wages, in defraying funeral expenses and in relieving those whose bread providers have been taken away. Dainties Not Wanted. The supplies of food and clothing are far in excess of the demand to-day. The mistake of sending large quantities of dainties has been made by some of the relief committees. Bishop Phelan has been on the ground all day in company with a number of Catholic priests from Pittsburgh. He has ordered provisions for all the sufferers who have taken shelter in the buildings over which he has placed the Little Sisters of the Poor. There are several hundred people now being cared for by the relief corps, and as the work of rescue goes on the number increases. Bent on Charity. Mrs. Campbell, president of the Allegheny Woman's Christian Temperance Union, arrived this morning, and with Miss Kate Foster, of Johnstown, organized a temporary home for destitute children on Bedford street. On the same train came a delegation from the Smithfield Methodist Episcopal Church. They began relieving the wants of the suffering Methodists. Committees from the Masonic and Odd Fellows from Pittsburgh are looking after their brethren. Mr. Moxham, the iron manufacturer, is Mayor pro. tem. of Johnstown to-day. He is probably the busiest man in the United States; although for days without sleep, he still sticks nobly to his task. Hundreds of others are like him. Men fall to the earth from sheer fatigue. There are many who have not closed an eye in sleep since they awoke on Friday morning; they are hollow-eyed and pitiful looking creatures. Many have lost near relatives and all friends. Shylocks. Men and horses are what are most needed to-day. Some of the unfortunates who could not go to the relief trains endeavored to obtain flour from the wrecked stores in Johnstown. One dealer was charging $5 a sack for flour, and was getting it in one or two cases. Suddenly the crowd heard of the occurrence. Several desperate men went to the store and doled the flour gratuitously to the homeless and stricken. Another dealer was selling flour at $1.50 a sack. He refused to give any away, but would sell it to any one who had the money. Otherwise he would not allow any one to go near it, guarding his store with a shotgun. Masons on the Field. The special train of the Masonic Relief Association which left Pittsburgh at one o'clock yesterday afternoon on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad did not reach here until just before midnight, at which time it was impossible to do anything. Under the circumstances, the party concluded to pass the night in the cars, making themselves as comfortable as possible with packing boxes for beds and candle boxes for pillows. They spent the morning distributing the food and clothing among the Masonic sufferers. In addition to a large quantity of cooked food, sandwiches, etc., as well as flour and provisions of every description, the Relief Committee brought up 100 outfits of clothing for women and a similar number for girls, and a miscellaneous lot for men and boys. The women's outfits are complete, and include underwear, stockings, shoes, dresses, wraps and hats. They are most acceptable in the present crisis, and much suffering has already been relieved by them. The Knights of Pythias have received a large donation of money from Pittsburgh lodges. Appeal to President Harrison. Adjutant General Hastings yesterday afternoon telegraphed to President Harrison requesting that government pontoons be furnished to enable a safe passageway to be made across the field of charred ruins above Johnstown Bridge for the purpose of prosecuting search for the dead. Late last night an answer was received from the President stating that the pontoons would be at once forwarded by the Secretary of War. A despatch of sympathy has been received by Adjutant General Hastings from the Mayor of Kansas City, who states that the little giant of the West will do her duty in this time of need. Fraternities Uniting. The various fraternities, whose work has been referred to in various despatches, have established headquarters and called meetings of surviving local members. These meetings are held in Alma Hall, belonging to the Odd Fellows, which, owing to its solid construction, withstood the pressure of the flood. From the headquarters at Alma Hall most of the committees representing the various secret societies are distributing relief. The first hopeful view of the situation taken by the Odd Fellows' Committee has been clouded by the dismal result of further investigations. At last night's meeting at the old school-house on Prospect Hill definite tidings were received from but thirty members out of a total of 501. Cambria Lodge, with a membership of eighty-five, mostly Germans, seems to have been entirely wiped out, not a single survivor having yet reported. Call for Workers. Last night Robert Bridgard, a letter carrier of Johnstown, marched at the head of three hundred men to the corner of Morrell avenue and Columbia street, where he mounted a wagon and made a speech on the needs of the hour. Chiefest of these, he considered, was good workmen to clear away the débris and extract the bodies from the wreckage. He closed with a bitter attack on the lazy Huns and Poles, who refused to aid in the work of relief and yet are begging and even stealing the provisions that are sent here to feed the sufferers. The crowd numbered nearly one thousand, and greeted Bridgard's words with cheers. Another resident of the city then mounted a barrel and made a ringing speech condemning the slothful foreigners, who have proven themselves a menace to the valley and its inhabitants. The feelings of the crowd were aroused to such an alarming extent that it was feared it would culminate in an attack on the worthless Poles and Hungarians. The following resolution was adopted with a wild shout of approval, and the meeting adjourned:-- "_Resolved_, That we, the citizens of Johnstown, in public meeting assembled, do most earnestly beg the Relief Corps of the Johnstown sufferers to furnish no further provisions to the Hungarians and Poles of this city and vicinity except in payment of services rendered by them for the relief of their unfortunate neighbors. "_Resolved_, Further, that in case of their refusal to render such service they be driven from the doors of the relief trains and warned to vacate the premises." Hospitals and Morgues. Those who doubt that many thousands lost their lives in this disaster have not visited the morgues. There are three of these dreadful places crowded so full of the unidentified dead that there is scarcely room to move between the bodies. To the largest morgue, which I visited this morning, one hundred and sixty bodies have been brought for identification. When it is remembered that most of the bodies were swept below the limits of Johnstown, that many more found here have been identified at once by their friends and that it is certain that many bodies were consumed entirely in the fire at the gorge, the fact gives some idea of the extent of the calamity. The largest morgue is at the Fourth ward school-house, a two-story brick building which stands just at the edge of the high mark of the flood. The bodies were laid across the school children's desks until they got to be so numerous that there was not room for them, excepting on the floor. Soldiers with crossed bayonets keep out the crowd of curious people who have morbid appetites to gratify. None of these people are of Johnstown. People of Johnstown do not have time to come to look for friends, and they give the morgue a wide berth. Those who do come have that dazed, miserable look that has fallen to all the residents of the unhappy town. They walk through slowly and look at the bodies and go away looking no sadder nor any less perplexed than when they came in. One of the doctors in charge at the morgue told me that many of these people had come in and looked at the bodies of their own fathers and brothers and gone away without recognizing them, though not at all disfigured. "That's Jim." In some instances it had been necessary for other persons, who knew the people, to point out the dead to the living and assure them positively of the identification before they could be aroused. I saw a railroad laborer who had come in to look for a friend. He walked up and down the aisles like a man in a trance. He looked at the bodies, and took no apparent interest in any of them. At last he stopped before one of them which he had passed twice before, muttered, "That's Jim," and went out just as he had come in. Two other identifications I saw during the hour I was there were just like this. There was no shedding of tears nor other showing of emotion. They gazed upon the features of their dead as if they were totally unable to comprehend it all, and reported their identification to the attendants and watched the body as it was put into a coffin and went away. Many came to look for their loved ones, but I did not see one show more grief or realization of the dreadful character of their errand than this. Arrangements with the morgues are complete and efficient. The bodies are properly prepared and embalmed and a description of the clothing is placed upon each. Hospital Arrangements. The same praise cannot be given the hospital arrangements. The only hospital is a small wooden church, in which apartments have been roughly improvised, with blankets for partitions. Only twenty patients can be cared for here, and the list of wounded is more than two hundred. The rest have been taken to the private houses that were not overcrowded with the homeless survivors, to farmers in the country and to outlying towns. Two have died. It did not occur to any one until lately to get any nurses from other places to take care of the patients, and even now most of the nurses are Johnstown people who have lost relatives and have their own cares. These persons sought out the hospital and volunteered for the work. A Procession of Coffins. A sight most painful to behold was presented to view about noon to-day, when a procession of fifty unidentified coffined bodies started up the hill above the railroad to be buried in the improvised cemetery there. Not a relation, not a mourner was present. In fact, it is doubtful if these dead have any surviving relatives. The different graveyards are now so crowded that it will take several days to bury all the bodies that have been deposited in them. This was the day appointed by the Citizens' Committee for burying all the unidentified dead that have been laying in the different morgues since Sunday morning, and about three hundred bodies were taken to the cemeteries to-day. It was not an unusual sight to see two or three coffins going along, one after another. It is impossible to secure wagons or conveyances of any kind, consequently all funeral processions are on foot. Several yellow flags were noticed sticking up from the black wreckage above the stone bridge. This was a new plan adopted by the sanitary corps to indicate at what points bodies had been located. As it grows dark the flags are still up, and another day will dawn upon the imprisoned remains. People who had lost friends, and supposed they had drifted into this fatal place, peered down into the charred mass in a vain endeavor to recognize beloved features. Unrecognizable Victims of Fire. There are now nearly two thousand men employed in different parts of the valley clearing up the ruins and prosecuting diligent search for the undiscovered dead, and bodies are discovered with undiminished frequency. It becomes hourly more and more apparent that not a single vestige will ever be recognized of hundreds that were roasted in the flames above the bridge. A party of searchers have just unearthed a charred and unsightly mass from the smouldering débris. The leader of the gang pronounced the remains to be a blackened leg, and it required the authoritative verdict of a physician to demonstrate that the ghastly discovery was the charred remains of a human being. Only the trunk remained, and that was roasted beyond all semblance to flesh. Five minutes' search revealed fragments of a skull that at once disintegrated of its own weight when exposed to air, no single piece being larger than a half dollar, and the whole resembling the remnants of shattered charcoal. Within the last hour a half dozen discoveries in no way less horrifying than this ghastly find have been made by searchers as they rake with sticks and hooks in the smouldering ruins. So difficult is it at times to determine whether the remains are those of human beings that it is apparent that hundreds must be burned to ashes. The number that have found a last resting place beneath these ruins can at the best never be more than approximated. A Vast Charnel House. Every moment now the body of some poor victim is taken from the débris, and the town, or rather the remnants of it, is one vast charnel house. The scenes at the extemporized morgue are beyond powers of description in their ghastliness, while the moans and groans of the suffering survivors, tossing in agony, with bruised and mangled bodies, or screaming in a delirium of fever as they issue from the numerous temporary hospitals, make even the stoutest hearted quail with terror. Nearly two thousand bodies have already been recovered, and as the work of examining the wreckage progresses the conviction grows that the magnitude of the calamity has not yet been approximated. The Pile of Débris Still Burning. The débris wedged against the big Pennsylvania Railroad stone bridge is still burning, and the efforts of the firemen to quench or stay the progress of the flames are as futile as were those of Gulliver's Lilliputian firemen. The mass, which unquestionably forms a funeral pyre for thousands of victims who lie buried beneath it, is likely to burn for weeks to come. The flames are not active, but burn away in a sullen, determined fashion. There are twenty-six firemen here now--all level-headed fellows--who keep their unwieldy and almost exhausted forces under masterful control. Although they were scattered all over the waste places to-day, the heavy work was done in the Point district, where a couple hundred mansions lie in solid heaps of brick, stone and timbers. One Corpse Every Five Minutes. Here the labors of the searchers were rewarded by the discovery of a corpse about every five minutes. As a general thing the bodies were mangled and unrecognizable unless by marks or letters on their persons. In every case decomposition has set in and the work of the searchers is becoming one that will test their stomachs as well as their hearts. Wherever one turns Pittsburghers of prominence are encountered. They are busy, determined men, rendering valuable service. Chief Evans, of the Pittsburgh Fire Department, was hustling around with a force of twenty-four more firemen, just brought up to relieve those who have been working so heroically since Saturday. Morris M. Mead, superintendent of the Bureau of Electricity, headed a force of sixteen sanitary inspectors from Pittsburgh, who are doing great work among the dead. How Bodies are Treated. There are six improvised morgues now in Johnstown. They are in churches and school-houses, the largest one being in the Fourth Ward school-house, where planks have been laid over the tops of desks, on which the remains are placed. A corpse is dug from the bank. It is covered with mud. It is taken to the anteroom of the school, where it is placed under a hydrant and the muck and slime washed off. With the slash of a knife the clothes are ripped open and an attendant searches the pockets for valuables or papers that would lead to identification. Four men lift the corpse on a rude table, and there it is thoroughly washed and an embalming fluid injected in the arm. With other grim bodies the corpse lies in a larger room until it is identified or becomes offensive. In the latter case it is hurried to the large grave, a grave that will hereafter have a monument over it bearing the inscription "Unknown Dead." The number of the latter is growing hourly, because pestilence stalks in Johnstown, and the bloated, disfigured masses of flesh cannot be held much longer. Levelled by Death. Bodies of stalwart workmen lie beside the remains of refined ladies, many of whom are still decked with costly earrings and have jewels glittering on the fingers. Rich and poor throng these quarters and gaze with awe-struck faces at the masses of mutilations in the hope of recognizing a missing one, so as to accord the body a decent burial. From Death's Gaping Jaws. We give here the awful narrative of George Irwin's experience. Irwin is a resident of Hillside, Westmoreland county, and was discovered in a dying condition in a clump of bushes just above the tracks of the Pennsylvania Railroad, about a mile below Johnstown. When stretched upon two railroad ties near the track his tongue protruded from his mouth and he gasped as if death was at hand. With the assistance of brandy and other stimulants he was in a degree revived. He then told the following story: "I was visiting friends in Johnstown on Friday when the flood came up. We were submerged without a moment's warning. I was taken from the window of the house in which I was then a prisoner by Mr. Hay, the druggist at Johnstown, but lost my footing and was not rescued. I clung to a saw log until I struck the works of the Cambria Iron Company, when I caught on the roof of the building. I remained there for nearly an hour, when I was knocked again from my position by a piece of a raft. I floated on top of this until I got down here and I stuck in an apple tree. Preferred Death to Such Sights. "I saw and heard a number of other unfortunate victims when swept by me appealing for some one to save them. One woman and two children were floating along in apparent safety; then they struck the corner of a building and all went down together. "I would rather have died than have been compelled to witness that sight. "I have not had a bit to eat since Friday night, but I don't feel hungry. I am afraid my stomach is gone and I am about done for." He was taken to a hospital by several soldiers and railroad men who rescued him. A Young Lady's Experiences. Miss Sue Caddick, of Indiana, who was stopping at the Brunswick Hotel, on Washington street, and was rescued late Friday evening, returned home to-day. She said she had a premonition of danger all day and had tried to get Mrs. Murphy to take her children and leave the house, but the lady had laughed at her fears and partially dissipated them. Miss Caddick was standing at the head of the second flight of stairs when the flood burst upon the house. She screamed to the Murphys--father, mother and seven children--to save themselves. She ran up stairs and got into a higher room, in which the little children, the oldest of whom was fourteen years, also ran. The mother and father were caught and whirled into the flood and drowned in an instant. The waters came up and the children clung to the young lady, who saw that she must save herself, and she was compelled to push the little ones aside and cling to pieces of the building, which by this time had collapsed and was disintegrating. All of the children were drowned save the oldest boy, who caught a tree and was taken out almost unhurt near Blairsville. Miss Caddick clung to her fraction of the building, which was pushed into the water out of the swirl, and in an hour she was taken out safe. She said her agony in having to cut away from the children was greater than her fear after she got into the water. An Old Lady's Great Peril. Mrs. Ramsey, mother of William Ramsey and aunt of Lawyer Cassidy, of Pittsburgh, was alone in her house when the flood came. She ran to the third story, and although the house was twisted off its foundation, it remained intact, and the old lady was rescued after being tossed about for twenty-four hours. James Hines, Jr., of Indiana, one of the survivors, to-day said that he and twelve of the other guests took refuge on the top of the Merchants' Hotel. They were swept off and were carried a mile down the stream, then thrown on the shore. One of the party, James Ziegler, he said, was drowned while trying to get to the top of the building. One hundred and seventy-five of the corpses brought to Nineveh by the flood were buried this afternoon and to-night on the crest of a hill behind the town. Three trenches were dug two hundred feet long, seven feet wide and four feet deep. The coffins were packed in very much as grocers' boxes are stored in a warehouse. Of the two hundred bodies picked up in the fields after the waters subsided 117 were unidentified and were buried marked "Unknown." Twenty-five were shipped to relatives at outside points. In many cases friends of those who were recognized were unable to do anything to prevent their consignment to the trenches. Altogether twenty-seven were identified to-day. The bodies as fast as they were found were taken to the storehouse of Theodore F. Nimawaker, the station agent here, and laid out on boards. It was impossible on account of their condition to keep them any longer. The County Commissioners bought an acre of ground for $100, out of which they made a cemetery. By Locomotive Headlights. It was sad to see the coffins going up the steep hill on farm wagons, two or three on each wagon. No tender mourners followed the mud-covered hearses. Enough laborers sat on each load to handle it when it reached its destination. The Commissioners of Cumberland county have certainly behaved very handsomely. The coffins ordered were of the best. Some economical citizens suggested that they buy an acre of marsh land by the river, which could be had for a few dollars, but they declared that the remains should be placed in dry ground. The lifeless clay reposes now far out of the reach of the deadly waters which go suddenly down the Conemaugh Valley. It is a pretty spot, this cemetery, and one that a poet would choose for a resting place. Mountains well wooded are on every hand; no black factory smoke defaces the sky line. Two locomotive headlights shed their rays over the cemetery to-night and gave enough light for the men to work by. They rapidly shoveled in the dirt. No priests were there to consecrate the ground or say a prayer over the cold limbs of the unknown. Upon the coffins I noticed such inscriptions as these: "No. 61, unknown girl, aged eight years, supposed to be Sarah Windser." "No. 72, unknown man, black hair, aged about thirty-five years, smooth face." Some of the bodies were more specifically described as "fat," "lean," and to one I saw the term "lusty" applied. CHAPTER XII. Pathetic Scenes. Some of the really pathetic scenes of the flood are just coming to the public ear. John Henderson, his wife, his three children, and the mother of Mrs. Henderson remained in their house until they were carried out by the flood, when they succeeded in getting upon some drift. Mr. Henderson took the babe from his wife, but the little thing soon succumbed to the cold and the child died in its father's arms. He clung to it until it grew cold and stiff and then, kissing it, let it drop into the water. His mother-in-law, an aged lady, was almost as fragile as the babe, and in a few minutes Mr. Henderson, who had managed to get near to the board upon which she was floating saw that she, too, was dying. He did what little he could to help her, but the cold and the shock combined were too much. Assuring himself that the old lady was dead, Mr. Henderson turned his attention to his own safety and allowed the body to float down the stream. In the meantime Mrs. Henderson, who had become separated from her husband, had continued to keep her other two children for some time, but finally a great wave dashed them from her arms and out of her sight. They were clinging to some driftwood, however, and providentially were driven into the very arms of their father, who was some distance down the stream quite unconscious of the proximity of his loved ones. Another whirl of the flood and all were driven over into some eddying water in Stony Creek and carried by backing water to Kernville, where all were rescued. Mrs. Henderson had nearly the same experience. Dr. Holland's Awful Plunge. Dr. Holland, a physician who lived on Vine street, saw both of his children drown before his eyes, but they were not washed out of the building. He took both of them in his arms and bore them to the roof, caring nothing for the moment for the rising water. Finally composing himself, he kissed them both and watched them float away. His father arrived here to-day to assist his son and take home with him the bodies of the children, which have been recovered. Dr. Holland, after the death of his children, was carried out into the flood and finally to a building, in the window of which a man was standing. The doctor held up his hands; the man seized them and dextrously slipping a valuable ring from the finger of one hand, brutally threw him out into the current again. The physician was saved, however, and has been looking for the thief and would-be murderer ever since. Crushed in His Own House. David Dixon, an engineer in the employ of the Cambria Iron Works, was with his family in his house on Cinder Street, when the flood struck the city. The shock overturned his house against that of his neighbor, Evans, and he, with his infant daughter, Edith, was pinned between the houses as a result of the upturning. Both houses were carried down against the viaduct of the Pennsylvania Railroad and there, in sight of his wife and children, excepting a 15-year-old lad, he was drowned, the water rising and smothering him because of his inability to get from between the buildings. His wife was badly crushed and it is thought will be an invalid the remainder of her days. The children, including the babe in its father's arms, were all saved, and the other boy, Joe, one of the brightest, bravest, handsomest little fellows in the world, was in his news-stand near the Pennsylvania passenger station, and was rescued with difficulty by Edward Decker, another boy, just as the driftwood struck the little store and lifted it high off its foundation. Babies who Died Together. This morning two little children apparently not over three and four years old, were taken from the water clasped in each other's arms so tightly that they could not be separated, and they were coffined and buried together. A bright girl, in a gingham sun-bonnet and a faded calico dress came out of the ruins of a fine old brick house next the Catholic church on Jackson street this afternoon. She had a big platter under her arm and announced to a bevy of other girls that the china was all right in the cupboard, but there was so much water in there that she didn't dare go in. She chatted away quite volubly about the fire in the Catholic church, which also destroyed the house of her own mother, Mrs. Foster. "I know the church took fire after the flood," she said, "for mother looked out of the window and said: 'My God! Not only flood, but fire!'" It was a burning house from Conemaugh that struck the house the other side of the church and set it on fire. Aunt Tabby's Trunk. "I didn't think last Tuesday I'd be begging to-day, Emma," interrupted a young man from across the stream of water which ran down the centre of Main Street. "I'm sitting on your aunt Tabby's trunk." The girl gave a cry, half of pained remembrance, half of pleasure. "Oh, my dear Aunt Tabby!" she cried, and, rushing across the rivulet, she threw herself across the battered leather trunk--sole surviving relic of Aunt Tabby; but Aunt Tabby and the finding thereof was a light among other shadows of the day. Nothing but a Baby. Gruesome incidents came oftener than pathetic ones or serio-comic. General Axline, the Adjutant General of Ohio, was walking down the station platform this afternoon, when a boy came sauntering up from the viaduct with a bundle in a handkerchief. The handkerchief dripped water. "What have you there, my boy?" asked the General. The boy cowered a minute, though the General's tone was kindly, for the boy, like every one else in Johnstown, was prepared for a gruff accostal every five minutes from some official, from Adjutant General to constable. Finally he answered: "Nothing but a baby, sir," and began to open his bundle in proof of the truth of his statement. But the big soldier did not put him to the proof. He turned away sick at heart. He did not even ask the boy if he knew whose baby it was. How the Coffins Were Carried. A strangely utilitarian device was that of a Pittsburgh sergeant of Battery B. With one train from the West came several hundred of the morbidly curious, bent upon all the horrors which they could stomach. A crowd of them crossed the viaduct and stopped to gaze round-eyed upon a pile of empty coffins meant for the bodies of the identified dead found up and across the river in the ruins of Johnstown proper. As they gazed the Sergeant, seeking transportation for the coffins, came along. A somewhat malicious inspiration of military genius lighted his eye. With the best imitation possible of a regular army man, he shouted to the idlers, "Each of you men take a coffin." The idlers eyed him. "What for?" one asked. "You want to go into town, don't you?" replied the Sergeant. "Well, not one of you goes unless he takes a coffin with him." In ten minutes time way was made at the ticklish rope bridge for a file of sixteen coffins, each borne by two of the Sergeant's unwilling conscripts, while the Sergeant closed up the rear. Some of the scenes witnessed here were heartrending in the extreme. In one case a beautiful girl came down on the roof of a building which was swung in near the tower. She screamed to the operator to save her and one big, brave fellow walked as far into the river as he could and shouted to her to try to guide herself into the shore with a bit of plank. She was a plucky girl, full of nerve and energy, and stood upon her frail support in evident obedience to the command of the operator. She made two or three bold strokes and actually stopped the course of the raft for an instant. Then it swerved and went out from under her. She tried to swim ashore, but in a few seconds she was lost. Something hit her, for she lay quietly on her back, with face pallid and expressionless. Men and women in dozens, in pairs and singly; children, boys, big and little, and wee babies were there in among the awful confusion of water, drowning, gasping, struggling and fighting desperately for life. Two men on a tiny raft shot into the swiftest part of the current. They crouched stolidly, looking at the shores, while between them, dressed in white and kneeling with her face turned heavenward was a girl seven years old. She seemed stricken with paralysis until she came opposite the tower and then she turned her face to the operator. She was so close they could see big tears on her cheeks and her pallor was as death. The helpless men on shore shouted to her to keep up courage, and she resumed her devout attitude and disappeared under the trees of a projection a short distance below. "We could not see her come out again," said the operator, "and that was all of it." "Do you see that fringe of trees?" said the operator, pointing to the place where the little girl had gone out of sight. "Well, we saw scores of children swept in there. I believe that when the time comes they will find almost a hundred bodies of children in there among those bushes." Floated to their Death. A bit of heroism is related by one of the telegraph operators at Bolivar. He says: "I was standing on the river bank about 7.30 last evening when a raft swept into view. It must have been the floor of a dismantled house. Upon it were grouped two women and a man. They were evidently his mother and sister, for both clung to him as though stupefied with fear as they were whirled under the bridge here. The man could save himself if he had wished by simply reaching up his hand and catching the timber of the structure. He apparently saw this himself, and the temptation must have been strong for him to do so, but in one second more he was seen to resolutely shake his head and clasp the women tighter around the waist. "On they sped. Ropes were thrown out from the tree tops, but they were unable to catch them, though they grasped for the lines eagerly enough. Then a tree caught in their raft and dragged after them. In this way they swept out of view." Still finding bodies by scores in the burning débris; still burying the dead and caring for the wounded; still feeding the famishing and housing the homeless, and this on the fourth day following the one on which Johnstown was swept away. The situation of horror has not changed; there are hundreds, and it is feared thousands, still buried beneath the scattered ruins that disfigure the V-shaped valley in which Johnstown stood. A perfect stream of wagons bearing the dead as fast as they are discovered is constantly filing to the improvised morgues, where the bodies are taken for identification. Hundreds of people are constantly crowding to these temporary houses, one of which is located in each of the suburban boroughs that surround Johnstown. Men armed with muskets, uniformed sentinels, constituting the force that guard the city while it is practically under martial law, stand at the doors and admit the crowd by tens. In the Central Dead House. In the Central dead house in Johnstown proper, as early as 9 o'clock to-day there lay two rows of ghastly dead. To the right were twenty bodies that had been identified. They were mostly women and children and they were entirely covered with white sheets, and a piece of paper bearing the name was pinned at the feet. To the left were eighteen bodies of the unknown dead. As the people passed they were hurried along by an attendant and gazed at the uncovered faces seeking to identify them. All applicants for admission if it is thought they are prompted by idle curiosity, are not allowed to enter. The central morgue was formerly a school-house, and the desks are used as biers for the dead bodies. Three of the former pupils yesterday lay on the desks dead, with white pieces of paper pinned on to the white sheets that covered them, giving their names. Looking for Their Loved Ones. But what touching scenes are enacted every hour about this mournful building. Outside the sharp voices of the sentinels are constantly shouting: "Move on." Inside, weeping women and sad-faced, hollow-eyed men are bending over loved and familiar faces. Back on the steep grassy hill which rises abruptly on the other side of the street are crowds of curious people who come in from the country round about to look at the wreckage strewn around where Johnstown was. "Oh, Mr. Jones," a pale-faced woman asks, walking up, sobbing, "can't you tell me where we can get a coffin to bury Johnnie's body?" "Do you know," asks a tottering old man, as the pale-faced woman turns away, "whether they have found Jennie and the children?" "Jennie's body has just been found at the bridge," is the answer, "but the children can't be found." Jennie is the old man's married daughter, and she was drowned, with her two children, while her husband was at work over at the Cambria Mills. They Ran for Their Lives. Miss Jennie Paulson, who was on the Chicago day express, is dead. She was seen to go back with a companion into the doomed section of the day express in the Conemaugh Valley, and is swept away in the flood. Last evening, after the evening train had just left Johnstown for Pittsburgh, it was learned that quite a number of the survivors of the wrecked train, who have been at Altoona since last Saturday, were on board. After a short search they were located, and quite an interesting talk was the result. Probably the most interesting interview, at least to Pittsburghers, was that had with Mrs. Montgomery Wilcox, of Philadelphia, who was on one of the Pullman sleepers attached to the lost express train. She tells a most exciting tale and confirms beyond the shadow of a doubt the story of Miss Jennie Paulson's tragic death. A Fatal Pair of Rubbers. She says: "We had been making but slow progress all the day. Our train laid at Johnstown nearly the whole day of Friday. We then proceeded as far as Conemaugh, and had stopped for some cause or other, probably on account of the flood. Miss Paulson and a Miss Bryan were seated in front of me. Miss Paulson had on a plaid dress with shirred waist of red cloth goods. Her companion was dressed in black. Both had lovely corsage bouquets of roses. I had heard that they had been attending a wedding before they left Pittsburgh. The Pittsburgh lady was reading a novel. Miss Bryan was looking out of the window. When the alarm came we all sprang toward the door, leaving everything behind us. I had just reached the door when poor Miss Paulson and her friend, who were behind me, decided to return for their rubbers, which they did. Chased as by a Serpent. "I sprang from the car into a ditch next the hillside in which the water was already a foot and a half deep and with the others climbed up the mountainside for our very lives. We had to do so as the water glided up after us like a huge serpent. Any one ten feet behind us would have been lost beyond a doubt. I glanced back at the train when I had reached a place of safety, but the water already covered it and the Pullman car in which the ladies were was already rolling down the valley in the grasp of the angry waters. Quite a number of us reached the house of a Mr. Swenzel, or some such name, one of the railroad men, whom we afterward learned had lost two daughters at Johnstown. We made ourselves as comfortable as possible until the next day, when we proceeded by conveyances as far as Altoona, having no doubt but what we could certainly proceed east from that point. We found the middle division of the Pennsylvania Railroad was, if anything, in a worse condition than the western, so we determined to go as far as Ebensburg by train, whence we reached Johnstown to-day by wagon." Mrs. G.W. Childs' Escape. Mrs. George W. Childs, of Philadelphia, was also a member of the party. She was on her way West, and reached Altoona on Friday, after untold difficulties. She is almost prostrated by the severe ordeal through which she and many others have passed, and therefore had but little to say, only averring that Mrs. Wilcox and her friends, who were on the lost train, had passed through perils beside which her own sank into insignificance. [Illustration: SWEPT AWAY ON THE TRAIN.] Assistant Superintendent Crump telegraphs from Blairsville Junction that the day express, eastbound from Chicago to New York, and the mail train from Pittsburgh bound east, were put on the back tracks in the yard at Conemaugh when the flooded condition of the main tracks made it apparently unsafe to proceed further. When the continued rise of the water made their danger apparent, the frightened passengers fled from the two trains to the hills near by. Many in their wild excitement threw themselves into the raging current and were drowned. It is supposed that about fifteen persons lost their lives in this way. After the people had deserted the cars, the railroad officials state, the two Pullman cars attached to the day express were set on fire and entirely consumed. A car of lime was standing near the train. When the water reached the lime it set fire to the car and the flames reaching the sleepers they were entirely consumed. Exhuming the Dead. Three hundred bodies were exhumed to-day. In one spot at Main and Market streets the workmen came upon thirty, among whom were nine members of the Fitzparis family--the father, mother, seven children and the grandfather. Only one child, a little girl of nine years, is left out of a family of ten. She is now being cared for by the citizens' committee. The body of a beautiful young girl was found at the office of the Cambria Iron Company. When the corpse was conveyed to the morgue a man entered in search of some relatives. The first body he came to he exclaimed: "That's my wife," and a few feet further off he recognized in the young girl found at the Cambria Iron Company's office his daughter, Theresa Downs. Both bodies had been found within a hundred yards of each other. A dozen instances have occurred where people have claimed bodies and were mistaken. This is due to the over-zeal of people to get their relatives and bury them. Nine children walked into one of the relief stations this morning, led by a girl of sixteen years. They said that their father, mother and two other children had been swallowed up by the flood, the family having originally comprised thirteen persons in all. Their story was investigated by Officer Fowler, of Pittsburgh, and it was found to be true. Near Main street the body of a woman was taken out with three children lying on her. She was about to become a mother. Nursing Their Sorrows. The afflicted people quietly bear their crosses. The calamity has been so general that the sufferers feel that everybody has been treated alike. Grouped together, the sorrows of each other assist in keeping up the strength and courage of all. In the excitement and hurry of the present, loss of friends is forgotten, but the time will come when it is all over and the world gradually drifts back to business, forgetful that such a town as Johnstown ever existed. Then it is that sufferers will realize what they have lost. Hearts will then be full of grief and despair and the time for sympathy will be at hand. Michael Martin was one of those on the hillside when the water was rushing through the town. The spectacle was appalling. Women on the hills were shrieking and ringing their hands--in fact, people beyond reach of the flood made more noise than those unfortunate creatures struggling in the water. The latter in trying to save themselves hadn't time to shriek. Michael Martin said: "I was on the hillside and watched the flood. You ask me what it looked like. I can't tell. I never saw such a scene before and never expect to again. On one of the first houses that struck the bridge there was standing a woman wearing a white shawl. When the house struck the bridge she threw up her hands and fell back into the water. A little boy and girl came floating down on a raft from South Fork. The water turned the raft toward the Kernville hill and as soon as it struck the bank he jumped on the hill, dragging his little sister with him. Both were saved. "I saw three men and three women on the roof of a house. When they were passing the Cambria Iron Works the men jumped off and the women were lost. Mr. Overbeck left his family in McM. row and swam to the club house, then he tried to swim to Morrell's residence and was drowned. His family was saved. At the corner of the company's store a man called for help for two days, but no one could reach him. The voice finally ceased and I suppose he died. A Brave Girl. "Rose Clark was fastened in the débris at the bridge. Her coolness was remarkable and she was more calm than the people trying to get her out. She begged the men to cut her leg off. One man worked six hours before she was released. She had an arm and leg broken. I saw three men strike the bridge and go down. William Walter was saved. He was anchored on Main street and he saw about two hundred people in the water. He believes two-thirds of them were drowned. A frightened woman clung to a bush near him and her long hair stood straight out. About twenty people were holding to those in the neighborhood, but most of them were lost. "John Reese, a policeman, got out on the roof of his house. In a second afterward the building fell in on his wife and drowned her. She waved a kiss to her husband and then died. Two servant girls were burned in the Catholic priest's house. The church was also consumed." Along the Valley of Death. Fifteen miles by raft and on foot along the banks of the raging Conemaugh and in the refugee trains between Johnstown and Pittsburgh. Such was the trip, fraught with great danger, but prolific of results, which the writer has just completed. All along the line events of thrilling interest mingled with those of heartrending sadness transpired, demonstrating more than ever the magnitude of the horrible tragedy of last Friday. Just as the day was dawning I left the desolate city of Johnstown, and, wending my way along the shore of the winding Conemaugh to Sheridan, I succeeded in persuading a number of brave and stout-hearted men, who had constructed a raft and were about to start on an extended search for the lost who are known to be strewn all along this fated stream, to take me with them. The river is still very high, and while the current is not remarkably swift, the still flowing débris made the expedition one of peril. Between the starting point and Nineveh several bodies were recovered. They were mostly imbedded in the sand close to the shore, which had to be hugged for safety all the way. Indeed the greater part of the trip was made on foot, the raft being towed along from the water's edge by the tireless rescuers. Just above Sang Hollow the party stopped to assist a little knot of men who were engaged in searching amid the ruins of a hut which lay wedged between a mass of trees on the higher ground. A man's hat and coat were fished out, but there was no trace of the human being to whom they once belonged. Perhaps he is alive; perhaps his remains are among the hundreds of unidentified dead, and perhaps he sleeps beneath the waters between here and the gulf. Who can tell? Died in Harness. A little farther down we came across two horses and a wagon lying in the middle of the river. The dumb animals had literally died in harness. Of their driver nothing is known. At this point an old wooden rocker was fished out of the water and taken on shore. Here three women were working in the ruins of what had once been their happy home. When one of them spied the chair it brought back to her a wealth of memory and for the first time, probably, since the flood occurred she gave way to a flood of tears, tears as welcome as sunshine from heaven, for they opened up her whole soul and allowed pent-up grief within to flow freely out and away. One Touch of Nature. "Where in the name of God," she sobbed, "did you get that chair? It was mine--no, I don't want it. Keep it and find for me, if you can, my album; in it are the faces of my dead husband and little girl." When the rough men who have worked days in the valley of death turned away from this scene there was not a dry eye in the crowd. One touch of nature, and the thought of little ones at home, welded them in heart and sympathy to this Niobe of the valley. At Sang Hollow we came up with a train-load of refugees en route for Pittsburgh. As I entered the car I was struck by two things. The first was an old man, whose silvered locks betokened his four-score years, and the second was a little clump of children, three in number, playing on a seat in the upper end of the coach. Judge Potts' Escape. The white-haired patriarch was Judge James Potts, aged 80, one of the best known residents of Johnstown, who escaped the flood's ravages in a most remarkable manner. Beside him was his daughter, while opposite sat his son. There was one missing to complete the family party, Jennie, the youngest daughter, who went down with the tide and whose remains have not yet been found. The thrilling yet pathetic story of the escape of the old Judge is best told in his own language. Said he: "You ask me how I was saved. I answer, God alone knows. With my little family I lived on Walnut street, next door to the residence of President McMillan, of the Cambria Iron Company. When the waters surrounded us we made our way to the third floor, and huddled together in one room, determined, if die we must, to perish together. Encircled by Water. "Higher and higher rose the flood, while our house was almost knocked from its foundations by the ever-increasing mountain of débris floating along. At last the bridge at Woodvale, which had given way a short time before, struck the house and split it asunder, as a knife might have split a piece of paper. "The force of the shock carried us out upon the débris, and we floated around upon it for hours, finally landing near the bridge. When we looked about for Jennie (here the old man broke down and sobbed bitterly) she was nowhere to be seen. She had obeyed the Master's summons." A Miraculous Escape. The three little girls, to whom I have referred, were the children of Austin Lountz, a plasterer, living back of Water street. They were as happy as happy could be and cut up in childish fashion all the way down. Their good spirits were easily accounted for when it was learned that father, mother, children and all had a miraculous escape, when it looked as if all would be lost. The entire family floated about for hours on the roof of a house, finally landing high upon the hillside. Elmer G. Speck, traveling salesman of Pittsburgh, was at the Merchants' Hotel when the flood occurred, having left the Hurlburt House but a few hours before. He said: "With a number of others I got from the hotel to the hill in a wagon. The sight from our eminence was one that I shall never forget--that I can never fully describe. The whole world appeared to be topsy-turvy and at the mercy of an angry and destroying demon of the elements. People were floating about on housetops and in wagons, and hundreds were clinging to tree-trunks, logs and furniture of every imaginable description. "My sister, Miss Nina, together with my step-brother and his wife, whom she was visiting, drifted with the tide on the roof of a house a distance of two blocks, where they were rescued. With a number of others I built a raft and in a short time had pulled eleven persons from the very jaws of death. Continuing, Mr. Speck related how a number of folks from Woodvale had all come down upon their housetops. Mr. Curtis Williams and his family picked their way from house to house, finally being pulled in the Catholic church window by ropes." Three of a Family Drowned. William Hinchman, with his wife and two children, reached the stone bridge in safety. Here one of the babies was swept away through the arches. The others were also swept with the current, and when they came out on the other side the remaining child was missing, while below Mrs. Hinchman disappeared, leaving her husband the sole survivor of a family of four. "Did your folks all escape alive?" I asked of George W. Hamilton, late assistant superintendent of the Cambria Iron Company, whom I met on the road near New Florence. "Oh, no" was his reply. "Out of a family of sixteen seven are lost. My brother, his wife, two children, my sister, her husband and one child, all are gone; that tells the tale. I escaped with my wife by jumping from a second story window onto the moving débris. We landed back of the Morrell Institute safe and sound." Hairbreadth Escapes. The stories of hairbreadth escapes and the annihilation of families continue to be told. Here is one of them. J. Paul Kirchmann, a young man, boarded with George Schroeder's family in the heart of the town, and when the flood came the house toppled over and went rushing away in the swirling current. There were seven in all in the party and Kirchmann found himself wedged in between two houses, with his head under water. He dived down, and when he again came to the surface succeeded in getting on the roof of one of them. The others had preceded him there, and the house floated to the cemetery, over a mile and a half away, where all of them were rescued. Kirchmann, however, had fainted, and for seven or eight hours was supposed to be dead. He recovered, and is now assisting to get at the bodies buried in the ruins. Saloon-keeper Fitzharris and his family of six had the lives crushed out of them when their house collapsed, and early this morning all of them, the father, mother and five children were taken from the wreck, and are now at the morgue. Emil Young, a jeweler, lived with mother, wife, three sons and daughter over his store on Clinton street, near Main. They were all in the house when the wild rush of water surrounded their home, lifted it from its foundation and carried it away. Young and his daughter were drowned and it was then that his mother and wife showed their heroism and saved the life of the other members of the family. The mother is 80 years of age, but her orders were so promptly given and so ably executed by the younger Mrs. Young that when the house floated near another in which was a family of nine all were taken off and eventually saved. Even after this trying ordeal the younger woman washed the bodies of her husband and nineteen others and prepared them for burial. The Whole Family Escaped. Another remarkable escape of a whole family was that of William H. Rosensteel, a tanner, of Woodvale, a suburb of Johnstown. His house was in the track of the storm, and, with his two daughters, Tillie and Mamie, his granddaughter and a dog, he was carried down on the kitchen roof. They floated into the Bon Ton Clothing House, a mile and a half away, on Main street. Here they remained all night, but were taken off by Mrs. Emil Young and went to Pittsburgh. Jacob I. Horner and his family of eight had their house in Hornerstown thrown down by the water and took refuge in a tree. After awhile they returned to their overturned house, but again got into the tree, from which they were rescued after an enforced stay of a number of hours. Charles Barnes, a real estate dealer on Main street, was worth $10,000 last Friday and had around him a family of four. To-day all his loved ones are dead and he has only $6 in his pockets. The family of John Higson, consisting of himself, wife, and young son, lived at 123 Walnut street. Miss Sarah Thomas, of Cumberland, was a visitor, and a hired man, a Swede, also lived in the house. The water had backed up to the rear second-story windows before the great wave came, and about 5 o'clock they heard the screaching of a number of whistles on the Conemaugh. Rushing to the windows they saw what they thought to be a big cloud approaching them. Before they could reach a place of safety the building was lifted up and carried up Stony creek for about one-quarter of a mile. As the water rushed they turned into the river and were carried about three-quarters of a mile further on. All the people were in the attic and as the house was hurled with terrific force against the wreckage piled up against the Pennsylvania Railroad bridge Higson called to them to jump. They failed to do so, but at the second command Miss Thomas leaped through the window, the others followed, and after a dangerous walk over fifty yards of broken houses safely reached the shore. [Illustration: CHILD FOUND THUMPING ON A WRECKED PIANO.] CHAPTER XIII. Digging for the Dead. A party started in early exploring the huge mass of débris banked against the Pennsylvania Railroad bridge. This collection, consisting of trees, sides of houses, timber and innumerable articles, varies in thickness from three or four feet to twenty feet. It is about four hundred yards long, and as wide as the river. There are thousands of tons in this vast pile. How many bodies are buried there it is impossible to say, but conservative estimates place it at one thousand at least. The corps of workmen who were searching the ruins near the Methodist Church late this evening were horrified by unearthing one hundred additional bodies. The great number at this spot shows what may be expected when all have been recovered. When the mass which blazed several days was extinguished it was simple to recover the bodies on the surface. It is now a question, however, of delving into the almost impenetrable collection to get at those lodged within. The grinding tree trunks doubtless crushed those beneath into mere unrecognizable masses of flesh. Those on the surface were nearly all so much burned as to resemble nothing human. Meanwhile the searchers after bodies, armed with spikes, hooks and crowbars, pry up the débris and unearth what they can. Bodies, or rather fractions of them, are found in abundance near the surface. Tracing Bodies by the Smell. I was here when the gang came across one of the upper stories of a house. It was merely a pile of boards apparently, but small pieces of a bureau and a bed spring from which the clothes had been burned showed the nature of the find. A faint odor of burned flesh prevailed exactly at this spot. "Dig here," said the physician to the men. "There is one body at least quite close to the surface." The men started in with a will. A large pile of underclothes and household linen was brought up first. It was of fine quality and evidently such as would be stored in the bedroom of a house occupied by people quite well to do. Shovels full of jumbled rubbish were thrown up, and the odor of flesh became more pronounced. Presently one of the men exposed a charred lump of flesh and lifted it up on the end of a pitchfork. It was all that remained of some poor creature who had met an awful death between water and fire. The trunk was put on a cloth, the ends were looped up making a bag of it, and the thing was taken to the river bank. It weighed probably thirty pounds. A stake was driven in the ground to which a tag was attached giving a description of the remains. This is done in many cases to the burned bodies, and they lay covered with cloths upon the bank until men came with coffins to remove them. Then the tag was taken from the stakes and tacked on the coffin lid, which was immediately closed up, as identification was of course out of the question. There is a stack of coffins by the railroad bridge. Sometimes a coffin is carried to the spot on the charred débris where the find is made. Prodding Corpses with Canes. The searchers by thrusting down a stick or fork are pretty sure to find a corpse. I saw a man run a cane in the débris down to the hilt and it came up with human flesh sticking to it. Another ran a stick into the thoroughly cooked skull of a little boy two feet below the surface. There are bodies probably as far down as seventy feet in some cases, and it does not seem plain now how they are to be recovered. One plan would be to take away the top layers of wood with derricks, and of course the mass beneath will rise closer to the surface. The weather is cold to-day, and the offensive smell that was so troublesome on the warm days is not noticeable at a distance. Saved From Disfiguration. The workers began on the wreck on Main street just opposite the First National Bank, one of the busiest parts of the city. A large number of people were lost here, the houses being crushed on one side of the street and being almost untouched on the other, a most remarkable thing considering the terrific force of the flood. Twenty-one bodies were taken out in the early morning and removed to the morgue. They were not very much injured, considering the weight of lumber above them. In many instances they were wedged in crevices. They were all in a good state of preservation, and when they were embalmed they looked almost lifelike. In this central part of the city examination is sure to result in the unearthing of bodies in every corner. Cottages which are still standing are banked up with lumber and driftwood, and it is like mining to make any kind of a clear space. I have seen relations of people who are missing, and who are supposed to be in the ruins of their homes, waiting patiently by the hour for men to come and take away the débris. When bodies are found, the location of which was known, there are frequently two or three friends on the spot to see them dug up. Four and five of the same family have been taken from a space of ten feet square. In one part of the river gorge this afternoon were found the bodies of a woman and a child. They were close together and they were probably mother and infant. Not far away was the corpse of a man looking like a gnarled and mis-shapen section of a root of a tree. The bodies from the fire often seem to have been twisted up, as if the victims died in great agony. Rapidly Burying the Dead. The order that was issued last night that all unidentified dead be buried to-day is being rapidly carried out. The Rev. Mr. Beall, who has charge of the morgue at the Fourth ward school-house, which is the chief place, says that a large force of men has been put at work digging graves, and at the close of the afternoon the remains will be laid away as rapidly as it can be done. In the midst of this scene of death and desolation, a relenting Providence seems to be exerting a subduing influence. Six days have elapsed since the great disaster, and the temperature still remains low and chilly in the Conemaugh Valley. When it is remembered that in the ordinary June weather of this locality from two to three days are sufficient to bring an unattended body to a state of decay and putrefaction that would render it almost impossible to prevent the spread of disease throughout the valley, the inestimable benefits of this cool weather are almost beyond appreciation. The emanations from the half mile of débris above the bridge are but little more offensive than yesterday, and should this cool weather continue a few days longer it is possible hundreds of bodies may yet be recovered from the wreck in such a state of preservation as to render identification possible. Many hundreds of victims, however, will be roasted and charred into such shapeless masses as to preclude a hope of recognition by their nearest relative. Getting Down to Systematic Work. The work of clearing up the wreck and recovering the bodies is now being done most systematically. Over six thousand men are at work in the various portions of the valley, and each little gang of twenty men is directed by a foreman, who is under orders from the general headquarters. As the rubbish is gone over and the bodies and scattered articles of value are recovered, the débris is piled up in one high mass and the torch applied. In this way the valley is assuming a less devastated condition. In twenty-four hours more every mass of rubbish will probably have been searched, and the investigations will be confined to the smoking wreck above Johnstown bridge. The Westmoreland Relief Committee complained of the Indiana county authorities for not having a committee to search the shores on that side for bodies. They say that all that is being done is by parties who are hunting for anything valuable they can find. Up to two o'clock this afternoon only eight bodies had been taken out of the drift above the bridge. None of them was recognized. The work of pulling it out goes on very slowly. It has been suggested that a stationary engine should be planted on the east side of the pile and a rope and pulley worked on it. The Keystone Hotel, a huge frame structure, was rapidly being pulled to pieces this morning, and when this has been done the work of taking out the bodies will be begun at this point. The immense wreck will most undoubtedly yield up many bodies. The bodies of a woman and three children were taken from the débris in front of the First National Bank at ten o'clock this morning. The woman was the mother of the three children, ranging in age from one to five years, and she had them all clasped in her arms. Booth & Flinn, the Pittsburgh contractors, have just put to work another large force of men. They have divided the town into districts, and the work is being conducted in a systematic manner. Main street is being rapidly opened up, and scores of bodies have been taken out this morning from under the Hurlburt House. Only Found One of Her Family. The first body taken from the ruins was that of a boy named Davis, who was found in the débris near the bridge. He was badly bruised and burned. The remains were taken to the undertaking rooms at the Pennsylvania Railroad station, where they were identified as those of William Davis. The boy's mother has been making a tour of the different morgues for the past few days, and was just going through the undertaking rooms when she saw the remains of her boy being brought in. She ran up to the remains and demanded the child. She seemed to have lost her mind, and caused quite a scene by her actions. She stated that she had lost her husband and six children in the flood, and that this was the first one of the family that had been recovered. At the First Presbyterian Church, which is being used as a morgue, seventeen bodies taken from the débris and river have been brought in. The relief corps from Altoona found a body near Stony Bridge this morning. On his person was found a gold watch and chain, and $250 in money, which was turned over to the proper authorities. This corps took out some thirty-two bodies or more from the ruins yesterday. A.J. Hayes, whose wife's body was taken out of the river last night, had the body taken up into the mountains where he dug her grave and said:--"I buried all that is dear to me. As for myself I don't care how soon death overtakes me." At quarter past one this afternoon, fifty bodies had been taken from the débris in front of the Catholic Church in Johnstown borough. About forty of the bodies were those of women. They were immediately removed to the morgue for identification. Dr. Beall, who has the supervision of the morgues in Johnstown, said that so far 2,300 bodies had been recovered in Johnstown proper, most of which had been identified and buried. Dynamite and Derricks Used. At one o'clock this afternoon the use of dynamite was resumed to burst the logs so that the débris in the dam at the bridge can be loosened and floated down the river. The dynamite is placed in holes bored into the massive timbers. When the log has been broken a chain is attached to its parts and it is then hoisted by a machine on the bridge and dropped into the current of the river. Contractor Kirk has abandoned the idea of constructing a dam to overflow the mass of ruins at the bridge. The water has fallen and cannot be raised to a serviceable height. A powerful windlass has been constructed at a point about one hundred feet below the bridge, and a rope attached to it is fastened to logs at the edge of the débris. In this way the course between one of the six spans of the railroad bridge has been cleared out. Where dynamite has been used to burst the logs another span has been freed of the débris, a space of about twenty by forty feet being cleared. The men are now well supplied with tools, but the force is not large enough to make rapid headway. It is believed that many more bodies will be found when the débris is loosened and started down the river. Dynamite Tears the Bodies. Thirteen bodies were taken from the burning débris at the stone bridge at one time this afternoon. None of the bodies were recognizable, and they were put in coffins and buried immediately. They were so badly decomposed that it was impossible to keep them until they could be identified. During a blast at the bridge this afternoon two bodies were almost blown to pieces. The blasting has had the effect of opening the channel under the central portion of the bridge. In Unwholesome Company. I came up here from Nineveh last night with the most disreputable crowd I ever traveled with. They were human buzzards flocking to the scene of horrors. There was danger of a fight every moment, and if one had been started there is little doubt that it would have been short and bloody, for the conduct of the rowdy portion of the travellers had enraged the decent persons, to whom the thought of drunkenness and ribaldry at such a time was abhorrent, and they were quite ready to undertake the work of pitching the demoralized beings off the cars. Wedged in here and there between intoxicated ruffians, who were indulging in the foulest jests about the corpses on which they were about to feast their eyes, were pale faced women, sad and red eyed, who looked as if they had had little sleep since the horrible collapse of the dam. Some of them were bound for Johnstown to claim and bring back bodies already identified, while others were on a trip for the ruins to commence a long and perhaps fruitless search for whatever might be left of their relatives. Some of those who misbehaved were friends of the lost, who, worn out with loss of sleep, had taken to drink and become madmen, but the greater part were merely sight-seers or robbers of the dead. Avaricious Tramps. There were many tramps whose avarice had been stimulated by hearing of diamond rings and watches found on the dead. There was one little drunken hunchback who told those in the car who listened to him that years ago he had quarrelled with his parents in Johnstown and had not seen them since. He was on the way now to see if anything was left of them. One moment he was in maudlin tears and the next he was cracking some miserable joke about the disaster. He went about the car shaking dice with other inebriated passengers, and in the course of half an hour had won $6. Over this he exhibited almost the glee of a maniac, and the fate of his people was lost sight of. Then he would presently forget his gains and go sobbing up the aisle looking for listeners to his pitiful story. There were two sinister looking Hungarians in the smoking car and their presence excited the anger of a handful of drunken maniacs. They made loud speeches, denouncing the conduct of Hungarians who robbed the Johnstown dead, levelling their remarks at the particular two. As they grew more excited they demanded that the passengers make a move and lynch the fellows. A great deal of trouble would have ensued, doubtless, if the train had not at that moment stopped at Sang Hollow, four miles from Johnstown. The conductor shouted out that the passengers must leave the car and walk along the track the remainder of the distance. A Strange Procession. We started out in the fast gathering darkness and the loiterers who held back made a long string. The drunken ruffians staggered along the tracks, howling with glee and talking about corpses, showing what their object was in coming. The tired out and disheartened women crowded under the shelter of the more respectable men. There was one member of the Pennsylvania National Guard in the troop with his bayonet, and he seemed to be the rallying point for the timid. [Illustration: MAP OF THE DISTRICT SWEPT BY THE FLOOD.] When the mob reached the outskirts of Johnstown they came across a little camp of military with outposts. I had been told that soldiers were keeping people who had no business there out of the lost city, and to insure my passage through the lines I had procured an order from Mr. McCreery, chairman of the Chamber of Commerce Committee at Pittsburgh, stating that I was entitled to go through. I knew that the drunken lunatics behind me could have no such documents, and I imagined the soldiers would stop them. Nothing of the kind happened. Whole troops surged through the line. No passes were asked from them and they showed none. They only quieted down for a moment when they saw the uniforms of the National Guard. Reinforcing Disorder. The mob merely helped to swell the host of thieves, cutthroats and pickpockets with which the region is infested. The trains which had passed us, going from Johnstown to Pittsburgh looked as if they might be made up of joyous excursionists. The cars were crowded to the platforms, and for some reason or other dozens of the inebriated passengers thought it appropriate to cheer and yell, though God knows the whole surroundings were calculated to make a human being shed tears of anguish. The sight of the coffins in the baggage cars, some of them containing the dead, had no dampening effect upon the spirit of these roysterers. The reaction from debauches and excitement is terrible, and there can be little doubt that many minds will give way under the strain. One of the wonders of the disaster is the absence of suicide and the apparently calm way in which the most wofully bereaved support themselves under their terrible loss. It must be an unnatural calm. Men have quietly told me that they have lost their entire families and then have suddenly changed the subject and talked of some absurdly trivial matter with an air of great interest, but it was easy to see that there was some numbing influence over the mechanism of the mind. It is unnatural and awful. It is almost impossible to realize that the troops of workmen leisurely digging in the ruins as if engaged in everyday employment are really digging for the dead, and it is only in the actual sight of death and its emblems that one can persuade one's self that it is all true. The want of sleep conduces to an unnatural condition of the mind, under which these awful facts are bearable to the bereaved. Picketing the Ruins. It was like a military camp here last night. So many citizens have been knocked down and robbed that the soldiers had special instructions to see that no queer characters got through to the centre of the town. I had an excellent chance of seeing how impossible it was for an unauthorized person to move about the town easily, although he could get into the interior. I had been kindly invited to sleep on a wisp of hay in a neighboring barn, but being detained late in the valley reached the press headquarters after my host had left. It was a question of hunting shelter or sleeping on the ground. A gentleman whom I met told me that he was living in a Baltimore and Ohio day passenger coach about a mile out, and that if we could find our way there I was welcome to a soft place on the floor. We spoke to the nearest picket. He told us that it would be madness to try to cross one part of the ground unless we had revolvers, because a gang of Huns were in hiding ready to knock down passengers and hold up any one who seemed defenceless. However, after a little cogitating, he said that he would escort us to General Hastings' headquarters, and we started, picking our way over the remains of streets and passing over great obstructions that had been left by the torrent. Ruin and wreck were on every hand. You could not tell where one street began and another left off, and in some places there was only soft mud, as devoid of evidence of the former presence of buildings as a meadow is, though they had been the sites of business blocks. It was washed clean. A Weird Journey. Our guide told us the details of the capture of five marauders who had been robbing the dead. They had cut off the head of a woman found in the débris to get her earrings. He said that a number of deputy sheriffs had declared that at dawn they would march to the place where the prisoners were and take them out and hang them. My military friend said that he and his comrades would not be particularly anxious to interfere. The scene as we picked our way was lighted up by camp fires, around which sat groups of deputy sheriffs in slouch hats. They were a grim looking set, armed with clubs and guns. A few had rifles and some wore revolvers in their belts in regular leather cowboy pockets. The camp fires were about two hundred yards apart and to pass them without being challenged was impossible. At the adjutant general's office we got a pass entitling us to pass the pickets, and bidding our guardsman good-night we started off escorted by a deputy sheriff. There were long lines of camp fires and every few rods we had to produce credentials. It was a pretty effect that was produced by the blazing logs. They lighted up the valley for some distance, throwing in relief the windowless ruins of what were once fine residences, bank buildings or factories. Embedded in the mud were packages of merchandise, such as sugar in barrels, etc., and over these we stumbled continually. A Muddy Desert. Streams were running through the principal streets of the city. In some parts all that was left of the thoroughfares were the cobble stones--by which it was possible to trace streets for a short distance--and the street railway tracks remaining in places for spaces of a hundred feet or so. There were some buildings outside of the track of the full force of the torrent, the roofs of which seemed not to have been reached. Others had been on fire and had lost parts of their walls. It was a dismal sight, this desolation, as shown up by the fitful camp fires. It was only after climbing over perilous places, crossing streams and narrowly escaping with our necks, that we came within sight of the car at two o'clock this morning. We passed by a school house used as a morgue. Several people were inside gazing by lamp light at the silent bodies in a hunt for lost ones. Piles of coffins, brown and white, were in the school playground, which resounded not many days ago with the shouts of children, some of whom lie there now. There are heaps of coffins everywhere throughout the city. Conversation with the deputy sheriffs showed a deep-rooted hatred against the Huns, and a determination to shoot them down like dogs if they were caught prowling about near the exposed property. While we were toiling over débris we heard three shots about a quarter of a mile off. We could learn nothing of their report. The service done by the deputy sheriffs was excellent. Mistaken Identification. At St. Columba's Catholic Church the scenes were striking in their individual peculiarities. One woman came in and identified a body as that of Katie Frank. The undertakers labeled it accordingly, but in a few moments another woman entered the church, raised the lid of the coffin, scanned the face of the corpse, and then tore the label from the casket. The undertakers were then warned by the woman to be more careful in labelling coffins in the future. She then began to weep, and left the church in despair. She was Katie's mother, and Katie is yet among the wreck in the river below. The lot of bodies held and coffined at Morrellville presented a different feature. The mud was six inches deep, and the drizzling rain added gloom to the scene. Here and there could be seen, kneeling in the mud, broken hearted wives and mothers who sobbed and prayed. The incidents here were heartrending. At the Fourth ward school-house morgue a woman from Erie, whose name could not be learned, went to the morgue in search of some one, but fainted on seeing the long line of coffins. At the Kernville morgue one little boy named Elrod, on finding his father and mother both dead, seized a hatchet, and for some time would let no one enter the place, claiming that the people were lying to him and wanted to rob him of his father and mother. One sad incident was the sight of two coffins lying in the Gautier graveyard with nobody to bury them. A solitary woman was gazing at them in a dazed manner, while the rain beat on her unprotected head. CHAPTER XIV. Hairbreadth Escapes. So vast is the field of destruction that to get an adequate idea from any point level with the town is simply impossible. It must be viewed from a height. From the top of Kernville Mountain just at the east of the town the whole strange panorama can be seen. Looking down from that height many strange things about the flood that appear inexplicable from below are perfectly plain. How so many houses happened to be so queerly twisted, for instance, as if the water had a whirling instead of a straight motion, was made perfectly clear. The town was built in an almost equilateral triangle, with one angle pointed squarely up the Conemaugh Valley to the east, from which the flood came. At the northerly angle was the junction of the Conemaugh and Stony creeks. The Southern angle pointed up the Stony Creek Valley. Now about one-half of the triangle, formerly densely covered with buildings, is swept as clean as a platter, except for three or four big brick buildings that stand near the angle which points up the Conemaugh. Course of the Flood. The course of the flood from the exact point where it issued from the Conemaugh Valley to where it disappeared below in a turn in the river and above by spreading itself over the flat district of five or six miles, is clearly defined. The whole body of water issued straight from the valley in a solid wave and tore across the village of Woodvale and so on to the business part of Johnstown at the lower part of the triangle. Here a cluster of solid brick blocks, aided by the conformation of the land, evidently divided the stream. The greater part turned to the north, swept up the brick block and then mixed with the ruins of the villages above down to the stone arch bridge. The other stream shot across the triangle, was turned southward by the bluffs and went up the valley of Stony Creek. The stone arch bridge in the meantime acted as a dam and turned part of the current back toward the south, where it finished the work of the triangle, turning again to the northward and back to the stone arch bridge. The stream that went up Stony Creek was turned back by the rising ground and then was reinforced by the back water from the bridge again and started south, where it reached a mile and a half and spent its force on a little settlement called Grubbtown. Work of the Water. The frequent turning of this stream, forced against the buildings and then the bluffs, gave it a regular whirling motion from right to left and made a tremendous eddy, whose centrifugal force twisted everything it touched. This accounts for the comparatively narrow path of the flood through the southern part of the town, where its course through the thickly clustered frame dwelling houses is as plain as a highway. The force of the stream diminished gradually as it went south, for at the place where the currents separated every building is ground to pieces and carried away, and at the end the houses were only turned a little on their foundations. In the middle of the course they are turned over on their sides or upside down. Further down they are not single, but great heaps of ground lumber that look like nothing so much as enormous pith balls. To the north the work of the waters is of a different sort. It picked up everything except the big buildings that divided the current and piled the fragments down about the stone bridge or swept them over and soon down the river for miles. This left the great yellow, sandy and barren plain so often spoken of in the despatches where stood the best buildings in Johnstown--the opera house, the big hotel, many wholesale warehouses, shops and the finest residences. In this plain there are now only the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad train, a school-house, the Morrell Company's stores and an adjoining warehouse and the few buildings at the point of the triangle. One big residence, badly shattered, is also standing. Houses Changed Base. These structures do not relieve the shocking picture of ruin spread out below the mountain, but by contrast making it more striking. That part of the town to the south where the flood tore the narrow path there used to be a separate village which was called Kernville. It is now known as the South Side. Some of the queerest sights of the wreck are there, though few persons have gone to see them. Many of the houses that are there, scattered helter skelter, thrown on their sides and standing on their roofs, were never in that neighborhood nor anywhere near it before. They came down on the breast of the wave from as far up as Franklin, were carried safely by the factories and the bridges, by the big buildings at the dividing line, up and down on the flood and finally settled in their new resting places little injured. A row of them, packed closely together and every one tipped over at about the same angle, is only one of the queer freaks the water played. I got into one of these houses in my walk through the town to-day. The lower story had been filled with water, and everything in it had been torn out. The carpet had been split into strips on the floor by the sheer force of the rushing tide. Heaps of mud stood in the corners. There was not a vestige of furniture. The walls dripped with moisture. The ceiling was gone, the windows were out, and the cold rain blew in and the only thing that was left intact was one of those worked worsted mottoes that you always expect to find in the homes of working people. It still hung to the wall, and though much awry the glass and frame were unbroken. The motto looked grimly and sadly sarcastic. It was:-- "There is no place like home." A melancholy wreck of a home that motto looked down upon. A Tree in a House. I saw a wagon in the middle of a side street sticking tongue, and all, straight up into the air, resting on its tail board, with the hind wheels almost completely buried in the mud. I saw a house standing exactly in the middle of Napoleon street, the side stove in by crashing against some other house and in the hole the coffin of its owner was placed. Some scholar's library had been strewn over the street in the last stage of the flood, for there was a trail of good books left half sticking in the mud and reaching for over a block. One house had been lifted over two others in some mysterious way and then had settled down between them and there it stuck, high up in the air, so its former occupants might have got into it again with ladders. Down at the lower end of the course of the stream, where its force was greater, there was a house lying on one corner and held there by being fastened in the deep mud. Through its side the trunk of a tree had been driven like a lance, and there it stayed sticking out straight in the air. In the muck was the case and key board of a square piano, and far down the river, near the débris about the stone bridge, were its legs. An upright piano, with all its inside apparatus cleanly taken out, stood straight up a little way off. What was once a set of costly furniture was strewn all about it, and the house that contained it was nowhere. The remarkable stories that have been told about people floating a mile up the river and then back two or three times are easily credible after seeing the evidences of the strange course the flood took in this part of the town. People who stood near the ruins of Poplar Bridge saw four women on a roof float up on the stream, turn a short distance above and come back and go past again and once more return. Then they went far down on the current to the lower part of the town and were rescued as they passed the second story window of a school house. A man who was imprisoned in the attic of his house put his wife and two children on a roof that was eddying past and stayed behind to die alone. They floated up the stream and then back and got upon the roof of the very house they had left, and the whole family was saved. At Grubbtown there is a house that came all the way from Woodvale. On it was a man who lived near Grubbtown, but was working at Woodvale when the flood came. He was carried right past his own house and coolly told the people at the bridge to bid his wife good-bye for him. The house passed the bridge three times, the man carrying on a conversation with the people on shore and giving directions for his burial if his body should be found. The third time the house went up it grounded at Grubbtown, and in an hour or two the man was safe at home. Three girls who went by on a roof crawled into the branches of a tree and had to stay there all night before they could make any one understand where they were. At one time scores of floating houses were wedged in together near the ruins of Poplar street bridge. Four brave men went out from the shore, and, stepping from house roof to house roof, brought in twelve women and children. Starvation Overcomes Modesty. Some women crawled from roofs into the attics of houses. In their struggles with the flood most of their clothes had been torn from them, and rather than appear on the streets they stayed where they were until hunger forced them to shout out of the windows for help. At this stage of the flood more persons were lost by being crushed to death than by drowning. As they floated by on roofs or doors the toppling houses fell over upon them and killed them. Nineveh was Spared. The valley of death, twenty-three miles long, practically ends at Nineveh. It begins at Woodvale, where the dam broke, and for the entire distance to this point the mountains make a canyon--a water trap, from which escape was impossible. The first intimation this city had of the impending destruction was at noon on Friday, when Station Agent Nunamaker got this despatch:-- "We just received word from South Fork that water is coming over dam at Conemaugh Lake, and is liable to burst at any moment. Notify people to look out." "J.C. WAUKEMSHAW, Despatcher at Conemaugh." Nunamaker started on a dead run to the water front, along which most of the houses are situated, crying:-- "The dam is breaking. Run for your lives!" Every spring, the station agent tells me, there have been a score of such alarms, and when the people heard Nunamaker they laughed and called him an old fogy for his pains. They had run too often to the mountains to escape some imaginary flood to be scared by anything less than the actual din of the torrent in their ears. Two hours and a half later a despatch came saying that the dam had indeed broken. Again the station agent went on a trot to the residential part of the town. That same despatch had gone thundering down the whole valley. Johnstown heard the news and so did Conemaugh. No one believed it. It was what they called "a chestnut." But the cry had put the people a little on the alert. One hour after the despatch came the first warning note of the disaster. Mr. Nunamaker tells me that it took really more than that time for the head of the leaping cataract to travel the twenty-three miles. If that is so the people of Johnstown must have had half an hour's warning at least, for Johnstown is half way between here and the fatal dam. Awful Scenes. Nineveh is very flat on the river side where the people live, though, fortunately, the main force of the current was not directed on this side of the stream. In a second the river rose two feet at a jump. It then reared up like a thing of life, then it steadily rose inches at a time, flooding the whole town. But the people had had warning and saved themselves. Pitiful cries were heard soon from the river. People were floating down on barrels, roofs, beds, anything that was handy. There were pitiful shrieks from despairing women. The people of Nineveh could do nothing. No boat could have stemmed the cataract. During the night there were shrieks heard from the flooded meadows. Next morning at nine o'clock the flood had fallen three feet. Bodies could be seen on the trees by the Nineveh people, who stayed up all night in the hope of being able to do some act of humanity. The Living and the Dead. Only twenty-five were taken alive from the trees and drift on this side. Across the stream a score were secured and forty-seven corpses taken out. This, with the 200 corpses here, makes a total of 300 people who are known to have come down to this point. There are perhaps a hundred and fifty bodies within a mile. Only a few were actually taken from the river bed. They sank in deep water. It is only when they have swollen by the effect of the water that they rise to the surface. Most of those recovered were found almost on dry land or buried in drift. There are tons of wood, furniture, trees, trunks, and everything that is ever likely to float in a river, that must be "dug over." It will be work of the hardest kind to get at the remaining corpses. I went over the whole ground along the river bank between here and Johnstown to-day. The Force of the Flood. The trees on the banks were levelled as if by battering rams, telegraph poles were snapped off as a boy breaks a sugar stick, and parts of the Pennsylvania Railroad track were wrenched, torn and destroyed. Jerry McNeilly, of this place, says he was at the Johnstown station when the flood came down, preceded by a sort of cloud or fog. He saw people smoking at their windows up to the last moment, and even when the water flooded their floors they laughed and seemed to think that the river had risen a few feet and that was all. Jerry, however, ran to the hills and saved himself while the water rose and did its awful work. Some houses were bowled over like ninepins. Some floated to the surface and started with the flood; others stood their ground and were submerged inch by inch, the occupants climbing from story to story, from the top story to the roof, only to be swept away from their foothold sooner or later. The Dam's History. I asked a gathering of men here in what light they had been accustomed to look upon the dam. They say that from the time it was built, somewhere about 1831, by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania to collect water for the canals, it has been the "bogie" of the district. Babies were frightened when naughty by being told the dam would break. Time and time again the people of Nineveh have risen from their beds in the night and perched upon the mountains through fear. A body of water seven miles or more long, from eighty to one hundred and twenty feet deep, and about a mile wide, was indeed something to be dreaded. This lake had a circumference of about eighteen miles, which gives some idea of the volume of water that menaced the population. The dam was thick enough for two carriages to drive abreast on its top, but the people always doubted the stability of that pile of masonry and earth. Morrellville was for a few days in a state of starvation, but Sheridan, Sang Hollow and this town are in no distress. Nineveh has lost no life, although wild rumors said it had. Though the damage to property is very great, the Huns have been kept away, and robbers and marauders find nothing to tempt them. What "Chal" Dick Saw. "I'll kill the first man that dares to cross the bridge." "Chal" Dick, lawyer, burgess and deputy sheriff and sportsman, sat upon his horse with a Winchester rifle across his saddle and a thousand or two of fiends dancing a war dance in his eyes. Down in Johnstown proper they think "Chal" Dick is either drunk or crazy. Two newspaper men bunked with him last night and found he was not afflicted in either sense. He is the only recognized head in the borough of Kernville, where every man, woman and child know him as "Chal," and greet him as he passes by. "Yes," he said to me last night, "I saw it all. My house was on Somerset street. On Thursday night it rained very hard. My wife woke me and called my attention to the way the water was coming down. I said nothing, but I got up about five o'clock and took a look around. In a little while Stony Creek had risen three feet. I then knew that we were going to have a flood, but I did not apprehend any danger. The water soon flooded the streets, and boards and logs began coming down. Sport Before Sorrow. "A lot of us turned in to have some sport. I gave my watch and what money I had to a neighbor and began riding logs down the stream. I had lots of company. Old men acted like boys, and shouted and shouted and splashed about in the water like mad. Finally the water began to rise so rapidly that I became alarmed. I went home and told my wife that it was full time to get out. She was somewhat incredulous, but I made her get ready, and we took the children and we went to the house of Mr. Bergman, on Napoleon street, just on the rise of Kernville. I got wet from head to foot fooling in the water, and when I got to Bergman's I took a chill. I undressed and went to bed and fell asleep. The first thing I knew I was pulled out of bed on to the floor, by Mr. Bergman, who yelled, 'the dam has burst.' I got up, pulled on my pantaloons and rushed down stairs. I got my youngest child and told my wife to follow with the two others. This time the water was three feet in the house and rising rapidly. We waded up to our waists out through it, up the hill, far beyond the reach of danger. A Stupendous Sight. "From the time I left Bergman's till I stopped is a blank. I remember nothing. I turned and looked, and may my eyes never rest on another such sight. The water was above the houses from the direction of the railroad bridge. There came a wave that appeared to be about twelve feet high. It was perpendicular in its face and moved in a mist. I have heard them speak of the death mist, but I then first appreciated what the phrase meant. It came on up Stony Creek carrying on its surface house after house and moving along faster than any horse could go. In the water there bobbed up and down and twisted and twirled the heads of people making ripples after the manner of shot dropped into the water. The wave struck houses not yet submerged and cut them down. The frames rose to the surface, but the bricks, of course, were lost to sight. When the force of the water spent itself and began retracing its course, then the awfulness of the scene increased in intensity. I have a little nerve, but my heart broke at the sight. Houses, going and coming, crashed up against each other and began grinding each other to pieces. The buildings creaked and groaned as they let go their fastenings and fairly melted. "At the windows of the dwellings there appeared the faces of people equally as ill-fated as the rest. God forbid that I should ever again look upon such intensity of anguish. Oh, how white and horror-stricken those faces were, and such appeals for help that could not come. The woman wrung their hands in their despair and prayed aloud for deliverance. Down stream went houses and people at the rate of twenty-five miles an hour and stopped, a conglomerate mass, at the stone abutment of the railroad bridge. The first buildings that struck the bridge took fire, and those that came after were swept into a sea of flame. I thought I had already witnessed the greatest possible climax of anguish, but the scene that followed exceeded in awfulness anything I had before looked upon. The flames grew, hundreds of people were wedged in the driftwood and imprisoned in the houses. Rapidly the fire approached them, and then they began to cry for aid, and hundreds of others stood on the bank, powerless to extend a single comfort. Judgment Day. "As the fire licked up house after house and pile after pile, I could see men and women bid each other good-by, and fathers and mothers kiss their children. The flames swallowed them up and hid them from my view, but I could hear their shrieks as they roasted alive. The shrieks mellowed into groans, and the groans into silence, only to be followed by more shrieks, more groans and more silence, as the fire caught up and destroyed its victims. Heavens! but I was glad when the end came. My only anxiety was to have it come quickly, and I prayed that it might come, oh! so quick! It was a splendid realization of the judgment day. It was a magnificent realization of the impotency of man in a battle with such a combination of fire and flood." Some Have Cause for Joy. In the midst of the confusion of the disaster and the strain of excitement which followed it was but natural that every one who could not readily be found was reported dead. Amid the throng of mourners now an occasional soul is made happy by finding that some loved one has escaped death. To-day a few of the living had time to notify their friends throughout the country of their safety. General Lew Wallace, now at West Point, telegraphed President Harrison, in response to an inquiry last night, that his wife was "coming out of the great calamity at Johnstown safe." Several reports have been sent out from Johnstown, one as late as last night, to the effect that Mrs. Wallace was believed to be among the victims of the disaster. Private Secretary Halford received a telegram this afternoon from his wife at Altoona, announcing that Mrs. Lew Wallace was with her and safe. Did Not Lose Their Presence of Mind. A dispatch from Carthage, Ill., says:--"Mrs. M.J. Smith, a traveling saleslady for a book concern in New York city, was at Johnstown at the time of the flood and was swept away with others. Her brothers, Lieutenant P. and James McKee, received the following telegram at Carthage yesterday from Johnstown: "Escaped with my life on housetop; am all right. "M.J. SMITH. "The lady is well known in this county." Rich Made Poor. John Kelly, the prominent Odd Fellow of Conemaugh, who was supposed to be lost, escaped with his entire family, though his house and store were swept down the river. John Rowley, who stands high among the Masons and Odd Fellows, tells me that out of $65,000 worth of property which he could call his own on Friday last he found just two bricks on the site of his residence this morning. He counts himself wealthy, however, in the possession of his wife and children who were all saved. His wife, who was very ill, was dragged through the water in her nightclothes. She is now in a critical condition, but has the best of medical attendance and may pull through. In a frame house which stood at No. 121 Union street, Johnstown, were Mrs. O.W. Byrose, her daughters Elsie, Bessie and Emma, and sons Samuel and Ray. When the flood struck the house they ran to the attic. The house was washed from its foundation and carried with the rushing waters. Mrs. Byrose and her children then clung to each other, expecting every minute to meet death. As the house was borne along the chimney fell and crashed through the floors, and the bricks were strewn along the course of the river. The house was caught in the jam and held about two hundred feet above the bridge and one hundred and fifty feet from the shore. The terrified inmates did not lose all presence of mind, and they made their escape to the hole made by the fallen chimney. They were seen by those on shore, and after much difficulty each was rescued. A few minutes later the house caught fire from the burning buildings, and was soon consumed. Swept from His Side. At ten o'clock this morning an old gray bearded man stood amid the blackened logs and ashes through which the polluted water of the Conemaugh made its way, wringing his hands and moaning in a way that brought tears to the eyes of all about him. He was W.J. Gilmore, whose residence had stood at the corner of Conemaugh and Main streets. Being on low ground the house was flooded by the first rush of water and the family, consisting of Mr. Gilmore, his brother Abraham, his wife, four children and mother-in-law, ran to the second story, where they were joined by Frances, the little daughter of Samuel Fields, and Grandmother Maria Prosser. When the torrent from South Fork rushed through the town the side of the house was torn out and the water poured into the second floor. Mr. Gilmore scrambled upon some floating débris, and his brother attempted to pass the women and children out to him. Before he could do so, however, the building sank and Mr. Gilmore's family was swept from his side. His brother disappeared for a moment under the water, but came to the surface and was hauled upon the roof. The brothers then strove frantically to tear a hole in the roof of the house with their bare hands, but their efforts were, of course, unavailing, and they were soon struggling for their own lives in the wreck at the viaduct. Both finally reached the shore. The body of Mrs. Gilmore, when taken from the ruins this morning, was but little mutilated, although her body was bloated by the water. Two of the children had been almost burned to cinders, their arms and legs alone being something like their original shape. Statue of the Virgin. St. Mary's German Catholic Church, which is badly wrecked, was temporarily used as a morgue, but a singular circumstance connected with the wrecking having been noticed, the duty of becoming a receptacle for the dead is transferred to the Church of St. Columba. The windows of St. Mary's are all destroyed. The floor for one-third of its extent on St. Mary's side is torn up to the chancel rail in one piece by the water and raised toward the wall. One-half the chancel rail is gone, the mud is eighteen inches deep on the floor, St. Joseph's altar is displaced and the statue gone. The main altar, with its furniture for Easter, is covered with mud, and some fine potted flowers are destroyed. Nearly all the other ornaments are in place, even to the candlesticks. Strange to relate, the statue of the Virgin in her attire is unsoiled; the white vestments with silken embroidery are untarnished. This discovery led to the change of morgue. The matter being bruited abroad the desolated women of Cambria and Johnstown, as well as those who had not been sufferers from the flood, visited the church, and with most affecting devoutness adored the shrine. Some men also were among the devout, and not one of those who offered their prayers but did it in tears. For several hours this continued to be the wonder of the parishioners of the Catholic churches. The entire family of Mr. Howe, the wealthiest man in Cambria, with some visitors from Pittsburgh and Ohio, were hurried to death by the collapse of their residence on that fatal Friday night. In the rubbish heaped high on the shore near the stone arch bridge is a flat freight car banged and shattered and with a hole stove in its side. One of the workmen who were examining the débris to-day got into the car and found a framed and glazed picture of the Saviour. It was resting against the side of the car, right side up. Neither frame nor glass were injured. When this incident got noised about among the workmen they dropped their pickaxes and ran to look at the wonderful sight with their hats off. Saved His Mother and Sister. A man who came up from Lockport to-day told this:--"On the roof of a house were a young man, his mother and a young girl apparently his sister. As they passed the Lockport bridge, where the youth hung in an eddy for a moment, the men on the bridge threw them a rope. The young man on the house caught and tried to make it fast around his mother and then around his sister. They were afraid to use it or they were unwilling to leave him, for they would not take the rope. They tried to make him take it, but he threw it away and stayed on the roof with them. The house was swept onward and in another moment was lodged against a tree. The youth seized his mother and sister and placed them in safety among the branches. The next instant the house started again. The young man's foot slipped. He fell into the water and was not seen again." Where Death Lay In Wait. A great deal has been written and published about the terrible disaster, but in all the accounts nothing has been said about South Fork, where in proportion to its size as much damage has been done as at any other point. For the purpose of ascertaining how the place looked which in the annals of history will always be referred to as the starting point of this great calamity, I came here from Johnstown. I left on Monday morning at half-past six, and being unable to secure a conveyance of any character was compelled to walk the entire distance. Thinking the people of Johnstown knew whereof they spoke, I started over the Edensburg turnpike, and tramped, as a result, six more miles than was absolutely necessary. After I left Johnstown it began raining and continued until I reached South Fork. Two miles out from Johnstown I passed the Altoona Relief Committee in carriages, with their supply train following, and from that until I reached Fair View, where I turned off toward the Conemaugh river, it was a continuous line of vehicles of all kinds, some containing supplies, others passengers, many of whom were ladies. I followed a cow-path along the mountain until I reached Mineral Point. Here is where the flood did its first bad work after leaving South Fork. There had been thirty-three dwelling houses, a store and a large sawmill in the village, and in less than one minute after the flood struck the head of the place there were twenty-nine of these buildings wiped out; and so sudden had been the coming of the water that but a few of the residents succeeded in getting away. As a Boy would Marbles. Jacob Kohler, one of the residents of the place, said he had received a telegram stating that the flood was coming, but paid no attention to it as they did not understand its significance. "I saw it coming," he said, "with the water reaching a height of at least twenty-five feet, tearing trees up by the roots and dashing big rocks about as a boy would marbles. I hardly had time to grab a child and run for the hills when it was upon us, and in less time than it takes for me to tell it our village was entirely wiped out and the inhabitants were struggling in the water and were soon out of sight. I never want to see such a sight again." From Mineral Point another cow-path was taken over the mountains. I came just below the viaduct within about one mile of South Fork, and here the work of destruction had been as complete as it was possible for it to be. The entire road-bed of the Pennsylvania Railroad had been washed away. At this point a freight train had been caught and all the men on it perished, but the names could not be learned. The engine was turned completely upside down and the box cars were lifted off the track and carried two hundred feet to the side of the hill. Fifteen of them are there with the trucks, about one hundred feet from the old road-bed, and turned completely upside down. Another freight train just ahead of it was also swept away in the same manner, all excepting two cars and the engine. One of the cars was loaded with two heavy boilers from the works of James Witherow, Newcastle. Rails Twisted Double. Coming in to South Fork the work of destruction on the railroad was found to be even greater, the rails being almost bent double. The large iron bridge over the river at this point is gone, as is also one of the piers. The lower portion of this place is completely wiped out, and two men were lost. This is all the loss of life here, excepting two Italians who were working at the lake proper. The loss in individual property to the people of this place will reach $75,000, and at Mineral Point $50,000. For the purpose of seeing how the lake looked after all the water was out of it, a trip was taken to it, fully three miles distant. The driveway around it is fully thirty-five feet wide, and that was the width at the point of the dam where the break occurred. Like a Thunderbolt. Imagine, if you can, a solid piece of ground, thirty-five feet wide and over one hundred feet high, and then, again, that a space of two hundred feet is cut out of it, through which is rushing over seven hundred acres of water, and you can have only a faint conception of the terrible force of the blow that came upon the people of this vicinity like a clap of thunder out of a clear sky. It was irresistible in its power and carried everything before it. After seeing the lake and the opening through the dam it can be readily understood how that outbreak came to be so destructive in its character. The lake had been leaking, and a couple of Italians were at work just over the point where the break occurred, and in an instant, without warning, it gave way, and they were down in the whirling mass of water and were swept into eternity. The people of this place had been told by some of those who had been to the lake that it was leaking, but paid no attention any more than to send telegrams to Johnstown and Mineral Point. Here's Another Paul Revere. The first intimation the people had of the approach of the water was from the seventeen-year-old son of John Baker. He was on the road on horseback and noticed the water coming out of a cavity about five feet in diameter, and not waiting to see any more he put spurs to his horse and dashed for the town at breakneck speed. Some of the people of this place saw him coming at great speed, waving his hat, and knowing something was wrong at once gave the alarm, and grabbing their children started for the high parts. When he arrived almost at Railroad street, his own home, the water was already in the roadway, and in less than one minute its whole bulk was coming, twisting trees and rolling rocks before it. [Illustration: RESCUES AT THE SIGNAL TOWER.] In just eight minutes from the time he first saw it the water had carried away the bridge and was on its career of death and destruction. A train of Pullman cars for the East, due at South Fork at 2.55, was standing on the track on the west side of the bridge waiting to pull into the station. At first the engineer paid no attention to the wild gesticulations of the station agent, but finally started out, pulling slowly into the station, and not one moment too soon, for had he remained where he was a minute longer all would have been swept away. Thrilling Escapes. A local freight train with a passenger coach attached, standing on the east side of the track, was compelled to run into the rear end of the passenger train so as to get out of the way of the flood. A young man who was on the rear end of the train grabbed a young lady who was floating by and thus saved her life. The house of an old man, eighty-two years of age, was caught in the whirlpool, and he and his aged wife climbed on the roof for safety. They were floating down the railroad track to certain death, when their son-in-law, from the roof of the Pennsylvania Railroad station-house, pulled them off and saved their lives as the house was dashed to pieces. Mr. Brown, a resident of this place, said: "I was just about opposite the mouth of the lake when it broke. When I first saw it the water was dashing over the top of the road just where it broke about a foot high, and not eight or ten feet, as has been stated, and I told Mr. Fisher, who lived there, that he had better get his family out at once, which he did, going to the hillside, and it was lucky for him that he did, because in a half minute after it broke his home was wiped away." No Safety Outlet. Mr. Burnett, who was born and raised a mile from the lake, and is now a resident of Hazelwood, and who was at South Fork, said: "When the State owned this lake they had a tower over the portion that gave way and a number of pipes by which they were enabled to drive off the surplus water, and had the present owners had an arrangement of that kind this accident would not have occurred. The only outlet there was for the water was a small waterway around to the right of the lake, which is totally inadequate. The people of this valley have always been afraid of this thing, and now that it is here it shows that they had every reason for their fears." In company with Mr. Burnett I walked all over the place, and am free to confess that it looks strong, but experience shows the contrary. Mr. Moore, who has done nearly all the hauling for the people who lived at the lake in summer, said:--"About eight years ago this dam broke, but there was not as much water in it as now, and when it broke they were working at it and hauled cart load after cart load of dirt, stone and logs, and finally about ten tons of hay, and by that means any further damage was prevented. That was the time when they should have put forth strenuous efforts to have that part strengthened where the break occurred. This lake is about three miles long and about a mile wide and fully ninety feet deep, and of course when an opening of any kind was forced it was impossible to stop it. Thirsting for Vengeance. "The indignation here against the people who owned that place is intense. I was afraid that if the people here were to hear that you were from Pittsburgh they would jump to the conclusion that you were connected with the association, and I was afraid they would pull you from the carriage and kill you. That is the feeling that predominates here, and we all believe justly." Mr. Ferguson, of the firm of J.P. Stevenson & Co., said: "It is a terrible affair, and shows the absolute necessity of people not fooling with matters of that kind. We sent telegrams to Mineral Point, Johnstown and Conemaugh, notifying them that the lake was leaking and the water rising and we were liable to have trouble, and two minutes before the flood reached here a telegram was sent to Mineral Point that the dam had broken. But you see for the past five years so many alarms of that kind have been sent that the people have not believed them." Broke Forty-one Years Ago. Mrs. McDonald, who lives between Johnstown and South Fork, said: "I am an old woman and lived in Johnstown forty-two year ago, when there but two or three houses here. I have always contended, ever since this club of dudes took charge of this place, that it would end in a terrible loss of life. It broke about forty-one years ago, and I was in my house washing and it actually took my tub away and I only saved myself after a desperate struggle. At that time there were no lives lost. On Friday night, when it was raining so hard, I told my son not to go near Johnstown, as it was sure, from the telegrams I heard of, which had come in the afternoon, that there would be a terrible disaster. "I was told that when the viaduct went a loud report was heard just as a couple of freight cars were dashing against it, and the people say that they were loaded with dynamite." The Pennsylvania Railroad officials are rushing in all the men at this point possible to repair the road and are working day and night, having electric lights all along the road; but with all of that it looks as though it will be utterly impossible to have even a single track ready for business before ten days or two weeks, as there is not the slightest vestige of a railroad track to be seen. The railroad people around here are of the opinion that it will take as long as that. The railroad men say that it is the most complete destruction of the kind that they have ever witnessed. Wealth Borne Away. I had an interview to-night with Colonel James A. McMillan, the consulting director and principal owner of the Cambria Iron Works. He said:-- "What will be the total loss sustained by the Cambria Company is rather hard to state with perfect accuracy just yet, but from the examinations already made of our works I would place our loss at from $3,000,000 to $4,000,000. That includes, of course, the loss of our Gautier Steel Department, above Johnstown, which is completely swept away. "Day before yesterday I took the liberty of determining the action which the company will pursue in the matter of reconstruction and repairs. I accordingly telegraphed for Mr. Lockhart, the secretary of the company. He arrived here to-day and said to me: 'McMillan, I'm glad to see you intend to stand by the company and push the work of repairs at once.' "I think his words voice the sentiment of all the stockholders of the company. Reconstruction Begun. "All day we have had at least eight hundred men cleaning away the débris about our works, and we have made so much progress that you can say we will have our entire clerical force at work to-morrow evening. Our large pieces of machinery are uninjured, and we will have to send away for only the smaller pieces of our machines and smaller pipes, which compose an enormous system of pipe connections through the works. In from ten to twelve days we will have our works in operation, and I feel confident that we will be making rails at our works inside of fifty days. As we employ about five thousand men, I think our renewal of operations will give the people more encouragement than can be imagined. Besides, we have half the amount of cash needed on deposit in our local bank here, which was brought over by the Adams Express Company on Monday to pay our men. This will be paid them as soon as we can get access to the bank. "Our immediate work of reconstruction and repair will, of course, be confined to the company's Cambria iron works proper, and not extended to the Gautier steel works above." Twelve Millions More. The Colonel was then asked his estimate of the total loss sustained by the towns of Mineral Point, Franklin borough, Woodvale, Conemaugh, Johnstown, Cambria City, Coopersdale and Morrellville. He said: "I should place it at nothing lower than $12,000,000, besides the loss sustained by our company. That is only an estimate, but when you take the different towns as they were before the flood, and knowing them as I do, you could not fail to see that this is a very reasonable estimate of the loss." As to the South Fork dam, he said: "For the present I don't care to be interviewed on that question as representing any one but myself. Personally, I have always considered it a dangerous trap, which was likely at any time to wipe us out. For the last ten years I have not hesitated to express this opinion in regard to the dam, and I guess it is pretty well understood that all of our leading citizens held similar views. There is not a man in Johnstown who will deny that he has lived for years in constant dread of its bursting down on us." Fifteen Years to Recover. "What do you think will be the time required for the Conemaugh Valley to recover from the shock of the flood?" "At least fifteen years, and vigilant efforts will be required at that. I speak now from a financial stand-point. Of course we will never recover fully from the terrible loss of life which is now being revealed in its dreadful entirety." Survivors in Camp. There are two camps on the hillside to the north of Johnstown, and they are almost side by side. One is a camp for the living, for the most woebegone and unfortunate of the refugees from the Conemaugh Valley of the shadow of death, and the other is for the dead. The camp of the living is Camp Hastings and the ministering spirits are members of the Americus Republican Club of Pittsburgh. The camp for the dead is the new potters' field that was laid out on Monday for the bodies of unknown victims. The former is populous and stirring, but the latter has more mounds already than the other has living souls. The refugees are widely scattered; some are in the hospital, some are packed as closely as the logs and dead bodies at the stone bridge in the houses yet tenable, and the rest are at Camp Hastings. In the despairing panic and confusion of Saturday the first thought that presented itself to those who were hurried in to give relief was to prepare shelter for the survivors. The camp has been in operation ever since, and will be for days and may be weeks to come. Gloomy Pictures of Despair. It looked desolate enough to-day after the soaking downpour of last night, and groups of shivering mothers, with their little ones, stood around a smoky fire at either end of the streets. The members of the Americus Committee, for the time being cooks, waiters, grocery dealers and dry goods men, were in striking contrast to their usual appearance at home. Major W. Coffey, one of the refugees, who was washed seven miles down the Conemaugh, was acting as officer of the guard, and limped up and down on his wooden leg, which had been badly damaged by the flood. Palefaced women looked out through the flaps of tents on the scene, and the only object that seemed to be taking things easy was a lean, black dog, asleep in front of one of the fires. In one of the tents a baby was born last night. The mother, whose husband was lost in the flood, was herself rescued by being drawn up on the roof of the Union Schoolhouse. One of the doctors of the Altoona Relief Corps at the Cambria Hospital attended her, and mother and babe are doing better than thousands of the flood sufferers who are elsewhere. There are other babies in Camp Hastings, but none of them receive half of the attention from the people in the camp that is bestowed upon this little tot, whose life began just as so many lives were ended. The baby will probably be named Johnstown Camp O'Connor. The refugees who are living along the road get their supplies from the camp. They pour into the wretched city of tents in a steady stream, bearing baskets and buckets of food. He Wanted Tobacco or Nothing. An old Irishman walked up to the tent early in the day. "Well, what can we do for you?" was asked. "Have yez any tobaccy?" "No, tobacco don't go here." "I want tobaccy or nothin'. This is no relief to a mon at all, at all." The aged refugee walked away in high dudgeon. Just down the row from the clothing tent are located two little girls, named Johnson, who lost both father and mother. They had a terrible experience in the flood, and were two of the forty-three people pulled in on the roof of the house of the late General Campbell and his two sons, James and Curt. "How do you fare?" one of the little girls was asked. "Oh, very well, sir; only we are afraid of catching the measles," she answered; and with a grimace she tossed her head toward a tent on the other side and further up. A baby in the tent indicated has a slight attack of the measles, but is getting better, and is next door to a tent in which is a young woman shaking with the ague. A Multitude to be Fed. In the houses along the road above the camp are several hundreds of refugees. In one of them are thirty or forty people rendered homeless by the flood. These are all supplied with food from the camp. Some idea of the number of people who have to be fed can be gathered from the fact that 350 pounds of coffee have been given out since yesterday. In the hills back of Cambria there are many hundreds of survivors. Dr. Findley, of the Altoona Relief Corps, went there to-day and found that they were without a physician. One from Baltimore had been there, but had gone away. He found many people needing medical care, and they will be looked after from day to day. "Wherever we go," said one of the doctors yesterday, "we find that there is an alarming spread of pneumonia." Of the refugees at the Cambria Hospital but two have died. Bayonets in Control. The ruined city lies to-night within a girdle of steel--the bayonets of the 14th regiment. The militia has captured Johnstown and to-night over the desolate plain where the city proper stood, through the towering wrecks and by the river passes, marches the patrol, crying "Halt" and challenging vagabonds, vandals and ghouls, who cross their path. General Hastings, being the highest officer in rank, is in command, and when the survivors of the flood awake to-morrow morning, when the weary pickets are relieved at sunrise a brigade headquarters will be fully established on the slope of Prospect Hill overlooking the hundreds of white tents of the regiments that will lie down below by the German Catholic Church. [Illustration: ENCAMPMENT OF RELIEF PARTIES.] First this afternoon arrived Governor Beaver's staff, mostly by way of Harper's Ferry on the Baltimore and Ohio. All the officers in brilliant uniform and trappings reported to General Hastings. They found their commander in a slouch hat, a rough-looking cutaway and rubber boots. The 14th Regiment, reinforced this morning until it is now 600 strong, is still camped in freight cars beyond the depot, opposite the late city proper. Space is being rapidly cleared for its tents, however, over by the German Catholic Church, and near the ruins of the Irish Catholic Church, which was on fire when the deluge came. Early this morning the 14th Regiment went into service, but it was a volunteer service of two young officers and three privates when at noon they dragged gently from the rushing Conemaugh the body of a beautiful young girl. She was tenderly borne through the lines by regimental headquarters to the church house morgue, while the sentinels stood aside with their bayonets and the corporal ordered "Halt!" Guards were placed at the Johnstown stations and all the morgues. Marched out of Camp. During the day many people of questionable character, indeed all who were challenged and could not satisfactorily explain their business here, had a military escort to the city limits, where they were ordered not to return. Every now and then two of the National Guard could be seen marching along with a rough fellow between them to the post where such beings are made exiles from the scene of desolation. To-night the picket lines stretch from brigade headquarters down Prospect Hill past General Hastings' quarters even to the river. The patrol across the river is keeping sharp vigilance in town. At the eastern end of the Pennsylvania Railroad's stone bridge you must stop and give the countersign. If you don't no man can answer for your safety. A Lieutenant's Disgrace. Down the Cambria Road, past which the dead of the River Conemaugh swept into Nineveh in awful numbers, was another scene to-day--that of a young officer of the National Guard in full uniform and a poor deputy sheriff, who had lost home, wife, children and all, clinched like madmen and struggling for the former's revolver. If the officer of the Guard had won, there might have been a tragedy, for he was drunk. The homeless deputy sheriff with his wife and babies swept to death past the place where they struggled was sober and in the right. The officer of the National Guard came with his regiment into this valley of distress to protect survivors from ruffianism and maintain the peace and dignity of the State. The man with whom he fought for the weapon was Peter Fitzpatrick, almost crazy in his own woe, but singularly cool and self-possessed regarding the safety of those left living. A Man who had Suffered. It was one o'clock this afternoon when I noticed on the Cambria road the young officer with his long military coat cut open leaning heavily for support upon two privates of Company G, Hawthorn and Stewart (boys). He was crying in a maudlin way, "You just take me to a place and I'll drink soft stuff." They entreated him to return at once to the regimental quarters, even begged him, but he cast them aside and went staggering down the road to the line, where he met the grave-faced deputy face to face. The latter looked in the white of his eyes and said: "You can't pass here, sir." "Can't pass here?" he cried, waving his arms. "You challenge an officer? Stand aside!" "You can't pass here," this time quietly, but firmly; "not while you're drunk." "Stand aside," yelled the Lieutenant. "Do you you know who I am? You talk to an officer of the National Guard." "Yes; and listen," said the man in front of him so impatiently that it hushed his antagonist's tirade; "I talk to an 'officer' of the National Guard--I, who have lost my wife, my children and all in this flood no man has yet described; we, who have seen our dead with their bodies mutilated and their fingers cut from their hands by dirty foreigners for a little gold, are not afraid to talk for what is right, even to an officer of the National Guard." A Big Man's Honest Rage. While he spoke another great, dark, stout man, who looked as if he had suffered, came up, and upon taking in the situation every vein in his forehead swelled purple with rage. "You dirty cur," he cried to the officer; "you dirty, drunken cur, if it was not for the sake of peace I'd lay you out where you stand." "Come on," yelled the Lieutenant, with an oath. The big man sent out a terrible blow that would have left the Lieutenant senseless had not one of the privates dashed in between, receiving part of it and warding it off. The Lieutenant got out of his military coat. The privates seized the big man and with another, who ran to the scene, held him back. The Lieutenant put his hand to his pistol pocket, the deputy Fitzpatrick seized him and the struggle for the weapon began. For a moment it was fierce and desperate, then another private came to the deputy's assistance. The revolver was wrested from the drunken officer and he himself was pushed back panting to the ground. The Victor was Magnanimous. Deputy Fitzpatrick seized the military coat he had thrown on the ground, and with it and the weapon started to the regimental headquarters. Then the privates got around him and begged him, one of them with tears in his eyes, not to report their officer, saying that he was a good man when he was sober. He studied a long while, standing in the road, while the officer slunk away over the hill. Then he threw the disgraced uniform to them, and said: "Here, give them to him; and, mind you, if he does not go at once to his quarters, I'll take him there, dead or alive." Sanitarians at Work. Dr. Benjamin Lee, secretary of the State Board of Health, has taken hold with a grip upon the handle. When he surveyed the ground to-day he found that there were no disinfectants in town, and no utensils in which to distribute them had there been any disinfectants, so he sent a squad across the river to the supply train, below the viaduct, and had all the copperas and chloride of lime to be had carried across the bridges in buckets. He sent another squad hunting the ruins for utensils, and in the wreck of a general store on Main street they discovered pails, sprinkling pots and kettles. The copperas and chloride were promptly set heating in the kettles over the streets and in a short time a squad was out sprinkling the débris which chokes Main street almost to the housetops for three squares. The reason of this was that a brief inspection had satisfied Dr. Lee that under the wreckage were piled the bodies of scores of dead horses. Meantime other men were at work collecting the bodies of other dead horses, which were hauled to the fire and with the aid of rosin burned to the number of sixty. A large number of dead horses were buried yesterday, but this course did not meet the State Board's approval and Dr. Lee has ordered their exhumation for burning. Dr. R. Lowrie Sibbett, of Carlisle, was made medical inspector and sent up through the boroughs up the river. To-morrow a house-to-house inspection will be made of the remaining and inhabited portion of the cities and boroughs. The overcrowding makes this necessary. "It will take weeks of unremitting labor and thousands of men," said Dr. Lee, "to remove the sources of danger to the public health which now exist. The principal danger to people living here is, of course, from the contamination of putrifying flesh. They have an excellent water-supply from the hills, but there is a very grave danger to the health of all the people who use the Allegheny river as a water-supply. It is in the débris above the viaduct, which is full of decomposing animal matter. Every ripple of water that passes through or under it carries the germs of possible disease with it." At the Schoolhouse Morgue. Away from the devastation in the valley and the gloomy scenes along the river, on Prospect Hill, stands the school-house, the morgue of the unidentified dead. People do not go there unless they are hunting for a friend or relative. They treat it as a pest house. They have seen enough white faces in the valley and the living feel like fleeing from the dead. This afternoon at sunset every desk in every classroom supported a coffin. Each coffin was numbered and each lid turned to show the face within. On the blackboard in one of the rooms, between the pretty drawing and neat writing of the school children, was scrawled the bulletin "Hold No. '59' as long as possible; supposed to be Mrs. Paulson, of Pittsburgh." "But '59' wasn't Mrs. Paulson," said a little white-faced woman. "It is Miss Frances Wagner, of Market street, Johnstown." Her brother found her here. "Fifty-nine" has gone--one of the few identified to-day, and others had come to take its place. Strongly appealing to the sympathies of even those looking for friends and relatives was the difference in the size of the coffins. There were some no larger than a violin case hidden below large boxes, telling of the unknown babies perished, and there were coffins of children of all years. On the blackboards were written such sentences as "Home sweet home;" "Peace on earth, good will toward men." For all the people who looked at their young faces knew, they might have stood by the coffin of the child who helped to write them. The bodies found each day are kept as long as possible and then are sent away for burial with their numbers, where their names should be, on rough boards, their only tombstones. Just as a black storm-cloud was driving hard from the West over the slope of the hills yesterday the body of young Henry G. Rose, the district attorney of Cambria County, was lowered into a temporary grave beside unknown victims. Three people attended his burial--his father-in-law, James A. Lane, who saw him lost while he himself was struggling for life in their floating house; the Rev. Dr. H.L. Chapman, of the Methodist Episcopal Church, and the Rev. L. Maguire. Dr. Chapman read the funeral services, and while he prayed the thunder rumbled and the cloud darkened the scene. The coffins are taken there in wagonloads, lowered quickly and hidden from sight. Miss Nina Speck, daughter of Rev. David Speck, pastor of the First United Brethren Church of Chambersburg, was in Johnstown visiting her brother last week and narrowly escaped death in the flood. She arrived to-day clad in nondescript clothing, which had been furnished by an old colored washer-woman and told the following story of the flood: "Our house was in Kernville, a part of Johnstown, through which Stony Creek ran. Although we were a square from the creek, the backwater from the stream had flooded the streets in the morning and was up to our front porch. At 4 o'clock on Friday afternoon we were sitting on the front porch watching the flood, when we heard a roar as of a tornado or mighty conflagration. "We rushed upstairs and got out upon the bay-window. There an awful sight met our eyes. Down the Conemaugh Valley was advancing a mighty wall of flame and mist with a terrible roar. Before it were rolling houses and buildings of all kinds, tossing over and over. We thought it was a cyclone, the roar sounding like a tempest among forest trees. At first we could see no water at all, but back of the mist and flames came a mighty wall of water. We started downstairs and through the rear of the house to escape to the hillside nearby. But before we could get there the water was up to our necks and we could make no progress. We turned back and were literally dashed by the current into the house, which began to move off as soon as we were in it again. From the second-story window I saw a young man drifting toward us. I broke the glass from the frames with my hands and helped him in, and in a few moments more I pulled in an old man, a neighbor, who had been sick. Miraculous Escape. "Our house moved rapidly down the stream and fortunately lodged against a strong building. The water forced us out of the second story up into the attic. Then we heard a lot of people on our roof begging us for God's sake to let them in. I broke through the roof with a bed slat and pulled them in. Soon we had thirteen in all crouched in the attic. "Our house was rocking, and every now and then a building would crash against us. Every moment we thought we would go down. The roofs of all the houses drifting by us were covered with people, nearly all praying and some singing hymns, and now and then a house would break apart and all would go down. On Saturday at noon we were rescued, making our way from one building to the next by crawling on narrow planks. I counted hundreds of bodies lying in the débris, most of them covered over with earth and showing only the outlines of the form." A Sad Hospital Story. On a cot in the hospital on Prospect Hill there lies at present a man injured almost to death, but whose mental sufferings are far keener than his bodily pains. His name is Vering. He has lost in the flood his whole family--wife and five children. In an interview he said: "I was at home with my wife and children when the alarm came. We hurried from the house, leaving everything behind us. As we reached the door a gentleman friend was running by. He grasped the two smaller children, one under each arm, and hurried on ahead of us. I had my arm around my wife, supporting her. Behind us we could hear the flood rushing upon us. In one hurried glance, as I passed a corner, I could see the fearful crunching and hear the crackling of the houses in its fearful grasp. I then could see that there was no possibility of our escape, as we were too far away from the hillside. In a few moments it was upon us. In a flash I saw the three dear children licked up by it and they disappeared from sight as I and my wife were thrown into the air by the vanguard of the rushing ruins. We found ourselves in a lot of drift, driving along with the speed of a race-horse. In a moment or two we were thrown with a crash against a frame building whose walls gave way before the flood as easily as if they were made of pie-crust, and the timbers began to fall about us in all directions. "Up to this time I had retained a firm hold upon my wife, but as I found myself pinned between two heavy timbers the agony caused my senses to leave me momentarily. I recovered instantly in time to see my wife's head just disappearing under the water. Like lightning I grasped her by the hair and as best I could, pinioned as I was above the water by the timber, I raised her above it. The weight proved too much and she sank again. Again I pulled her to the surface and again she sank. This I did again and again with no avail. She drowned in my very grasp, and at last she dropped from my nerveless hands to leave my sight forever. As if I had not suffered enough, a few moments after I saw some objects whirling around in an eddy which circled around, until, reaching the current again, they floated past me. My God, man, would you believe me? it was three of my children, dead. Their dear little faces are before me now, distorted in a look of agony that, no matter what I do, haunts me. O, if I could only have released myself at that time I would have willingly died with them. I was rescued some time after, and have been here ever since. I have since learned that my friend who so bravely endeavored to save two of the children was lost with them." CHAPTER XV. Terrible Pictures of Woe. The proportion of the living registered since the flood as against the previous number of inhabitants is even less than was reported yesterday. It was ascertained to-day that many of the names on the list were entered more than once and that the total number of persons registered is not more than 13,000 out of a former population of between 40,000 and 50,000. A new and more exact method of determining the number of the lost was inaugurated this morning. Men are sent out by the Relief Committee, who will go to every abode and obtain the names of the survivors, and if possible those of the dead. The lack of identification of hundreds of bodies strengthens the inference that the proportion of the dead to the living is appalling. It is argued that the friends who might identify these unclaimed bodies are themselves all gone. Another significant fact is that so large a number of those whom one meets in the streets or where the streets used to be are non-residents, strangers who have come here out of humane or less creditable motives. The question that is heard very often is, "Where are the inhabitants?" The town does not appear to have at present a population of more than 10,000. It is believed that many of the bodies of the dead have been borne down into the Ohio, and perhaps into the Mississippi as well, and hence may finally be deposited by the waters hundreds of miles apart, perhaps never to be recovered or seen by man again. The General Situation. Under the blue haze of smoke that for a week has hung over this valley of the shadow of death the work which is to resurrect this stricken city has gone steadily forward. Here and there over the waste where Johnstown stood in its pride black smoke arises from the bonfires on which shattered house-walls, rafters, doors, broken furniture and all the flotsam and jetsam of the great flood is cast. Adjutant General Hastings, who believes in heroic measures, has been quietly trying to persuade the "Dictator"--that is, the would-be "Dictator"--to allow him to burn up the wrecked houses wholesale without the tedious bother of pulling them down and handling the débris. The timorous committees would not countenance such an idea. Nothing but piecemeal tearing down of the wrecked houses tossed together by the mighty force of the water and destruction by never-dying bonfires would satisfy them. Yet all of them must come down. Most of the buildings reached by the flood have been examined, found unsafe and condemned. Can the job be done safely and successfully wholesale or not? That is the real question for the powers that be to answer, and no sentiment should enter into it. Four thousand workmen are busy to-day with ropes and axe, pick and shovel. But the task is vast, it is herculean, like unto the cleaning of the Augean stables. "To clean up this town properly," said General Hastings to-day, "we shall need twenty thousand workmen for three months." The force of the swollen river upturned the town in a half hour. These same timorous managers weakened to-day, after having the facts before their eyes brought home to their understanding by constant iteration. They have found out that they have, vulgarly speaking, bitten off more than they can chew. Poisons of the foulest kind pollute the water which flows down the turgid Conemaugh into the Allegheny River, whence is Pittsburgh's water-supply, and thence into the Ohio, the water-supply of many cities and towns. Fears of a pestilence are not to be pooh-poohed into the background. It is very serious, so long as the river flows through the clogged and matted mass of the bridge so long it will threaten the people along its course with pestilence. The committee confess their inability to do this needed work, and to-day voted to ask the Governors of the several States to co-operate in the establishment of a national relief committee to grapple with the situation. Action cannot and must not be delayed. Hope Out of Despair. The fears of an outbreak of fever or other zymotic diseases appear to be based on the alleged presence of decomposed animal matter, human and of lower type, concealed amid the débris. The alleged odor of burnt flesh coming from the enormous mass of conglomerated timber and iron lodged in the cul-de-sac formed by the Pennsylvania Railroad bridge is extremely mythical. There is an unmistakable scent of burnt wood. It would not be strange if the carcasses of domestic animals, which must be hidden in the enormous mass, were finally to be realized by the olfactory organs of the bystanders. [Illustration: GENERAL HASTINGS DIRECTING THE POLICE.] Blasting Continues. All day long the blast of dynamite resounded among the hills. Cartridges were let off in the débris, and a cloud of dust and flying spray marked the result of the mining operation. The interlaced timbers in the cul-de-sac yielded very slowly even to the mighty force of dynamite. There were no finds of especial import. At the present rate of clearing, the cul-de-sac will not be free from the wreckage in two months. There was a sad spectacle presented this morning when the laborers were engaged in pulling over a vast pile of timber and miscellaneous matter on Main street. A young woman and a little puny baby girl were found beneath the mass, which was as high as the second story windows of the houses near by. Together in Death. The girl must have been handsome when in the flush of youth and health. She had seized the helpless infant and endeavored to find safety by flight. Her closely cut brown hair was filled with sand, and a piece of brass wire was wound around the head and neck. A loose cashmere house-gown was partially torn from her form, and one slipper, a little bead embroidered affair, covered a silk-stockinged foot. Each arm was tightly clasped around the baby. The rigidity of death should have passed away, but the arms were fixed in their position as if composed of an unbendable material instead of muscle and bone. The fingers were imbedded in the sides of the little baby as if its protector had made a final effort not to be separated and to save if possible the fragile life. The faces of both were scarred and disfigured from contact with floating débris. The single garment of the baby--a thin white slip--was rent and frayed. The body of the young woman was identified, but the babe remained unknown. Probably its father and mother were lost in the flood, and it will never be claimed by friendly hands. A Strange Discovery. This is only one among the many pathetic incidents of the terrible disaster. There were only nine unidentified bodies at the Adams street morgue this afternoon, and three additions to the number were made after ten o'clock. Two hundred and eight bodies have been received by the embalmers in charge. The yard of the school house, which was converted into a temporary abode of death, contains large piles of coffins of the cheaper sort. They come from different cities within two or three hundred miles of Johnstown, and after being stacked up they are pulled out as needed. Coffins are to be seen everywhere about the valley, ready for use when a body is found. A trio of bodies was found near the Hurlburt House under peculiar circumstances. They were hidden beneath a pile of wreckage at least twenty-five feet in height. They were a father, a mother and son. Around the waist of each a quarter inch rope was tied so that the three were bound together tightly. The hands of the boy were clasped by those of the mother, and the father's arms were extended as if to ward off danger. The father probably knotted the rope during the awful moments of suspense intervening between the coming of the flood and the final destruction of the house they occupied. The united strength of the three could not resist the mighty force of the inundation, and like so many straws they were swept on the boiling surge until life was crushed out. Child and Doll in One Coffin. I beheld a touching spectacle when the corpse of a little girl was extricated and placed on a stretcher for transportation to the morgue. Clasped to her breast by her two waxen hands was a rag doll. It was a cheap affair, evidently of domestic manufacture. To the child of poverty the rag baby was a favorite toy. The little mother held fast to her treasure and met her end without separating from it. The two, child and doll, were not parted when the white coffin received them, and they will moulder together. I saw an old-fashioned cupboard dug out of a pile of rubbish. The top shelf contained a quantity of jelly of domestic manufacture. Not a glass jar was broken. Indeed there have been some remarkable instances of the escape of fragile articles from destruction. In the débris near the railroad bridge you may come upon all manner of things. The water-tanks of three locomotives which were borne from the roundhouse at Conemaugh, two miles away, are conspicuous. Amid the general wreck, beneath one of these heavy iron tanks, a looking glass, two feet by one foot in dimensions, was discovered intact, without even a scratch on the quicksilver. Johnstown people surviving the destruction appear to bewail the death of the Fisher family. "Squire" Fisher was one of the old time public functionaries of the borough. He and his six children were swept away. One of the Fisher girls was at home under peculiar circumstances. She had been away at school, and returned home to be married to her betrothed. Then she was to return to school and take part in the graduating exercises. Her body has not yet been recovered. Something to be Thankful For. There is much destitution felt by people whose pride prevents them from asking for supplies from the relief committees. I saw a sad little procession wending up the hill to the camp of the Americus Club. There was a father, an honest, simple German, who had been employed at the Cambria works during the past twelve years. Behind him trooped eight children, from a girl of fourteen to a babe in the arms of the mother, who brought up the rear. The woman and children were hatless, and possessed only the calico garments worn at the moment of flight. Forlorn and weary, they ranged in front of the relieving stand and implored succor. "We lost one only, thank God!" exclaimed the mother. "Our second daughter is gone. We had a comfortable house which we owned. It was paid for by our savings. Now all is gone." Then the unhappy woman sat down on the wet ground and sobbed hysterically. The children crowded around their mother and joined in her grief. You will behold many of these scenes of domestic distress about the ruins of Johnstown in these dolorous days. Saw a Flood of Helpless Humanity. Mr. L.D. Woodruff, the editor and proprietor of the Johnstown _Democrat_, tells his experiences during the night of horrors. He was at the office of the paper, which is in the upper portion of the Baltimore and Ohio Railway station. This brick edifice stands almost in the centre of the course of the flood, and its preservation from ruin is one of the remarkable features of the occasion. A pile of freight cars lodged at the corner of the building and the breakwater thus formed checked the onslaught of floating battering rams. Mr. Woodruff, with his two sons, remained in the building until the following day. The water came up to the floor of the second story. All night long he witnessed people floating past on the roofs of houses or on various kinds of wreckage. A number of persons were rescued through the windows. A man and his wife with three children were pulled in. After a while the mother for the first time remembered that her baby of fifteen months was left behind. Her grief was violent, and her cries were mingled with the groans of her husband, who lay on the floor with a broken leg. The next day the baby was found, when the waters subsided, on a pile of débris outside and it was alive and uninjured. During the first few hours Mr. Woodruff momentarily expected that the building would go. As the night wore away it became evident the water was going down. Not a vestige of Mr. Woodruff's dwelling has been found. The newspapers of Johnstown came out of the flood fairly well. The _Democrat_ lost only a job press, which was swept out of one corner of the building. The Flood's Awful Spoil. In the broad field of débris at the Pennsylvania Railroad viaduct, where the huge playthings of the flood were tossed only to be burned and beaten to a solid, intricate mass, are seen the peculiar metal works of two trains of cars. The wreck of the day express east, running in two sections that fatal Friday, lie there about thirty yards above the bridge. One mass of wreckage is unmistakably that of the Pullman car section, made up of two baggage cars and six Pullman coaches, and the other shows the irons of five day coaches and one Pullman car. These trains were running in the same block at Johnstown and were struck by the flood two miles above, torn from their tracks and carried tumbling down the mighty torrents to their resting place in the big eddy. Railroad Men Suppressing Information. The train crew, who saw the waters coming, warned the passengers, escaped, and went home on foot. Conductor Bell duly made his report, yet for some unknown reasons one of Superintendent Pitcairn's sub-ordinates has been doing his best to give out and prove by witnesses, to whom he takes newspaper men, that only one car of that express was lost and with it "two or three ladies who went back for overshoes and a very few others not lively enough to escape after the warnings." That story went well until the smoke rolled away from the wreckage and the bones of the two sections of the day express east were disclosed. Another very singular feature was the apparent inability of the conductor of the express to tell how many passengers they had on board and just how many were saved. It had been learned that the first section of the train carried 180 passengers and the second 157. It may be stated as undoubtedly true that of the number fifty, at least, swell the horrible tale of the dead. From the wreck where the trains burned there have been taken out fifty-eight charred bodies, the features being unrecognizable. Of these seven found together were the Gilmore family, whose house had floated there. The others, all adults, which, with two or three exceptions, swell the list of the unidentified dead, are undoubted corpses of the ill-fated passengers of the east express. The Church Loses a Missionary. To-day another corpse was found in the ruins of a Pullman car badly burned. It was fully identified as that of Miss Anna Clara Chrisman, of Beauregard, Miss., a well-developed lady of about twenty-five years, who was on her way to New York to fill a mission station in Brazil. Between the leaves of her Greek testament was a telegram she had written, expecting to send it at the first stop, addressed to the Methodist Mission headquarters, No. 20 East Twelfth street, New York, saying that she would arrive on "train 8" of the Pennsylvania Railroad, the day express east. In her satchel were found photographs of friends and her Bible, and from her neck hung a $20 gold piece, carefully sewn in a bag. Is it possible that the Pennsylvania Railroad is keeping back the knowledge in order simply to avoid a list of "passengers killed" in its annual report, solely to keep its record as little stained as possible? It can hardly be that they fear suits for damages, for the responsibility of the wreck does not rest on them. Two hundred bodies were recovered from the ruins yesterday. Some were identified, but the great majority were not. This number includes all the morgues--the one at the Pennsylvania Railroad station, the Fourth ward school, Cambria city, Morrellville, Kernville and the Presbyterian Church. At the latter place a remarkable state of affairs exists. The first floor has been washed out completely and the second, while submerged, was badly damaged, but not ruined. The walls, floors and pews were drenched, and the mud has collected on the matting and carpets an inch deep. Walking is attended with much difficulty, and the undertakers and attendants, with arms bared, slide about the slippery surface at a tremendous rate. The chancel is filled with coffins, strips of muslin, boards, and all undertaking accessories. Lying across the tops of the pews are a dozen pine boxes, each containing a victim of the flood. Printed cards are tacked on each. Upon them the sex and full description of the enclosed body is written with the name, if known. The Nameless Dead. The great number of bodies not identified seems incredulous and impossible. Some of these bodies have lain in the different morgues for four days. Thousands of people from different sections of the State have seen them, yet they remain unidentified. At Nineveh they are burying all the unidentified dead, but in the morgues in this vicinity no bodies have been buried unless they were identified. The First Presbyterian Church contains nine "unknown." Burials will have to be made to-morrow. This morning workmen found three members of Benjamin Hoffman's family, which occupied a large residence in the rear of Lincoln street. Benjamin Hoffman, the head of the family, was found seated on the edge of the bedstead. He was evidently preparing to retire when the flood struck the building. He had his socks in his pocket. His twenty-year-old daughter was found close by attired in a night-dress. The youngest member of the family, a three-year-old infant, was also found beside the bed. [Illustration: CARRYING CHILDREN TO BURIAL.] Where the Dead are Laid. I made a tour of the cemeteries to-day to see how the dead were disposed in their last resting place. There are six burying grounds--two to the south of this place, one to the north, and three on Morrellsville to the west. The principal one is Grand View, on the summit of Kernville Hill. But the most remarkable, through the damage done by the flood, is Sandy Vale Cemetery, at Hornersville, on Stony Creek, and about half a mile from the city of Johnstown. It is a private institution in which most of the people of the city buried their dead until two years ago, when the public corporation of Grand View was established. Its grounds are level, laid out in lots, and were quite picturesque, its dense foliage and numerous monuments attracting the eyes of every passenger entering the city by the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, which passes along one side the creek forming its other boundary. The banks of the creek are twenty feet high, and there was a nice sandy beach through its entire length. A Sorry Scene. When the floods came the first of the wreckage and the backwater sent hundreds of houses, immense quantities of logs and cut lumber over it and into the borough of Hornersville. As the angry waters subsided the pretty cemetery was wrecked as badly as was the city, a portion of the débris of which has destroyed its symmetry. To make way for the burial of the numerous bodies sent there by the town committees it became necessary to burn some of the débris. This was commenced at the nearest or southern end, and at the time of my visit I had, like the corpses, to pass through an avenue of fire and over live ashes to make my inspection. There were no unknown dead sent here, consequently they were interred in lots, and here and there, as the cleared spots would allow, a body was deposited and the grave made to look as decently as four or five inches of mud on the surface and the clay soil would allow. Masses of Débris. Scarcely a monument was left standing. Tall columns were broken like pipe-stems, and fences and evergreen bowers were almost a thing of the past. Whole houses on their sides, with their roofs on the ground, covered the lots, the beach, or blocked up the pathways, while other houses in fragments strewed the surface of the ground from one end to the other of the cemetery, once the pride of Johnstown. I found that some of the trees which were standing had feather beds or articles of furniture up in their boughs. Here and there a dead cow or a horse, two or three wagons, a railroad baggage car. Add to this several thousand logs, heaps of lumber, piled just as they left the yards, and still other single planks by the hundred thousand of feet, and some idea of the surroundings of the victims of the flood placed at rest here can be obtained. On Kernville Hill. Grand View Cemetery, a beautiful spot, was started as a citizens' cemetery and incorporated two years ago, and is now the finest burying place in this section of Pennsylvania. It is situated on the summit of Kernville hill, between six hundred and seven hundred feet above the town. It is approached by a zigzag roadway about one mile and a half in length, and a magnificent view of the valley is obtained from the grounds, making it well worth a visit under any circumstances. Here those whose relatives did not hold lots are to be buried in trenches four feet deep, sixty bodies to a trench. At present the trenches are not complete, and their encoffined bodies are stored in the beautiful stone chapel at the entrance. Of the other bodies they are entombed in the lots, where more than one were buried together. A wide grave was dug to hold them side by side. A single grave was made for Squire Fisher's family, one grave and one mound holding eight of them. Snatched from the Flood. One of the most thrilling incidents of narrow escapes is that told by Miss Minnie Chambers. She had been to see a friend in the morning and was returning to her home on Main street, when the suddenly rising waters caused her to quicken her steps. Before she could reach her home or seek shelter at any point, the water had risen so high and the current became so strong that she was swept from her feet and carried along in the flood. Fortunately her skirts served to support her on the surface for a time, but at last as they became soaked she gave up all hope of being saved. Just as she was going under a box car that had been torn from its trucks floated past her and she managed by a desperate effort to get hold of it and crawled inside the open doorway. Here she remained, expecting every moment her shelter would be dashed to pieces by the buildings and other obstructions that it struck. Through the door she could see the mass of angry, swirling waters, filled with all manner of things that could be well imagined. An Ark of Refuge. Men, women and children, many of them dead and dying, were being whirled along. Several of them tried to get refuge in the car with her, but were torn away by the rushing waters before they could secure an entrance. Finally a man did make his way into the car. On went the strange boat, while all about it seemed to be a perfect pandemonium. Shrieks and cries from the thousands outside who were being driven to their death filled the air. Miss Chambers says it was a scene that will haunt her as long as she lives. Many who floated by her could be seen kneeling on the wreckage that bore them, with clasped hands and upturned faces as though in prayer. Others wore a look of awful despair on their faces. Suddenly, as the car was turned around, the stone bridge could be seen just ahead of them. The man that was in the car called to her to jump out in the flood or she would be dashed to pieces. She refused to go. He seized a plank and sprang into the water. In an instant the eddying current had torn the plank from him, and as it twisted around struck him on the head, causing him to throw out his arms and sink beneath the water never to reappear again. Miss Chambers covered her face to avoid seeing any more of the horrible sight, when with an awful crash the car struck one of the stone piers. The entire side of it was knocked out. As the car lodged against the pier the water rushed through it and carried Miss Chambers away. Again she gave herself up as lost, when she felt herself knocked against an obstruction, and instinctively threw out her hand and clutched it. Here she remained until the water subsided, when she found that she was on the roof of one of the Cambria mills, and had been saved by holding on to a pipe that came through the roof. A Night of Agony. All through that awful night she remained there, almost freezing to death, and enveloped in a dense mass of smoke from the burning drift on the other side of the bridge. The cries of those being roasted to death were heard plainly by her. On Saturday some men succeeded in getting her from the perilous position she occupied and took her to the house of friends on Prospect Hill. Strange to say that with the exception of a few bruises she escaped without any other injuries. Another survivor who told a pathetic story was John C. Peterson. He is a small man but he was wearing clothes large enough for a giant. He lost his own and secured those he had on from friends. "I'm the only one left," he said in a voice trembling with emotion. "My poor old mother, my sister, Mrs. Ann Walker, and her son David, aged fourteen, of Bedford county, who were visiting us, were swept away before my eyes and I was powerless to aid them. "The water had been rising all day, and along in the afternoon flooded the first story of our house, at the corner of Twenty-eighth and Walnut streets. I was employed by Charles Mun as a cigarmaker, and early on Friday afternoon went home to move furniture and carpets to the second story of the house. "As near as I can tell it was about four o'clock when the whistle at the Gautier steel mill blew. About the same time the Catholic church bell rang. I knew what that meant and I turned to mother and sister and said, 'My God, we are lost!' Here's A Hero. "I looked out of the window and saw the flood, a wall of water thirty feet high, strike the steel works, and it melted quicker than I tell it. The man who stopped to blow the warning whistle must have been crushed to death by the falling roof and chimneys. He might have saved himself, but stopped to give the warning. He died a hero. Four minutes after the whistle blew the water was in our second story. "We started to carry mother to the attic, but the water rose faster than we could climb the stairs. There was no window in our attic, and we were bidding each other good-by when a tall chimney on the house adjoining fell on our roof and broke a hole through it. We then climbed out on the roof, and in another moment our house floated away. It started down with the other stuff, crashing, twisting and quivering. I thought every minute it would go to pieces. "Finally it was shoved over into water less swift and near another house. "I found that less drift was forced against it than against ours, and decided to get on it. I climbed up on the roof, and in looking up saw a big house coming down directly toward ours, I called to sister to be quick. She was lifting mother up to me. I could barely reach the tips of her fingers when her arms were raised up while I lay on my stomach reaching down. At that moment the house struck ours and my loved ones were carried away and crushed by the big house. It was useless for me to follow, for they sank out of sight. I floated down to the bridge, then back with the current and landed at Vine street. "I saw hundreds of people crushed and drowned. It is my opinion that fully fifteen thousand people perished." When the whistles of the Gautier Steel Mill of the Cambria Iron Company blew for the shutting down of the works at 10 o'clock last Friday morning nearly 1400 men walked out of the establishment and went to their homes, which were a few hours later wiped off the face of the earth. When the men to-day answered the notice that all should present themselves ready for work only 487 reported. That shows more clearly than anything else that has yet been known the terrible nature of the fatality of the Conemaugh. The mortality wrought among these men in a few hours is thus shown to have been greater than that in either of the armies that contended for three days at Gettysburg. "Report at 9 o'clock to-morrow morning ready for work," the notice posted read. It did not say where, but everybody knew it was not at the great Gautier Mill that covered half a dozen acres, for the reason that no mill is there. By a natural impulse the survivors of the working force of the steel plant began to move from all directions, before the hour named, toward the general office of the company. What the Superintendent Saw. This office is located in Johnstown proper and is the only building in that section of the town left standing uninjured. It is a large brick building, three stories high, with massive brick walls. L.L. Smith, the commercial agent of the company, arrived at eight o'clock to await the gathering of the men, pausing a minute in the doorway to look at two things. One was an enormous pile of débris, bricks, iron girders and timbers almost in front of the office door which swarmed with 200 men engaged in clearing it away. This is the ruins of the Johnstown Free Library, presented to the town by the Cambria Iron Company, the late I.V. Williamson and others, and beneath it Mr. Smith knew many of his most intimate friends were buried. The other thing he looked at was his handsome residence partly in ruins, a few hundred yards away. When he entered the office he found that the men who had been shoveling the mud out of the office had finished their work and the floor was dark and sticky. A fire blazed in the open grate. A table was quickly rigged up and with three clerks to assist him, Mr. Smith prepared to make up the roster of the Gautier forces. The Survivor's Advance Corps. Soon they began to come like the first reformed platoon of an army after fleeing from disaster. The leader of the platoon was a small boy. His hat was pulled down over his eyes and he looked as if he were sorely afraid. After him came half a dozen men with shambling gait. One was an Irishman, two were English, one was a German and one a colored man. Two of them carried pickaxes in their hands, which they had been using to clear away the wreckage across the street. "Say, mister," stammered the abashed small boy, "is this the place?" "Are you a Gautier man?" asked Mr. Smith kindly. "Yes, sir, me and me father, but he's gone." "Give us your name, my boy, and report at the lower works at 4 o'clock. Now, my men, we want to get to work and pull each other out of the hole, this dreadful calamity has put us in. It's no use having vain regrets. It's all over and we must put a good face to the front. At first it was intended that we should go up to the former site of the Gautier Mill and clean up and get out all the steel we could. Mr. Stackhouse now wants us to get to work and clear the way from the lower mills right up the valley. We will rebuild the bridge back of the office here and push the railroad clear up to where it was before." Not Anxious to Turn In. The men listened attentively, and then one of them asked: "But, Mr. Smith, if we don't feel just like turning in to-day we don't have to, do we?" "Nobody will have to work at all," was the answer, "but we do want all the men to lend a hand to help us out as soon as they can." While Mr. Smith was speaking several other workmen came in. They, too, were Gautier employees, and they had pickaxes on their shoulders. They heard the agent's last remark, and one of them, stepping forward, said: "A good many of us are working cleaning up the town. Do you want us to leave that?" "It isn't necessary for you to work cleaning up the town," was the reply. "There are plenty of people from the outside to do that who came here for that purpose. Now, boys, just give your names so we can find out how many of our men are left, and all of you that can, go down and report at the lower office." All the time the members of the decimated Gautier army were filing into the muddy-floored office. They came in twos and threes and dozens, and some bore out the idea of an army reforming after disaster, because they bore grievous wounds. One man had a deep cut in the back of his head, another limped along on a heavy stick, one had lost a finger and had an ugly bruise on his cheek. J.N. Short, who was the foreman of the cold-rolled steel shafting department, sat in the office, and many of the men who filed past had been under him in the works. Mutual Congratulations. There were handshakes all the more hearty and congratulations all the more sincere because of what all had passed through. When the wall of water seventy-five feet high struck the mill and whipped it away like shot Mr. Short was safe on higher ground, but many of the men had feared he was lost. "I tell you, Mr. Short," said J.T. Miller, "I'm glad to see you're safe." "And how did you make out, old man?" "All right, thank God." Then came another man bolder than all and apparently a general favorite. He rushed forward and shook Mr. Smith's hand. "Mr. Smith," he exclaimed, "good morning, good morning." "So you got out of it, did you, after all?" asked Mr. Smith. "Indeed I did, but Lord bless my soul, I thought the wife and babies were gone." The man gave his name and hurried away, brushing a tear from his eye. Mr. Shellenberger, one of the foremen, brought up the rear of the next platoon to enter. He caught sight of Mr. Smith and shouted: "Oh, Mr. Smith: good for you. I'm glad to see you safe." "Here to you, my hearty," was the answer. "Did you all get off?" "Every blessed one of us," with a bright smile. "We were too high on the hill." He was Tired of Johnstown. A little bit later another man came in. He looked as if he had been weeping. He hesitated in front of the desk. "I am a Gautier employee," he said, speaking slowly, "and I have reported according to orders." "Well, give us your name and go to work down at the lower works," suggested Mr. Smith. "No, sir, I think not," he muttered, after a pause. "I am not staying in this town any longer than I can help, I guess. I've lost two children and they will be buried to-day." "All right, my man, but if you want work we have plenty of it for you." The reporting of names and these quiet mutual congratulations of the men went on rapidly, but expected faces did not appear. This led Mr. Smith to ask, "How about George Thompson? Is he alive?" "I do not know," answered the man addressed. "I do not think so." "Who do you know are alive?" asked Mr. Smith, turning to another man. Mr. Smith never once asked who was dead. "Well," answered the man speaking reflectively, "I'm pretty sure Frank Smith is alive. John Dagdale is alive. Tom Sweet is alive, and I don't know any more, for I've been away--at Nineveh." The speaker had been at Nineveh looking for the body of his son. Not another word was said to him. "Say, boys," exclaimed Mr. Smith suddenly, a few minutes after he had looked over the list, "Pullman hasn't reported yet." "But Pullman's all right," said a man quickly, "I was up at his sister's house last night and he was there. That's more than I can say of the other men in Pullman's shift though," added the speaker in a low tone. Mr. Short took this man aside, "That is a fact," said he, "yesterday I knew of a family in which five out of six were lost. To-day I find out there were twenty people in the house mostly our men and only three escaped." Each Thought the Other Dead. Just then two men met at the door and fairly fell on each other's necks. One wore a Grand Army badge and the other was a young fellow of twenty-three or thereabouts. They had been fast friends in the same department, and each thought the other dead. They knew no better till they met at the office door. "Well, I heard your body had been found at Nineveh," said the old man. "And I was told you had been burned to death at the bridge," answered the other. Then the two men solemnly shook hands and walked away together. A pale-faced woman with a shawl over her shoulders entered and stood at the table. "My husband cannot report," she said simply, in almost a whisper. "He worked for the Gautier Mill?" she was asked. She nodded, bent forward and murmured something. The man at the desk said: "Make a note of that; so-and-so's wife reports him as gone, and his wages due are to be paid to her." The work of recording the men went on until nearly one o'clock. Then, after waiting for a long time, Mr. Smith said, "Out of 1400 men we now have 487. It may be there are 200 who either did not see the notice or who are too busy to come. Anyway, I hope so--my God, I hope so." All afternoon the greater part of the 487 men were swinging pickaxes and shovels, clearing the way for the railroad leading up to the Gautier Steel Works of the future. The Morbidly Curious. To-day the order "Halt!" rang out in earnest at the footbridge over the rushing river into Johnstown. It was the result of a cry as early as the reveille, that came from among the ruins and from the hoarse throats of the contractors--"For God's sake, keep the morbid people out of here; they're in the way!" General Hastings ordered the picket out on the high embankment east of the freight depot, where every man, woman and child must pass to reach the bridge. Colonel Perchment detailed Captain Hamilton, of G Company, there with an ample guard, and all who came without General Hastings' pass in the morning were turned aside. This afternoon a new difficulty was encountered. When you flashed your military pass on the sentinel who cried "Halt!" he would throw his gun slantwise across your body, so that the butt grazed your right hip and the bayonet your left ear and say: "No good unless signed by the sheriff." The civil authorities had taken the bridge out of the hands of the militia, and the sheriff sat on a camp stool overlooking the desolate city all the forenoon making out passes and approving the General's. No Conflict of Authority. The military men say there was no conflict of authority, and it was deemed proper that the civil authorities should still control the pass there. The sheriff came near getting shot in Cambria City this morning during a clash with one of his deputies over a buggy. Yet he looked calm and serene. Some beg him for passes to hunt for their dead. One man cried: "I've just gotten here, and my wife and children are in that town;" another said, "I belong in Conemaugh and was carried off by the flood," while an aged, trembling man behind him whispered, "Sheriff, I just wanted to look where the old home stood." When four peaceful faced sisters in convent garb, on their mission of mercy, came that way the sentinels stood back a pace and no voice ordered "Halt!" At noon the crane belonging to the Pennsylvania Railroad was taken away from the débris at the bridge, and Mr. Kirk had to depend on dynamite alone. Later it was ordered back, and after that the work went on rapidly. An opening 400 feet long, which runs back in some places fifty feet, was made during the afternoon. A relief party yesterday found a ladies' hand satchel containing $91 in cash, deeds for $26,000 in property and about $10,000 in insurance policies. Mrs. Lizzie Dignom was the owner, and both she and her husband perished in the flood. Remembering the Orphans. Miss H.W. Hinckley and Miss E. Hanover, agent of the Children's Aid Society and Bureau of Information of Philadelphia, arrived here this morning, and in twenty minutes had established a transfer agency. Miss Hinckley said: "There are hundreds of children here who are apparently without parents. We want all of them given to us, and we will send them to the various homes and orphanages of the State, where they shall be maintained for several months to await the possibility of the reappearance of their parents when they will be returned to them. If after the lapse of a month they do not reclaim their little ones, we shall do more than we ordinarily do in the way of providing good homes for children in their cases. Think of it, in the house adjoining us are seven orphans, all of one family. We have been here only a half hour, but we have already found scores. We shall stay right here till every child has been provided for." There is no denying that a great deal of ill-feeling is breeding here between the survivors of the flood over the distribution of the relief supplies. The supplies are spread along the railroad track down as far as Morrellville in great stacks; provisions, clothing, shoes, and everything else. The people come for them in swarms with baskets and other means of conveyance. Lines are drawn, which are kept in trim by the pickets, and in this way they pass along in turn to the point where the stock is distributed. It was not unusual yesterday to hear women's tongues lashing each other and complaining that the real sufferers were being robbed and turned away, while those who had not fared badly by flood or fire were getting lots of everything from the committee. One woman made this complaint to a corporal. "Prove it; prove it," he said, and walked away. She cried after him, "The pretty women are getting more than they can carry." Twice the line of basket-carriers was broken by the guard to put out wranglers, and all through the streets of Cambria City could be heard murmurs of dissension. There is no doubt but that a strong guard will be kept in the town day and night, for in their deplorable condition the husbands may take up the quarrel of their wives. Danger of Insanity. The _Medical News_, of Philadelphia, with rare enterprise, despatched a member of its staff to Johnstown, and he telegraphed as follows for the next issue of that paper: "The mental condition of almost every former resident of Johnstown is one of the gravest character, and the reaction which will set in when the reality of the whole affair is fully comprehended can scarcely fail to produce many cases of permanent or temporary insanity. Most of the faces that one meets, both male and female, are those of the most profound melancholia, associated with an almost absolute disregard of the future. The nervous system shows the strain it has borne by a tremulousness of the hand and of the lip, in man as well as in woman. This nervous state is further evidenced by a peculiar intonation of words, the persons speaking mechanically, while the voices of many rough-looking men are changed into such tremulous notes of so high a pitch, as to make one imagine that a child, on the verge of tears, is speaking. Crying is so rare that your correspondent saw not a tear on any face in Johnstown, but the women that are left are haggard, with pinched features and heavy, dark lines under their eyes. "The State Board of Health should warn the people of the portions of the country supplied by the Conemaugh of the danger of drinking its waters for weeks to come." The Women and Children. New Johnstown will be largely a city of childless widowers. One of the peculiar things a stranger notices is the comparatively small number of women seen in the streets. Of the throngs who walked about the place searching for dear friends there is not one woman to ten men. Occasionally a little group of two or three women with sad faces will pick their way about looking for the morgues. There are a few Sisters of Charity--their black robes the only instance in which the conventional badge of mourning is seen upon the streets--and in the parts of the town not totally destroyed the usual number of women are seen in the houses and yards. But, as a rule, women are a rarety in Johnstown now. This is not a natural peculiarity of Johnstown nor a mere coincidence, but a fact with a terrible reason behind it. There are so many more men than women among the living in Johnstown now because there are so many more women than men among the dead. Of the bodies recovered there are at least two women to every one man. Besides the fact that their natural weakness made them an easier prey to the flood, the hour at which the disaster came was one when the women would most likely be in their homes and the men at work in the open air or in factory yards, from which escape was easy. An Almost Childless City. Children also are rarely seen about the town and for a similar reason. They are all dead. There is never a group of the dead discovered that does not contain from one to three or four children for every grown person. Generally the children are in the arms of the grown persons, and often little toys and trinkets clasped in their hands indicate that the children were caught up while at play and carried as far as possible toward safety. Johnstown, when rebuilt, will be a city of many widowers and few children. In turning a school-house into a morgue, the authorities probably did a wiser thing than they thought. It will be a long time before the school-house will be needed for its original purpose. The Flood on the Flat. The flood, with a front of twenty feet high, bristling with all manner of débris, struck straight across the flat, as though the river's course had always been that way. It cut off the outer two-thirds of the city with a line as true and straight as could have been drawn by a survey. On the part over which it swept there remains standing but one building, the brewery. With this exception, not only the houses and stores, but the pavements, sidewalks and curbstones, and the earth beneath for several feet are washed away. The pavements were of cinders from the Iron Works; a bed six inches thick and as hard as stone and with a surface like macadam. Over west of the washed-out portion of the city not even the broken fragments of these pavements are left. Aside from the few logs and timbers left by the afterwash of the flood, there is nothing remaining upon the outer edge of the flat, including two of the four long streets of the city, except the brewery mentioned before and a grand piano. The water-marks on the brewery walls show the flood reached twenty feet up its sides and it stood on a little higher ground than buildings around it at that. Thieves Had Rifled His Safe. Mr. Steires, who on last Friday was the wealthiest man in town, on Sunday was compelled to borrow the dress which clothed his wife. When the flood began to threaten he removed some of the most valuable papers from his safe and moved them to the upper story of the building to keep them from getting wet. When the dam burst and Conemaugh Lake came down these, of course, went with the building. He got his safe Monday, but found that thieves had been before him, they having chiseled it open and taken everything but $65 in a drawer which they overlooked. Mr. Steires said to-day: "I am terribly crippled financially, but my family were all saved and I am ready to begin over again." Rebuilding Going On Apace. Oklahoma is not rising more quickly than the temporary buildings of the workmen's city, which includes 5,000 men at least, and who are mingling the sounds of hammers on the buildings they are putting up for their temporary accommodation, with the crash of the buildings they are tearing down. It seemed almost a waste of energy two days ago, but the different gangs are already eating their way towards the heart of the great masses of wreckage that block the streets in every direction. A dummy engine has already been placed in position on what was the main street, and all the large logs and rafters that the men can not move are fastened with ropes and chains, and drawn out by the engine into a clear space, where they are surrounded by smaller pieces of wood and burned. Carloads of pickaxes, shovels and barrows are arriving from Baltimore for the workmen. First Store Opened. The first store was opened to-day by a grocer named W.A. Kramer, whose stock, though covered with mud and still wet from the flood, has been preserved intact. So far the greater part of his things have been bought for relics. The other storekeepers are dragging out the débris in their shops and shoveling the mud from the upper stories upon inclined boards that shoot it into the street, but with all this energy it will be weeks before the streets are brought to sight again. As a proof of this, there was found this morning a passenger car fully half a mile from its depot, completely buried beneath the floor and roofs of other houses. All that could be seen of it by peering through intercepting rafters was one of the end windows over which was painted the impotent warning of "Any person injuring this car will be dealt with according to law." Curious Finds of Workmen. The workmen find many curious things among the ruins, and are, it should be said to their credit, particularly punctilious about leaving them alone. One man picked up a baseball catcher's mask under a great pile of machinery, and the decorated front of the balcony circle of the Opera House was found with the chairs still immediately about its semi-circle, a quarter of a mile from the theatre's site. The mahogany bar of a saloon, with its nickel-plated rail, lies under another heap in the city park, and thousands of cigars from a manufactory are piled high in Vine street, and are used as the only dry part of the roadway. Those of the people who can locate their homes have gathered what furniture and ornaments they can find together, and sit beside them looking like evicted tenants. The Grand Army of the Republic, represented by Department Commander Thomas J. Stewart, have placed a couple of tents at the head of Main street for the distribution of food and clothing. A census of the people will be taken and the city divided into districts, each worthy applicant will be furnished with a ticket giving his or her number and the number of the district. The Post-office Uniforms. Across the street from the Grand Army tents is the temporary post-office, which is now in fairly good working order. One of the distributing clerks hunted up a newspaper correspondent to tell him that the post-office uniforms sent from Philadelphia by the employees of that city's office have arrived safely and that the men want to return thanks through this paper. The Red Cross Army people from Philadelphia have decided to remain, notwithstanding General Hastings' cool reception, and they have taken up their quarters in Kernville, where they say the destitution is as great as in what was the city proper. The Tale the Clocks Tell. The clocks of the city in both public and private houses tell different tales of the torrent that stopped them. Some of them ceased to tick the moment the water reached them. In Dibert's banking-house the marble time-piece on the mantel stopped at seven minutes after 4 o'clock. In the house of the Hon. John M. Rose, on the bank of Stony Creek, was a clock in every room of the mansion from the cellar to the attic. Mr. Rose is a fine machinist, and the mechanism of clocks has a fascination for him that is simply irresistible. He has bronze, marble, cuckoo, corner or "grandfather" clocks--all in his house. One of them was stopped exactly at 4 o'clock; still another at 4.10; another at 4.15, and one was not stopped till 9 P.M. The "grandfather" clock did not stop at all, and is still going. The town clocks, that is the clocks in church towers, are all going and were not injured by the water. The mantel piece clocks in nearly every house show a "no tick" at times ranging from 3.40 to 4.15. Dead in the Jail. This morning a man, in wandering through the skirts of the city, came upon the city jail, and finding the outer door open, went into the gloomy structure. Hanging against the wall he found a bunch of keys and fitting them in the doors opened them one after another. In one cell he found a man lying on the floor in the mud in a condition of partial decomposition. He looked more closely at the dead body and recognized it as that of John McKee, son of Squire McKee, of this city, who had been committed for a short term on Decoration Day for drunkenness. The condition of the cell showed that the man had been overpowered and smothered by the water, but not till he had made every effort that the limits of his cell would allow to save himself. There were no other prisoners in the jail. Heroes of the Night. Thomas Magee, the cashier of the Cambria Iron Company's general stores, tells a thrilling story of the manner in which he and his fellow clerks escaped from the waters themselves, saved the money drawers and rescued the lives of nineteen other people during the progress of the flood. He says: It was 4.15 o'clock when the flood struck our building with a crash. It seemed to pour in from every door and window on all sides, as well as from the floors above us. I was standing by the safe, which was open at the time, and snatched the tin box which contained over $12,000 in cash, and with other clerks at my heels flew up the stairs to the second floor. In about three minutes we were up to our waists in water, and started to climb to the third floor of the building. Here we remained with the money until Saturday morning, when we were taken out in boats. Besides myself there were in the building Michael Maley, Frank Balsinger, Chris Mintzmeyer, Joseph Berlin and Frank Burger, all of whom escaped. All Friday night and Saturday morning we divided our time between guarding the money, providing for our own safety and rescuing the poor people floating by. We threw out ropes and gathered logs and timbers together until we had enough to make a raft, which we bound together with ropes and used in rescuing people. During the night we rescued Henry Weaver, his wife and two children; Captain Carswell, wife and three children, and three servant girls; Patrick Ravel, wife and one child; A.M. Dobbins and two others whose names I have forgotten. Besides this we cut large pieces of canvas and oilcloth and wrapped it around bread and meat and other eatables and threw it or floated it out to those who went by on housetops, rafts, etc., whom we could not rescue without getting our raft in the drift and capsizing. We must have fed 100 people in this way alone. When we were rescued ourselves we took the money over to Prospect Hill, and sent to the justice of the peace, who swore us all in to keep guard over our own money and that taken by Paymaster Barry from the Cambria Iron Company's general offices, amounting to $4000, under precisely the same circumstances that marked our escape. We remained on guard until Monday night, when the soldiers came over and escorted us back to the office of the Cambria Iron Company, where we placed the money in the company's vault. So far as known at this hour only eighteen bodies have been this morning recovered in the Conemaugh Valley. One of these was a poor remnant of humanity that was suddenly discovered by a teamster in the centre of the road over which his wagons had been passing for the past forty-eight hours. The heavy vehicles had sunk deeply in the sand and broken nearly every bone in the putrefying body. It was quite impossible to identify the corpse, and it was taken to the morgue and orders issued for its burial after a few hours' exposure to the gaze of those who still eagerly search for missing friends. Only the hardiest can bear to enter the Morgue this morning, so overwhelming is the dreadful stench. The undertakers even, after hurriedly performing their task of washing a dead body and preparing it for burial, retreat to the yard to await the arrival of the next ghastly find. A strict order is now in force that all bodies should be interred only when it becomes impossible to longer preserve them from absolute putrefaction. There is no iron-clad rule. In some instances it is necessary to inter some putrid body within a few hours, while others can safely be preserved for several days. Every possible opportunity is afforded for identification. Four bodies were taken from the ruins at the Cambria Club House and the company's store this morning. The first body was that of a girl about seventeen years of age. She was found in the pantry and it is supposed that she was one of the servants in the house. She was terribly bruised and her face was crushed into a jelly. A boy about seven years of age was taken from the same place. Two men and a woman were taken from in front of a store on Main street. The remains were all bruised and in a terrible condition. They had to be embalmed and buried immediately, and it was impossible to have any one identify them. Only Fifty Saved at Woodville. The number of people missing from Woodville is almost incredible, and from present indications it looks as if only about fifty people in the borough were saved. Mrs. H.L. Peterson, who has been a resident at Woodville for a number of years, is one of the survivors. While looking for Miss Paulsen, of Pittsburg, of the drowned, she came to a coffin which was marked "Mrs. H.L. Peterson, Woodville Borough, Pa., age about forty, size five feet one inch, complexion dark, weight about two hundred pounds." This was quite an accurate description of Mrs. Peterson. She tore the card from the coffin and one of the officers was about to arrest her. Her explanations were satisfactory and she was released. In speaking of the calamity afterward she said: "The people of Woodville had plenty of time to get out of the town if they were so minded. We received word shortly before two o'clock that the flood was coming, and a Pennsylvania Railroad conductor went through the town notifying the people. I stayed until half-past three o'clock, when the water commenced to rise very rapidly, and I thought it was best to get out of town. I told a number of women that they had better go to the hills, but they refused, and the cause of this refusal was that their husbands would not go with them and they refused to leave alone." Terrific Experience of a Pullman Conductor. Mr. John Barr, the conductor of the Pullman car on the day express train that left Pittsburgh at eight o'clock, May 31, gave an account of his experience in the Conemaugh Valley flood: "I was the last one saved on the train," he said. "When the train arrived at Johnstown last Friday, the water was up to the second story of the houses and people were going about in boats. We went on to Conemaugh and had to halt there, as the water had submerged the tracks and a part of the bridge had been washed away. Two sections of the day express were run up to the most elevated point. "About four o'clock I was standing at the buffet when the whistle began blowing a continuous blast--the relief signal. I went out and saw what appeared to be a huge moving mountain rushing rapidly toward us. It seemed to be surmounted by a tall cloud of foam. Sounding the Alarm. "I ran into the car and shouted to the passengers, 'For God's sake follow me! Stop for nothing!' "They all dashed out except two. Miss Paulsen and Miss Bryan left the car, but returned for their overshoes. They put them on, and as they again stepped from the car they were caught by the mighty wave and swept away. Had they remained in the car they would have been saved, as two passengers who stayed there escaped. [Illustration: WRECK OF THE DAY EXPRESS.] "One was Miss Virginia Maloney, a courageous, self-possessed young woman. She tied securely about her neck a plush bag, so that her identity could be established if she perished. Imprisoned in the car with her was a maid employed by Mrs. McCullough. They attempted to leave the car, but the water drove them back. They remained there until John Waugh, the porter, and I waded through the water and rescued them. "The only passengers I lost were the two unfortunate young ladies I have named. I looked at the corpses of the luckless victims brought in during the two days I remained in Johnstown, but the bodies of the two passengers were not among them. "At Conemaugh the people were extremely kind and hospitable. They threw open their doors and provided us with a share of what little food they had and gave us shelter. Stripped of Her Clothing. "While at Conemaugh, Miss Wayne, of Altoona, who had a miraculous escape, was brought in. She was nude, every article of her clothing having been torn from her by the furious flood. There was no female apparel at hand, and she had to don trousers, coat, vest and hat. "We had a severe task in reaching Ebensburg, eighteen miles from Conemaugh. We started on Sunday and were nine hours in reaching our destination. At Ebensburg we boarded the train which conveyed us to Altoona, where we were cared for at the expense of the Pennsylvania Railroad Company. "I had a rough siege. I was in the water twelve hours. The force of the flood can be imagined by the fact that seven or eight locomotives were carried away and floated on the top of the angry stream as if they were tiny chips." CHAPTER XVI. Stories of the Flood. War, death, cataclysm like this, America, Take deep to thy proud, prosperous heart. E'en as I chant, lo! out of death, and out of ooze and slime, The blossoms rapidly blooming, sympathy, help, love, From west and east, from south and north and over sea, Its hot spurr'd hearts and hands humanity to human aid moves on; And from within a thought and lesson yet. Thou ever-darting globe! thou Earth and Air! Thou waters that encompass us! Thou that in all the life and death of us, in action or in sleep. Thou laws invisible that permeate them and all! Thou that in all and over all, and through and under all, incessant! Thou! thou! the vital, universal, giant force resistless, sleepless, calm, Holding Humanity as in the open hand, as some ephemeral toy, How ill to e'er forget thee! _Walt Whitman._ "Are the horrors of the flood to give way to the terrors of the plague?" is the question that is now agitating the valley of the Conemaugh. To-day opened warm and almost sultry, and the stench that assails one's senses as he wanders through Johnstown is almost overpowering. Sickness, in spite of the precautions and herculean labors of the sanitary authorities, is on the increase and the fears of an epidemic grow with every hour. "It is our impression," said Dr. T.L. White, assistant to the State Board of Health, this morning, "that there is going to be great sickness here within the next week. Five cases of malignant diphtheria were located this morning on Bedford street, and as they were in different houses they mean five starting points for disease. All this talk about the dangers of epidemic is not exaggerated, as many suppose, but is founded upon all experience. There will be plenty of typhoid fever and kindred diseases here within a week or ten days in my opinion. The only thing that has saved us thus far has been the cool weather. That has now given place to summer weather, and no one knows what the next few days may bring forth." Fresh Meat and Vegetables Wanted. Even among the workmen there is already discernible a tendency to diarrhoea and dysentery. The men are living principally upon salt meat, and there is a lack of vegetables. I have been here since Sunday and have tasted fresh meat but once since that time. I am only one of the many. Of course the worst has passed for the physicians, as our arrangements are now perfected and each corps will be relieved from time to time. Twenty more physicians arrived from Pittsburgh this morning and many of us will be relieved to-day. But the opinion is general among the medical men that there will be more need for doctors in a week hence than there is now. Sanitary Work. Dr. R.L. Sibbel, of the State Board of Health, is in charge of Sanitary Headquarters. "We are using every precaution known to science," said he this morning, "to prevent the possibility of epidemic. Our labors here have not been confined to any particular channel, but have been extended in various directions. Disinfectants, of course, are first in importance, and they have been used with no sparing hand. The prompt cremation of dead animals as fast as discovered is another thing we have insisted upon. The immediate erection of water-closets throughout the ruins for the workmen was another work of the greatest sanitary importance that has been attended to. They, too, are being disinfected at frequent intervals. We have a committee, too, that superintends the burial of the victims at the cemeteries. It is of the utmost importance in this wholesale interment that the corpses should be interred a safe distance beneath the surface in order that their poisonous emanations may not find exit through the crevices of the earth. "Another committee is making a house-to-house inspection throughout the stricken city to ascertain the number of inhabitants in each standing house, the number of the sick, and to order the latter to the hospital whenever necessary. One great danger is the overcrowding of houses and hovels, and that is being prevented as much as possible by the free use of tents upon the mountain side. So far there is but little contagious disease, and we hope by diligent and systematic efforts to prevent any dangerous outbreak." Dodging Responsibility. It is now rumored that the South Fork Hunting and Fishing Club is a thing of the past. No one admits his membership and it is doubtful if outside the cottage owners one could find more than half a dozen members in the city. Even some of the cottage owners will repudiate their ownership until it is known whether or not legal action will be taken against them. If it were not for the publicity which might follow one could secure a transfer of a large number of shares of the club's stock to himself, accompanied by a good sized roll of money. It is certain that the cottage owners cannot repudiate their ownership. None of them, however, will occupy the houses this summer. The Club Found Guilty. Coroner Hammer, of Westmoreland county, who has been sitting on the dead found down the river at Nineveh, concluded his inquests to-day. His trip to South Fork Dam on Wednesday has convinced him that the burden of this great disaster rests on the shoulders of the South Fork Hunting and Fishing Club of Pittsburgh. The verdict was written to-night, but not all the jury were ready to sign it. It finds the South Fork Hunting and Fishing Club responsible for the loss of life because of gross, if not criminal negligence, and of carelessness in making repairs from time to time. This would let the Pennsylvania Railroad Company out from all blame for allowing the dam to fall so badly out of repair when they got control of the Pennsylvania Canal and abandoned it. The verdict is what might have been expected after Wednesday's testimony. Mr. A.M. Wellington, with P. Burt, associate editor of the _Engineering News_, of New York, has just completed an examination of the dam which caused the great disaster here. Mr. Wellington states that the dam was in every respect of very inferior construction, and of a kind wholly unwarranted by good engineering practices of thirty years ago. Both the original and reconstructed dams were of earth only, with no heart wall, but only riprapped on the slopes. The original dam, however, was made in dammed and watered layers, which still show distinctly in the wrecked dam. The new end greatly added to its stability, but it was to all appearances simply dumped in like an ordinary railroad fill, or if rammed, the wreck shows no evidence of the good effect of such work. Much of the old part is standing intact, while the adjacent parts of the new work are wholly carried off. There was no central wall of puddle or masonry either in the new or old dam. It has been the invariable practice of engineers for thirty or forty years to use one or the other in building high dams of earth. It is doubtful if there is a single dam or reservoir in any other part of the United States of over fifty feet in height which lacks this central wall. Ignorance or Carelessness. The reconstructed dam also bears the mark of great ignorance or carelessness in having been made nearly two feet lower in the middle than at the ends. It should rather have crowned in the middle, which would have concentrated the overflow, if it should occur, at the ends instead of in the centre. Had the break begun at the ends the cut of the water would have been so gradual that little or no harm might have resulted. Had the dam been cut at the ends when the water began running over the centre the sudden breaking would have been at least greatly diminished, possibly prolonged, so that little harm would have resulted. The crest of the old dam had not been raised in the reconstruction of 1881. The old overflow channel through the rock still remains, but owing to the sag of the crest in the middle of the dam only five and a half feet of water in it, instead of seven feet, was necessary to run the water over the crest. And the rock spillway, narrow at best, had been further contracted by a close grating to prevent the escape of fish, capped by a good-sized timber, and in some slight degree also as a trestle footbridge. The original discharge pipe indicates that it was made about half earth and half rock, but if so there was little evidence of it in the broken dam. The riprapping was merely a skin on each face with more or less loose spauls mixed with the earth. The dam was seventy-two feet above water, two to one inside slope, one and a half to one outside slope and twenty feet wide on top. The rock throughout was about one foot below the surface. The earth was pretty good material for such a dam, if it was to be built at all, being of a clayey nature, making good puddle. To this the fact of it standing intact since 1881 must be ascribed, as no engineer of standing would have ever tried to so construct it. The fact that the dam was a reconstructed one after twenty years' abandonment made it especially hard on the older part of the dam to withstand the pressure of the water. Elder Thought it was Safe. Cyrus Elder, general counsel for the Cambria Iron Company and a wealthy and prominent citizen of Johnstown, lost a wife and daughter in the recent disaster and narrowly escaped with his own life. "When the rebuilding of the dam was begun some years ago," he said, "the president of the Cambria Iron Company was very seriously concerned about it, and wished, if possible, to prevent its construction, referring the matter to the solicitor of the company. A gentleman of high scientific reputation, who was then one of the general engineers, inspected the dam. He condemned several matters in the way of construction and reported that this had been changed and that the dam was perfectly safe. My son, George R. Elder, was at that time a student in the Troy Polytechnic University. "His professor submitted a problem to the class which he immediately recognized as being the question of the safety of the South Fork dam. He sent it to me at the time in a letter, which, of course, is lost, with everything else I possessed, in which he stated that the verdict of the class was that the dam was safe. The president of the Cambria Iron Company being still anxious, thought it might be good policy to have some one inside of the fishing and hunting corporation owning the dam. The funds of the company were therefore used to purchase two shares of its stock, which were placed in the name of D.J. Morrell. After his death these shares were transferred to and are still held by me, although they are the property of the Cambria Iron Company. They have not been sold because there was no market for them." Untold Volumes of Water. So far as the Signal Service is concerned, the amount of rainfall in the region drained by the Conemaugh river cannot be ascertained. The Signal Service authorities here, to whom the official there reported, received only partial reports last Friday. There had been a succession of rains nearly all of last week. The last rain commenced Thursday evening and was unusually severe. Mrs. H.M. Ogle, who had been the Signal Service representative in Johnstown for several years and also manager of the Western Union office there, telegraphed at eight o'clock Friday morning that the river marked 14 feet, rising; a rise of 13 feet in twenty-four hours. At eleven o'clock she wired: "River 20 feet and rising, higher than ever before; water in first floor. Have moved to second. River gauges carried away. Rainfall, 2 3-10 inches." At twenty-seven minutes to one P.M., Mrs. Ogle wired: "At this hour north wind; very cloudy; water still rising." Nothing more was heard from her by the bureau, but at the Western Union office here later in the afternoon she commenced to tell an operator that the dam had broken, that a flood was coming, and before she had finished the conversation a singular click of the instrument announced the breaking of the current. A moment afterward the current of her life was broken forever. Sergeant Stewart, in charge of the bureau, says that the fall of water on the Conemaugh shed at Johnstown up to the time of the flood was probably 2 5-10 inches. He believes it was much heavier in the mountains. The country drained by the little Conemaugh and Stony Creek covers an area of about one hundred square miles. The bureau, figuring on this basis and 2 5-10 inches of rainfall, finds that 464,640,000 cubic feet of water was precipitated toward Johnstown in its last hours. This is independent of the great volume of water in the lake, which was not less than 250,000,000 cubic feet. Water Enough to Cover the Valley. It is therefore easily seen that there was ample water to cover the Conemaugh Valley to the depth of from ten to twenty-five feet. Such a volume of water was never known to fall in that country in the same time. Colonel T.P. Roberts, a leading engineer, estimates that the lake drained twenty-five square miles, and gives some interesting data on the probable amount of water it contained. He says:--"The dam, as I understand, was from hill to hill about one thousand feet long and about eighty-five feet high at the highest point. The pond covered above seven hundred acres, at least for the present I will assume that to be the case. We are told also that there was a waste weir at one end seventy-five feet wide and ten feet below the comb or top of the dam. Now we are told that with this weir open and discharging freely to the utmost of its capacity, nevertheless the pond or lake rose ten inches per hour until finally it overflowed the top, and, as I understand, the dam broke by being eaten away at the top. Calculating the Amount of Water. "Thus we have the elements for very simple calculation as to the amount of water precipitated by the flood, provided these premises are accurate. To raise 700 acres of water to a height of ten feet would require about 300,000,000 cubic feet of water, and while this was rising the waste dam would discharge an enormous volume--it would be difficult to say just how much without a full knowledge of the shape of its side walls, approaches and outlets--but if the rise required ten hours the waste river might have discharged perhaps 90,000,000 cubic feet. We would then have a total of flood-water of 390,000,000 cubic feet. This would indicate a rainfall of about eight inches over the twenty-five square miles. As that much does not appear to have fallen at the hotel and dam it is more than likely that even more than eight inches were precipitated in the places further up. These figures I hold tentatively, but I am much inclined to believe that there was a cloud burst." Six thousand men were at work on the ruins to-day. They are paid two dollars a day, and have to earn it. The work seems to tell very little, however, for the mass of débris is simply enormous. The gangs have cleaned up the streets pretty thoroughly in the main part of the city, from which the brick blocks were swept like card houses before a breeze. The houses are pulled apart and burned in bonfires. Nowhere is anything found worth saving. It is not probable that the mass of débris at the bridge, by which the water is tainted, can be removed in less than thirty days with the greatest force possible to work on it. That particular job is under the control of the State Board of Health. Every day adds to its seriousness. The mass is being cleared by dynamite at the bridge where the current is strongest, and the open place slowly grows larger. Not infrequently a body is found after an explosion has loosened the wreckage. So-called relief corps are still moving to and fro in the city, but the most serious labor of many of the members is to carry a bright yellow badge to aid them in passing the guards while sight-seeing. The militia men are little better than ornamental. The guards do a good deal of changing, to the annoyance of workers who want to get into the lines, but they rarely stop any one. The soldiers do a vast deal of loafing. A photographer who had his camera ready to take a view among the ruins was arrested to-day and made to work for an hour by General Hastings' order. When his stint was done he did not linger, but went at once. Signs of Improvement. "What is the condition of the valley now?" I asked Colonel Scott. "It is improving with every hour. The perfect organization which has been effected within the past day or two has gradually resolved all the chaos and confusion into a semblance of order and regulation." "Are many bodies being discovered now?" "Very few; that is to say, comparatively few. Of course, as the waters recede more and more between the banks, we have come upon bodies here and there, as they were exposed to sight. The probabilities are that there will be a great many bodies yet discovered under the rubbish that covers the streets, and our hope and expectation is that the majority of all the dead may be recovered and disposed of in a Christian manner." "How about the movement to burn the rubbish, bodies and all?" "I do not think that will be done--at least only as a last extremity. While there is great anxiety in regard to the sanitary condition, all possible precautions are being taken, and we hope to prevent any disease until we shall have time to thoroughly overhaul the wreck. Consideration for the Dead. "The greatest consideration is being given to this matter of the recovery of the dead and treatment of the bodies after discovery. I think an impression has gone abroad that the dead are being handled here very much as one would handle cord wood, but this is a great mistake. As soon as possible after discovery they are borne from public gaze and taken to the Morgue, where only persons who have lost relatives or friends are admitted. Of course the general exclusion is not applied to attendants, physicians and representatives of the press, but it is righteously applied to careless sight-seers. We have no room for sight-seers in Johnstown now. It is earnest workers and laborers we want, and of these we can hardly have too many." Speculating in Disaster. Some long headed men are trying to make a neat little stake quietly out of the disaster. A syndicate has been formed to buy up as much real estate as possible in Johnstown, trusting to get a big block as they got one to-day, for one-third of the valuation placed on it a week ago. The members of the syndicate are keeping very much in the background and conducting their business through a local agent. I asked Adjutant General Hastings to-day what he thought of the situation. "It is very good so far as reported," was the reply. "Bodies are being gradually recovered all the time, but of course not in the large number of the first few days. Last night we arrested several ghouls that were wandering amid the wreck on evil intent, and they were promptly taken to the guard house. This morning they were given the choice of imprisonment or going to work at two dollars a day, and they promptly chose the latter. We are getting along very well in our work, and very little tendency to lawlessness, I am happy to say, is observed." Succor for the Living. The Red Cross flag now flies over the society's own camp beside the Baltimore and Ohio tracks, near the bridge to Kernville. The tents were pitched this morning and the camp includes a large supply tent, mess tent and offices. Miss Clara Barton, of Washington, is, of course, in charge, and the work is being rapidly gotten into shape. I found Miss Barton at the camp this morning. "The Red Cross Society will remain here," she said, "so long as there is any work to do. There is hardly any limit to what we will do. Much of the present assistance that has been extended is, of course, impulsive and ephemeral. When that is over there will still be work to do, and the Red Cross Society will be here to do it. We are always the last to leave the field. "We need and can use to the greatest advantage all kinds of supplies, and shall be glad to receive them. Money is practically useless here as there is no place to buy what we need." Dr. J. Wilkes O'Neill, of Philadelphia, surgeon of the First Regiment, is here in charge of the Philadelphia division of the Red Cross Society. He is assisted by a corps of physicians, nurses and attendants. Within two hours after establishing the camp this morning about forty cases, both surgical and medical, were treated. Diphtheria broke out in Kernville to-day. Eleven cases were reported, eight of which were reported to be malignant. The epidemic is sure to extend. There are also cases of ulcerated tonsilitis. The patients are mostly those left homeless by the flood and are fairly well situated in frame houses. The doctors do not fear an epidemic of pneumonia. The Red Cross Society has established a hospital camp in Grubbtown for the treatment of contagious diseases. An epidemic of typhoid fever is feared, two cases having appeared. The camp is well located in a pleasant spot near fine water. It is supplied with cots, ambulances and some stores. They have an ample supply of surgical stores, but need medical stores badly. Serving Out the Rations. At the commissary station at the Pennsylvania Railroad depot there was considerable activity. A crowd of about one thousand people had gathered about the place after the day's rations. The crowd became so great that the soldiers had to be called up to guard the place until the Relief Committee was ready to give out the provisions. Several carloads of clothing arrived this morning and was to be disposed of as soon as possible. The people were badly in need of clothing, as the weather had been very chilly since Saturday. B.F. Minnimun, a wealthy contractor of Springfield, Ohio, arrived this forenoon with a despatch from Governor Foraker offering 2,000 trained laborers for Johnstown, to be sent at once if needed. The despatch further stated that if anything else was needed Ohio stood ready to respond promptly to the call. What Clara Barton Said. "It is like a blow on the head; there are no tears, they are stunned; but, ah, sir, I tell you they will awake after awhile and then the tears will flow down the hills of this valley from thousands of bleeding hearts, and there will be weeping and wailing such as never before." That is what Clara Barton, president of the National Red Cross, said this afternoon as she stood in a plain black gown on the bank of Stony Creek directing the construction of the Red Cross tents, and she looked motherly and matronly, while her voice was trembling with sympathy. "You see nothing but that dazed, sickly smile that calamity leaves," she went on, "like the crazy man wears when you ask him, 'How came you here?' Something happened, he says, that he alone knows; all the rest is blank to him. Here they give you that smile, that look and say 'I lost my father, my mother, my sisters,' but they do not realize it yet. The Red Cross intends to be here in the Conemaugh Valley when the pestilence comes to them, and we are making ready with all our heart, with all our soul, with all our strength. The militia, the railroad, the Relief Committees and everybody is working for us. The railroad has completely barricaded us so that none of our cars can be taken away by mistake." When the great wave of death swept through Johnstown the people who had any chance of escape ran hither and thither in every direction. They did not have any definite idea where they were going, only that a crest of foaming waters as high as the housetops was roaring down upon them through the Conemaugh and that they must get out of the way of that. Some in their terror dived into the cellars of their houses and clambered over the adjoining roofs to places of safety. But the majority made for the hills, which girt the town like giants. Of the people who went to the hills, the water caught some in its whirl. [Illustration: A WOMAN'S BODY LODGED IN A TREE.] The others clung to trees and roots and pieces of débris which had temporarily lodged near the banks, and managed to save themselves. These people either stayed out on the hills wet, and in many instances walked all night, or they managed to find farmhouses which sheltered them. There was a fear of going back to the vicinity of the town. Even the people whose houses the water did not reach abandoned their homes and began to think of all of Johnstown as a city buried beneath the water. But in the houses which were thus able to afford shelter there was not food enough for all. Many survivors of the flood went hungry until the first relief supplies arrived from Pittsburgh. Struggling to Live Again. From all this fright, destitution and exposure is coming a nervous shock, culminating in insanity, pneumonia, fever and all the other forms of disease. When these people came back to Johnstown on the day after the wreck of the town they had to live in sheds, barns and in houses which had been but partially ruined. They had to sleep without any covering, in their wet clothes, and it took the liveliest kind of skirmishing to get anything to eat. Pretty soon a citizen's committee was established, and nearly all the male survivors of the flood were immediately sworn in as deputy sheriffs. They adorned themselves with tin stars, which they cut out of pieces of the sheets of metal in the ruins, and pieces of tin with stars cut out of them are now turning up continually, to the surprise of the Pittsburgh workmen who are endeavoring to get the town in shape. The women and children were housed, so far as possible, in the few houses still standing, and some idea of the extent of the wreck of the town may be gathered from the fact that of 300 prominent buildings only 16 are uninjured. For the first day or so people were dazed by what had happened, and for that matter they are dazed still. They went about helpless, making vague inquiries for their friends, and hardly feeling the desire to eat anything. Finally the need of creature comforts overpowered them and they woke up to the fact that they were faint and sick. Refugees in Their Own City. Now this is to some extent changed by the arrival of tents and by the systematic military care for the suffering. But the daily life of a Johnstown man who is a refugee in his own city is still aimless and wandering. His property, his home, in nine cases out of ten, his wife and children, are gone. The chances are that he has hard work to find the spot where he and his family once lived and were happy. He meditates suicide, and even looks on the strangers who have flocked in to help him and to put him and his town on their feet again with a kind of sullen anger. He has frequent conflicts with the soldiers and with the sight-seers, and he is crazy enough to do almost anything. The first thing that Johnstown people do in the morning is to go to the relief stations and get something to eat. They go carrying big baskets, and their endeavor is to get all they can. There has been a new system every day about the manner of dispensing the food and clothing to the sufferers. At first the supplies were placed where people could help themselves. Then they were placed in yards and handed to people over the fences. Then people had to get orders for what they wanted from the citizens' committee and their orders were filled at the different relief stations. Now the matter has been arranged this way, and probably finally. The whole matter of receiving and dispensing the relief supplies has been placed in the hands of the Grand Army of the Republic men. Women Too Proud to Beg. The Grand Army men have made the Adams Street Relief Station a central relief station and all the others at Kernville, the Pennsylvania depot, Cambria City and Jackson and Somerset Streets, sub-stations. The idea is to distribute supplies to the sub-stations from the central station and thus avoid the jam of crying and excited people at the committee's headquarters. The Grand Army men have appointed a committee of women to assist in their work. The women go from house to house ascertaining the number of people lost from there in the flood and the exact needs of the people. It was found necessary to have some such committee as this, for there were women actually starving who were too proud to take their places in lines with the other women with bags and baskets. Some of these people were rich before the flood. Now they are not worth a dollar. One man who was reported to be worth $100,000 before the flood now is penniless and has to take his place in the line along with others seeking the necessaries of life. Though the Adams street station is now the central relief station, the most imposing display of supplies is made at the Pennsylvania Railroad freight and passenger depots. Here on the platform and in the yards are piled up barrels of flour in long rows three and four barrels high. Biscuits in cans and boxes by the carload, crackers under the railroad sheds in bins, hams by the hundred strung on poles, boxes of soap and candles, barrels of kerosene oil, stacks of canned goods and things to eat of all sorts and kinds are here to be seen. No Fear of a Food Famine. The same sight is visible at the Baltimore and Ohio road and there is now no fear of a food famine in Johnstown, though of course everybody will have to rough it for weeks. What is needed most in this line are cooking utensils. Johnstown people want stoves, kettles, pans, knives and forks. All the things that have been sent so far have been sent with the evident idea of supplying an instant need, and that is right and proper. But it would be well now if instead of some of the provisions that are sent, cooking utensils should arrive. Fifty stoves arrived from Pittsburgh this morning, and it is said more are coming. At both the depots where the supplies are received and stored a big rope line encloses them in an impromptu yard so as to give room to those having the supplies in charge to walk around and see what they have got. On the inside of this line, too, stalk back and forth the soldiers with their rifles on their shoulders, and by the side of the lines pressing against the ropes there stands every day from daylight until dawn a crowd of women with big baskets who make piteous appeals to the soldiers to give them food for their children at once before the order of the relief committee. Where Death Rules. The following letters from a young woman to her mother, written immediately after the disaster at Johnstown from her home in New Florence, a few miles west of that place, though not intended for publication, picture in graphic manner the agony of suspense sustained by those who escaped the flood, and give side pictures of the scenes following the disaster. They were received in Philadelphia: Hours of Suspense. NEW FLORENCE, PA.--My Darling Mother: I am nearly crazed, and thought I would try and be quiet and write to you, as it always comforts me to feel you are near your child, though many miles are now between us. I have said my prayers over and over again all day long, and to-night I am going to spend in the watch-tower, and am trying to be quiet and brave, although my heart is just wrung with anguish. Andrew sent me word from Johnstown this afternoon about half-past three he was safe and would be home shortly. Well, he has never come, and I have had many reports of the work train, but no one seems to know anything definite about him. I have telegraphed and telegraphed, but no news yet, and all I can find out is he was seen on the bridge just before it went down. I am trying to be brave. Good News at Last. SUNDAY MORNING. You see, dearest mother, I could not write, and now I am happy, though tired, for Andrew is home and safe, and I thank God for the great mercy he has shown his child. I won't dwell on my anxiety, it can better be imagined than described. From the letter I had from him at Johnstown, written at 9 A.M. Friday, until 6.30 last evening, I never knew whether he was living or dead. Thomas, our man, brought the news. God bless him, and it nearly cost him his life to do it, poor man. Andrew got separated from the party, and was close to the bridge when it was carried away, but escaped by going up the mountain. He tried to signal to his men he was safe, but could not make them see him, nor could those men that were with him; all communication was impossible. Thomas left him at nine o'clock Friday night on the mountain and tried to get home. He got a man to ferry him across the river above Johnstown, and the boat was upset, but all managed to get ashore, and Thomas walked all night and all yesterday, and came straight to me and told me my husband was safe, and an hour later I had a telegram from Andrew. He had walked from the Conemaugh side to Bolivar. The bridge at Nineveh was the only bridge left standing. He took the first train home from Bolivar and got home about 9.30. I telegraphed you in the morning, or rather Uncle Clem, that I was safe and Andrew reported safe, though now they tell me every one here thought he was lost and Thomas with him. Thomas's wife was met at the station and informed of his death by some of the men, and six hours afterwards Thomas came home, yet more dead than alive, poor man. It is very hard to write, as all the country people and men have been here to tell me how glad they are "I got my husband safely back, and that I am a powerful sight lucky young woman." Well, mother darling, make your mind easy about your children now. Andrew is safe and well, though pretty well exhausted, and his feet are so sore and swollen he can hardly stand, and can't wear anything but rubbers, as his mountain shoes he cut to pieces. He left early this morning, but will be back to-night. I cannot begin to tell you of the horrors, as the papers do not half picture the distress. New Florence was not flooded, though some of the people left the place on Friday night and went up on Squirrel Hill. Scenes at the River. I went down to the river once, and that was enough, as I knew Andrew would not like me to see the sorrow, for which there was no help. I went just after the bridge fell, saw Centreville flooded and the people make a dash for the mountain. Yesterday two hundred and three bodies were taken from the river near here, and yet every train takes away more. The freight cars have taken nothing but human freight, and wagon load after wagon load of dead bodies have been right in front of the house. There was a child about Nellie's age, with light hair, dead in the wagon, with her hands clasped, saying her prayers, and her blue eyes staring wide open. By her side lay a man with a pipe in his mouth, naked children, and a woman with a baby at her breast. Oh, the terror on their faces. Two women and three men were rescued here, and a German family of mother, four children and father. I had them all on my hands to look after; no one could make them understand, and how I ever managed it I don't know, but I did. They lost two children and their home, but had a little money and were going to his brother's, at Hazleton. They got here in the night and left at noon, and it would have done your heart good to see them eat. One was a baby five weeks old. Help Needed. Now, mother, I want you to go around among the family and get me everything in the way of clothes you possibly can, and get Uncle Clem to express them to me. I should also like money, and as much as you can get can be used. I am pretty well cleaned out of everything, as all the cattle and stock have been lost and nothing can be bought here, and all I have in the way of provisions is some preserves, chocolate, coffee, olives and crackers. We can't starve, as we have the chickens. I got the last meat from the butcher's yesterday, and he said he didn't expect to have any more for a week, so I told Uncle Clem I would not mind having two hams from Pittsburgh, and was very grateful for his telegram. I telegraphed him in the morning; also, Uncle White at Germantown, so that they might know I was all right, but from Auntie's telegram I judge Uncle Clem's telegrams were the only ones that got through. If I find I need provisions I will let you know, but do not think I will need anything for myself, and the poor are being fed by the relief supplies, and what is needed now is money and clothes. Helpers. There's not a house in the place that is not in trouble from the loss of some dear one, nor one that does not hold or shelter some one or more of the sufferers. Tell everybody anything you can get can be used, and by the time you get this letter I will know of more cases to provide for, so take everything you can get, and don't worry about me, for I am all right now that Andrew is safe. This letter has been written by instalments, as I have been interrupted so many times, so pardon the abruptness of it, and please send it to Germantown, as I have too much to do now. My hands and heart are both full. Milk is as scarce as wine, as the pasturage was all on the other side, and cows were lost, and bread is as scarce as can be, and, instead of a dozen eggs, we only get one a day. I am proud of New Florence, as all it has done to help the sufferers no one knows, and as for Mr. Bennett, he is one in a thousand. Mr. Hay's son has worked like a Trojan. Tell Cousin Hannah that the new tracks will be sure to be straight, as Andrew will superintend the whole business. With heart full of love to one and all and a kiss to the children. Lovingly, BETT. The Awful After Scenes. NEW FLORENCE, Sunday Night. My Darling Mother: This is my second letter to you to-day. It is after 11 o'clock, and one of the men has just brought me word that Andrew will be home, he thought, by 1 o'clock; so I am waiting up for him, so as to give him his dinner, and I have been through so much I cannot go to bed until I know he is safe home again. I put him up a good lunch, and know he cannot starve. Oh the horrors of to-day! I have only had one pleasant Sunday here, and that was the one after we were married. I have had a very busy day, as I have been through our clothes, and routing out everything possible for the sufferers and the dead, and the cry to-day for linen sheets, etc., was something awful. I have given away all my underclothes, excepting my very best things--and all my old ones I made into face-cloths for the dead. To-day they took five little children out of the water; they were playing "Ring around a rosy," and their hands were clasped in a clasp which even death did not loosen, and their faces were still smiling. One man identified his wife among those who came ashore here, and Rose said that he was nearly crazy, and that her face was the most beautiful thing she ever saw, and that she had very handsome pearls in her ears and was so young looking. The dead are all taken from here to Johnstown and Nineveh and other places, where they will be most likely to be identified; about thirty have been identified here and taken away. I feel hardened to a great deal, and feel God has been so merciful to me I must do all I can for the unfortunate ones. I hope soon to have some help from you all, for I have given willingly of my little and my means are exhausted. I expect we will have to live on ham and eggs next week, but we are thankful to have that, as I would rather live low and give all I can, than not to give. All I care about is that Andrew gets enough to eat, as he needs a great deal to keep his strength up, working as hard as he does. Now I will close as it is nearly time for him to be home. Lovingly, BETT. Feeding the Hungry. There are over 30,000 people at Johnstown who must be fed from the outside world. Of these 18,000 are natives of the town that a week ago had 29,500 inhabitants; all the others are dead or have gone away. Over 12,000 people are here clearing the streets, burying the dead, attending the sick, and feeding and sheltering the homeless; all these people have to be fed at least three times a day, for days are very long in Johnstown just now. They begin at five o'clock in the morning, two hours before the whistles in the half-mired Cambria Iron Company's building blow, and end just about the time the sun is going down. If the people who are on the outside and who are engaged in the labor of love of sending the food that is keeping strength in Johnstown's tired arms and the clothing that is covering her nakedness could understand the situation as it is they would redouble their efforts. Johnstown cannot draw on the country immediately around about her, for that was drained days ago. To be safe, there should be a week's supply of food ahead. At no time has there been a day's supply or anything like it. A Crisis in the Commissary. Twice within the last forty-eight hours the commissary department at the Pennsylvania Railroad Depot, where nearly 10,000 people are furnished with food, have been in a state of mind bordering on panic. They had run out of food; people who had trudged down the hill with expectant faces and empty baskets had to trudge back again with hearts heavy and baskets still empty. That was the case on Wednesday night. Then the Citizens' Committee had to send to the refugee camp, the smallest food station in the city, and take away 1500 loaves of bread. The bread supply in the central portion of the town had suddenly given out and there was a clamoring crowd demanding to be fed. The same thing happened again last night. It was not so bad as on the night before, but there were anxious faces enough among the men under the direction of Major Spangler, who realized the awful responsibility of providing the mouths of the thousands with food. The supply had given out, but fortunately not until almost everybody had been supplied. Telegrams announced that eight carloads of provisions had been shipped from the West and were somewhere in the line between Pittsburgh and Johnstown. At midnight nothing could be heard of them. The delay was maddening. If the food did not arrive it meant fully 10,000 breakfastless and possibly dinnerless people in Johnstown to-day, with consequent suffering and possible disorder among the rough and rowdy element. The Danger Tided Over. Before daylight the expected cars came in from Ohio and Pittsburgh and the danger was over for the time being. This serves, however, to show the perilous condition the town is in, living as it is in a hand-to-mouth fashion. It should be remembered that the only direct access to Johnstown from the West is by way of the Pennsylvania, which is handicapped as she has never been before, and from the East and South, of the Baltimore and Ohio. If the Pennsylvania were opened through to the East a steady stream of 200 cars already loaded for the sufferers would pour over the Alleghenies, but the Pennsylvania does not see light ahead much more clearly than yesterday. The terrible breaks and washouts will require days yet to repair, and supplies that come from the interior of the State must come by means of wagons. Crowding in the Supplies. The Baltimore and Ohio is piling the supplies in to-day faster than the men can unload them. In the neighborhood of 100 carloads were received. The Pennsylvania during to-day has handled something like twenty-eight carloads all told. In the way of food the articles most needed are fresh, salt meats, sugar, rice, coffee, tea, and dried and canned fruits. The supply of sugar gave out entirely to-day. Twenty thousand pounds of Cincinnati hams arrived to-day and they melted like 20,000 pounds of ice beneath the scorching heat of this afternoon's sun. Much of the clothing that is received here is new and serviceable, but thousands of pieces are so badly worn that, to use the words of General Axline, of Ohio, who is doing noble service here with the thousands of other self-sacrificing men, "it is unfit to be worn by tramps." Many old shoes with the soles half torn off have been received. Shoes are badly needed at once or all Johnstown will be barefooted. Eighteen Carloads of Relief. Even in the rush of distribution the officials who have it in charge can find time to say a hearty word of praise for those towns which have contributed to the sufferers. Philadelphia's first installment was the first to arrive from the East, and more goods have been coming in steadily ever since. W.H. Tumblestone, the president of the Retail Grocers' Association of Pennsylvania, who was appointed first lieutenant of the Philadelphia relief by the Mayor, arrived here first. He set at work handling coffins, but as soon as the first freight car of goods arrived he was put in charge of their distribution and has been working like threemen ever since. The eight freight cars from Philadelphia which arrived with the relief party on Monday, at 4 o'clock, were distributed from a great storehouse at the terminus of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. The goods are carried in bulk from the cars to the warehouse by a gang of twenty-eight men, who are identified by red flannel hat-bands. When they fail to enthuse over their work Mr. Tumblestone gets off his coat and shoves boxes himself. [Illustration: DISTRIBUTING CLOTHING AND OTHER SUPPLIES.] Distributing Supplies. Inside the warehouse a score of volunteers and Pittsburgh policemen break open the boxes and pile the goods in separate heaps; the women's clothing, the men's, the children's and the different sizes being placed in regular order. Then the barriers are opened and the crowd surges in like depositors making a run on a savings bank. The police keep good order and the ubiquitous Tumblestone and his assistants dole out the goods to all who have orders. Special orders call for stoves, mattrasses and blankets. If the Philadelphians could see the faces of the people they are helping before and after they have passed the distribution windows they would feel well repaid for their visible sympathy. Chairman Scott says the class of goods from Philadelphia have been of the highest quality. "We have been delighted with the thought and excellence of the selections and amiable nature of the contributions. The two miles of track lying between here and Morrellville are still blocked with cars stretched from one end to the other, and fresh arrivals are coming in daily over the Baltimore and Ohio." Although it is impossible to say how much has been received from Philadelphia, Mr. Tumblestone says that so far as many as eighteen freight cars, each filled from the sides to the roof, have arrived from the Quaker City, and their contents have been distributed. How Rival Hotels were Crushed Together. The principal hotels of the town were bunched in a group about the corner of Main and Clinton streets. They were the Merchants', a large old-fashioned, three-story tavern, with a stable yard behind, a relic of staging days; the Hurlburt House, the leading hotel of the place, a fine four-story brick structure with a mansard roof and all the latest wrinkles in furnishing inside and out; the Fritz House, a narrow, four-story structure, with an ornate front, and the Keystone, a smaller hotel than any of the others. These few inns stood in the path of the flood. The Hurlburt, the largest and handsomest, was absolutely obliterated. The Keystone's ruin was next in completion. It stood across Clinton Street from Fritz's, and Landlord Charles West has not yet recovered from the surprise of seeing the rival establishment thrown bodily across the street against his second story front, tearing it completely out. After the water subsided it fell back upon the pavement in front of its still towering rival, and in the meantime Landlord West had saved mine host of the Keystone and his family from the roof which was thrust in his windows. Back of Fritz's there was a little alley, which made a course for a part of the torrent. Fully half a dozen houses were sent swimming in here. They crushed their way through the small hotel's outhouses straight to the rear of the Merchants', and sliced the walls off the old inn as a hungry survivor to-day cut a Philadelphia cheese. You can see the interior of the rooms. The beds were swept out into the flood, but a lonesome wardrobe fell face downward on the floor and somehow escaped. There are bodies under the rear wall. How many is not known, but Landlord West, of Fritz's, says he is certain there were people on the rear porch of the Merchants'. The story of Landlord West's rival being thrown into his front windows has its parallels. Colonel Higgins, the manager of the Cambria Club House, was in the third story of the building with his family. Suddenly a man was hurled by the torrent rapidly through the window. He was rescued, then fainted, and upon inspection was found to have a broken leg. The leg was bandaged and the man resuscitated, and when this last act of kindness was accomplished he said faintly: "This ain't so bad. I've been in a blow-up." A Cool Request. This remark showed the greatest sang-froid known to be exhibited during the flood, but the most irreverent was that of an old man who was saved by E.B. Entworth, of the Johnson works. On Saturday morning Mr. Entworth rowed to a house near the flowing débris at the bridge, and found a woman, with a broken arm, and a baby. After she had got into the boat she cried: "Come along, grandpap." Whereupon an old man, chilled but chipper, jumped up from the other side of the roof, slid down into the boat, and ejaculated: "Gentlemen, can any of you give me a chew of tobacco?" Scenes Amid the Ruins. One of the curious finds in the débris yesterday was two proofs from cabinet-size negatives of two persons--a man and a woman. The prints were found within two feet of each other in the ruins near the Merchants' Hotel. They were immediately recognized as portraits of Mamie Patton, formerly a Johnstown girl, and Charles DeKnight, once a Pullman palace car conductor. The two were found dying together in a room in a Pittsburgh hotel several months ago, the woman having shot the man and then herself. She claimed that he was her husband. The dress in which the picture showed her was the same that she wore when she killed DeKnight. Tracks that were Laid in a Hurry. If Pennsylvania Railroad trains ever ran over tougher-looking tracks than those used now through Johnstown it must have been before people began to ride on it. The section from the north end of the bridge to the railroad station has a grade that wabbles between 50 and 500 feet to the mile and jerks back and forth sideways as though laid by a gang of intoxicated men on a dark night. When the first engine went over it everybody held his breath and watched to see it tumble. These eccentricities are being straightened out, however, as fast as men and broken stones can do it. The railroad bridge at Johnstown deserves attention beyond that which it is receiving on account of the way it held back the flood. It is one of the most massive pieces of masonry ever set up in this country. In a general way it is solid masonry of cut sandstone blocks of unusual size, the whole nearly 400 feet long, forty wide, and averaging about forty deep. Seven arches of about fifty feet span are pierced through it, rising to within a few feet of the top and leaving massive piers down to the rock beneath. As the bridge crosses the stream diagonally, the arches pierce the mass in a slanting direction, and this greatly adds to the heavy appearance of the bridge. There has been some disposition to find fault with the bridge for being so strong, the idea being that if it had gone out there would have been no heaping up of buildings behind it, no fire, and fewer deaths. This is probably unfair, as there were hundreds of persons saved when their houses were stopped against the bridge by climbing out or being helped out upon the structure. If the bridge had gone, too, the flood would have taken the whole instead of only half of Cambria City. Photographers Forced to Work. The camera fiend has about ceased his wanderings. An order was issued yesterday from headquarters to arrest and put to work the swarms of amateur photographers who are to be found everywhere about the ruins. Those who will not work are to be taken uptown under guard. This order is issued to keep down the number of useless people and thus save the fast diminishing provisions for the workers. A man who stood on the bluff and saw the first wave of the flood come down the valley tried to describe it. "I looked up," he said, "and saw something that looked like a wall of houses and trees up the valley. The next moment Johnstown seemed coming toward me. It was lifted right up and in a minute was smashing against the bridge and the houses were flying in splinters across the top and into the water beyond." A 13-year-old girl, pretty and with golden hair, wanders about from morgue to morgue looking for ten of a family of eleven, she being the sole survivor. There were half a dozen bulldogs in one house that was heaped up in the wreck some distance above the bridge. They were loose among the débris, and it is said by those who claim to have seen it that after fighting among themselves they turned upon the people near them and were tearing and biting them until the flames swept over the place. Slow Time to Pittsburgh. Irregular is a weak word for the manner in which passenger trains run between this place and Pittsburgh. The distance is seventy miles and the ordinary time is two hours. The train that left here at 4.30 yesterday afternoon reached there at midnight. This is ordinarily good time nowadays. A passage in five hours is an exceptional one. Engine 1309, the one that faced the flood below Conemaugh and stood practically unharmed, backed down to the station as soon as the tracks were laid up to where it stood and worked all right. Only the oil cups and other small fittings, with the headlight, were broken. The superintendent of the Woodvale Woolen Mills, one of the Cambria Iron Company's concerns, was one of the very few fortunate ones in that little place. He and all his family got into the flouring mill just below the woolen mill and upon the roof. The woolen mill was totally wrecked, though not carried away, and the flouring mill was badly damaged, but the roof held and all were saved. These two parts of the mill were the only buildings left standing in Woodvale. A man in Kernville, on Friday last, had jet black hair, moustache and beard. That night he had a battle with the waters. On Saturday morning his hair and beard began to turn gray, and they are now well streaked with white. He attributes the change to his awful Friday night's experience. Wounds of the Dead. It is the impression of the medical corps and military surgeons who arrived here early in the week that hundreds, maybe thousands of men, women and children were insensible to all horror on that awful afternoon, just a week ago, before the waters of the valley closed in over them. Their opinion is based on the fact that hundreds and hundreds of the bodies already brought to light are terribly wounded somewhere, generally on the head. In many instances the wounds are sufficient in themselves to have caused death. The crashing of houses together in the first mad rush of the flood with a force greater than the collision of railroad trains making fast time, and the hurling of timbers, poles, towers and boulders through the air is believed to have caused a legion of deaths in an instant, before the lost knew what was coming. Even the survivors bear testimony to this. Surgeon Foster, of the 14th Regiment, who was first to have charge of the hospital, tells how he treated long lines of men, women and children for wounds too terrible to mention and they themselves know not how it happened only that they fell in a moment. In connection with his experience he speaks of the tender, yet heroic, work of four Sisters of Mercy, two from Pittsburgh and two here, who went ahead of him down the ranks of the wounded with sponges, chloroforming the suffering, before his scalpel aid reached them. Sometimes there were a dozen victims ahead of his knives. Once these sisters stopped, for the first time showing horror, by a great pile of dead children and infants on the river bank laid one on top of the other. By one man each little body was seized and the clothing quickly cut from it. Then he passed it to another, who washed it in the river. Then a third man took it in the line of the dead. But the Sisters of Mercy saw they were too late there, and passed on among the living. Most of the Pennsylvania Railroad passengers who left Pittsburgh for the East last Friday and were caught in the flood in the Conemaugh Valley reached Philadelphia in a long special train at 5 o'clock Friday morning, June 7th, after a week of adventure, peril and narrow escapes which none of them will ever forget. A few of their number who lost presence of mind when the flood struck the train were drowned. The survivors are unanimous in their appreciation of the kindness shown them by Pennsylvania officials, and in their praise of the hospitality and generosity of the country folk, among whom they found homes for three days. The escapes in some instances seem miraculous. An hour before the flood the first section of the day express stopped at Conemaugh City, about ten miles below the dam at South Fork, on account of a washout farther up the valley. The second section of the express and another passenger train soon overtook the first and half an hour before the dam broke all these trains stood abreast on the four-track road. The positions now occupied seems providential. If the railroad men had foreseen the disaster they could not have shown greater prudence, for the engine of the first section of the express, on the track nearest the mountain side, stood about a car's length ahead of the second. The engine of the third train came to a stop a car's length behind the second and on the outer track, which was within a few feet of the swollen Conemaugh River, stood a heavily laden freight train. When the flood came it struck the slanting front of the four locomotives. Most of the passengers had, in the meantime, escaped up the mountain side. Three of the locomotives were carried down by the irresistible torrent, but the fourth turned on its side and was soon buried under sand, tree trunks and other débris. This served as a breakwater for the flood and accounts for the fact that the trains of cars were not reduced to kindling wood while the railroad roundhouse and its twelve locomotives, a little farther down the valley, was taken up bodily, broken into fragments and its mighty inmates carried like chips for miles down the valley. Weary Passengers. From end to end of the train, upon its arrival at Philadelphia, there was an aspect of absolute exhaustion, varied in its expression according to the individual. Phlegmatic men lay upon their backs, across the seats, with their legs dangling in the aisles. One might send them spinning round or toss their feet out of the passage, and their worn faces showed no more sign than if they were lifeless. Women lay swathed in veils and wraps, sometimes alone, sometimes huddled together, and sometimes guarded by the arms of their husbands--husbands who themselves had given way and slept as heavily as if dosed with narcotics. But here and there is the typical American girl, full of nerve. She is worn out, too, but sleeps only fitfully, starting up at every sound and dropping uneasily off again. Now and then one encountered the man and woman of restless temperament, whose sleepless eyes looked out thinking, thinking--thinking on the trees and grass and bushes, faintly showing form now in the gray light of the very earliest dawn. Childhood's Peaceful Sleep. In the midst of it all a girl of six or seven, with a light shawl thrown over her figure, slept as peacefully as if she lay in the comfortable embrace of her own crib at home. She was little Bertha Reed, who had been sent out from Chicago in the care of the conductor on a trip to Brooklyn, where she was to meet her aunt. At Pittsburgh she was taken in charge by a Miss Harvey, a relative. She was a passenger on the Chicago limited, the last train to get safely across the bridge at South Fork. She was a model of patience and cheerfulness through all the discomforts and drawbacks of the voyage, and her innocent prattle made every man and woman love her. It might have been supposed that if one were to waken any of these sleeping passengers to obtain their names and ask them of the disaster they might surlily have resented it. But they didn't. Now and then one of them would half-sleepily hand out his ticket under the mistaken notion that the reporter was the conductor. Another shake brought them round and they answered everything as kindly as if the unavoidable breaking in upon their comfort were a matter of no concern whatever. Sometimes it would seem that great sorrow must have a chastening effect upon everyone. From All Parts of the World. It was a strange gathering altogether, and made one think again of the remark so often repeated in "No Thoroughfare," "How small the world is." All the ends of the earth had sent their people to meet at the disaster, and the tide of human life flows on as recklessly as the current of any sea or river. Here weary, sleepy and sad, was Jacob Schmidt, of Aspen, Col. He had been a passenger on the Pittsburgh day express. He was standing on the platform when the flood came and by a lurching of the car he was thrown into the boiling torrent. He managed to seize a floating plank and was saved, but all his money and other valuables were lost. That was a particularly hard loss to him, because he was on his way to South Africa to seek his fortune. Behind him was R.B. Jones, who had come from the other side of the globe; in particular from Sydney, Australia, and met the others at Altoona. He was on the way for a visit to his parents in York County. He was on the Chicago Limited and just escaped the danger. In a front car was Peter Sherman, of Pawtucket, R.I. He was tall and broad shouldered and his sun-browned face was shaded by a big soft hat. He was on his way from Texarkana, way down in Texas, and he too was at Conemaugh. He was a passenger on the first section of the day express. He had not slept a wink on the way down from Altoona, and he told his story spiritedly. He said: "I heard a voice in the car crying the reservoir is burst; run for your lives! I got up and made a rush for the door. A poor little cripple with two crutches sat in front of me and screamed to me to save him or he would be drowned. I grabbed him up under one arm and took his crutches with my free hand. As we stepped from the car the water was coming. I made my way up the hill toward a church. The water swooped down on us and was soon up to my knees. I told the cripple I could not carry him further; that we should both be lost. He screamed to me again to save him, but the water was gaining rapidly on us. He had a grip of my arm, but finally let go, and I laid him, hopefully, on the wooden steps of a house. I managed to reach the high land just in time. I never saw the cripple afterwards, but I learned that he was drowned." A Great Loss. A tall, heavily built man, with tattered garments, walked along the platform with the help of a cane. His face was covered with a beard, and his head was bowed so that his chin almost touched his breast. One foot was partially covered by a cut shoe, while on the other foot he wore a boot from which the heel was missing. This was Stephen Johns, a foreman at the Johnson Steel Rail Works at Woodvale. He was a big, strong man, but his whole frame trembled as he said: "Yes, I am from Johnstown. I lost my wife and three children there, so I thought I would leave." It was only by the greatest effort that Mr. Johns kept the tears back. He then told his experience in this way: "I was all through the war. I was at Fair Oaks, at Chancellorsville, in the Wilderness, and many other battles, but never in my life was I in such a hot place as I was on Friday night. I don't know how I escaped, but here am I alone, wife and children gone. I was at the office of the company on Friday. We had been receiving telephonic messages all morning that the dam was unsafe. No one heeded them. I did not know anything about the dam. The bookkeeper said there was not enough water up there to flood the first floor of the office. I thought he knew, so I didn't send my family to the hills. "I don't know what time it was in the afternoon that I saw the flood coming down the valley. I was standing at the gate. Looking up the valley I saw a great white crowd moving down upon us. I made a dash for home to try to get my wife and children to the hills. I saw them at the windows as I ran up to the house. That is the last time I ever saw their faces. No sooner had I got into the house than the flood struck the building. I was forced into the attic. It was a brick house with a slate roof. I had intended to keep very cool, but I suppose I forgot all about that. Swept Down the Stream. "It seemed a long time, but I suppose it was not more than a second before the house gave way and went tumbling down the stream. It turned over and over as it was washed along. I was under the water as often as I was above it. I could hear my wife and children praying, although I could not see them. I did not pray. They were taken and I was left for some purpose, I suppose. My house finally landed up against the stone railway bridge. I was then pinned down to the floor by a heavy rafter or something. Somehow or other I was lifted from the floor and thrown almost out upon the bridge. Then some people got hold of me and pulled me out and took me over to a brickyard. My eyes and nose were full of cinders. After I reached the brickyard I vomited fully a pint of cinders which I had swallowed while coming through that awful stream of water. I can't tell you what it was like. No one can understand it unless he or she passed through it." "Did you find your wife and children?" "No. I searched for them all of Saturday, Sunday and Monday, but could find no trace of them. I think they must have been among those who perished in the fire at the bridge. I would have staid there and worked had it not been the place was so near my old home that I could not stand it. I thought I would be better off away from there where I could not see anything to recall that horrible sight." How the Survivors Live. With a view of showing the character of living in and about Johnstown, how the people pass each day and what the conveniences and deprivations of domestic life experienced under the new order of things so suddenly introduced by the flood are, an investigation of a house-to-house nature was made to-day. As a result, it was noted that the degrees of comfort varied with the people as the types of human nature. As remarked by a visitor: "The calamity has served to bring to the surface every phase of character in man, and to bring into development traits that had before been but dormant. Generally speaking all are on the same footing so far as need can be concerned. Whether houses remain to them or not, all the people have to be fed, for even should they have money, cash is of no account, provisions cannot be bought; people who still have homes nearly all of them furnish quarters for some of the visitors. Militia officers, committeemen, workmen, &c., must depend upon the supply stations for food." At Prospect. The best preserved borough adjoining Johnstown is Prospect, with its uniformly built gray houses, rising tier upon tier against the side of the mountain, at the north of Johnstown. There are in the neighborhood of 150 homes here, and all look as if but one architect designed them. They are large, broad gabled, two-story affairs, with comfortable porches, extending all the way across the front, each being divided by an interior partition, so as to accommodate two families. The situation overlooked the entire shoe-shaped district, heretofore described. Nearly every householder in Prospect is feeding not only his own family, but from two to ten others, whom he has welcomed to share what he has. Said one of these "We are all obliged to go to the general department for supplies, for we could not live otherwise. Our houses have not been touched, but we have given away nearly everything in the way of clothing, except what we have on. There were two little stores up here, but we purchased all they had long ago. It does not matter whether the people are rich or poor, they are all compelled to take their chances. In Prospect are the quarters of the Americus Club, of Pittsburgh, an organization which is widely spoken of as having distinguished itself by furnishing meals to any and every hungry person who applied." An Incident. As two newspaper men were about to descend the hill, after visiting a number of points, a little woman approached and made an inquiry about the running of trains. She was one of the survivors and wished to reach Clearfield, where her grown-up sons were. "I'd walk it if I could," she said, "but it's too far, and I'm too old now." She was living with her friends, who have taken care of her since her home was swept away. A Distributing Point. At the base of the long flight of wooden steps that lead to Prospect is the path extending across to the Pennsylvania Railroad station. Here is one of the principal distributing points. Three times each day a remarkable sight is here to be witnessed. Along the track at the eastern end, from the station platform back as far as the freight house, standing upon railroad ties, resting upon piles of lumber, and trying to hold their places in the line of succession in any position possible, crowds of people wait to be served. Aged, decrepit men and women and little girls and boys hold baskets, boxes, tin cans, wooden buckets, or any receptacle handy in which they may carry off provisons for the day. Sad Sights. The women have, many of them, tattered or ill-fitting clothing, taken at random when the first supply of this character arrived, their heads covered with thin shawls or calico sun shades. They stand there in the chilly morning wind that blows through the valley along the mountains, patiently waiting their turn at the provision table, making no complaint of cold feet and chilled bodies. In the line are people who, ten days ago, had sufficient of this world's goods to enable them to live comfortably the remainder of their lives. They are massed in solidly. Guards of soldiers stand at short intervals to keep them back and preserve the lines, and sentries march up and down the entire length of the station challenging the approach of any one who desires to pass along the platform. For a distance of about one hundred feet to the railroad signal tower are piled barrels of flour, boxes of provisions, and supplies of all descriptions. Under the shed of the station an incongruous collection of clothing is being arranged to allow of convenient distribution. While they waited for the signal to commence operations, a guard entered into conversation with a woman in the line. She was evidently telling a story of distress, for the guard looked about hastily to a spot where canned meats and bread were located and made a movement as if to obtain a supply for the woman, but the eyes of brother soldiers and a superior officer were upon him and he again assumed his position. It is said to be not unusual for the soldiers, under cover of dusk, to overstep their duty in order to serve some applicant who, through age or lack of physical strength, is poorly equipped to bear the strain. All sorts of provisions are asked for. One woman asks boldly for ham, canned chicken, vegetables and flour. Another approaches timidly and would be glad to have a few loaves of bread and a little coffee. No Discrimination. Before complete system was introduced complaint was made of discrimination by those dealing out supplies, but under the present order of things the endeavor is made to treat everybody impartially. Provisions are given out in order, so that imposition is avoided. It would seem that there could be no imposition in any case, however. The people who are here, and who are able to get within the lines at all, have a reason for their presence, and this is not curiosity. They are here for anything but entertainment, and there is no possibility of purchasing supplies. All must needs apply at the commissary department. A big distributing point for clothing is at the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad station, in the Fourth Ward, known as Harpville, on the east bank of the Stony creek. A rudely constructed platform extends over a washed-out ditch, partially filled with débris. In the vicinity is a large barn and several smaller outhouses, thrown in a tumble-down condition. Piled against them are beams and rafters from houses smashed into kindling wood. All about the station are boxes, empty and full, scattered in confusion, and around and about these crowds are clustered as best they can. A big policeman stands upon a raised platform made of small boxes, and as he is supplied with goods from the station he throws about in the crowds socks, shoes, dresses, shirts, pantaloons, etc., guessing as rapidly as possible at proportion and speedily getting rid of his bundle. Around the corner, on a street running at right angles with the tracks, is the provision department. These two are sample stations. They are scattered about at convenient points, and number about ten in all. CHAPTER XVII. One Week After the Great Disaster. By slow degrees and painful labor the barren place where Johnstown stood begins again to look a little like the habitations of a civilized community. Daily a little is added to the cleared space once filled with the concrete rubbish of this town, daily the number of willing workers who are helping the town to rise again increases. To-day the great yellow plain which was filled with the best business blocks and residences before the flood is covered with tents for soldiers and laborers and gangs of men at work. The wrecks are being removed or burned up. Those houses which were left only partially destroyed are beginning to be repaired. Still, it will be months, very likely years, before the pathway of the flood ceases to be perfectly plain through the town. Its boundaries are as plainly marked now as if drawn on a map; where the flood went it left its ineffaceable track. Nearly one-half of the triangle in which Johnstown stood is plainly marked, one angle of the triangle pointing to the east and directly up the Conemaugh Valley, from which the flood descended. Its eastern side was formed by the line of the river. The second angle pointed toward the big stone arch bridge, which played such an important part in the tragedy. The western ran along the base of the mountain on the bank of Stony Creek, and the third angle was toward Stony Creek Valley. Miles of Buildings in the Wreck. Imagine that before the flood this triangle was thickly covered with houses. The lower or northern part was filled with solid business blocks, the upper or southern half with residences, for the most part built of wood. Picture this triangle as a mile and a half in its greatest length and three-quarters of a mile in its greatest breadth. This was the way Johnstown was ten days ago. Now imagine that in the lower half of this triangle, where the business blocks were, every object has been utterly swept away with the exception of perhaps seven scattered buildings. In their places is nothing but sand and heaps of débris. Imagine that in the upper portion of this triangle the pathway of destruction has been clearly cut. Along the pathway houses have been torn to pieces, turned upside down, laid upon their sides or twisted on their foundations. Put into the open space on the lower end of the triangle the tents and the fires of burning rubbish and you will have the picture of Johnstown to-day. Unheeded Warnings. The people had been warned enough about the dangers of their location. They had been told again and again that the dam was unsafe, and whenever the freshets were out there were stories and rumors of its probable breaking. The freshets had been high for many days before that fatal Friday. All the creeks were over their banks and their waters were running on the streets. Cellars and pavements were flooded. Reports from the dam showed that it was holding back more water than at any other time in its history. A telegraph despatch early in the afternoon gave startling information about the cracks in the dam, but it was the old story of the wolf. They had heard it so often that they heard it this time and did not care. The first warning that the people had of their coming doom was the roar of the advancing wave. It rushed out of the valley at four o'clock in the afternoon with incredible swiftness. Those who saw it and are still alive say that it seemed to be as high as an ordinary house. It carried in its front an immense amount of battered wreckage, and over it hung a cloud of what seemed to be fog, but was the dust from the buildings it had destroyed. Straight across the river it rushed upon the apex of the triangle. It struck the first houses and swept them away in fragments. The cries and shrieks of the frightened people began to be heard above the roar of the floods, and a few steps further the great wave struck some unusually solid structure. Its force right in the centre was already diminished. On these houses it split and the greater part of it went on diagonally across the triangle, deflecting somewhat toward the north and so on down to the stone arch bridge. Nothing Could Withstand the Flood. Wherever it went the houses tumbled down as if they were built of cards. It was not alone the great volume of water, but the immense revolving mass of lumber it carried, that gave it an additional and terrific force, and houses, five bridges, railroad trains, boilers and factories were whirling furiously about. What could stand against such an instrument of destruction as this? It swept the triangle as clean as a board. It tore up pavements. It dug out railroad tracks, and twisted them into strange and fantastic shapes. It carried with it thousands of human beings, crushing them against the fragments, and drove their bodies into the thick mass of mud and sand which it carried at the bottom. It went on and on straight as an arrow, and piled masses of all it had gathered against and over the solid arches of the stone bridge. The bridge sustained the shock. How it did it engineers who have seen the effects and the marvellous strength of the flood in other places wonder. An immense raft of houses and lumber and trees and rubbish of every kind, acres in extent, collected here. Roasted in the Débris. In these houses were imprisoned people still alive, in numbers estimated at two or three thousand, tossed about in the whirling flood which was turned into strange eddies by the obstruction it had met. In some way not explained a fire broke out. The frame structures packed in closely together were like so much tinder wood. Those who had escaped drowning died in their prisons a more horrible death. While this was going on that part of the divided stream which turned to the south continued on its way. At first its violence was undiminished, but as it went on the inclination of the land and the obstacles it met somewhat broke its force. It swept across the triangle, inclining toward the south, and was turned still further in that direction by the bed of Stony Creek, at the foot of the mountain which forms the western barrier of the basin in which Johnstown lies. Its course is plainly visible now, as it was two hours afterward. Where it started everything is cleared away. A little further along the houses are still standing, but they are only masses of lumber and laths. Still further to the north they are overturned or lying upon their sides or corners, some curiously battered and as full of great holes as if they had been shot at with cannon. They are surrounded by driftwood and timbers, ground into splinters, railroad cars, ties and beams, all in a wild, untraceable jumble. The wave reached to the north at least a distance of a mile from the point where it was divided. Then it swept backward. It carried with it many houses that had come from every part of the river. At the Mercy of the Waves. Upon them and upon flooded roofs and doors and timbers were men, women and children crying, beseeching and praying for help. Those on the shore who were watching this never to be forgotten spectacle saw the sufferers in the river go sweeping by, saw them come down again and still were unable to give them the slightest assistance. The flood proceeded half a mile or more, and then was met and reinforced by a wave started backward from the eddy formed at the stone arch bridge. With redoubled force it turned once more to the south and then it went half a mile further, toppling over the houses, wrecking some and adding some to those which it had brought down from other places. For the second time it spent its force and turned back, swept to the south and to destruction those who had four times been within sight of safety. This time the whole mass of flooded wreckage was carried down to the stone arch bridge and added to the collection there and at last to the fire that was raging. Hundreds Will Never Be Found. The blackened timber left from this fire, wedged in tightly above the bridge, is the only gorge at which workmen have labored all this week with dynamite and monstrous cranes. In it and below it are unnumbered hundreds of bodies. How many perished in that frightful fire will never be known. Only a small proportion of the bodies can ever be found. Some were burned so that nothing but a handful of ashes remained, and that was swept away long ago with the torrent. Some were buried deep in the sand, and some have been carried down and hidden in sand banks and slews. Many will be destroyed by dynamite, and some will have disappeared long before the great flood of rubbish can be removed. Of all the horrible features of this dreadful story none is more heartrending than the story of that fire. It began about five o'clock that afternoon and went on all night and all the next day, and smouldered until Monday noon. Its progress was retarded somewhat by the rain and by the soaking of the material in the water, but this was only an added horror, for it prolonged the anguish for those imprisoned in the great raft who plainly saw their approaching death. Those who saw this sight from the shore cannot speak of it now and will hardly be able to speak of it as long as they live without tears. Imagination could not picture a situation more harrowing to human feeling than to stand there and watch that horrible scene without being able to rescue the prisoners or even alleviate their sufferings. Ruins Left to Tell the Tale. Just below the stone bridge are the great works of the Cambria Iron Company. They occupy the eastern bank of the stream for a distance of half a mile. The flood, tearing over the bridge, descended upon these works and tore the southernmost end of them to pieces. The rest of the buildings escaped, but none of the works were swept away in the torrent. An iron bridge used jointly by the public and by the iron company to transport its coal from the mines across the river was caught by the very front of the flood and tossed away as if built of toothpicks. Looking from the stone arch bridge, the iron company's buildings, the lower town school house, three of the buildings which divided the flood, a church, part of a brick residence and a little cluster of brick business houses, is all that can be seen above the yellow waste. Why these buildings are left it is impossible to say. The school house, except for most of the windows being battered in and the scars and dents driven into it from the passing wreckage, is almost uninjured, although it stands directly in the centre of the flood. Locomotives Swimming in the Torrent. It is plain from the appearance of the buildings that the direction of the flood in many places was rotary, and the houses which still stand may have escaped between the eddies. No other explanation seems possible, for the force of the torrent was tremendous. It carried five locomotives, with their tenders, several miles, and piled them up against the stone bridge as easily as it carried a box of clothespins. At the head of the iron company's works was a great pile of iron in pieces eight feet long and a foot and a half thick either way. The flood toppled these over. In the half charred raft above the bridge are found great boilers, masses of iron, twisted beams and girders from bridges, heavy safes, pieces of railroad track, a hundred car wheels, mixed with every conceivable object of household use--pianos, sofas, dressing cases, crockery, trunks and their contents. Yet in all that mass it is impossible to find any trace of that pile of bricks built into the business houses of the town; nor yet upon the banks, nor in the heaps of sand which, when the flood went down, were left here and there, is there any trace of the material of the building except the lumber. In the opinion of experts, all this stuff must have been ground into powder and swept down the river. Johnstown will never resume its former importance. A curse will hang over this beautiful valley as long as this generation lasts. The sanitary experts who have examined the place say that in all probability it will be plague ridden for years and years. Decomposing Bodies in the Wreck. The massive stone bridge of the Pennsylvania Railroad, opposite the Cambria Iron Works, marks the point of demarcation between the borough of Johnstown and that of Cambria City. The changes in the situation which have occurred since the eventful Friday have not been numerous. The wreckage impacted beneath the arches has been removed from three of them, leaving four, which are closed by masses of timber and drift material. I climbed over the débris in the famous cul-de-sac and reached the second from the Johnstown side after half an hour's labor. The appearance was singular. Beneath the conglomeration of timber which filled the cavity of the arch to a distance of twenty-five feet from the top the waters of the Conemaugh flowed swiftly. There was a network of telegraph wires, iron rods and metal work of Pullman cars stretched across from stone work to stone work on either side. The gridiron, as it were, penetrated far down into the water, and it had proved sufficiently strong to resist the onward rush of the lighter flotsam which swept before the onrolling wave. Lodged in this strange pile was the body of a horse. Deep among the meshes a terrible spectacle presented itself. There were the bodies of three people--a woman, a child and a laborer with hobnailed shoes. They were beyond the reach of the workers who are clearing the wreck near to the bridge and the latter will be unable to reach the corpses until a considerable amount of blasting with dynamite has been done. There was a faint odor of decomposition and another day will cause the vicinity of the viaduct to suggest a charnel house to the olfactory senses. There are many other bodies, no doubt, beneath the débris and prevented from floating down the stream by the ruins. Cambria City Paralyzed. Conemaugh City was connected with the Cambria Iron Works, on the opposite side of the Conemaugh, by a temporary suspension bridge of steel wire. The bridge was originally for two railways--a narrow and a broad gauge--and a footway. It was swept away before the reservoir burst, according to all accounts. Cambria City, or rather a fringe of houses along the higher ground of the bank, the remaining portion of a once prosperous town, is absolutely paralyzed by the stunning blow which has befallen it. There are but few people at work among the débris. The clean sweep of the flood left little wreckage behind. A few sad-faced women wandered about and poked in the sand and among the broken stone which now covers the location of their former homes. The men who were saved have returned to their work at the Cambria mills, and the survivors among their families are stowed in the houses which remain intact. There must have been at least one thousand lives lost from Cambria City. There has been no attempt to replace the bridge at "Ten Acre," as the point below Cambria City is called. The banks of the Conemaugh remain covered with débris. In many places the masses are piled twenty-five feet high. The people are clearing their land by burning the unwonted accumulations. Only an occasional body is found. Most of the 200 corpses which have been buried at Nineveh were found in the bushes which fringe the river. All the way to Freeport the accumulation of débris may be seen. Kindly Care for the Helpless. There is to-day no lack of supplies, save at Cambria City, which has been overlooked and neglected, but where the destitution is great. The people there are in great want of food. Bread has given out, and ham is about the only food to be obtained. In only one of the wrecked houses left untouched by the flood I found from twenty to twenty-five refugees. The commissary at the Pennsylvania Railroad depot is heaped so high with stores that distribution goes on with difficulty. The Grubbtown commissary is in the same condition. The Red Cross people got fairly to work in their supply tent to-day, and during the morning alone distributed five hundred packages of clothing. Their hospital on the hill, back of Kernville, is in excellent order, and the patients quartered in the village houses are comfortably situated. There have been no deaths at the Cambria hospital. The doctors there have cared for 500 cases indoors and out. Even Grandma Teeter is doing well. She was taken out of the wreck at the bridge on Saturday with her right arm crushed. It had to be amputated, and the old woman--she is eighty-three years of age--stood the operation finely. Miss Hinckley, of Philadelphia, is busy in Kernville making known the plans of the Children's Aid Society. She does an immense amount of running about and visiting houses. Many children made orphans by the flood are now being cared for. There are a hundred or more of them; just how many no one knows. "I have great difficulty," said Miss Hinckley to me to-day, "to persuade the people who have taken children to care for that our society can be trusted to take charge of what will surely be a burden to them. All my work now is to inspire confidence. We have received hundreds of letters from people anxious to adopt children. They are ready now in the first flush of sympathy, but I am afraid that they will not be willing to take the children when we are ready to place them." Many Dead Still in the Ruins. The ruins still shelter a ghastly load of dead. Every hour at least one new body is uncovered and borne on a rough stretcher to some one of the many morgues. The sight loses none of its sadness and pathos by its commonness; only the horror is gone, giving place to apathy and stupor. Stalwart men, in mud-stained, working clothes, bring up the body, the face covered with a cloth. The crowds part and gaze at the burned corpse as it passes. At the morgue it is examined for identification, washed and prepared for burial. Not more than half of these recovered now are identified. The vast majority fill nameless but numbered graves, and the descriptions are much too indefinite to hope for identification after burial. What can you expect from a description like this, picked out at random: "Woman, five feet four inches tall, long hair?" The body of Eugene Hannon, twenty-two, found yesterday near the First Presbyterian Church, was identified to-day by his father. He was a member of the League of American Wheelmen, and his bicycle was found within a few yards of his body. The father will lay the wrecked bicycle on the coffin of his son. Just now a woman, still young and poorly dressed, went by the shed where I am writing, sobbing most pitifully. She lost her husband and children in the flood and is on the verge of insanity. Finding Solace in Work. The day opened with heavy rain and an early morning thunder storm. The hillside streams were filled to the banks and everything was dripping. The air was chilly and damp, and daylight was slow in coming to this valley of desolation and death. At an early hour the valley, where so many have gone to rest, presented a most dismal scene. It looked, indeed, like the valley of the dead. Nothing was moving, and all remained within the meagre shelter offered them till the day had fairly begun. As the day advanced, the tented hills began to show signs of life, smoke arose from many a camp fire, and on every eminence surrounding this valley of desolation could be seen the guards moving among the tented villages. The weather was most unpleasant for any one to be outdoors, but it apparently had no effect on the people here, for as soon as the early breakfast was over the thousands of workmen could be seen going to their work, and soon the whole valley that in the early morning hours was asleep was a teeming throng of life and activity. While the rain was far from pleasant to the workers and many helpers, it was certainly providential that the cool weather is continuing in order to prevent the much-dreaded decomposition of the hundreds of human bodies yet unrecovered and the thousands of animals that perished in the flood. The air this morning, while tainted to some extent with the fumes arising from the decaying bodies, was not near so bad as it would have been had the morning been hot and sultry. Working on the Stone Bridge Débris. By seven o'clock the whole valley was full of people and the scene was a most animated one. The various sections of the flooded territory were full of men busy in searching for the dead, removing and burning the débris. At eight o'clock this morning five bodies had been taken from the mass at the stone bridge. A large force of men have been working all day on this part of the wreck, but so great is the quantity of wreckage to be gone over and removed that while much work is done very slow progress is being made. The continued falling of the river renders the removal of the débris every day more arduous, and where a few days ago the timbers when loosened would float away, now they have to be moved by hand, making the work very slow. A most welcome arrival this morning was Dr. B. Bullen of disinfectant fame. He brought with him fifty barrels more of his disinfectant. The doctor will take charge of the disinfecting of the dangerous sections of the flooded district and notably at the stone bridge. Twenty-five barrels have already been used with most favorable results. Dr. Bullen was a former resident of Johnstown and lost thirty relatives in the flood, among them three brothers-in-law, three uncles and two aunts. Clearing the Cambria Iron Works. The Cambria Iron Company's Works presented a busy scene to-day. At least nine hundred men are at work, and most rapid progress is being made in clearing away the wreck. It is said that the works will start up in about three weeks. There is little change in the situation. Every one is working with the one end in view, to clear away the wreckage and give the people of Johnstown a chance to rebuild. The laborers working at the Cambria Iron Works and on the Pennsylvania Railroad seem to be making rapid progress. This is no doubt for the reason that these men are more used to this kind of work. About ten o'clock the rain was over and the sun came out with its fierce June heat. A number of charges of dynamite were fired during the day, and each time with good effect. The channels through to the bridge are almost clear of débris, and each charge of dynamite has loosened large quantities of the wreckage. This is the eighth day since the demon of destruction swept down the valley of the Conemaugh, but the desolation that marks its angry flight is still visible in all its intensity and horror. The days that have been spent by weary toilers whose efforts were steeled by grief have done little to repair the devastation wrought in one short hour by the potent fury of the elements. To the watchers on the mountain side all seems yet chaos and confusion. The thousand fires that spot the valley show that the torch is being used to complete the work of annihilation where repair is impossible and the smoke curls upward. It reminds one of the peace offerings of ancient Babylon. Uncle Sam's Men on Hand. The corps of government engineers that arrived last night has already demonstrated the valuable assistance which it is capable of rendering in these times of emergency. With but a few hours rest, those men were up ere sunrise this morning, and by eight o'clock a pontoon bridge had been stretched across the river at Kernville. Acting in conjunction with the Pennsylvania military authorities they are pursuing their labors at various other points, and by sundown it is confidently expected that pontoon bridges will be erected at all places where the necessities of traffic demand. It is the fact, probably not generally known, that the great government of the United States owns only 500 feet of pontoon bridges, and that these are the same that were used by the federal forces in the civil war, twenty-five years ago. The bridges that are to be used at Johnstown were brought from West Point and Willet's Point, where they have been for years used in the ordinary course of instruction in the military and engineer corps. Secret Society Relief. The following official announcements have been made: A Masonic relief committee has been organized and solicits aid for distressed Freemasons and their families. WILLIAM A. DONALDSON, Chairman. OFFICE OF SUPREME COMMANDER, KNIGHTS OF THE MYSTIC CHAIN, WILMINGTON, DEL., June 8, 1889.--In view of the great calamity that has befallen our brothers at Johnstown, Pa., and vicinity, I, H.G. Rettes, Supreme Commander, request that wherever the Order of the Knights of the Mystic Chain exists there be liberal donations made for our afflicted brothers. Affairs at the tremendous stone bridge wreckage pile seem to have resolved themselves into a state of almost hopelessness. It is amazing the routine into which everything has fallen in this particular place. Every morning at seven o'clock a score of Lilliputs come mechanically from huts and tents or the bare hillside, and wearily and weakly go to work clearing away this mass, and at the rate they are now proceeding it will actually be months before the débris is cleared away and the last body found. Fortunately the wind is blowing away from us or we would have olfactory evidence that what is not found is far worse than what has been exposed. Then it may be good business and good policy to have these few workers fool around the edge of the wreckage for five or ten minutes adjusting a dynamite blast, then hastily scramble away and consume as much more time before a tremendous roar announces the ugly work is done, but the onlookers doubt it. Sometimes, when an extra large shot is used, the water, bits of wood and iron, and other shapes more fearfully suggestive, fly directly upward in a solid column at least three hundred feet high, only to fall back again in almost the same spot, to be tugged and pulled at or coaxed to float down an unwilling current that is falling so rapidly now that even this poor mode of egress will soon be shut entirely off. The fact of the matter is simply this: They are not attempting to recover bodies at the bridge, but as one blast tears yards of stuff into flinders it is shoved indifferently into the water, be it human or brute, stone, wood or iron, to float down toward Pittsburgh or to sink to the bottom, may be a few yards from where it was pushed off from the main pile. Up in the centre of the town the débris is piled even higher than at the stone bridge, but the work is going on fairly well. The men seem to be working more together and enter into the spirit of the thing. Besides this, horses and wagons can get at the wrecks, and it really looks as if this part of the ruins has been exaggerated, and some of the foremen there say that at the present rate of work going on through the town all the bodies that ever will be recovered will be found within the next ten days. As to the condition these bodies are in, that has become almost a matter of indifference, except as to the effect upon the health of the living. Compared with other Calamities. An eye-witness writes as follows: The scene is one that cannot be described in outline--it must be told in detail to become intelligible. Never before in this country, at least, was there a disaster so stupendous, so overwhelming, so terrible in its fierce and unheralded onset and so sorrowful in its death-dealing work. I traversed the Mill River Valley the day after the bursting of the Mill River dam. I went over Wallingford, in Connecticut, a few hours after that terrible cyclone had swept through the beautiful New England village. I stood on the broken walls of the Brooklyn Theatre and looked down upon hecatombs of dead sacrificed in that holocaust to Momus. Each of these was in itself a terrible calamity, but here is not only what was most terrible in all these, but every horrifying feature of the Mill River flood, the Wallingford cyclone and the Brooklyn Theatre fire is here magnified tenfold, nay, a hundred fold. And what is even more terrible than the scenes of devastation, the piles of dead that have been unearthed from the ruins and the mangled human bodies that still remain buried in the débris, is the simple but startling fact that this disaster ought not to have happened. The flood was not due to the rains. This calamity is not the work of the unprovoked fury of the angry elements. This fair town and the populous valley above it, all the varied industries of this thriving city, all these precious lives are a sacrifice to the selfishness of a few men whose purses were bigger than their hearts. There would have been no flood if these rich men had not built an artificial pond in which to catch fish. The now famous dam was only a mud bank. For years it was a constant menace to Johnstown and the Conemaugh Valley. It has long been only a question of time when the calamity that has befallen these people should befall them. It came at last because the arrogance of the purse and the pleasure-seeking selfishness of wealth were blind to the safety of a populous community. The cause of the Johnstown disaster was wholly due to the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club. This club was specially chartered by the Legislature, and notwithstanding there was some opposition at the time, it was accorded the privilege of making an artificial lake and fish pond by means of an embankment. The site chosen was the old dam on South Fork Creek, about two miles above the village of South Fork, on the Conemaugh river. This dam was built by the Pennsylvania Canal in 1830 as a feeder to the canal below Johnstown. When the canal was finally abandoned, after passing into the hands of the Pennsylvania Railroad Company, the dam was sold to a private buyer for the very reasonable sum of $700. By him it was afterwards conveyed to the Fishing and Hunting Club for $1,400. This was about twenty years ago. The club spent $22,000 in rebuilding the dam and erected a beautiful club house on the west bank of the artificial lake. Beside the club house there are from twelve to fifteen cottages, the summer residences of members of the club, all built since the acquisition of the property twenty years ago. Ten of these cottages are visible from the embankment where the break occurred. It was a beautiful spot before the disaster, but this artificial lake in its placid beauty was a menace to the lives and property of the people in the Conemaugh Valley from its completion to its destruction. The South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club was a very aristocratic and exclusive organization. Not even Tuxedo puts on more airs. It was composed of about seventy members, a baker's dozen of them Pittsburgh millionaires. These wealthy gentlemen and their associates never so much as recognized the existence of the common clay of South Fork, except to warn all intruders to keep off the land and water of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club. Their placards still stare sight-seers in the face. One of these reads: PRIVATE PROPERTY. ALL TRESPASSERS FOUND HUNTING OR FISHING ON THESE GROUNDS WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW. Another is as follows: PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO FISHING OR HUNTING ON THESE PREMISES, UNDER PENALTY OF THE LAW, $100. SOUTH FORK HUNTING AND FISHING CLUB. Only an Earthwork. Strenuously as the club insisted upon exacting the full penalties and extent of the law for encroachments upon its privileges, it was quite heedless of the rights of others. There probably never was in the world a case of such blind fatuity as that of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club in building and maintaining its dam. From the first it must have been known to every member of the club, as it certainly was to every resident of the South Fork and Conemaugh Valleys, that if the water ever began to run over the breast of the dam the dam itself would give way. The dam was only a clay embankment. There was no masonry whatever--at least there is none visible in the break. The bottom was of brushwood and earth--some people in the South Fork valley say hay and sand. In consequence, the people below the dam who knew how it was built have always regarded it as a menace to their safety. Indeed, one man employed in its construction was discharged by the club or its contractor for protesting against the dam as insecure. His crime consisted in declaring that an embankment made in that way could not resist the force of an overflow. He was telling the simple truth, which was clear to every one except men disposed to take chances. CHAPTER XVIII. A Walk Through the Valley of Death. In the following graphic narrative one of the eye-witnesses of the fearful ruin and slaughter represents himself as a guide, and if the reader will consider himself as the party whom the guide is conducting, a vivid impression of the scene of the great destruction may be obtained. "Hello, where on earth did you come from? And what are you doing here, anyhow? Oh! you just dropped in to see the sights, eh? Well, there are plenty of them and you won't see the like of them again if you live a century. What's that? You have been wandering around and got tangled up in the ruins and don't know where you are? Well, that's not strange. I have been lost myself a dozen times. It's a wonder you haven't got roasted by some of those huge bonfires. But here, you come with me. Let me be your guide for the afternoon and I'll put you in the way of seeing what is left of Johnstown. "First, let's climb up this bluff just before us and we shall have a first-rate view of things. Skip across this little temporary bridge over this babbling brook and now--climb! Whew! that takes your breath, doesn't it? But it is worth the trouble. Now you see we are standing on an embankment perhaps thirty feet high. We are in the midst, too, of a lot of tents. It is here that the soldier boys are encamped. Off to one side you see the freight depot of the Pennsylvania Railroad and the tracks, you notice, run along on the top of this embankment. It is in that freight depot that Adjutant General Hastings has his headquarters. We will walk over there presently, but first let's take a look at our surroundings. Prospect Hill. "You notice, I suppose, that this flat spreading out before us at the bottom of the embankment is inclosed on all sides by mountains. They are shaped something like a triangle and we are standing at the base. Here, let me make a rough sketch of it on the back of this envelope. It will help us out a little. There! That figure 1 is the freight depot, near which we are standing. Towering up above us are houses and up there a canvas city for refugees. There is a temporary hospital there, too, and a graveyard, where many a poor victim of the flood lies. The background is a high hill. The people here call it Prospect Hill. The flood! Gracious! what a view the people up the hill must have had of it as it whirled, and eddied, and roared and rushed through the town, for this great flat before us was where the main portion of Johnstown stood. [Illustration] "You notice that there are gaps in the mountain chains which form the sides of the triangle. Through the gap at our left comes the Conemaugh River, flowing from the mountain on its way westward. River, did I say? I don't wonder you smile. It doesn't look much like a river--that little bubbling stream. Can you imagine it swelling into a mighty sea, that puny thing, that is smiling in its glee over the awful havoc it has created? Now you are beginning to understand how it is that Johnstown proper lies within the forks of two streams. The Conemaugh runs by us at our feet to the right. See, there is a wrecked and overturned car down there. If thrown across the stream it would almost bridge it. That is Stony Creek on the other side of the flat, running down through that gap which forms the apex of the triangle. It skirts the mountains on the right and the two streams meet. You can't see the meeting point from here, for our embankment curves, but they do meet around that curve, and then the united rivers flow under the now famous stone bridge, which was built to carry this railroad across the stream. Oh! yes, we will go down there, for that bridge formed the gorge which proved so destructive. Savage Fury. "I would like to take you away up to the dam if we had time and point out the destruction all along down the valley until the flood rushed through that gap to the left and then spread over Johnstown. But it is too late in the day for that, and the walk is a most tiresome one, so you will have to take my word for it. Of course, you have read that the dam was constructed in a most outrageous manner. Well, that is true. It is a wonder the valley wasn't swept long ago. No, the loss of life wasn't great in the upper part of the valley because the people took the warning which the Johnstonians refused and mostly escaped. The little town of South Fork was badly shattered and Mineral Point was swept away. "But the real fury of the flood is seen in its marks on the soil. Gracious! how it leveled forests, swept away bowlders, cut out new channels and destroyed everything in its path. I cannot begin to give you even an idea of the wonderful power of that flood. At East Conemaugh not a vestige of the place was left. Where once stood a row of houses the river now runs, and the former river-bed is now filled with dirt and stones. It was in this vicinity, you know, where so many engines and cars were wrecked--smashed, twisted, broken and scattered along the valley for half a mile. It was here, too, where the passengers in the two trains met such a thrilling experience, and where so many of them were killed. The body of one of the passengers, Miss Bryan, of Germantown, was found away down here in Johnstown. "It took but a few minutes for the flood to rush down upon Woodvale and sweep it out of existence, and then it made a mad break through that gap over there on the extreme left. The houses which you see on the hillside over there--figure 6--belong to Conemaugh borough, a different place from East Conemaugh, you understand. The borough also extended down over the flat. By the way, there is something very funny about all these separate boroughs. Most all of them are naturally parts of Johnstown--such as Conemaugh, Kernville, Cambria City, Prospect and the like, but there have been so many petty jealousies that they have refused to unite. But that is neither here nor there now, for in the common calamity they are one. Laughing at Danger. "Now you would have thought that the people on the Johnstown flat would have got out of the way when warned of danger, wouldn't you? But they simply laughed. You must remember that a good portion of the place was flooded long before the dam broke. The rise of the two rivers did that. The water ran from two to five or six feet high in some of the houses. But, bless you, that was nothing. The place had been flooded so many times and escaped that everybody actually howled down all suggestions of danger. Telegrams had been coming into town all the afternoon and they were received by Miss Ogle, the brave lady operator, who stuck to her post to the last, but they might as well never have been sent for all the good they did. "Well, now with Johnstown spread out before you you can readily understand what happened when the flood burst through the gap. There was no time to run then. No time to pray, even. You notice the river makes a sharp curve, and naturally enough the impetus of the water spread it over a wide territory. The Conemaugh houses on the flat went down like so many pasteboard houses. A portion of the flood followed the stream and the other portion went tearing along the line of the hills which form the left side of the triangle. Wiped Out of Existence. "Now look away over to the left and then away over to the hills on the right, and what do you see? That distance is how great? Two miles, do you say? Yes, fully that and probably more. Well, now for two or three squares inland from this stream at our feet there is nothing but a barren waste of sand--looks like a desert, doesn't it? Can you imagine that all that immense strip was covered with stores, business houses and dwellings? Where are they now? Why, just look at that circular hole just beneath us on the other side of the stream. That was the gas works once. The great iron receiver, or whatever you call it, went rolling, dashing, crashing away before the flood, and not a vestige of it has been found yet. Can you ask, then, what became of the houses? Simply wiped out of existence. "There! I put down the figure 2 on the map. It is a brick building, as you see, but there is a big hole knocked in it. That is the B. and O. depot. Figure 3--Two more brick buildings with one end completely gone. These are the Cambria Iron Company's offices and the company's stores. What else can you see? Just around the curve where I mark down figure 4 is another brick building--the Millvale school-house. It is out of range from this point, but you shall see it by and by. These buildings are actually the only ones left standing in all that desert of sand, a covering four or five feet deep left by the flood and hiding whatever is underneath as effectually as the ashes of Mt. Vesuvius blotted out Pompeii. There may be a thousand bodies under that sand for all that anybody knows. Just ahead of us in the great area roughly shown by this figure 5 lie the tents of the workmen engaged in putting Johnstown in order. Now, if you draw a line from the Conemaugh hills right down back of the B. and O. depot through the camp of the workmen, and thence to Stony Creek, the only buildings you will find standing between us and that imaginary line are these I have already marked with figures as 2, 3 and 4 on the map. Did you ever see anything so destructive in your life? A Famous Morgue. "You say you see a good many buildings in what appears to be the centre of the town. So you do, but just wait until you stroll among them. There are many there, it is true, but after all, how many are good for anything? Oh! the water has been doing a tremendous amount of damage. Why, over there, up to the very foot of the hills--I will mark the spot No. 7--behind the buildings which you see, it has simply torn things up by the roots. That is the Fourth Ward, and the ruins are full of the dead, and the Fourth Ward Morgue has had more bodies in it than any of the others. "You remember that I told you that one current swept over that way. It caught up houses and they began to drift all over the place, crashing into each other and grinding people between the timbers. All this time the houses down here by the Conemaugh had been floating toward the bridge. Logs, boards, lumber and houses from the banks of Stony Creek had been coming down, too, and thus formed that tremendous jam above the stone bridge, which actually turned the current of the creek back upon itself. Some of the houses from the centre of the city and from the Fourth ward got into Stony Creek and actually went up the stream. Others floated all over town in circles and finally, having reached the Conemaugh, got caught in the jam at last and were destroyed by the fire which broke out there. After a time, too, the pressure at the bridge became so tremendous that the river burst a new channel for itself and then many houses came down again. [Illustration: SELLING DAMAGED GOODS.] "But I am anticipating. Let us walk down to the bridge--it is not far--for the bridge is the key to the situation. We must pass the freight depot, for we follow the track. You see it is a busy place. You know we have had a change of administration here, and Adjutant General Hastings is in command. We are all heartily glad of it, too, for the worst kind of red tapeism prevailed under the Pittsburgh regime. "And then the deputies--a lot of brutes appointed by the Sheriff. What an ignorant set they were. Most of them couldn't even read. They were the only toughs in town. They had captured all the tomato cans left over from the great flood which the Bible tells about and had cut out tin stars to decorate themselves with. Anybody who could find a piece of tin could be a deputy. And how they did bulldoze. "But all this is changed now. The deputies--we called them the tin policemen--have been bounced and the place is now guarded by the soldiers. Business has taken the place of red tape, and General Hastings has turned the freight depot into offices for his various departments, for a system has been established which will reach all the victims, bury all the dead, discover all the living and clean up the town. There is now a central bureau, into which reports are turned, and the old haphazard way of doing things has been swept as clean as the sand before us. There is General Hastings' horse standing at the steps, for the general is in the saddle most of the time, here, there, everywhere, directing and ordering. "Dinner! hello, dinner is ready. Now you will see how the officers at headquarters live. You see, the table has been spread on the platform facing the railroad tracks. Ah! there is Hastings himself--white slouch hat, white shirt, blue flannel trousers, and boots. He looks every inch a soldier, doesn't he? There! he is beckoning to us. What do you suppose he wants. Oh! he wants us to dine with him. Shall we? It will be plain fare, but as good as can be found. A dudish society reporter from Philadelphia dropped into town the other morning. He met a brother reporter from the same paper. "'Oh!' he groaned. 'Where can I find a restaurant?' "'Restaurant!' shrieked the other. 'Where do you think we are? Restaurant! You come with me and I'll try to steal you a ham sandwich, and you'll be mighty lucky to get that.' "'Oh! but I am so hungry. Can you direct me to the nearest hack stand?' "The brother reporter turned and fled in dismay, and the society man hasn't been seen around here since. But it illustrates the time the boys have been having getting anything to eat. So we had better accept the general's invitation. What have we here? Oh! this is fine. You don't mind tin plates and spoons and coffee cups, of course, especially as we have ham and potatoes, bread and coffee for dinner. That's a right good meal; but I tell you I have eaten enough ham to last me for a year, and when I get out of Johnstown and get back to Philadelphia I am going to make a break for the Bellevue and eat. And there won't be any ham in that dinner, you can bet. A Renowned Building. "Now, have you had enough? Then we will continue our walk along the tracks to the bridge. First we pass the Pennsylvania Railroad passenger station. What a busy place it is! The tracks are filled with freight cars packed with supplies, and the platform is filled with men and women ready to take them. In this station a temporary morgue was established. It has been moved now to the school-house, No. 4, you know, on the map. Now, as we round the curve you see it. That is the famous building that saved so many lives--the only one left in the great barren waste of sand. You know the water formed an eddy about it, and thus, as house after house floated and circled about it men and women would clutch the roof and climb upon it. The water reached half way to the ceiling on the second floor on a dead level. "Now you can see where the two rivers come together. What a jam that was. It extended from the fork down to the bridge--No. 10. When the flames began to demolish it the pile towered far above the bridge. Now it is level with the water, but so thickly is it packed that the river runs beneath it. Let us stand here on the railroad embankment at the approach to the bridge, and watch the workmen. You notice how high the approaches are on either side, and you can readily understand how these high banks caught the drift. The stone arches of the bridge are low, you perceive. When the flood was at its height houses were actually swept over the bridge. From the débris left in the river and on the sides you can imagine what an immense dam it was that was formed, and just how it happened that the rivers turned back on themselves. I met a woman up Stony Creek early this morning. She was laughing over the adventure she and her children had. They floated down the creek to the bridge and then floated back again, and were finally rescued in boats. I asked her how she could joke about it. "'Oh!' she said, 'I am never bothered about anything. I was as cool then as I am now, and rather enjoyed it.' "But she wasn't very cool. She was bordering on the hysterical. She and her children are now living with friends, for their house was completely wrecked. A Telegraph Office. "A good many people had experiences similar to hers before the river broke through the railroad embankment just above the bridge here and swept tracks and everything else down upon the Cambria Iron Works. There they are, just behind us. I will mark them on the map--No. 11. Then the flow rushed through Cambria City, just below. That place is in a horrible condition--houses wrecked and streets full of débris. But there is no necessity of going there. You can see all the horrors you want right here. "Look across the bridge, up the hill a little way. Do you see that old, tumble-down coal shed? It is where the Western Union established its office, and in that neighborhood most of the reporters have been living--sleeping in brick-kilns, hay lofts, tents, anywhere in fact. What a nice time they have had of it. They have suffered as much as the flood victims. "Phew! What a stench. It comes from the débris in the river. It is full of the dead bodies of horses, dogs; yes, and of human beings. We hear stories occasionally of women being taken from that mass alive. They are false, of course, but there was one instance that is authentic. A woman was found one week after the flood still breathing. She had been caught in some miraculous way. She was taken to Pittsburgh, where she died. I was kicking about over the débris a day or two ago, and heard a cat mewing under the débris somewhere. I know half a dozen people who have rescued kittens and are caring for them tenderly. A flood cat will command a premium before long, I have no doubt. "Ha! What's that? Yes, it is a body. The sight is so common now that people pay no attention to it. We have been living in the midst of so much death, of so many scenes of a similar character, that I suppose the sensibilities have become hardened to them. There, they are placing the body on a window shutter and are carrying it up to the school-house. It will be laid on a board placed over the tops of the children's desks. You will notice coffins piled up all about the school-house. Of course, the body is awfully disfigured and cannot be identified. The clothing will be described and the body hurried away to its nameless grave. Fragment of a Bible. "Have you enough? Then let us walk back toward headquarters and go down upon the flat into the centre of the town. What is that you have there? A piece of a Bible? Yes, you will find lots of leaves lying around. There is a story--I don't know how true it is--that many people have thrown their Bibles away since the flood, declaring that their belief, after the horrors they have witnessed, is at an end. I can hardly credit this. But there is one curious thing that is certain, and everybody has noticed it. Books and Bibles have been found in the rubbish all over the town, and in a great many instances they are open at some passage calling attention to flood and disaster. I have found these myself a dozen times. It is a remarkable coincidence, to say the least. "Some people may find a warning in all this. I don't pretend to say, but as we walk along here let me tell you of a conversation I had with a man who was worth nearly $20,000 before the flood. He has lost every cent, and is glad enough to get his daily meals from the supplies sent here. "'I don't know what to think of Johnstown,' he said. 'We have been called a wicked place. Perhaps all this is a judgment. Just when we have been most prosperous some calamity has come upon us. We were never more prosperous than when this flood overwhelmed us.' "Well here we are back at General Hastings' headquarters. Now we will go down the embankment, cross the river and plunge ahead into town. "Over this loose sand we will trudge and strike in by the Baltimore and Ohio depot. Now we are in the camp of the workingmen. Here are the stalls for the horses, too. The men, you see, live in tents. There are not as many of them as there will be; probably not over fifteen hundred to-day, but there will be twice that to-morrow, and five thousand men will be employed here steadily for a long time to come. Now let us jump right into Main street. It is the worst one in town. Just see! There is the post-office, looking as if it never would be able to pull itself out of the wreck. Across the street is the bank, with the soldiers guarding it. There, just ahead, you see a tall brick building lifting its head out of the midst of a pile of ruins. There is where many people were saved. The current carried scores of men, women and children past it, and those who had strength deserted their rafts and wrecks of houses and crawled into its windows. "Now our progress is blocked. That immense pile of wreckage is by no means as high as it was; but you don't want to crawl over it yet. Phew! Let's get out of this. How those piles of rubbish do smell. You know the Board of Health says there is nothing the matter with Johnstown, but if the Board of Health would only take the trouble to nose about a bit it might learn a thing or two. You notice there have been grocery stores and markets around here, and you notice, too, the pile of decaying vegetable matter from them. These are worse than the dead bodies. Horrible Scenes. "Are there bodies under these ruins? Lots of them. There! what do you see this minute? Those workmen have discovered one in the ruins of the Merchants' Hotel. Poor fellow. He was pinned by falling walls, probably. A man was found there the other day with his pockets full of money. He had tried to save his fortune and lost his life. Near by a man was found alive after an experience of a week in the débris. He called for water, but never drank it. His tongue was too stiff, and he had not strength to move a muscle. He died almost as soon as he was found. "Well, did you ever see such a mass of wreckage? It doesn't look as if there were twenty houses fit to live in all over this flat. But a good many will be patched up after a fashion, no doubt. And this is only one street out of several in the same condition. "Hello! Those workmen are digging out of a cellar some barrels of whisky. That liquor will be guarded, for the old policemen and the 'tin' deputies have been having high old times with the liquor they have unearthed. There were formerly forty-five saloons in this town. Do you know how many there are left? Three. That's all. One saloon-keeper found $1,700 in the ruins of his place. "Gracious! There is a freight car. It was caught up half a mile or more away and dumped down in this street. And there is a piano sticking out. Hello! What have you found there? Oh, a looking glass. Yes, you find plenty of them in the rubbish almost as good as new. A friend of mine pulled out a glass pitcher and two goblets from that terrible mass at the bridge, and there wasn't a crack upon them. Queer, isn't it? But so it goes. Fragile things are not injured and stoves and iron are twisted and broken. The vagaries of this flood are many. 'I Thought You Were Dead.' "Turn this corner. Now, will you look at that? There is a house with the back all knocked out. The furniture has disappeared, but on the wall you see a picture hanging, and as I am alive it is a picture of a flood. What did I tell you a little while ago? Here is a house with its walls nearly intact. Next it is nothing but a heap of rubbish. Here is nothing but a cellar full of débris. Next it is a wooden dwelling. A man sits on the piazza with his clothing hung about him for an airing. And so it goes right here in the neighborhood of the main street, but if we pull out a bit from this place we shall see that the damage is a great deal greater. Through this break you can see the Presbyterian church. It is about ruined, but it still stands. If you go up stairs, what do you think you will see in that cold, dark, damp room? Stretched upon the tops of the pews are long boards, and stretched upon the boards are corpses. They have been embalmed, and are awaiting identification. But we won't go in there. All the morgues are alike, and we shall find another before long. "Hark! There are two women greeting each other. Let's hear what they say. "'Why, Eliza, I thought you were dead. How's all the folks? Are they all saved?' "'Yes; they are all saved--all but sister and her little girl.' "Well, that was cool, wasn't it? But you hear that on every corner. As I told you, in the presence of so much death the sensibilities are blunted. People do not yet realize their great grief. "There, we are safely by the main street with its dangers of pestilence, for you noticed that it was reeking with filth and bad smells, and safely by the falling walls, for the workmen are tearing down everything shaky. Look out, there, or you will get scorched by that huge bonfire. They are burning all over town. Everything that the men can lift is dragged to these fires and burned. This is the plan for clearing the town. You noticed it at the bridge and you notice it here. Men with axes and saws are cutting timbers too big to be moved, and men with ropes and horses and even stationary engines are pressed into service to tug at the ruins. Slowly the débris is yielding to the flames. An Awful Sepulchre. "Ha! now we are getting over by the hills into what is known as the Fourth Ward. Here it is on our map--No. 7. What a sight! Most of the bodies are taken from the ruins here. As far as you can see there is nothing but wreckage--yes, wreckage, from which the foulest odors are continually rising and in the midst of which countless big fires are burning. Are you not almost discouraged at the idea of clearing so many acres up? Well, it does look like an endless task. "There, you see that brick building? It is called the Fourth Ward School House. Do you want to go in? Piled up at one side are coffins--little coffins, medium sized coffins, large coffins--coffins for children, women and men. Oh! what a gloomy, horrible place. Stretched on these boards in this dismal room--what do you see? Corpses dragged from the river and from the débris. See how distorted and swollen are the faces. They are beyond recognition. Some have great bruises. Some are covered with blood. Some are black. Turn your head away. Such a sight you never saw before and pray God that you may never see it again. Nearly 250 bodies have been handled in this school house. Outside once more for a breath of air! Oh! the delightful change. But you are not yet away from the horrors. There is a tent in the school yard. What do you see? More coffins. Yes, and each one has a victim. Each is ready for shipment or burial. 20,000 to be Fed. "Let's hurry along. Here on this corner is the temporary post-office. Over there is a supply station. There are eleven such departments now under the new management, and people are given not only provisions but clothing. You ought to see the women coming down from the hills in the morning for the supplies. Think of it! There are at least twenty thousand people in the flooded district to be fed for many weeks to come. You know there has been some comment because in the past all the money has not been used for food. I think it is a mistake. Where is charity to cease? In my opinion, the thing to do is to clean this town up, and give the business men and mills a chance to start up again. When this is done people can earn their own living, and charity ceases. I am backed up in this statement by Irwin Hurrell, who is a burgess of Johnstown, and knows everybody. Let me read you something from my note book that he said to me: "'The people up in the hills have never had a better time. They won't work. They go around and get all the clothing they can and fill their houses with provisions.' Thieves and Idlers. "The burgess speaks the exact truth. Some of these houses are packed with flour and potatoes. The Hungarians and colored men and the 'tin' deputies, now out of a job, have been the real thieves. They pulled trunks from the river, cut the locks and rifled them. There have been no professional thieves here. The thieves live here. Most of the respectable people were swept away by the flood, but nearly all the 'toughs' were left. Now if I had my way I would make the survivors work. Some one said the other day: 'Why talk of sufferers? there are no sufferers. They are all dead.' This is true in a great measure. It is not charity to keep in idleness people who have lost nothing and won't work. I'd hunt them out and put them at it. "Well, we will pass this supply depot, strike the Baltimore and Ohio track, and go up Stony Creek a bit. Notice the long lines of freight cars loaded with supplies. On our right runs the little river. On our left is Ward 7. I will note it as No. 8 on the map. You see there is a little stretch of plateau and then the ground rises rapidly. See what ravages the flood made on the plateau. The houses are wrecked and filled with mud. The local name of this place is Hornertown. One man here had $60,000 in his house. It was wrecked. He dug away at the ruins and found $20,000. If we followed the stream up a mile or so we would come to the Stonyvale Cemetery. It is covered with logs and wrecks of houses. It was in one of these houses that the body of a woman was found last Saturday. She was sitting at a table. The house had floated here on the back water from down the river. Red Cross Tents. "There, I guess we have walked far enough. Here are the tents of the Red Cross Society, and by the side of them are those of the United States engineers. The engineers have thrown a pontoon bridge over the river, you see, to a place called Kernville. Here you are, No. 9 on our little map. Let us cross. By George! there is an old man on the bridge I have seen before. He lost his wife and two children in the flood, but he isn't crying for them. What bothers him most is the loss of a clock, but in the clock was $1,600. "You see there is nothing new in Kernville. It is the same old story. Many lives have been lost here and the wreckage is something awful. The houses that remain are filled with mud and the ceilings still drip with water. People seem to have lost their senses. They are apparently paralyzed by their troubles. They sit around waiting for some one to come and clear the wreckage away. "Well, it is a terrible sight and we will hurry through the place and cross to Johnstown flat, over another pontoon bridge further down. It brings us out, as you see, near the main street again. Hello! there is a man; there is his name on the sign--Kramer, isn't it? who is getting his grocery store open, the first in town. He was flooded, but carried some of his goods to an upper floor and saved them. Lucky Kramer! Here is a man selling photographs on the porch of a doctor's office. Dr. Brinkey. Oh, yes, he was drowned. His body was found last Monday. "Well, we'll hurry by and get up to headquarters once more. It is 6 o'clock. See, the workmen are knocking off and are going to the river to wash up. Now, out comes the baseball, for recreation always follows work here. "Once more on the platform of the freight station. Dusk settles down over the valley. An engine near by begins to throb and electric lights spring up here and there. All over the town the flames of the great bonfires leap out of the gloom. From the camps of the workmen come ribald songs and jests, The presence of death has no effect on the living. "The songs gradually die away and the singers drop off into a deep sleep. The town becomes as silent as the graveyards which have been filled with its victims. Not a sound is heard save the crackling of the flames and the challenges of the sentries to some belated newspaper man or straggler. "And thus another day draws to a close in ill-fated Johnstown." CHAPTER XIX. A Day of Work and Worship Governor Beaver has assumed the command. He arrived in Johnstown yesterday, the 8th, and will take personal charge of the work of clearing the town and river. For that purpose $1,000,000 from the State Treasury will be made available immediately. This action means that the State will clear and clean the town. It was a day of prayer but not a day of rest in Johnstown. Faith and works went hand in hand. The flood-smitten people of the Conemaugh, though they met in the very path of the torrent that swept their homes and families into ruin, offered up their prayers to Almighty God and besought His divine mercy. But all through the ruin-choked city the sound of the pick and the shovel mingled with the voice of prayer, and the challenge of the sentinel rang out above the voice of supplication. There was no cessation in the great task the flood has left them with its legacy of woe. Four charges of dynamite last night completed the wreck of the Catholic Church of St. John, which had been left by the flood in a worthless but dangerous condition. The thousands of laborers continued their work just as on any week day, except that there was no dynamite used on the gorge and that the Cambria Iron Works were closed. There was the usual reward of the gleaners in the harvest-field of death, fifty eight bodies having been recovered. The most of those have been in Stony Creek, up which they were carried by the back rush of the current after the bridge broke the first wave. Roman Catholic services were held in the open air. Father Smith's Exhortation. When the mass was over and Father Troutwine, who conducted it, had retired, Father Smith stood before them. "We have had enough of death lately," he said in a voice full of sympathy, "the calamity that has visited us is the greatest in the history of the United States. You must not be discouraged. Other places have been visited by disaster at times, yet we know that they have risen again. You must not look on the fearful past. The lives of the lost cannot be restored." Here he paused because they were weeping around him, and his own voice was broken, but continuing with an effort, he told them to reflect for consolation upon the manner in which their friends had gone to death. They had looked to God, he said, and wafted in prayers and acts of contrition, their souls had left their bodies and appeared at the throne in heaven. "Surely never such prayers fell save from the lips of saints, and the lost of the valley are saints to-day while you mourn for them. God, who measures the acts of men by their opportunities, had pardoned their sins. You who are left living must go to work with a will. Be men, be women. The eyes of the world are upon you, the eyes of all civilized nature. They listen, they wait to see what you are going to do." Father Smith closed by telling them that the coming fast days of this week need not be observed in the midst of such destitution as this, and they might eat without sinning any food that would give them life and strength. When the father had finished the congregation filed slowly out past the high pile of coffins, for St. Columba's was a morgue in the days just passed. The Protestant Services. Chaplain Maguire held service in the camp of the 14th to-day. His pulpit was a drygoods box with the lid missing. It had been emptied of its freight into the wide lap of suffering. Before him stood the blue-coated guardsmen in a deep half circle. There was a shed at his back and a group of flood survivors, some in old clothing of their own, some in the new garments of charity. They were for the most part members of the Methodist congregation of Johnstown to which he had preached for three years. "I hunted a long time yesterday for the foundations of my little home," he said, "but they were swept away, like the dear faces of the friends who used to gather around my table. But God doesn't own this side alone; He owns the other side too, and all is well whether we are on this side or the other. Are your dear ones saved or lost? The only answer to that question is found in whether they trusted in God or not. Trust in the Lord and verily ye shall dwell in the land and be fed." It was not a sermon. Nobody had words or voice for preaching. Others spoke briefly and prayed. They sang, "Jesus, Lover of My Soul." A Song in the Waters. The shrill treble of the weeping women in the shed was almost lost in the strong bass of the soldiers. "Cora Moses, who used to sing in our church choir, sang that beautiful hymn as she drifted away to her death amid the wreck," said the chaplain. "She died singing it. There was only the crash of buildings between the interruption of the song of earth and its continuation in heaven." Dr. Beale's Address. Dr. Beale, whose own Presbyterian Church was one of the first morgues opened and who has lived among dead bodies ever since is the cheeriest man in Johnstown. He made a prayer and an address. It was all straight-from-the-shoulder kind of talk, garbed in homely phrase. In the address he said: "I have been asked to say something about this disaster and its magnitude, but I haven't the heart. Besides I haven't the words. If I was the biggest truth teller in the world I could not tell the tale." Then the preacher went hammer and tongs at the practical teachings of the flood. "That night in Alma Hall when we thought we would all die I heard men call on God in prayer and pledge themselves to lead better lives if life was given them. Since then I heard those same men cursing and swearing in these streets. Brethren, there was no real prayer in any of those petitions put up by those of godless lives that night. They were merely crying out to a higher power for protection. They were like the death-bed fears of the infidel, for I have seen seventeen infidels die and everyone showed the white feather. Nay, those prayers were unsanctified by the spirit, but let us who are here now living, dedicate ourselves to the service of Almighty God. There were those who were to be dedicated that night. I know one who, when it came, sent his family up the staircase, and taking up his Bible from his parlor table, opened at the 46th Psalm, first verse, and, following them, read, and the waters followed him closely. And through the flood he read the word of God and there was peace in that house while terror was all around it." Mothering the Orphans. Dr. Beale announced that Miss Walk wanted twenty-five children for the Northern Home and then began shaking hands with his congregation and pressing on them the lessons of his sermon. "Ah, old friend," he said, to a sandy moustached man in the grand army uniform, "You came safe out of the flood, now give that big heart of yours to Jesus." The Baptist congregation also held an open-air service. The unfortunate Episcopal congregation is quite disorganized by the loss of their church and rector. They held no service, yet in a hundred temporary houses of the homeless the beautiful old litany of the faith was read by the devout churchmen. The Soldiers' Sunday. Sunday brought to the soldiers of the 14th no rest from the guard and police work which makes the Johnstown tour of duty everything but holiday soldiering. Even those who were in camp fared no better than those who were mounted guards over banks, stores and supply trains, or driving unwilling Italians to work down at Cambria City. There was no shade nor a blade of grass in sight. The wreck of the city was all their scenery, and the sun beat down upon their tents till they were like ovens. They policed the camp thoroughly, sweeping the bare ground until it was as clean as a Dutch kitchen. The boys had heard that Chaplain Maguire was to preach and they didn't leave a straw or a chip in his way. A Young Guardsman's Suicide. A sun-browned young soldier of C Company, 14th Regiment, sat on the river bank in front of the camp this afternoon and watched across the valley the fire-scarred tower of the Catholic Church, blown to complete ruin under the force of dynamite. After the front had sunk into a brick heap, he arose, looked down once at the sunny river and the groups of many soldiers doing there week's washing at the foot of the bank, and then strode slowly to his tent. A moment later there seemed to be a lingering echo of the fall of the tower in C Company's street. Captain Nesbitt, dozing in his quarters, heard the sound, and running in the direction of it found that Private William B. Young, aged 28, of Oakdale, had placed the muzzle of his rifle against his left temple and gone to swell by one the interminable list of the Conemaugh Valley's dead. [Illustration: A RAILROAD TRAIN DELAYED BY THE FLOOD.] Despondency, caused by a slight illness and doubtless intensified by a night's guard duty among the gloomy ruins, is the only known cause of the soldier's act. He had been somewhat blue for a day, but there seemed to be no special weight upon his mind. His brother-in-law, private Stimmler, of the same company, said that he was always despondent when ill, but had never threatened or attempted his life. He was a farmhand, and leaves a wife and two children. The Dinner "Shad" Jones Cooked. The Sunday dinner was a great success. The bill of fare was vegetable soup, cold ham, beans, canned corn, pickled tripe and black coffee. It is worthy of note that the table in the officers' quarters did not have a delicacy upon it which was not shared by the men. The commissary ran short and had to borrow from the workmen's supplies. The dinner to-day was cooked by "Shad" Jones, a colored man known to every traveling man who has ever stopped at Johnstown for his ability to hold four eggs in his mouth and swallow a drink of water without cracking a shell. He lost his wife in the flood and the 14th has adopted him. On this, the ninth day, the waters began to give up their dead. Stony Creek first showed their white faces and lifeless bodies floating on the surface, and men in skiffs went after them with their grappling rods. Several of them were taken ashore during the afternoon and carried to the Presbyterian Church morgue, which was the nearest. Then, too, the dead among the wreckage on shore came to light just the same as on other days. Their exhumation excites no notice here now. Dr. Beale, keeper of the records of morgues, counted the numbers on his finger tips and said there were more than fifty found to-day in Johnstown alone. In one dead man's pocket was $3,133.62. He was Christopher Kimble, an undertaker and finisher, who, when he saw the water coming, rushed down stairs to the safe to save his gold and there he was lost. Several bodies were taken from the human raft burned beyond all recognition. The body of Miss Bessie Bryan, the young Philadelphian, was identified to-day as it lay in a coffin by a grave from which it had been exhumed in Grand View Cemetery. "Returning home from a wedding in Pittsburgh with her friend, Miss Paulsen, caught by the flood on the day express, found dead and buried twice," will be the brief record of her wild sad fate. Whiskey and Rioting. Lieutenant Wright, Company I, with a detail of ninety-eight men, was called to the banks of Stony Creek over the raft to-night, to protect the employees of the Philadelphia Gas Company. There they found a gang of rioters. The rioters this afternoon found a barrel of whiskey in the field of débris, and before the militia could destroy it they had managed to take a large quantity of it up on the mountain. To-night they came down to the camp intoxicated, attacked the cook, cleared the supper table and were managing things with a high hand when a messenger was despatched for the guard. Before Lieutenant Wright's men reached there they had escaped. The Beaver Falls gang was surprised this afternoon by the militia, and gallons of whiskey, which they had hidden, were destroyed. A dozen saloons were swept into the creek at the bridge, and it is supposed that a hundred or more barrels are buried beneath the raft. Among the most interesting relics of the flood is a small gold locket found in the ruins of the Hurlbut house yesterday. The locket contains a small coil of dark brown hair, and has engraved on the inside the following remarkable lines: "Lock of George Washington's hair, cut in Philadelphia while on his way to Yorktown, 1781." Mr. Benford, one of the proprietors of the house, states that the locket was the property of his sister, who was lost in the flood, and was presented to her by an old lady in Philadelphia, whose mother and herself cut the hair from the head of the "Father of His Country." CHAPTER XX. Millions of Money for Johnstown. Never before in our country has there been such a magnificent exhibition of public sympathy and practical charity. As the occasion was the most urgent ever known, so the response has been the greatest. All classes have come to the rescue with a generosity, a thoughtfulness and heartfelt pity sufficient to convince the most stubborn misanthrope that religion is not dead and charity has not, like the fabled gods of Greece, forsaken the earth. The following lines, cut from one of our popular journals, aptly represents the public feeling, and the warm sympathy that moved every heart: I. I stood with a mournful throng On the brink of a gloomy grave, In a valley where grief had found relief On the breast of an angry wave! I heard a tearful song That told of an orphan's love-- 'Twas a song of woe from the valley below, To the Father of Heaven above! II. 'Twas the wail of two lonely waifs-- Two children who prayed for bread! 'Twas a pitiful cry--a mournful sigh-- From the home of the silent dead! 'Twas a sad and soulful strain; It made the teardrops start; 'Twas an echo of pain--a weird refrain-- And a song that touched my heart. III. Poor, fatherless, motherless waifs, Come, dry your tearful eyes! Not in vain, not in vain, have ye sung your refrain; It's echo has pierced the skies! The angels are watching you there, For your "home" is now above, And your Father is He who forever shall be A Father of infinite love! IV. Blest be the noble throng, With generous impulse stirred, Who are bringing relief to the Valley of Grief, Where the orphan's song was heard! Peace to them while they live, Peace when their souls depart, For a friend in need is a friend indeed And a friend that reaches my heart! Among the first to start a fund for the sufferers was the New York _Herald_. The following is a specimen of the announcement made by that journal from day to day: Great interest is being taken in the _Herald_ fund for the Johnstown sufferers. In the city, employees of all sorts of business houses, and of railroad, steamboat and other companies, are striving to see who can collect the most money. In the country, ministers, little girls, school children and busy workers are all collecting for the fund. It is being boomed by rich and poor, far and near. With the checks for hundreds of dollars yesterday came this note, enclosing a dime: "NEW YORK, June 8, 1889. "MR. EDITOR: "I am a little orphan girl. I saved ten cents, it is all I have, but I should like to send it to the sufferers of the flood. "ANNIE ABEL." Another letter written in a lady's hand read this way: "BROOKYN. "DEAR HERALD:-- "Enclosed please find $1.17 left by little Hame Buckler in his purse when he died last September. Also twenty-five cents from Albert Buckler and twenty-five cents from Paul D. Buckler. Hoping their mites will help to feed or clothe some little ones, I am, with sympathy for the sufferers, "S.A.B." Felix Simonson, a twelve-year-old schoolboy, took it into his head on Friday to go among his friends and get help for the sufferers. Here is what he wrote on the top of his subscription paper: "I am very sorry for the poor people who have lost everything by the flood, and I am trying to collect some money to send to them. Would you like to give something to help them?" How Felix succeded is shown by a collection of $30.15 the first day. A large amount of clothing for men, women and children is being sent to the _Herald_ office, as well as liberal contributions of money. The same story was, in effect, repeated from day to day. It only indicated what was going on throughout the country; in fact, throughout the world. London, Paris, and other European towns, were only a few hours behind our American cities in starting funds for relief. The enthusiasm with which these responses were made is indicated by the following from one of the New York dailies: Charity Running Rampant. Everybody's business seems to be raising funds for Pennsylvania. The Mayor's office has been transformed into a counting room. More than a dozen clerks are employed in acknowledging the receipt of money for the Pennsylvania sufferers. A large number, many of them of the poorer class, bring their own contributions. Up to noon $145,257.18 had been subscribed. This does not include sums subscribed but not paid in. All the city departments are expected to respond nobly. The Executive Committee of the Conemaugh Valley Relief Association met in the Governor's room at the City Hall yesterday, with General W.T. Sherman in the chair. Treasurer J. Edward Simmons announced that the fund in the Fourth National Bank amounted to $145,000 and that Governor Beaver's draft for $50,000 had been honored. John T. Crimmins reported that more than $70,000 had been received at the Mayor's office during the morning. He also reported that the Leake and Watts Orphan Asylum had offered, through the Rev. Dr. Morgan Dix, to take twenty-five of Johnstown's orphans, between the ages of five and twelve, and care for them until they were sixteen and then provide them with homes. H.C. Miner reported that many packages of clothing had been sent to Johnstown and that the theatrical guild was arranging for benefit performances. Under date of Paris, June 5th, the following despatch conveyed intelligence of the gratifying response of Americans in that city: Duty Nobly Done. A meeting of Americans was held to-day at the United States Legation on a call in the morning papers by Mr. Whitelaw Reid, the United States Minister, to express the sympathy of the Americans in Paris with the sufferers by the Johnstown calamity. In spite of the short notice the rooms of the Legation were densely packed, and many went away unable to gain admittance. Mr. Reid was called to the chair and Mr. Ernest Lambert was appointed secretary. The following resolutions were offered by Mr. Andrew Carnegie and seconded by Mr. James N. Otis: A Sympathetic Message. "Resolved, That we send across the Atlantic to our brethren overwhelmed by the appalling disaster at Johnstown our most profound and heartfelt sympathy. Over their lost ones we mourn with them, and in every pang of all their misery we have our part. "Resolved, That as American citizens we congratulate them upon and thank them for the numerous acts of noble heroism displayed under circumstances calculated to unnerve the bravest. Especially do we honor and admire them for the capacity shown for local self-government upon which the stability of republican institutions depends, the military organizations sent from distant points to preserve order during the chaos that supervened having been returned to their homes as no longer required within forty-eight hours of the calamity. In these few hours the civil power recreated and asserted itself and resumed sway without the aid of counsel from distant authorities, but solely by and from the inherent power which remains in the people of Johnstown themselves." Brief and touching speeches were made by General Layton, late United States Minister to Austria; Mr. Abram S. Hewitt, General Meredith Read and others. A Flow of Dollars. The resolutions were then unanimously adopted and a committee was appointed to receive subscriptions. About 40,000f. were subscribed on the spot. The American bankers all agreed to open subscriptions the next day at their banking houses. "Buffalo Bill" subscribed the entire receipts of one entertainment to be given under the auspices of the committee. As a sequel to the foregoing the following will be of interest to the reader: NEW YORK, June 17.--John Monroe & Co. have received cable instructions from United States Minister Reid, at Paris, to pay Messrs. Drexel & Co., of Philadelphia, an additional sum of $2,266, received from the Treasurer of the Paris Johnstown Relief Committee. Of this sum $1066 are the proceeds of a special performance by the Wild West show, and with the previous contribution from Paris makes a total of $14,166. The pathetic story of sympathy and generous aid from every town and hamlet in the land can never be told; there is too much of it. Philadelphia alone contributed over a million dollars, and New York showed equal generosity. In Philadelphia it was not uncommon to see glass jars in front of stores and at other places to receive contributions from passers-by. In one of these an unknown man deposited $500 one day; this is indicative of the feeling pervading the whole community that stricken Johnstown must not suffer for houses, clothing, nor bread. [Illustration: CONTRIBUTING TO THE RELIEF FUND IN PHILADELPHIA.] So rapidly did gifts pour in that within eight days after the disaster the following statement was made from Harrisburg: The Governor's fund for the relief of the survivors of the flood in the Conemaugh Valley and other portions of the State is assuming large proportions and the disposition to contribute appears to be on the increase. To-day letters and telegrams were received requesting the Governor to draw for $68,000 additional, swelling the aggregate sum at his disposal to about $3,000,000. Many of the remittances are accompanied with statements that more may be expected. Governor Beaver telegraphed as follows from Johnstown: "The situation is simply indescribable. The people have turned in with courage and heroism unparalleled. A decided impression has been made on the débris. The next week will do more, as they have many points opened for work. Everything is very quiet. People are returning to work again and gaining courage and hope as they return. There need be no fear of too much being contributed for the relief of the people. There is a long, steady pull ahead requiring every effort and determination on the part of the people here, which is already assured, and the continued systematic support and benefactions of this generous people." Feeding the Hungry. Three car loads of tents, enough to accommodate four thousand people, were sent to Johnstown to-day from the State arsenal at the request of General Hastings. The following special dispatch bears date of June 5th: Car loads of provisions and clothing are arriving hourly and being distributed. The cynic who said that charity and gratitude were articles seldom to be met with in Republics and among corporations would have had ample reason afforded him to-day to alter his warped philosophy several degrees had he been in this erstwhile town and seen train after train hourly rolling in, on both the Baltimore and Ohio and the Pennsylvania railroads, laden with clothing and provisions from every point of the compass. Each train bore messengers sent especially to distribute funds and provisions and clothing, volunteer physicians in large numbers, trained nurses and a corps of surgeons equipped with all needed instruments and medicines. Fortunately the latter are not needed. Philadelphia's quota consists of clothes, boots, shoes, cotton sheeting, hard breads, salt fish, canned goods, etc., all of which will be gratefully received and supply the most pressing needs of the stricken people. Relief Systematized. The relief work has been so systematized that there is no danger of any confusion. At the several distributing depots hundreds assemble morning, noon and night, and, forming in line, are supplied with provisions. Men and women with families are given bread, butter, cheese, ham and canned meats, tea or coffee and sugar, and unmarried applicants sliced bread and butter or sandwiches. The 900 army tents brought on by Adjutant-General Axline, of Ohio, have been divided, and two white-walled villages now afford shelter to nearly six thousand homeless people. At the Main Commissary. At the Johnstown station, on the east side of the river, everything is quiet, and considerable work is being done. This is the chief commissary station, and this morning by two o'clock 15,000 people were fed and about six hundred families were furnished with provisions. Five carloads of clothing were distributed, and now almost every one is provided with clothing. The good work done by the relief committees in caring for the destitute can never be fully told. It was ready, generous and very successful. The scenes at the distributing points through the week have been most interesting. Monday and Tuesday saw lines of men, women and children in the scantiest of clothing, blue with cold, unwashed and dishevelled, so pitifully destitute a company as one would wish to see. Since the clothing cars have come the people have assumed a more presentable appearance and food has brought life back to them and warmth, but their condition is still pitiful. The destitute ones are almost altogether from the well-to-do people of Johnstown, who have lost all and are as poor as the poorest. Altoona to the Rescue. Altoona has been so hemmed in by floods and the like, and her representatives have been so busy, that they had but little to say of the prompt action and excellent work done by open-handed citizens of that beautiful interior Pennsylvania city. Altoona first became alarmed by the non-arrival and reported loss of the day express east on the Pennsylvania Railroad Friday afternoon. Soon the station was thronged with an anxious crowd, and the excitement became intense as the scant news came slowly in. Saturday the anxiety was relieved by a telegram from Ebensburg, which a blundering telegraph operator made "three hundred lost," instead of "three thousand." That was soon corrected by later news, and the citizens immediately were called upon to meet for action. The Mayor presided, and at once $2,600 was subscribed and provisions offered. By three o'clock that afternoon a car had been loaded and started for Ebensburg, thirty-two miles away in charge of a committee. At Ebensburg that evening ten teams were secured after much trouble and the supplies sent overland seventeen miles to the desolated valley. The night was an awful one for the committee in charge. The roads were badly washed and all but impassible. The hours dragged on. At last, Sunday morning, the wagons drove into desolate Conemaugh. There were no cheers to greet them, no cries of pleasure. The wretched sufferers were too wretched, too dazed for that. They simply crowded around the wagons, pitifully begging for bread or anything to eat. The committee report: "Impostors have not bothered us much, and, singular enough, the ones that have were chiefly women, though to-day we sent away a man who we thought came too frequently. On questioning he owned up to having fifteen sacks of flour and five hams in his house. On Tuesday we began to keep a record of those who received supplies, and we have given out supplies to fully 550 families, representing 2,500 homeless people. Our district is only for one side of the river. On the other is a commissary on Adams street, near the Baltimore and Ohio Railway station, another at Kernville, a third at Cambria City, a fourth at Morrellville and a fifth at Cambria. The people are very patient, though, of course, in their present condition they are apt to be querelous. Wanted A Better Dress. "One woman who came for a dress indignantly refused the one I offered her. 'I don't want that,' she said. 'I lost one that cost me $20, $15 for the cloth and $5 for making, and I want a $20 dress. You said you would make our losses good;' and she did not take the dress. "A clergyman came to me and begged for anything in the shape of foot covering. I had nothing to give him. Men stand about ready to work, but barefooted. The clothing since the first day or two, when we got only worn stuff, fit only for bandages, has been good, and is now of excellent quality. Most of the children's garments are outgrown clothes, good for much service. Pittsburgh has sent from thirty to forty car loads of supplies, all of good quality and available, and in charge of local commissary men who had sense enough to go home when they turned over their supplies and did not stay and eat up the provisions they brought. Ohio's Timely Work. "But above all, I want to praise the supplies sent by the Ohio people in Cleveland and Columbus. These cities forwarded eight cars each. These were stocked with beautiful stuff, wisely chosen, and were in charge of Adjutant General Axline, sent by Governor Foraker, who worked like a wise man." Grave Mental Conditions. The mental condition of almost every former resident of Johnstown is one of the gravest character, and the reaction which will set in when the reality of the whole affair is fully comprehended can scarcely fail to produce many cases of permanent or temporary insanity. Most of the faces that one meets, both male and female, are those of the most profound melancholia, associated with an almost absolute disregard of the future. The nervous system shows the strain it has borne by a tremulousness of the hand and of the lip in man as well as in woman. This nervous state is further evidenced by a peculiar intonation of words, the persons speaking mechanically, while the voices of many rough looking men are changed into such tremulous notes of so high a pitch as to make one imagine that a child on the verge of tears is speaking. Crying is so rare that I saw not a tear on any face in Johnstown, but the women that are left are haggard, with pinched features and heavy, dark lines under their eyes. Indeed the evidence of systemic disturbance is so marked in almost every individual who was present at the time of the catastrophe that it is possible with the eye alone to separate the residents from those outside. Everything required in the way of surgical appliances seem to be on hand, but medicines are scarce, and will probably be needed more in the next few days than heretofore. A fact in favor of the controlling of any malady is to be found in the very general exodus of the town's people, who crowd the platforms of departing trains. There can be no doubt that this movement should be encouraged to the greatest possible extent, and it would be well if places away from Johnstown, at no too great distance, could be opened for the reception of those who, while not entirely disabled, are useless at home. The scarcity of pure spring water which is not tainted by dead animal matter is a pressing evil for consideration, but we doubt if this is as important a fact at Johnstown as it is further down the river, owing to the large amount of decomposing flesh in the water at this latter point. No disinfectant can reach such a cause of disease save the action of the large volume of water which dilutes all poisonous materials. The Torch for Safety. There is a strong movement on foot in favor of applying the torch to the wrecked buildings in Johnstown, and although the suggestion meets with strong opposition at this time, there is little doubt the ultimate solution of existing difficulties will be by this method. An army of men have been for two days employed in clearing up the wreck in the city proper, and although hundreds of bodies have been discovered, not one-fifth of the ground has yet been gone over. In many places the rubbish is piled twenty or thirty feet high, and not infrequently these great drifts cover an area of nearly an acre. Narrow passages have been cut through in every direction, but the herculean labor of removing the rubbish has yet hardly begun. At a meeting of the Central Relief Committee this afternoon General Hastings suggested the advisability of drawing a cordon around the few houses that are not in ruins and applying the torch to the remaining great sea of waste. He explained briefly the great work yet to be accomplished if it were hoped to thoroughly overhaul every portion of the débris, and insisted that it would take 5,000 men to complete the task. Of the hundreds of bodies buried beneath the rubbish, sand and stones, the skeleton or putrid remains of many was all that could be hoped to be recovered. A motion was made that after forty-eight hours' further search the débris of the city be consumed by fire, the engines to be on hand to play upon any valuable building that despite previous precautions, might become ignited by the general conflagration. This motion was debated pro and con for nearly half an hour. Those whose relatives or friends still rest beneath the wreck remonstrated strongly against any such summary action. They insisted that all the talk of threatened epidemic was only the sensation gossip of fertile brains and that the search for the bodies should only be abandoned as a last extremity. The physicians in attendance warned the committee that the further exposure of putrid bodies in the valley could have but one result--the typhus or some other epidemic equally fatal to its victims. It was a question whether the living should be sacrificed to the dead, or whether the sway of sentiment or the mandate of science should be the ruling impulse. Although the proposition to burn the wreck was defeated, it was evident that the movement was gaining many adherents, and the result will doubtless be that in a few days the torch will be applied, not only to the field of waste in Johnstown, but also to the avalanche of débris that chokes the stream above the Pennsylvania bridge. 
46011	----	HathiTrust Digital Library (http://www.hathitrust.org/digital_library) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 46011-h.htm or 46011-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/46011/46011-h/46011-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/46011/46011-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through HathiTrust Digital Library. See http://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=nyp.33433082525803#view=1up;seq=7 [Illustration: AS THE HOUSE DRIFTED DOWNSTREAM JOE GOT A SERIES OF MOVING PICTURES.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS AND THE FLOOD Or Perilous Days on the Mississippi LLBY VICTOR APPLETON Author of "The Moving Picture Boys," "The Moving Picture Boys in Earthquake Land," "Tom Swift and His Motor Cycle," "The Motion Picture Chums' First Venture," etc. Illustrated New York Grosset & Dunlap Publishers Made in the United States of America ------------------------------------------------------------------------ BOOKS FOR BOYS BY VICTOR APPLETON _12 mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Price, per volume, 50 cents, postpaid._ THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS SERIES THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS IN THE WEST THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS ON THE COAST THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS IN THE JUNGLE THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS IN EARTHQUAKE LAND THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS AND THE FLOOD THE MOTION PICTURE CHUMS SERIES THE MOTION PICTURE CHUMS' FIRST VENTURE THE MOTION PICTURE CHUMS AT SEASIDE PARK THE MOTION PICTURE CHUMS ON BROADWAY THE MOTION PICTURE CHUMS' OUTDOOR EXHIBITION THE MOTION PICTURE CHUMS' NEW IDEA THE TOM SWIFT SERIES TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR CYCLE TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR BOAT TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIRSHIP TOM SWIFT AND HIS SUBMARINE BOAT TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC RUNABOUT TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC RIFLE TOM SWIFT AND HIS SKY RACER TOM SWIFT IN THE CAVES OF ICE TOM SWIFT AMONG THE DIAMOND MAKERS TOM SWIFT AND HIS WIRELESS MESSAGE TOM SWIFT IN THE CITY OF GOLD TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIR GLIDER TOM SWIFT IN CAPTIVITY TOM SWIFT AND HIS WIZARD CAMERA TOM SWIFT AND HIS GREAT SEARCHLIGHT TOM SWIFT AND HIS GIANT CANNON TOM SWIFT AND HIS PHOTO TELEPHONE GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK Copyright, 1914, by GROSSET & DUNLAP _The Moving Picture Boys and the Flood_ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS I A LONG-DISTANCE CALL II STIRRING NEWS III MR. PIPER IS APPREHENSIVE IV OFF FOR THE FLOOD V THE RELIEF TRAIN VI THE MISSING FILMS VII STALLED VIII THE MOTOR BOAT IX ANXIOUS HOURS X OFF AGAIN XI UPSIDE DOWN XII CHARLIE HOUSE XIII LOOKING FOR MOTHER XIV FIRE AND FLOOD XV A HAPPY MEETING XVI A BOLT FROM THE SKY XVII THE COTTON BARGE XVIII OVERBOARD XIX A COLLISION XX ON THE RAFT XXI ADRIFT AGAIN XXII ON A BIG ISLAND XXIII THE LOST ONES XXIV RISING WATERS XXV THE GOVERNMENT BOAT ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS AND THE FLOOD CHAPTER I A LONG-DISTANCE CALL "Say, this looks bad, Joe! It sure does!" "What's that, Blake? Must be quite serious, to make you sit up and take notice." "It is! Look at the scare head!" and the speaker held out, for the inspection of his companion, a newspaper the front page of which fairly bristled with black type. They were two youths, sitting under a cherry tree, on the green grass of a lawn which fronted a farmhouse. They were evidently taking their ease, or had been, for there were comfortable chairs near them, two hammocks, and a pile of magazines, while on a board seat, built into a crotch of the cherry tree, was a large pitcher of lemonade. And if that doesn't show comfort on a warm, sunny June day I don't know what does. "Where'd you get that paper?" asked Joe Duncan, as he accepted the sheet his companion, Blake Stewart, passed over. "It came in the mail, but I didn't take it out of the wrapper until a second ago. It's yesterday's. Some news that; eh?" "It sure is," and as Joe began to read, Blake looked over his shoulder, murmuring such expressions as: "Worst flood in years! Many houses swept away! Toll of lives will be heavy! Many deeds of heroism! Mississippi on great rampage!" What Blake gave expression to was merely quoted from some of the lines in the heading of the article that had so excited him and his chum. It was a telegraphed story of a big flood on the Mississippi, which, the article stated, was higher than it had been in years, while unusually heavy spring rains had added to the terrors of the rising waters. "That sure is some flood!" murmured Joe, as he reached the bottom of the newspaper page, and turned the sheet over. "Hello!" he cried. "They've got some pictures of it, too!" Almost all of the second page was taken up with half-tone cuts of scenes in the flooded districts. There were views of overturned houses being swept down a turbulent stream, pictures of half-demolished buildings, jammed together into a rude sort of raft, on which could be seen farm animals; views of whole towns partly inundated, and people being taken from roofs and out of third-story windows in small boats. It was a photographic story of untold misery and desolation. "Yes, sir, that sure is some flood, Blake," murmured Joe. "And do you know what I think?" "I might make a guess at it, old man." But Joe did not give his chum a chance. He went on hastily: "I think we ought to go out there with our moving picture cameras, and get some films of that flood." "I thought you were going to say that." "Then you're not surprised. But how does it strike you?" "Well, I sure would like to see the Mississippi on a tear the like of which she's having now, for it would be something worth remembering. And I suppose we could make a neat little sum, over and above our expenses, if we went out there and got a lot of films. We could work them off through the moving picture newspaper syndicate easily enough. But you know why we came out here to Central Falls; don't you, Joe?" added Blake. "To get a good rest in the country, of course." "That's it, and we're getting it. There isn't anything I like better than this," and Blake, who had stretched out in lazy luxury on the grass, looked up at the blue sky, and into the cherry tree, which was laden with luscious fruit. "All I want now is a robin to come along, pick the cherries and drop them down to me," went on Blake, with a grin. "Say, you don't want much," laughed Joe. "But it sure is nice here," and he looked across the fertile farm acres that stretched away to the rear, and on either side of the comfortable house, in the shade of which they were taking their ease. "Finest place we could strike to spend a vacation," agreed Blake. "But, all the same, I think we're missing a chance if we don't go out there and get some Mississippi flood pictures," went on Joe. "How does it strike you?" "Say, I wish you hadn't mentioned it, Joe! Now you've got me going! If we hadn't seen a big story of it in the papers we'd be content to sit here, and take it easy. But, now that the germ has got to working----" "Then you'll go there with me, and take our moving picture cameras along; won't you?" interrupted Joe, eagerly. "I tell you we may never have another chance like this! "We've got pictures of earthquakes, of volcanoes in eruption, of wild animals fighting, and lots of other exciting things. But we never yet tackled a flood," went on Joe, with ever-growing enthusiasm. "And you know moving water always shows up well on the films." "Oh, I can see what all this is leading to," broke in Blake. "Good-bye to all the fine, lazy times we've been having the last two weeks. No more lying in bed as long as you like--no more chicken dinners--we'll be lucky if we can hold a sandwich in one hand and grind away at the crank of the moving picture camera with the other. Good-bye to a good day's fishing in the brook. No more cherry pie, and no more lemonade in the shade. And, speaking of lemonade, we might as well finish this pitcher, and get ready to go. I can see what is going to happen," and he sighed in pretended dolefulness. "Oh, don't go just because I suggested it, Blake," said Joe, quickly. "Oh, no, I'm not blaming you. It's just that it's in our blood, I guess. We can't seem to keep away from places where there are moving pictures to be made. Might as well get started. Here, have some," and he poured out a drink of lemonade. "Oh, we'll have a good time, as well as some work, if we go out there," declared Joe. "It won't be as bad as you try to make out. Didn't we always have good times on our trips?" "Yes, and strenuous times, too. I'm not making any kick. Only if we hadn't seen that newspaper we could still be sitting here in the shade, eating cherries----" Something fell with a thud on Blake's upturned face. "Wow!" he cried. "I guess that robin's getting busy," for a ripe, luscious cherry had fallen from above, and Blake laughed as he popped it into his mouth. "It's a good thing this isn't a cocoanut tree," remarked Joe. "You wouldn't feel so jolly if one of those hit you." "I guess not. Well, I s'pose we might as well go in and tell Mr. Baker that we're going to leave him. We can pack up to-day, and start West to-morrow. We'll have to have the cameras sent on from New York. We can order them and a supply of film by telegraph. I guess we could telephone the message in. That will save a trip to town, and we haven't much time," added Joe. "There you go! Off with a rush! Telephones and telegrams. Walking will be too slow for you! Everything bang-up! Let her go!" cried Blake, swinging his arms to indicate progress. "Good-bye, vacation!" he cried. "The strenuous life from now on!" The two youths arose from the grass, and together they started for the house at which they were boarding. They had gone only a few steps, however, when, from across the country road, and a short distance down it, came a hail. "Who's that?" asked Joe. "I don't know--listen!" suggested Blake. "Are they calling us?" There was no doubt about it a moment later, for the boys heard a voice shouting: "Hi there! Joe! Blake! Moving Picture Boys! You're wanted!" "Who is it? I can't see," murmured Joe. "It's Harry, the clerk in Robertson's store," answered Blake, for a short distance away was the general store--"The Universal Emporium," as the sign had it--of Hank Robertson, of Central Falls. "Come on, boys!" went on the voice of the caller, who was out of sight because of a roadside hedge. "You're wanted on the long-distance telephone!" "Ugh!" groaned Blake. "Might have known it. Did you start this, Joe?" and he looked at his chum suspiciously. "Don't know a thing about it. Who can want us on the 'phone?" "Best way's to go and find out. Mighty queer, though, that just as we read of the Mississippi flood, and decide to go, someone should ring us up on long distance. I thought we got rid of all that when we came here for our vacation. Things have started with a rush." "Say, are you comin'?" demanded the store clerk. "Central has been ringin' like all possessed! Must be important!" "I guess it is, or they wouldn't telephone," murmured Blake. "We're coming!" cried Joe. Together the boys hurried out into the road, and turned down toward the store. There were not many telephones in the country village of Central Falls. They were considered too much of a luxury. But Hank Robertson was rather progressive, and had had a long distance instrument installed in his store some time before. "There you be, boys!" he said, as Joe and Blake entered. "I knew as soon as I heard the bell ring that it was long distance. I answered, and sent Harry out to call you." "Much obliged," spoke Blake. "Do you know who it is?" "Nope. It was Central talking. She said either of you two was wanted." Blake stepped to the instrument, and took up the receiver, which had been standing upright on the desk. "Hello!" he called into the transmitter. Then he was silent, but, from the look of wonder and surprise that spread over his face as he listened, Joe knew that it was something important, and out of the usual. CHAPTER II STIRRING NEWS Joe could hear his chum Blake murmuring such things as: "Yes, I'm listening! Is that so? Say, that's fierce!" "Why, yes, I guess we can go," spoke Blake, after a lengthy talk from the person at the other end of the wire. "Yes, Joe's here with me," he went on. "What! Is she lost, too?" "Say, for cats' sake give a fellow an idea what it's all about; can't you, Blake?" pleaded Joe, at his chum's elbow. "Just a minute," answered Blake, in an aside. "I'll give you the whole story in a minute. I want to get it straight first." Then he continued to listen, and while he is thus at the telephone I will tell my new readers, briefly, something about the moving picture boys. In the initial volume of this series, entitled "The Moving Picture Boys; Or, Perils of a Great City Depicted," I introduced Blake Stewart and Joe Duncan. They were farm lads, and, most unexpectedly, one day, a company of moving picture actors and actresses came to their village to make scenes in a rural drama. The two boys became interested, especially in the mechanical end of the work of making films. Later they had an opportunity of taking up the business under the direction of Mr. Calvert Hadley, a moving picture operator, who offered to teach Joe and Blake how to properly use the wonderful cameras. The boys went to New York, and met the members of the Film Theatrical Company, with which Mr. Hadley was associated. That gave Joe and Blake their start in life, and since then they had been in the business of taking moving pictures. They became experts, and their services were in great demand, not only in filming dramas acted by the company, but in making independent views. They went out West, as told in the second volume, and got some stirring views of cowboys and Indians, and then they went to the Pacific Coast, and later to the jungle, where there were more strenuous times. Their latest venture had been to Earthquake Land, and on returning from there they felt the need of a vacation. They engaged board at the farmhouse of Hiram Baker, in Central Falls, about fifty miles from New York City, and they were taking their rest there when the newspaper story of the flood on the Mississippi, and the long-distance telephone call, rather interrupted their ease and quiet. I might add that in their trip to the coast Joe located his long-lost father, and later, in an expedition to the jungle, he succeeded in locating his sister, who had gone to the Dark Continent as a missionary's helper. Mr. Duncan and his daughter Jessie made their home together, and Joe stayed with them when he was not off with Blake making moving pictures--which was quite often. For a time Joe and Blake had worked with the Film Theatrical Company, which went to various parts of the country to get the proper backgrounds for their films. But of late, as I have said, the two boys had started out for themselves. Still they kept up their acquaintanceship and friendship with the company. Just a word about the various members, and I will resume this story. Mr. Jacob Ringold was the proprietor of the Film Theatrical Company, and some of the members were Henry Robertson, who played juvenile leads, Harris Levinberg, the "villain," Miss Nellie Shay, the leading lady, and Birdie Lee, a pretty, vivacious girl, who took the lighter feminine parts in the dramas. And there was Christopher Cutler Piper--oh, yes, we must not forget him. Mr. Piper did not like his name--that is, the two first sections, and his friends, to oblige him, had shortened it to "C. C.," or else they called him just "Mr. Piper." Sometimes, however, he was referred to as "Gloomy." This name fitted him to perfection. He was a gloomy comedian--that is, he was gloomy off the stage; not on it. He would raise a laugh by his action, or lines, and, coming out of the scene, would be in the most doleful state of mind imaginable. In this book you will find many references to "filming" a scene, exposed, unexposed and developed films, cameras, and the like. For a full explanation of how moving pictures are taken, I refer my readers to the previous volumes of this series. And now to resume the story. Blake stood there, his ear fairly glued to the receiver, and the expression on his face constantly changing. But, though it did change, a certain worried look, that came over it almost from the first moment of the spoken words, did not leave it. "Say, are you going to talk all day, without giving me a hint of what it is?" spoke Joe, in a tense whisper. "Let me listen in; can't you, old man?" "Right away--yes," answered Blake, in an aside. "All right," he called into the transmitter. "Yes, I'll tell Joe all about it. He'll come with me, I'm sure." "I rather guess I will--if I ever find out what it's about," murmured the other. "Have a heart, and tell me." "Good-bye," called Blake, into the telephone. "I'll see you in New York." Then he hung up the receiver, and, turning to his chum, asked: "What do you think has happened?" "I haven't the least idea, unless New York is wiped off the map by a dynamite explosion, and we're wanted to help put it back." "No, it isn't exactly that," said Blake. "I was talking just now to Mr. Ringold. He's in a peck of trouble!" "How's that?" "Why, he wants us to start for the flooded Mississippi district at once, and get a lot of scenes out there. But that's not the worst. Part of his company, that he sent out near Hannibal, Missouri, to take part in several film dramas, have been lost in the flood." "Lost in the flood?" cried Joe. "His company of players?" "Yes. He could give me no particulars, but he's going to start and organize a rescue party, and try to save them. He wants us to help with that work, as well as to make moving pictures for him. Some of the valuable films the company had already taken were also lost, when they were carried down the river." "But how did it happen?" Joe wanted to know. "He didn't have time to give me many particulars over the wire. He said he'd do that when he met us in New York." "Some of our friends lost in the flood," murmured Joe. "I wonder if there's a chance of saving them?" "We've got to try, anyhow," spoke Blake, seriously. "Was C. C. among them?" Joe wanted to know, referring to the gloomy comedian. "No, he's in New York, where Mr. Ringold also has a company at work for the movies. C. C. escaped. But Birdie Lee went adrift with the others." "Birdie Lee!" cried Joe, for he and Blake were both very fond of the pretty, vivacious girl, whose pictures they had taken many times, as she went through her parts before the camera. "I only hope we can rescue her," murmured Blake. "It certainly is a bad bit of news." "And he didn't say how it happened?" inquired Joe. "All he told me," resumed Blake, "was that the company was performing open-air stuff near the flooded district. How they happened to be carried away Mr. Ringold didn't know. It seems that someone telegraphed him the news, that's how he heard of it." "And how did he happen to think of us, and how did he know we were here?" "He says he thought of us at once--as soon as he got the news," went on Blake, "and he had our address. We left it with him when we came here, you know, but told him not to send for us except in case of emergency." "And this sure is an emergency," cried Joe. "You're right," agreed his chum. "Mr. Ringold got busy on the telephone, and--well, you know the rest. I told him we'd start for New York as soon as we could pack up. He'll meet us there, and then we'll head straight for the flooded district with our cameras." "Busy times ahead," murmured Joe. "Well, I guess it's all for the best, except the carrying away of our friends. I was getting a bit tired of this vacation life, anyhow." "So was I," admitted Blake, as they left the store and headed for their boarding house. With quickening steps the boys walked up the path. There was nervous energy in their every move. "My! But you're in a hurry on a hot day," observed Mrs. Baker, who had taken quite a liking to her two young boarders. "Got to be!" exclaimed Blake. "We're going to try and catch the afternoon train for New York." "New York! My sakes alive! You're not going; are you?" "Got to," explained Joe. "I think we can make it if we hurry. Some friends of ours are lost in that Mississippi flood, and we've got to go and help find and save them if we can. No time to lose!" "My land sakes! I never heard tell of such a thing!" cried Mrs. Baker. But the boys did not stop to hear her comments. They were on their way to their rooms to pack their grips. CHAPTER III MR. PIPER IS APPREHENSIVE "Well, it didn't take us long; did it, Blake?" "No, indeed, Joe. But we certainly have hustled some since we got that long-distance telephone message." "We're used to hustling, though, old man. You wouldn't get very far with moving pictures unless you did get a move on now and then." The two chums were seated in a railway train, on their way to New York to meet Mr. Ringold, and do what they could to rescue the unfortunate members of the moving picture company. They did not know what was before them, but they had stout hearts, and they had made up their minds to brave any danger in order to save their friends. "Poor Birdie Lee!" murmured Blake. "I can't help but think of her." "Same here," agreed Joe. "She certainly was a dandy little chum and comrade. Always willing to do anything that was asked, to make a good film." "Yes, and she never found fault if someone made a break, and we had to film the scene all over again," put in Blake. "Do you remember the time she had to fall overboard, out of the boat on the lake?" "I should say I did remember it! C. C. Piper was to rescue her, but he was so slow about it--so afraid he'd get drowned, or have wet feet, or something, that the scene was spoiled, and Birdie had to get into dry clothes, and act the whole thing over, taking a second plunge into the water." "Mr. Ringold was sure mad at C. C. that day," laughed Blake. "But it didn't always happen that way. We've had our fun, too." "Oh, sure. But we're not likely to this time--scooting around in the rain, on a river that's twice as big as it ought to be. Say, when we get to the junction we may be able to get a New York paper of to-day, and see how things are out in the flooded district now." "Maybe we can," assented Blake. The boys settled back in their seats, for the ride of about two hours to New York, for they were on a slow train. On receiving the news over the wire, they had hastily packed, and amid the expressed regrets of Mr. and Mrs. Baker at their departure, had driven to the station. Their train made a stop at nearly every depot, and at several, where there was a wait, Joe and Blake got out and inquired if there were any newspapers of that day. But none had been received. "Cliff Junction!" called out the brakeman, and the boys prepared to change in order to take an express train for the remainder of the journey. "Now for a paper!" exclaimed Blake, as he hurried up to the news-stand. Joe followed, and as a man, with his back turned to them, was making a purchase, they waited until he should have stepped aside. "That's always the way!" this man was complaining in a voice at the sound of which Joe and Blake looked at each other quickly. "Always the way! Whenever I go anywhere the train is sure to be late." "The express isn't much behind," said the boy at the news-stand. "Only ten minutes, and she'll make that up before she gets to New York." "Ha! Yes. The engineer will put on extra steam, to make up lost time, and there'll be a collision, or we'll go off the track, or through a bridge, or something like that," went on the man. "I never saw such a road, anyhow! I'll never travel on it again. I've had the worst luck to-day! "Somebody stepped on my foot, the expressman didn't come for my baggage until I was nearly in a fit, for fear I'd miss the train, and now I get here and find the express late! What a world this is, anyhow! It's fierce." "Hello, C. C.!" exclaimed Blake, heartily. He did not need to see the man's face to know who he was. The complaining man wheeled about quickly. "The moving picture boys!" he cried, as he noted Joe and Blake. "That's who!" laughed Joe. "Where are you bound for?" "New York; if I ever get there. But the train is late, and I know there'll be a smash-up!" Then, having made this gloomy prediction, Mr. C. C. Piper whistled a merry little tune, and did a few dancing steps which he used in some of his comic scenes. C. C.'s gloom was evidently not deep. "Oh, I guess we'll come out all right," said Joe, cheerfully. "But we heard that you were in New York." "Who told you that?" demanded Mr. Piper. "Mr. Ringold. I was talking to him over the long-distance 'phone a little while ago," explained Blake. "He said you were in New York." "I was, but I ran up to see a friend, expecting to spend the week-end with him. And I'd no sooner gotten there than Ringold got me on the telephone, and ordered me back. That was after he talked to you, I guess. It seems some of his company are lost in the Mississippi flood, and he wants me to go out there with him. Some of the dramas will have to be done over again, as the films were lost, and he's going to try to find the missing folks." "We're on the same errand," remarked Joe. "Mr. Ringold cut short our vacation, too, by long distance. We're in the same boat." "Boat? Yes!" snorted the gloomy comedian. "And I guess we'll have to use a boat out on the Mississippi. We can't wade or swim, and there's sure to be a lot of trouble. I wish I'd never gone into this business! It's awful!" "Oh, it may not be so bad," spoke Blake, cheerfully. "It's bound to be," declared C. C. "Look at it! Bad luck from the very start. Express late, and all that. It's fierce!" There was no use trying to talk him out of his gloom, and the boys realized this. It was best to let him work it off in his own way, and be as cheerful as possible toward him. "Is there any later news of the flood, in the paper?" asked Joe. "We only read of it in yesterday's sheet." "Yes, it's getting worse instead of better," replied Mr. Piper. "I can't get my regular paper, though," he complained. "Why don't you keep the _Planet_?" he asked, of the boy behind the counter. "I did have some, sir, but they're all gone," was the smiling answer. "Ha! That's just the way! Everything goes wrong with me!" cried C. C. "I've a good notion to go back and not start until to-morrow. Something serious is bound to happen before this day is over. I've a notion to go back." "Oh, I wouldn't," persuaded Blake. "Mr. Ringold will be expecting you, and he will be disappointed." "Well, I'll go on; but, mark my words, something will happen before we reach New York," predicted C. C. The moving picture boys purchased newspapers, not being particular what kind, as long as they contained fresh news of the big flood. They found more recent dispatches than those they had read at the farmhouse, and other pictures. As Mr. Piper had said, the raging Mississippi was higher than before, and the almost constant fall of rain, augmenting the streams that poured into the Father of Waters, added to the danger and desolation. "Anything about our friends?" asked Blake of his chum, as the latter scanned the pages eagerly. "No, I don't see any mention of them. But it says several lives have been lost, and there is much suffering from lack of food and clothing." "Too bad! I wish we were out there now, and could help." The boys, pacing up and down the depot platform, rapidly glanced over the news sheets, and Joe suddenly uttered an exclamation. "Here's something!" he cried. "There are no names given, but in a dispatch from Hannibal it says that it is rumored a company of moving picture actors, and actresses, were carried away in a house that was swept down by the current." "That's our crowd, all right," declared Blake. "No mention of Birdie Lee; is there?" "No, not any names given. Say, I wish that express would come along, and get us to New York! I'm in a hurry to find out how much Mr. Ringold knows." "So am I," added Blake. "We'll never get to New York without an accident," declared the gloomy C. C. "I'm positive of it!" However, at that moment the whistle of the approaching express train was heard, and there was a hurried movement among the waiting passengers. The moving picture boys and Mr. Piper kept together, and got seats by themselves. "Well, we're making time now, all right," Joe said, as they whizzed along. "Making up some of those lost ten minutes." "Um! Yes! Wait and see what happens," predicted C. C. But nothing did, at least up to the time when the train pulled into the One Hundred and Twenty-fifth street station of the New York Central. The next stop would be the Grand Central Terminal, in the heart of New York. "We've got a minute," remarked Joe, to his chum. "Let's see if we can get a still later paper. Maybe there's an extra out." "I'm with you," agreed Blake, as they left the train. Mr. Piper seemed sad, that his apprehensions of an accident had not been borne out. As Blake and Joe were looking for a newsboy, they became aware of a commotion in the street below them, the tracks here being elevated. There was a clanging of bells, and much shouting. "Something doing down there," remarked Blake. "Yes, it's a fire!" cried Joe, as he caught a lurid reflection in the evening sky. "Looks like a big one, too. Shall we take it in?" "Might as well. We can come down on a later train, and telephone Mr. Ringold. And say, you've got that little moving picture camera with you; haven't you?" "Yes, I brought it along. Wasn't room to put it in the trunk." "Then come on. We'll get some views of this fire. We can use them nicely, and it isn't likely that there'll be anyone else on the job. Come on and get the camera." "We can't! The train's already started!" cried Joe, for the express was slowly moving. "Yes, we can! I'll get it!" shouted Blake, as he sprang into the car where they had left their baggage. The train was now rapidly gathering headway, the whine and hum of the big motors of the electric engine mingling with the clang of the fire bells, and the shouts of the crowd in the streets below. CHAPTER IV OFF FOR THE FLOOD "Here, where are you going?" cried a station-attendant, as he saw Blake running to board the moving train. "Forgot something--got to get it!" shouted the excited lad. Then, before the man could prevent him, Blake had jumped up the steps. Back he rushed to where his own and Joe's baggage had been left. "Look after our stuff, C. C.!" he called to the startled comedian. "We're after a fire--moving picture. Tell Mr. Ringold we'll be down later this evening!" Then, without giving Mr. Piper a chance to answer, Blake caught up the valise containing the small moving picture camera, and was out on the platform again. "Look out for yourself!" cried Joe, for the train now had considerable headway. "All right," answered his chum, and a moment later he was beside Joe, running from the momentum acquired in leaping off the train. "You took a big risk, young fellow!" said one of the station men, severely. "I'm used to that in my business," replied Blake, with a cool laugh. "Come on, Joe. We don't want to miss any of this fire. We can sell the film to one of the weekly newspapers, and make some of our vacation money." "Go on! I'm with you!" Together they made their way down to the street, and it needed but a glance to show them the extent of the blaze. The fire was in a large apartment house, and the flames had gained great headway. Thrilling rescue scenes were going on, and, from some of the upper stories, men and women were dropping into the life nets, about which, in a circle, stood the sturdy firemen, and volunteer helpers. "Got to get this!" cried Blake. "Is there plenty of film in her, Joe?" "I think so. But I'll get more. There's a photo-supply house about three blocks away. You start grinding away at the crank, and I'll chase down there and get another reel of film in case we want it. I guess they'll be open yet." "All right," answered Blake, with a nod. Then he looked for a vantage point from which to make pictures of the big fire. He decided to stand on a square pillar, near the steps of a building nearly opposite the burning structure, and, slipping under the rope which the police had stretched as the limits of the fire lines, Blake was about to set up his machine when a man, also bearing a moving picture camera, made for the same place. It was really about the only spot where a good picture could be taken, but there was room for only one operator there. The opposite pillar, or pedestal, was occupied by a portable searchlight, operated by some firemen, to aid their comrades in the work of rescue and fighting the flames, and the brilliant, white light being flashed on the burning structure made it possible to get a good moving picture film. So Blake was anxious to reach this place of vantage. He was about to start his machine, when the man, who had reached the spot just too late, cried: "Say, kid, come down out of there! That's my place!" "Yours?" cried Blake, as he noted that the man was James Munson, a rival moving picture operator, and one with whom Blake and Joe had had trouble before. "Yes, mine!" sneered Munson. "I was here a minute ago, and decided on that place, and now I want it." "Well, you're not going to get it!" declared Blake, firmly. "If you were here you should have stayed," and the young operator started the mechanism of his apparatus, by turning the handle. "I had to leave, to get some extra film!" Munson cried. "I want you to come away--come down and let me get up there!" "Nothing doing," spoke Blake. "You should have left your machine here, to show that the pedestal was occupied. I don't believe you were here, and as I'm here first I'm going to stay!" "Oh, you are; eh? We'll see about that!" cried Munson, as he worked his way through the crowd, carrying his camera with him. Blake thought little more about the fellow, for he was too much occupied in getting views of the burning building, and the thrilling rescues that were made from time to time. Firemen went rapidly up, from window to window, by means of the hooked scaling ladders, leaping into the burning building in search of persons in danger. Other firemen carried down unconscious forms, and still others were engaged in the less spectacular work of handling the hose, with its powerful streams of water. All these scenes Blake was getting on the sensitive celluloid film, and he was congratulating himself on his success, when a voice in authority called to him: "Say, young fellow, have you got a fire badge, or permit?" "Why, no," answered Blake, slowly, as he continued to grind away at the crank. "I left it home, I guess." He and Joe both had permits, entitling them to go within the fire lines, but they had not taken them away on their vacation. "You'll have to come down out of that," went on the voice of the policeman who had challenged Blake. And the youth, looking down, saw, beside the guardian of the peace, the mean, sneering face of Munson. It was he, evidently, who had suggested to the police officer that he oust Blake from his place. "Can't you overlook it this once?" asked Blake, eagerly, for the fire was getting worse now, and he knew it would show up well on the films. If he had to leave his place he could not get another as good, and would miss some thrilling scenes. "Come on down!" ordered the officer. "You can't stay there without a badge, or a permit, and and you haven't got either. Get down, I tell you!" "Hold on, Flarity," spoke a new voice. "I'll lend him my badge. You know me; don't you?" and there stepped forward a young fellow whom Blake recognized as a newspaper reporter, to whom he had often given pictures of accidents, for the journal he represented. "Well, Kennedy, if you let him take your badge, I guess it will be all right," said the officer to the reporter. "Say, that's mighty good of you!" cried Blake, as the newspaper man passed up the metal badge that entitled the wearer to go within the fire lines, "but what will you do?" "Oh, I guess Flarity won't put me out," said the reporter, with a laugh. "If he does, I know something about him----" "Get on with you!" interrupted the officer, hastily, and with a rather embarrassed smile. "I'll look the other way, Kennedy." "I thought you would," laughed the reporter. "Now you're all right, Blake," and he nodded, in a friendly fashion, at the moving picture boy. Munson's plan had failed, and he moved away to look for another place whence he could film the fire. He cast an ugly look at Blake as he went, though, and muttered to himself. "I'm sorry I had to do this," thought Blake, "but I wasn't going to pass up a chance like this. Munson may make trouble for us, though. He's got a revengeful disposition. But if Joe and I go out to the flooded district probably we shan't see him for some time." If Blake had really known the depth of the resentment Munson cherished against him, from that moment, he might have given in to the fellow. Had he done so it would have saved much trouble for himself and Joe later. But he could not foretell the future. Blake continued to take pictures of the fire, and he was beginning to think his film would run out, when Joe came up with a fresh reel. The policeman had gone away, and there was now so much excitement about the fire that no one minded whether Joe had a badge or not. He relieved Blake at the camera. But the blaze, big as it was, finally yielded to the work of the firemen, and at length all the persons had been gotten out of the apartment. "I guess we've got enough," said Blake, finally. "Now we'll hustle this to the laboratory, Joe, have it developed, and see what use we can make of it. I'll get some of the weeklies on the 'phone, and see how many prints they want." Blake and Joe, as those of you know who have read the other books of this series, had their own establishment in New York, where they developed and printed their films. What Blake meant by "weeklies" was a certain feature much used in moving picture houses. Important current events of the week, big accidents, volcanic eruptions, war scenes--in fact, anything in which the public is interested--are registered on the sensitive celluloid, and sent around to the theaters which take the service of the weekly film. It is, in brief, a moving picture newspaper, and our two heroes had made considerable money in the past in supplying films for this purpose. A little later the film of the fire was being developed, ready for printing, and Blake had secured, over the telephone, a number of orders. These were turned over to their assistants, for the two youths could not do all the work themselves, and had a number of employees. "Well, now that's done," said Joe, with a sigh of satisfaction. "We'd better be getting down to see Mr. Ringold, I guess." "Yes," agreed Blake, looking at his watch. "And I want something to eat, too. It's past ten o'clock, and we haven't had supper yet." "That's right!" cried Joe. "I forgot all about it." "My stomach didn't," laughed Blake. An hour later, after a hasty meal, they reached the office of Mr. Ringold, whom they found talking to Mr. Piper. "I was just going to telephone around, and get the police on your trail," said the gloomy comedian. "I was afraid something had happened to you. Did there?" "Oh, nothing much," spoke Joe, with a smile. "But what is the news, Mr. Ringold? Have you heard any word from any of your people in the flooded district?" "No, I haven't, I'm sorry to say, though I've tried all the means in my power. It is almost impossible to get messages through, and receive a reply. The wires are nearly all down. The only way is for us to go out there. I'm glad you boys came on." "We started as soon as we could," explained Blake. "I guess Mr. Piper told you how we stopped to film the fire; didn't he?" "Yes," replied the film theatrical manager. "And now, how soon can you start for the flooded district?" "Just as soon as we can get our cameras ready, and provide for a supply of film--in the morning," answered Joe. "Good! Then we'll start. We've got hard work and some danger ahead of us." "We're used to that--especially the danger," remarked Joe. "I guess it won't be much worse than it was in earthquake land." "I should hope not!" murmured Mr. Piper. "I don't like this idea at all. I'm sure something is going to happen!" "You're nervous!" cried Mr. Ringold, "and I don't blame you, either. This news has gotten on my nerves. When I think of how my friends may be suffering, it makes me wild to get out there, and help them." "Same here!" exclaimed Blake, and I think he and Joe had a similar thought then, and the same memory of a pretty, blue-eyed girl--Birdie Lee. The two moving picture boys spent several hours getting their cameras and equipment ready for the start the next morning, and when they tumbled into bed they "didn't need to be sung to sleep," as Blake put it. As several of the completed films of the Western dramas had been lost in the flood, Mr. Ringold decided to have others made, and to accomplish this he would have to hire more players. But he thought he could engage them in the West, and so, save for a few leading characters, like Mr. Piper, he took only a few actors and actresses with him. "Well, we're off," murmured Joe, as, the next day, he and Blake took their places in the train that was to bear them to the West, and the flood. "Yes, we're off, and there's no telling what may happen before we get back," answered his chum, seriously. CHAPTER V THE RELIEF TRAIN "What are your plans, Mr. Ringold?" asked Blake, as he and his chum, with C. C., sat in the Pullman car, talking over the situation. "I really haven't had time to make any very definite ones," answered the manager. "I'm taking out a supply of money, I don't mind saying that," he went on, and Mr. Piper suddenly gave a quick look about the coach, and uttered a stagy hiss, as a caution to be silent. "What's up now?" asked Joe. "I don't think it's wise to speak so plainly about money," replied the gloomy comedian. "You might be robbed, Mr. Ringold." "Did you see any suspicious characters following us?" the manager wanted to know. "Well, I wouldn't say they were exactly suspicious," went on the actor, "but I did see two men hanging around us when we were having our baggage checked in the depot. They seemed very anxious to know where we were going." "Is that so?" asked Mr. Ringold, and he seemed unusually interested. "What sort of looking chaps were they?" The actor described them. Blake and Joe looked at each other quickly. "I don't seem to recognize them as friends of mine," went on the manager, musingly. "I should say not!" cried Blake. "Certainly not friends! Say, I'm sure those men were James Munson, and one of his tools, Jake Black. They made a lot of trouble for us, and at the fire, last night, Munson and I had an argument. Do you think they can be following us?" "It's just as well to be on the safe side," said Mr. Ringold. "Suppose you boys take a look through the train, and see if you can pick them out. I don't like the idea of being followed by a rival moving picture man, when I may have a chance to get some exclusive and valuable films." Blake and Joe each went through half the train, but they saw no signs of Munson, or his crony. The boys even penetrated to the smoking car, where the two suspects would probably stay, but they were not there. "False alarm, I guess," reported Blake, when he and Joe had completed their search. "Well, they were hanging around, all right," declared the sad actor, "though they may not be here now. But, just the same, I wouldn't mention about having so much money--not in public. Something might happen, Mr. Ringold." "I think there is little danger. I have only a small part of it in cash. The rest is in letters of credit, that are only good when I have signed them. I'm not worrying. "But as to plans. The only thing I see to do is to go direct to Hannibal, and see if we can get on the trail of the missing ones there." "That does seem to be about the only thing to do," agreed Blake. "I wish we were there now. It's maddening to know you've got a lot to do, and not be able to do it. I want action!" "And so do I!" cried his chum. However, there was nothing for it but to wait until they reached the flooded district. On and on sped their train, making but few stops. When they did reach a large city, the boys would go out and buy the latest papers, to get news of the flood along the Mississippi. The reports were not reassuring. The rains still continued at intervals, and the rivers, not only the Mississippi, but tributary streams also, were rising, which added to the swollen condition of the big waterway. Pitiful tales of suffering of men, women and children began to filter in, and it was reported that relief measures were being undertaken by the various states. In some places the National Guard was being ordered out, to aid in rescue work, and several detachments of the Regulars had been sent to the flooded districts. The first day and night passed without incident to our friends speeding to the West. No trace was seen of Munson, or any of his tools, and it was certain that if he had not boarded the train in New York, at which station the actor said he had seen him, the rival was behind, and not ahead of our friends. "What's the matter, Blake?" asked Mr. Ringold, on the second day out. "Are you restless?" for the youth was pacing up and down the aisle of the car. "Yes, I am, Mr. Ringold," he answered. "I wish I had something to film. I'm tired sitting around." "You didn't mind it when we were out in the country," remarked Joe. "No, but then we were on a vacation, and we were entitled to a rest. But now we're back on the job again, and I want action. I almost wish something would happen, to give me a chance to make a film." "Don't say that! Don't say that!" cried Mr. Piper, with upraised hand. "Don't wish for anything to happen, or it may. This train is going very fast, and there may be a smash-up any minute." Hardly had he spoken, than there sounded the sudden application of the air brakes. The wheels groaned and whined under the pressure, and the train came to a quick stop. "There!" cried the gloomy comedian. "What did I tell you? That's what you get for wishing for an accident!" "I didn't wish for one," replied Blake, quickly, as he reached for the carrier containing his moving picture camera, "and I don't believe it is an accident. Anyhow, nothing has happened to us," he added. "But I'm going to see what it is. Come on, Joe." The two boys, as well as Mr. Ringold, the actor, and several other passengers, hurried from the car, as the train had now come to a full stop. And what Blake and Joe saw was a danger signal set against the train, on the approach to a long bridge that spanned a turbulent stream. "What's the matter?" asked Joe, of a trainman. "Bridge is weakened by high water," was the answer. "The bridge-tender must have discovered it suddenly, for he flashed down the signal against us in a hurry. The engineer had to put on the emergency air, in order to stop in time." They all walked forward along the track to the first span of the bridge. It looked to be all right, but the rushing, muddy water that flowed beneath it was close to the ties and rails. "I think one of the piers is weakened a little," said the bridge-tender. "And if the water rises much more she'll tear away, sure. I've sent for the repair gang. They're only five miles away, and they may be able to brace it temporarily." "Then we'll be delayed?" asked Mr. Ringold. "I'm afraid so," answered the conductor. "I can't take any chances with this train on a weak bridge." Of course he was right, but everyone fretted over the delay, especially our friends, who wanted to start their rescue work. "Well, I've got something to film, anyhow!" cried Blake. "I'll make pictures showing the repairs to the bridge." The construction and wrecking crews were soon on hand, and a careful examination disclosed the fact that the bridge had been slightly weakened. "But we can brace her temporarily--that is, unless the water rises suddenly," said the foreman. "Our first taste of the flood," murmured Blake, as he and Joe set up the camera to make moving pictures. The boys were much interested in the work of strengthening the bridge, and got some good views of it. The work took several hours, but was finally completed enough for the train to proceed slowly--in two sections. The locomotive took over part of the cars, shunted them to a switch, and then pulled over the remainder. The train was then made up again, and proceeded. But considerable time had been lost. The night passed without incident, and on arriving at the junction point, a large city, where they were to change trains, the boys found a further chance to make films. "What's going on?" asked Blake, as he saw, in the depot, a number of soldiers boarding the cars. Boxes, bales and barrels were also being rushed into baggage and express cars. "One of the relief trains, for the flood victims," said a depot attendant. "They're rushing food and supplies to the homeless ones, and the soldiers are going to help in the rescue work." "More pictures, Joe!" cried Blake. "We've got time before our train leaves to make a short film of this rescue train." CHAPTER VI THE MISSING FILMS Lively and varied were the scenes about the relief train. Wagons were constantly being driven up to the station, loaded with supplies that had been contributed by generous merchants, or bought with public subscriptions. The soldiers wore serious faces, for it was reported, in a few of the large cities, that rioting and robbery had followed the trail of the flood. "Well, I'd just like to get my hands on some of those human fiends who'll rob at a time like this!" exclaimed a big trooper, as he banged his gun down on the platform. "I'd show him what's what!" "That's right!" chimed in his comrades. More soldiers kept arriving. They were mostly National Guardsmen, though one company of Regulars was on the train. Some doctors were being taken along, and a quantity of medical stores, for sickness had broken out, it was reported. A large supply of tents was being shipped, for many of the sufferers had been driven from home by high water, had been forced to flee to the hills, where they were camping in the open. And tents were much needed for shelter, for, though it was Summer, there was considerable rain, and this made it very uncomfortable for the refugees, especially the women and children, to stay out unprotected. All these scenes Joe and Blake took with their moving picture camera. Now and then they moved up or down the big depot, to get varied views. Sometimes they would film a pathetic scene, as when a little girl, who had evidently read about the relief subscriptions, brought her bank filled with pennies. "Here, Mr. Soldier-man," she said, to a bearded Regular. "I've got a dollar an' nineteen cents saved up, and I want you to take it and buy some little girl a pair of rubber boots, so she can wade in the water, and not get drowned." "All right," cried the soldier, as he wiped away something that glistened in his eyes, and blew his nose unnecessarily hard, it seemed. "All right, little one. I'll take care of your money for you." "And don't forget to buy the boots!" cried the tot, shaking her finger at him to impress it on his mind. "I won't," he promised, and as he stood looking at the penny-bank, rather uncertain what to do with it, Blake filmed him, as a conclusion of the little scene. "I wonder if I oughtn't to make the kid take back this money?" the soldier said, speaking to the boys. "Maybe her folks wouldn't like her to give it away." "I guess they wouldn't mind," remarked Blake, with a smile. "Anyhow, she's gone now," for she had quickly slipped away in the throng. "But what am I to do with the stuff?" asked the bewildered trooper. "Turn it over to some of the ladies," suggested Joe, for a committee of Red Cross women were to go with the relief train. "I guess I will," the man said, with an air of relief. There was a dog who refused to be separated from his soldier-master, and every time the animal was put out of the depot it came rushing back again, determined to board the train. The boys got a picture of this odd little scene, and finally the dog had to be given in charge of a porter, to be led away at the end of a rope, howling his protest at the separation. "Good work, boys!" complimented Mr. Ringold, when he saw what they were doing. "I'll use some of these films as part of one of the flood dramas, if we're lucky enough to be able to get other scenes." "Oh, we'll get some!" declared Blake, confidently. "That ought to be a fine one," went on the manager, referring to the relief train scene. "Take good care of that film, boys." It was placed in a metal light-tight box, to be developed later, as was the film of repairing the bridge. Blake and Joe intended leaving them at an agency they knew of, farther West, there to be developed, and printed. "All aboard!" called the conductor of the relief train, and there was the last scurrying and hurrying to finish up the work. This train pulled out ahead of the one the boys and their friends were to take, and it had the right of way, for help was now urgently needed in the flooded district. Progress from then on, for those who were seeking the lost actors and actresses, was rather slow and uncertain. They were now on the edge of the flooded district, and, though they saw no scenes of actual suffering, as yet, they were held up by such happenings as bridges washed away, or made unsafe, tracks undermined by the rain, and landslides covering the rails. So they were two days longer on the road than otherwise they would have been. Relief trains, too, had the right of way, and even the regular passenger trains were held back, or switched to other tracks, while the cars laden with soldiers and supplies were rushed forward. Mr. Ringold fretted and fumed at the delay, but there was no help for it. Those suffering must be cared for first. "We ought to be at Hannibal to-morrow," said the manager, one night, as the sleeping berths were being made up. "Then we can start in, and do something. I only hope we can find them," he added, referring to his lost company. Joe and Blake had sections opposite each other, and, after talking across the aisle in low tones for a few minutes, they dropped off to sleep. It was past midnight when Blake thought he felt someone fumbling at the curtains of his berth. "That you, Joe?" he asked, sleepily. "What's that?" inquired his chum, evidently also just awakened. "I asked if that was you at my berth just now," repeated Blake. "I'm sure I felt someone." "So did I. I thought it was you," said Joe. "Were you up?" "Not a bit of it! Say, maybe we'd better look around a bit. The films are under my berth." Blake slipped on a bathrobe over his pajamas, and got out in the aisle. The narrow, curtained passage contained no one. Joe thrust his head out between his curtains, to watch Blake as he felt under the berth. "Joe, they're gone!" cried the young operator, as he faced about. "The cases containing the relief train and bridge films are gone!" "Are you sure?" "Positive. I left them right between my two valises, and they're not there now." "Maybe the porter took them by mistake," suggested Joe. "I'll ring and find out," declared Blake, as he pushed the button in his berth. A sleepy colored man shuffled out from the end of the car. "'Ju ring, sah?" he yawned. "Yes," exclaimed Blake. "Did you take anything from under my berth?" "Yais, sah. Ah done tuck yo' all shoes jest now, fo' to shine 'em. I allers does dat 'long 'bout dish yeah time. I done tuck dat gen'man's shoes, too," and he nodded at Joe. "Did you just take them?" Blake wanted to know. "Yais, sah. 'Long 'bout two er free minutes ago. Didn't yo' all want me to?" "Oh, that's all right," said Blake, as a puzzled look came over his face. "Then it was you who woke me up--taking my shoes?" "Ah's mighty sorry, sah," spoke the porter, as he saw a vanishing vision of a tip. "Ah didn't go fo' t' do it, sah!" "I don't mind about that," said Blake, "but there are some films missing from under my berth. Did you see, or take them?" "'Deed an' Ah didn't, boss!" was the quick reply. "Ah ain't got no use fo' movin' picture films, 'deed an' Ah ain't!" The man was evidently honest. "Then they must have been taken earlier in the night," said Blake, slowly. "By whom?" asked Joe. "There's only one person I suspect--Munson. He must be on our trail, and that means trouble, Joe," spoke Blake, soberly. CHAPTER VII STALLED "What's going on?" asked Mr. Ringold, who had been awakened in his berth, near the two boys, by hearing the talk. "Has any thing happened?" "There certainly has," replied Blake, taking care not to speak too loudly, for fear of awakening the other passengers. "Our undeveloped films have been stolen--the ones showing the relief train, and the bridge work." "Stolen!" exclaimed the manager, thrusting his head out from between the curtains. "Well, they're gone, and that's the only way I can account for it," went on Blake, as he told the story, the colored porter standing by, and listening with open mouth. "We haven't made any stops since you put the films under your berth; have we?" asked Mr. Ringold. "No, sah, dish yeah train ain't done made no stops since dark," answered the porter. "Then the thief must be aboard still!" cried the manager. "We must find him. It's probably Munson, just as you suspect. Wait until I get some clothes on, and we'll search." It was not an easy matter to look for Munson aboard a train consisting mostly of sleeping cars, the occupants of which had, in the main, retired. But when the urgency of the matter was explained to the conductor, he lent his aid, and by questioning the porters and brakemen, and such passengers as were aroused, it was learned that no one answering Munson's description had been seen. "Of course it may not have been he," said Blake, when the fruitless search was over, "and, if it was, he may have jumped from the train." "He could have done that," the conductor admitted. "We struck a pretty stiff grade not long ago and had to reduce speed. He could have jumped off, if he hit the right place, with little chance of injury." Nothing more could be done, and, regretting the loss of the valuable films, Blake, Joe and the others returned to their berths. "I'll wire all the agencies and warn them against buying those films," said Mr. Ringold. "That may help some. And I'll get a detective agency after Munson. Those pictures are too valuable to lose." Breakfast was eaten aboard the train just before coming into Hannibal, and at the first stop Ringold sent off his telegrams. A more complete search of the train, by daylight, failed to disclose Munson, or any suspicious characters whom he might have engaged to trail our friends, and steal from them. "Well, we'll be there soon, now," Joe said, as he rose from the table in the dining car. "We'd better get our things together, Blake." "That's right. Say, it's raining again!" "So it is!" agreed Joe, looking out of the car window. "This is fierce! Isn't it ever going to let up?" It had rained at intervals for the last two days, and that fact, coupled with the knowledge that it had been pouring more or less steadily before that, did not give much assurance that the flood would soon abate. "The Mississippi will be higher than ever," murmured Blake. "It's going to make it bad all around--bad for us and bad for those who are lost. We'll have hard work finding them." "We'll never find them," broke in the gloomy voice of C. C. Piper. "They are gone forever." The faces of Blake and Joe, no less than that of Mr. Ringold, were grave. There were grown men and women in the party of players reported as being lost, but the two boys thought most of Miss Birdie Lee. It was almost as though their own sister were lost, so near and dear did they feel toward the little actress. Rain, rain, and still more rain! The big drops splashed on the car windows, and on either side of the track were to be seen wet and sodden fields, many of them almost out of sight under sheets of water. They passed through miles of dripping forest, to come out perhaps near the bank of some stream that was filled to overflowing. Once the tracks were partly under water, at a point where a small river had overflowed the banks, and the engineer had to slow down for fear of spreading rails. It was a dreary outlook, and when they stopped at a station where they could get newspapers, the printed reports of the flood were most alarming. "Isn't it ever going to let up raining?" asked Blake, as he wiped the moisture from a window and looked out for a possible sign of a break in the clouds. "It'll rain for forty days--or longer," said Christopher Cutler Piper, in still more gloomy tones. A passenger in the seat ahead of the comedian turned around, gave one look at the actor, and then, taking a bottle from his valise gravely offered it to C. C. "Here," he said, "take some of this. It will do you good." "Hey! What is it?" asked the comedian, suspiciously. "Liver medicine," went on the passenger, who looked as though he might be a country doctor. "I know what's the matter with you. You've got liver complaint. I've had it, and I know just how mean it makes you feel." "But there's nothing the matter with my liver!" protested the actor. "Nothing at all!" "Don't tell me! I know better!" declared the other, with emphasis. "I put this medicine up myself, and it's the greatest liver regulator and revivifier in the world. One dose will make you feel like a new man, and two will almost cure you. I won't charge you anything for it, either. I hate to see anyone suffer as you do." "But I don't suffer," cried Mr. Piper, at a loss to understand the other's queer action. The actor looked around as though for help, in case the man should become violent. "You don't suffer!" the country doctor cried. "Why, you have the worst complaint in the world. You're a pessimist!" "Huh!" grunted C. C. "You're always looking on the dark side of things," went on the doctor, "and that shows your liver is affected. One bottle of my celebrated revivifier will make you look at things through rose-colored spectacles. Don't take my word for it, though. Take the medicine." "All right," agreed Mr. Piper, while the boys and Mr. Ringold smiled in appreciation of the joke. "I'll take some later," and he laid the bottle aside. The doctor turned away, apparently satisfied, and a little later Mr. Piper began telling to Joe and Blake one of the many humorous stories for which he had been famous while on the vaudeville stage, before taking up moving picture work. He brought the tale to an end, amid laughter from the boys, and the doctor, hearing, turned around. "That's more like it," he said, casting a glance of approval at C. C. Piper. "I knew you'd feel happier after one dose of my liver revivifier." "But I didn't take it!" said the actor. "Though I'm going to!" he added quickly, as he noted the look on the other's face. "I'm sure it's good," he said, and then, when Blake told the medical man that it was only C. C. Piper's invariable habit to look on the gloomy side, even while cracking a joke, the patentee of the revivifier shook his head in a puzzled fashion. "Queerest case I ever heard of," he said. He went several seats up in the car after that, as though he were afraid C. C. might, in a fit of sudden despair, do him some injury. This little incident served to somewhat enliven a day that had begun gloomily enough, and which seemed as though it would continue so, for the rain showed no signs of stopping. "It's lucky we brought along rubber boots and our rain-coats," remarked Blake, as he and Joe were gathering their baggage and cameras together, preparatory to leaving the train, which would soon arrive in Hannibal. "Yes, we'll need 'em all right," agreed his chum. "And say, we're going to have trouble getting pictures if this downpour keeps up. We'll get nothing but blurs on the films." "Oh, it's bound to let up some time," spoke Blake, hopefully. The train had been proceeding slowly for some time now. The tracks ran along the river, occasional glimpses of which could be had. "Look at that!" suddenly cried Joe, as the train rounded a curve, giving the best view yet had, of the flooded Mississippi. "Say, that's some water, all right!" "I should say yes!" exclaimed Blake. The boys looked out on a big stretch of muddy water, in which numerous trees, and other debris, could be seen floating. The current seemed sluggish enough, though doubtless it moved with considerable power. Now and then small buildings could be noted in the yellow water, having been carried down from some farms further up stream. "There goes a house!" exclaimed Mr. Ringold, who was at the adjoining window. "Say boys, this surely is serious!" The house, a small one, was turning slowly about in the current. "Say, I wish we could get some pictures," murmured Blake. "You'll have enough chance to get them later," spoke a brakeman, going through the car. "You haven't begun to see things yet!" "Are they very bad?" asked Joe. "I should say so! I doubt if we can get in. The river has gone up two feet since yesterday, and it's still rising." "You mean we won't get into Hannibal?" asked Blake. "That's about it. I don't see how we're going on much farther. The track just ahead of us was on the edge of the water last night, so I heard, and it's bound to be covered now. There are a couple of bridges, too, that were in danger of being washed away." "I knew it! I knew something would happen!" cried Mr. Piper. "Say, hadn't you better take some of that liver regulator?" asked Mr. Ringold, with a smile at the comedian. The train, which had been proceeding more and more slowly, now came to a stop. The passengers glanced uneasily about, and Joe and Blake hurried out. "Any accident?" Joe asked, of the brakeman who had spoken of the flood. "No; at least not to the train. We're stuck, that's all." "Stuck?" "Yes, stalled! We can't go any farther." He pointed ahead, to where the line swept around a curve, and at the bend stood a man with a red flag. "Come on, let's see what it is," proposed Blake. He and his chum ran to where the flagman stood, and, as they rounded the curve, they saw ahead of them a break in the line, where a bridge had been swept away. The train could go no farther. "Look at that river!" cried Joe, pointing to the big stream. It was not the Mississippi, but a side stream, swollen by the heavy rain, and it was adding its waters to those of the big river. There was scarcely any sound to be heard, save the splatter of the rain, the river not rushing along with a roar, as flooded streams sometimes do. But that there was terrible power in this silent current could not be doubted. And much debris was being carried along in the muddy waters. "What is it?" asked Mr. Ringold, as he came up to join the boys. They pointed to where the bridge had been swept away. "Well, we'll have to get a boat, to take us off to Hannibal, I guess," said the manager, always practical in an emergency. "Can we get one around here?" he asked of the flagman. "The railroad has sent for a tug to take the passengers on to the city," the man answered. "I expect she'll be here soon." "Come on, we'll get our stuff together," said Mr. Ringold. "I'm anxious to get to the city and make some inquiries for the lost ones." CHAPTER VIII THE MOTOR BOAT "There she comes!" "And see! It's all she can do to stem the current!" Joe and Blake were watching the approach of a small steam tug, that was coming up the stream. Powerful as she looked, it was all she could do to make headway, so forceful was the swollen river. "We can't all get aboard her," declared Mr. Piper, who, with the boys, Mr. Ringold, and some others, was standing in the rain, near the abutments of the vanished bridge. "If we try to she'll sink." "Say, please don't talk that way!" begged the manager. "We are going to have troubles enough, without that." "Oh, all right. But I just want to be careful," spoke C. C. "The boat will make several trips--there will be no danger," said the train conductor. "The railroad will look after its passengers." This was reassuring, but still the danger was great. Now that the moving picture boys were actually at the scene of the flood they realized, better than any printed account, or any pictures, could convey to them, how great was the desolation. It seemed as though a little higher rise in the river would flood the whole country. "I think I will abandon my idea of trying to make any dramatic pictures," said Mr. Ringold, thoughtfully, as he and the boys watched the approach of the tug. "We will devote our energies to finding the missing members of my company, and in making scenes of the flood. It would be out of the question to try and make dramas. I can see that now." Blake and Joe had begun to think so themselves, and they were glad to have the manager admit this. "We're going to have all we can do, just getting pictures under these conditions," declared Blake. "We'll have to be swimming, or in a boat, all the while, I guess." Mr. Ringold went back to the stalled train to tell the few actors and actresses, whom he had brought from New York with him, that no dramas would be taken. He offered to send them back, or to look after them in Hannibal, until he returned, but the players decided to go back. They could do nothing in the flooded district. "And I suppose you'll go back with the others, C. C.," remarked the manager. Everyone was unprepared for the gloomy comedian's answer. "No, I'll stick with you and the boys," he said, quietly. "I may be able to help you in the rescue work. I'd give a good deal to be able to find them; especially little Birdie Lee." "Shake!" cried Mr. Ringold, clasping Mr. Piper's hand. "I guess there's nothing the matter with your liver, after all!" There was a freight shed near where the train was stalled, and under this those passengers who were not going back, stood, while waiting for the tug to make a landing. It rained steadily, sometimes coming down in a veritable deluge, and again only drizzling. It was a wet, miserable time for all, but Blake and Joe did not murmur. Their only regret was that the weather conditions were such as to prevent them from using their cameras. "But it may clear up to-morrow," spoke Blake. "I hope so," joined in Mr. Piper. "His liver is still good," murmured Joe. "Otherwise he'd have said that it would never clear. He isn't so bad--at times." "No, not at times," admitted Blake, with a grin. The abutment on which one end of the bridge had rested, served as a pier for the boat, which was, after some difficulty, made fast to it. "All aboard," called the captain. "We'll take as many as we can, and come back for the rest. It isn't a very long trip, nor is it an easy one. All aboard." To the delight of Mr. Ringold, he, the boys and Mr. Piper were among the first selected to go. The train conductor had intimated to the boat captain that the manager was anxious to start on a search for missing members of his company who had been in Hannibal. "We'll do all we can for you," the captain promised. "It's a terrible time, and it's going to be worse. I don't say that to alarm you, but so that you may know what you have to face." "Thank you," spoke the manager. "I realize that it isn't going to be easy." The stream, up which the boat had come was not, ordinarily, navigable by such large boats, but the rising waters had turned it from hardly more than a brook into a raging river, pouring into the Mississippi itself. "Some power to this current," remarked Joe, as he and Blake, having stowed aboard their baggage and cameras, stood at the rail, looking over the side. "Wait until you get on the Mississippi," remarked a deck hand. "Then you'll see some water." And the boys did. As they emerged around a bend in the high banks, they had a good view of the Father of Waters as it swept on. It was almost terrifying, and the tug, though extra steam was put on, was barely able to make headway. "It's getting worse every minute!" the captain murmured. "I don't know what we'll do if this keeps on!" It was not far, from where the train was stalled, to Hannibal, but the tug was over an hour in making it. The lower part of the town near the river bottom, was under water, but the residential section had, so far, escaped, being built back on high ground. "Now I'll go back after the others," said the captain, when he had made a landing, not without some difficulty, at a temporary dock. "And we'll see if we can get into a hotel," suggested Mr. Ringold, "though I guess most of them will be over-crowded." This was found to be the case. Many persons had been driven from their homes, and forced to go to the hotels, and, as several of these hostelries had been rendered uninhabitable, those that escaped the flood were taxed to the limit of their capacity. "It's a good thing my other actors decided not to come along," remarked the manager, as he and the boys, with Mr. Piper, found that all the accommodations they could get were two small rooms, fitted up with cots. "But we won't be here any longer than we can help. I'm going to charter a boat, and start on the search for the missing ones." "And if this rain ever lets up we'll get some pictures," declared Blake. At the hotel were many whose homes had either been washed away, or rendered uninhabitable, and they were being cared for by the relief committee, that had been hastily formed. Most of these persons were poor, having their homes in the lower section of the city, and many pathetic stories were told. There had been some lives lost, and a number had been injured by being thrown into the water, and struck by floating debris. "Now the first thing to do," said Mr. Ringold, after the party had eaten a hasty meal, "is to find out where our friends were last seen. Then we can start on the hunt. And the next thing is to get a boat. I'll charter a big motor craft, if I can find one, and we'll live aboard her, taking pictures, and conducting the search." The missing company of moving picture actors and actresses had been stopping at a hotel in Hannibal. But this hotel had been abandoned, and it was not until late that afternoon that a former clerk could be located. "The moving picture players?" he repeated in answer to questions from Mr. Ringold. "Oh, yes, I remember them very well. We all liked them." "But what happened to them?" asked the manager, anxiously. "They all went out together, one day about a week ago," the clerk replied. "The river wasn't as high then as it is now, but it was bad enough. They went off in a small motor boat, and said they were going to one of the lower river islands, to take some scenes. That is the last I heard of them." "Then they didn't come back?" asked Joe. "No, the river rose suddenly that afternoon, and we had our own troubles here. I heard nothing more of the players." "Then they might have been swept on down stream?" suggested Blake. "I'm very sorry to say that's my opinion," spoke the clerk. "Still, they may have been picked up, and saved. It's hard to get any communications through, as so many wires are down. That's all the information I can give you." "Thanks; now we'll start on the search," spoke Mr. Ringold. "Perhaps you can tell me where I can hire a motor launch." This the clerk was able to do. A man had a large craft he was willing to charter, though he wanted a heavy price for it. "But boats are scarce," he declared, "and they're badly needed in the rescue work." "That's what we want this one for," said Mr. Ringold. "Now we'll get her into commission." The _Clytie_, which was the name of the craft, was roomy enough to accomodate the two boys, Mr. Piper and the manager. Blake and Joe had learned to run a gasoline launch, and Mr. Ringold himself was an expert motorist, so there would be no need of a helper. "But you want to look out for treacherous currents," the owner of the craft warned them. "The river is worse than it's been in years. And remember, you've got to pay the bill if the boat is damaged." Putting the boat into commission was not so quickly accomplished as Mr. Ringold had hoped. There were many things to be done, and, at the last moment some repairs had to be made. The rain stopped unexpectedly the day after the arrival of our friends in Hannibal, and Blake and Joe, hiring a rowboat, went out to get some moving pictures. They secured some fine views, but coming back they nearly had an accident. For their boat was caught in a cross-current, and would have been upset but for the prompt work of Blake, who swung it around and out of danger in time. "Well, I guess we're ready, boys," announced the manager, two days after he had hired the motor boat. "We'll start out this morning. We've got plenty of food, and other supplies, in case we find the missing ones." "And we've got plenty of films for pictures!" cried Joe, as he and Blake took their places. The rain still held off, and there were hopes that it would clear long enough for the flood to subside. But this was doubtful. The Mississippi was still a raging torrent, but the _Clytie_ was a stanch craft, and with care would be able to navigate the turbulent stream. "All aboard!" cried Joe. And thus they started on the trip. CHAPTER IX ANXIOUS HOURS "Where are you going to head for first?" asked Blake, as he and Joe began "stowing away" their belongings, while Mr. Ringold stood at the wheel. "For that island, where the hotel clerk said our friends went to make pictures," replied the manager. "I know about where it is, as nearly as he could tell me, and if they're not on the one they said they were going to, they may be on another, for there are several together." "Do you imagine they would be there all this while?" asked Joe, as he got out one of the moving picture cameras, for they were at a place now where some thrilling views could be made. "It is just possible they are," answered Mr. Ringold. "They may have landed, taken some pictures, and then something may have happened." "Such as--what?" asked Mr. Piper. Of late he had not made as many gloomy predictions as usual. Perhaps he appreciated what Mr. Ringold said, about there being enough trouble without adding to it by needlessly looking on the dark side. "Well, their boat may have gone adrift in the rising waters, and they may have been forced to remain on the island," went on the theatrical man. "And there has been so much confusion and suffering out here, that their appeals for help, in case they could make any, may have gone unheeded. "So I think we'll head for that island, and see if we can get any clews. It is a sort of forlorn hope, but that is the only starting point I can think of. How is she running, Blake?" he asked, for Blake was attending to the motor, while Joe focused the camera. "Fine," answered the young engineer. "She's a powerful engine, all right." "She'll need to be," was the grim comment of the manager. "There is some power to this current," and he looked over the side of the bow, at the onrushing, muddy Mississippi. Though they were in the upper reaches of the big stream, it had so increased in size that it was almost a constant menace to the motor boat. Not only was the current powerful, but there were waves as large as those that might have been encountered on some bay of the ocean; great, yellow muddy waves, that curled after the _Clytie_ as though to overwhelm her. But the craft was in skillful hands. "Look at that!" cried Blake, as they swept around a bend, and saw, in the flood, several small houses being carried down together. "Get that Joe!" "I'm getting it!" shouted the young operator, as he turned the lens of the camera in that direction, and began grinding away at the handle. "I'll put you over closer, so you can get a better view," called Mr. Ringold, as he headed the bow of the motor boat in the direction of the floating dwellings. As he did so there came a shout from shore, and several men were see to put off in some small boats. They pointed at the houses, and seemed much excited. "I wonder what that means?" spoke C. C., as he came from the enclosed cabin, out on the deck where Joe had the camera. "I wonder if they think they can haul those houses to shore?" "It doesn't seem possible--with only their small boats," remarked Blake. "They may be able to anchor them, though, and save them when the waters go down." "You'd need an ocean tug to pull them out of this current," remarked Joe, as he continued to take moving pictures. "But there must be something up, or those men wouldn't be so excited." "Maybe they want us to try and tow the houses," suggested Blake. "Well, we're not going to do it," decided the manager. "It's too risky, though I'd try it if it was to save life." He had hardly spoken, when the group of houses swirled about in the current. At an upper window of one of them appeared a woman, holding in her arms a baby. She stretched the child out toward those approaching her in small boats, as if appealing for help. "Say, we've got to save her!" cried Blake. "That's right!" agreed the manager. He headed the motor boat more directly for the floating dwellings, but he had to use caution, as they were entangled in a mass of logs, jagged timbers, and other debris, that made it difficult to approach. And then, by some strange freak of fate, the houses swirled about again, and the woman and child could no longer be seen. But the dwellings remained upright, so it was fairly certain that the two were safe in the upper room--at least for a time. Then the current carried the houses on some hidden sandbar, and they rose higher from the water, tilted to one side, and remained there. "Look out!" cried Mr. Piper, as the manager continued to urge the motor boat onward. "We may go aground ourselves." "Can't help it--we've got to try to save that woman and baby!" cried Mr. Ringold. But there was no need for him to risk the _Clytie_, for the small boats, that had put out from shore came up then, and could more easily approach the stranded dwellings. "We'll take 'em ashore, friends," said one of the men, in a small boat, to Mr. Ringold. "Just as much obliged to you, though. Better keep out from here, or you may stave a hole in your craft." "Just what I was thinking," the manager replied. "We'll stand by, though, and give you all the help we can." Then began the rescue of the woman and child from the house on the sandbar. It was accomplished with some difficulty, and the motor boat was in a position where all the details could be seen well. Joe had a good position for his camera, and he ground away at the handle, getting a series of fine views. The woman, sobbing hysterically, and clasping the child in her arms, was lifted into one of the boats, and wrapped in blankets, for it was beginning to rain again. "Better let me tow you ashore--or near to it," proposed Mr. Ringold. "Yes, it would help some--it's hard rowing," answered one of the rescuers. So the motor craft was swung about until the three small boats, which had come out to the houses, could be made fast to her, and then she pulled them across the swollen river to the shore. The boys did not hear the details of how the woman came to be swept away in her house. It was only one of many cases of people being caught in the suddenly rising waters. Approaching as near shore as was safe, on account of the floating masses of debris, our friends cast off the towing ropes, and proceeded on their way. "Well, I got some fine pictures, anyhow," declared Joe, as he put away his camera, for it was now raining so hard that no successful views could be made. They kept on down the mighty Mississippi, turning now and then to avoid obstructions, and at times being obliged to swerve almost directly across, which was not easy on account of the powerful current. The river was constantly making new channels for itself, and leaving old ones, but the Clytie was a boat of small draught, and could easily navigate in shallow places. "Suppose we eat something?" proposed Blake, for it was nearly noon. Considerable time had passed at the rescue work. There was a small gasoline stove in the cabin of the boat, and they had with them plenty of supplies, so it was not long before a meal was in preparation. And, in spite of their anxiety about the missing ones, our friends managed to eat heartily. Even Mr. Piper seemed to lose most of his gloom, as he passed his cup for more coffee. "We ought to be near that island now," observed Mr. Ringold, as he looked across at the shore nearest to which they then were. "The hotel clerk said it was opposite a certain town, with two white church steeples. There are the two white church steeples he mentioned." "There isn't much of the town left," said Blake. "It's pretty well under water." And that was a fact. The lower part was submerged, and as they came up to it, men could be seen going about in boats, removing belongings from houses, the lower floors of which were already under water. No lives appeared to be in danger, for the people had doubtless fled to higher ground on seeing the rising waters. On the hills back of the town could be noted a number of tents, where, very likely, the refugees had taken up their abode. "But I don't see anything of an island," said the manager, as he peered over the turbulent stretch of muddy waters. "If it was opposite this town, and the lower part of the town is under water, the island is probably covered up by now," observed Blake, grimly. "I'm afraid so," agreed the manager. "We'll go over there, and make some inquiries." By going toward shore they were not in such a strong current, and soon the motor boat was cruising along through what had been business streets. "This is like being in Venice," remarked Joe, as the _Clytie_ puffed slowly along between rows of stores and houses, from which men, in boats, were removing goods and furniture. "Looking for someone?" called a man, who had, in a big scow, an odd collection of household effects, and stuff from a general store. "For a company of moving picture players," answered Mr. Ringold. "They came down to Pin Island, one day last week, to make some drama scenes, and they haven't come back. Can you tell us where Pin Island is?" "I can tell you where it _was_," said the man grimly. "Right out there," and he pointed to a spot where nothing but a swirling rush of muddy waters could be seen. "That's where the island _was_, and it's probably there yet, but you can't see it," he added. "Did you hear, or see, anything of the players?" asked Mr. Piper. "Well, I did hear that some of them were over there, just before the waters got so high," the man answered. "But what became of them I don't know. I'm very sorry, but I can't help you." "Well, this is some information, anyhow," spoke Mr. Ringold. "We know we are on the right track." "You'd best look for 'em below here," the man in the scow went on. "They couldn't hardly make their way against the current. You'll probably find 'em below. There's higher ground there, and they'd have a better chance." "Is there another town near here?" asked Joe. "Yes, Bellmead, about four miles below. They've got a good levee there, and aren't so badly off as we are." "Then we'll go to Bellmead," decided Mr. Ringold. The motor boat was turned out from the submerged streets, and into the open river again. It was still raining--quite hard now--and to try for pictures was out of the question, as the sky was dark and lowering. Keeping out of the middle of the Mississippi, and along one edge, proceeding over what, when the stream went down, would be ruined farming fields, the motor boat went on her way. "That must be Bellmead," announced Joe, as they made a turn into a "cut-off," or place where the river had made a new channel for itself. He pointed to a place below them, as they could see, more favorably situated than most along the Mississippi. It was protected by a high levee, or bank of earth and stone, and against this the waters were beating. "We'll land here, and spend the night," decided Mr. Ringold. "No use going on in the darkness, and we may get some news of our friends here." But they were disappointed in this last. No trace of the missing moving picture players could be had. "Yes, there's a hotel where you can stay," said a man, one of several on the levee, "but you may have to get out in a hurry." "Why?" Blake wanted to know. "Because this levee is weakening, and if it gives way the flood will be worse than ever." As he spoke many more men came up on the bank, evidently prepared for work. Back in the town, also, could be seen long lines of negro laborers, with wheelbarrows. "We're going to pile all the dirt we can on the levee," said the man, who appeared to be in charge. "It's going to be an all-night job." "Then let us help!" begged Mr. Ringold. "We've got to tie up here over night, and our safety, as well as yours, will depend on it. Let us help." "Sure!" cried Joe and Blake, and Mr. Piper nodded his assent also. "Well, we need all the help we can get," spoke the man on the bank. "Of course the colored men will do the rough work, bringing up the dirt in barrows, and bags, but they need to be directed. You can help at that." And then ensued anxious hours. The work of strengthening the levee, to keep the river away from the town, began at once, and was kept up all night, by the light of flaring torches. CHAPTER X OFF AGAIN "More dirt over here!" "Come on now, boys! Lively's the word!" "Hustle along!" "Is she rising any more?" "Strike up a song, boys, and run; don't walk!" These were only a few of the remarks that could be heard along the levee that night. The rain drizzled down at intervals, as the colored men, in long lines, with wheelbarrows, brought up earth and stones, to strengthen the banks against which the muddy Mississippi beat and surged. The levee was like a dam along the course of the stream, and back of this dam lay the town. If the levee gave way the town might be wiped out. Now and then a group of the negro laborers would break out into what was probably some old plantation song, and to the rude but not unmusical melody their feet moved in quicker time, as they brought up the earth and stones for filling. "Put more of it in bags," directed Colonel Whitmore, who, as the boys learned, was the man to whom they had first spoken. "It will hold better in bags, boys. Lively now!" And while squads of men, up the hill where the dirt was being dug, shoveled the earth into bags, others wheeled them down and dumped, or placed, them where directed by the white men. Blake, Joe, Mr. Ringold and C. C. Piper helped in this work, and though they were only requested to oversee the negroes, they did not hesitate to use their own muscles when they were needed. In fact, Colonel Whitmore himself, and his friends, worked harder than did any of the black men, who were naturally slow. "If she goes, boys, it's all up with us, and we'll have to leave everything, and take to the hills," the colonel said. "So be lively, boys!" "Come on now, everybody sing!" cried one big negro, and he fairly ran with his heavy load, his example being followed by others. "Oh, if we could only get some pictures of this!" exclaimed Blake, during a lull in the levee operations. "It's too dark," decided Joe. "You can get some to-morrow morning," Colonel Whitmore told them. "We'll still be here in the morning, unless the river rises too suddenly." "Is it going up fast now?" asked Mr. Ringold. "About an inch an hour, and that's fast enough for us," was the grim answer, and the Southerner looked at a stick he had thrust into the bank at the edge of the stream, to keep watch of the rate of rise. It was marked with little notches, an inch apart, and these notches were slowly, but gradually and relentlessly, being covered by the rising flood of the Mississippi. All through the night they toiled, the moving picture boys working with feverish energy to do what they could to help save the town. There was really no obligation on them to do this, but they felt a friendly interest in those whose homes were in danger from the great flood. And the boys, also, might be said to have a little selfish motive. They wanted to get moving pictures of the work of strengthening the levee, as this would form part of the series of stirring views they hoped to get. Thus another of the many phases of the work of fighting the flood could be shown. Barrow-load after barrow-load of dirt was piled on the levee, and bags of earth and stone placed where they would do the most good. Everyone was working hard, by the light of the flaring torches. It was hard, dirty and unpleasant labor, for it rained at intervals, all night. Splashing through the mud, slipping and sliding on the treacherous footing, Joe and Blake toiled with the rest. They wore their rubber boots and raincoats, which, in a great measure, protected them. And, be it said to the credit of Christopher Cutler Piper, he labored as hard as any of the others, and never made a complaint. "It's coming morning," said Colonel Whitmore, as he pointed to a faint gray streak in the east. "We'll have better light to work by, soon." Slowly the light grew, and, with the coming of the dawn, the rain ceased--at least for a time. "That'll give us time to catch our breaths," spoke the Southerner, with a sigh of relief. "But she hasn't stopped rising," he added, as he looked at the stick-gauge. "Too much water up above," and he nodded in the direction whence the boys had come, down the stream. "It'll be days before she goes down." As soon as it was light enough, Blake and Joe got out a moving picture camera, and began taking views of the work at the levee. More laborers had come with the advent of daylight, and other white men arrived to relieve those who had overseen the work during the hours of darkness. The scene on the levee was a lively one, and also a dangerous one, for the waters were beating with ever-increasing force on the sloping wall of earth and stones, that held back the raging torrent from the town. "This will be one great picture," murmured Joe, as he contemplated the series of scenes. "That is, if you get a chance to develop it, and show it," remarked Mr. Piper. "What do you mean?" asked Blake. "Well, it looks to me as if this flood was going to get worse, and if we go down stream, where the river is wider, we may not be able to pull through." "Hold on there!" cried Mr. Ringold, shaking a warning finger at the actor. "Don't let your liver get away with you." "That's so--I forgot," exclaimed C. C. "I guess we'll pull through all right, after all," he added in more cheerful tones. "That's the way to talk!" cried Blake, encouragingly. That was one peculiar trait of Mr. Piper's. He could be gloomy when there was no particular danger, save what he imagined was in prospect. And then, when a crisis came, he rose to the emergency, and was a real help. The sun tried to break through the clouds, as Joe and Blake finished their pictures, for they did not want to give too much film space showing the mere work of strengthening the levee. "We want to save some in case--well, not to make a gloomy prediction--but in case the levee breaks," said Blake. "And it looks to me as though it would go--if this rain keeps up and the river continues to rise," said Mr. Ringold. "I don't know that we can do much else here, so I think we might as well start off again, and continue our search." They had taken rooms at the hotel the evening before, but they had had very little use of them, since they had spent the night on the levee. Their motor boat had been tied up at a dock. "Well, let's go up to the hotel, wash, have breakfast, and then continue our voyage," suggested Blake. "Might as well do that as to try to cook aboard. We'll have more room at the Mansion House." His companions agreed with him, and they were soon enjoying the luxury of a bath and a good meal. They had scarcely finished, however, before a messenger came up from the river on the run. "Where's the folks that own that there motor, boat?" he demanded, "the folks that helped Colonel Whitmore last night?" "Here we are!" called Blake. "What's the trouble?" Joe wanted to know, for the messenger appeared excited. "You'd better get your craft out of the way," went on the man. "The river's started to rise suddenly, and she may be damaged where she is." "We'll get right down to her," exclaimed Mr. Ringold, and, paying their bill, they hastened to the dock. They found the _Clytie_ pulling and straining at her mooring ropes, for the river had indeed risen and the cables were taut, caused by the elevation of the boat at the dock. "All aboard!" called Mr. Ringold, and soon they were under way again. There was no need of their assistance at the levee, for all possible was being done by the town inhabitants, and those on the elevated bank of dirt and stones waved a farewell to our friends, as they went on down the raging river. CHAPTER XI UPSIDE DOWN "Say, there's a lot more stuff coming down the river than has at any time yet," remarked Blake, as he and his friends sat in the cabin of the _Clytie_, while she made her way in the flooded stream. "Look at those big logs, and parts of houses!" "Yes, and we've got to be careful," said Mr. Ringold, who had relinquished the wheel to Joe. "First thing we know we may bump into a log, and have a hole stove into us. Then we will have trouble!" "Oh, I guess----" began C. C., when there came a bump on the port bow of the craft. "What's that?" cried the manager, leaping to his feet. "Only a little log," answered Joe. "I didn't see it until I was right on top of it, or I could have steered out of the way." "I was going to say I guessed nothing would happen," went on C. C., "but I reckon I was a bit mistaken." "If it's nothing worse than that we won't kick," murmured Blake. "Still you never can tell. I'll come up there, Joe, and help you keep a lookout for big bits of wreckage." "It would be a good idea to have two at the wheel," said Mr. Ringold. "We'll do that after this, and we won't try to do any night travel--we'll just tie up at dark, wherever we can." "There must be a worse flood up above, than there was at first, to bring all this stuff down," observed Joe, when he and Blake were on duty. "Whole villages must have been swept away, to judge by the pieces of houses I've seen." "Yes, and farm-places, too," added Blake, as he pointed to a part of a wrecked barn swirling around in the water. A little later they passed a village, partly submerged, and as they swung in close to it Mr. Ringold shouted questions as to the possible whereabouts of his lost players. No one, however, knew anything about them. They seemed to have disappeared. Whenever Blake and Joe saw interesting sights they used the moving picture cameras to advantage. But much of the desolate scenery along the flooded river was of the same character, and they wanted to save their films for more dramatic situations. Though the river was higher, the rain, which had ceased that morning, did not commence again, and the skies seemed much brighter. "I don't know much about the weather conditions out here," said Mr. Ringold, "but it looks to me as though it were going to clear." "I hope so," murmured Mr. Piper. "It feels as if I'd never get dried out." It was indeed damp, muggy and sticky. The moving picture boys, too, found difficulty in getting satisfactory results under such weather conditions, but they did the best they could. "What are you doing?" asked Joe of Blake, on the afternoon of the day they had left the levee. "Making some waterproof covers for the exposed film," was the answer. "To keep it dry from the rain?" "No, to keep it dry in case we--well, in case anything happens, as Mr. Piper would say." "What do you mean?" Joe wanted to know. "I mean we may have an accident at any time. While this motor boat is a good one, she may be wrecked, especially when we get down to the lower river, where the flood is sure to be worse. There'll be more debris there, and we may easily be stove in, crushed or upset." "Say, you're worse than he is, lately," cried Joe, with a nod at Mr. Piper, who was out on the stern deck. "No, I only want to take all precautions," Blake went on. "We've got some valuable films here, and if they fall into the water they'll be spoiled. It was bad enough for Munson, or whoever it was, to take our other films, and I don't want to lose these in the flood. So I'm going to stow them away in water-tight boxes, as fast as we expose them." In anticipation of water troubles the boys had brought along some sheets of rubberized cloth, and this was now used to line, and wrap about and seal up, small boxes, in which the exposed films could be packed. Thus it was hoped to save them. Dinner had been eaten aboard the boat, and then, as they proceeded, they stopped at several places along the flooded Mississippi, to make inquiries for the missing ones. But so many persons had either been carried away by the great flood, or driven from their homes, and so many unfortunate occurrences filled the minds of the people, that no one could remember, or tell about, any missing moving picture players. Then, too, at several of the towns, the levees were in danger, and all available help was engaged in making them stronger. It was a time of stress and trouble for all. After leaving one small city, that was threatened by the rising river, our friends proceeded well out in the stream, as they had been informed a dangerous "cut-off" had formed just below, and they might be drawn into it, and stranded in a big swamp. "We'll avoid that, if we can," said Mr. Ringold, as they came within sight of the "cut-off," and saw where the stream had divided. The manager was at the wheel, and, as he put it hard over, so as to give the dangerous current an extra wide berth, the motor unexpectedly stopped. "What's the matter?" cried Mr. Ringold, as he noticed, with alarm, that they were being drawn into the "cut-off." "Motor's gone dead!" cried Blake, as he sprang toward it. "I will see if I can start it." But though he turned and turned again the flywheel, the machine would not go. It was rather an old-fashioned one, and worked hard. "Got plenty of gasoline?" asked Joe, coming up to the help of his chum. "There was half an hour ago, and we can't have used up all in the tank yet. Besides, we've got a barrel in reserve." "I'll put some in, anyhow!" cried Joe. But, when this was done, the motor still refused to go, and they were being carried by the current nearer and nearer to the dangerous place. "Let me try," suggested Mr. Ringold. "Here, you boys steer, though you can't really do much without power to give us more headway than we've got." Again and again he spun the wheel, but it seemed of no use. The motor remained dead. Then, as Mr. Piper came up to see if he could lend any aid, he saw a small dangling wire, that no one appeared to have noticed, or attended to. "Is that the trouble?" he asked. "That loose wire?" "That's it--the ignition!" cried Mr. Ringold. "I'll have it fixed in a jiffy now. Though I don't know as we can make it," he added, as he noticed how near they were to the treacherous "cut-off." But he was not one to give up easily, nor were his companions. The broken wire was hastily joined, and then, with the electric current in proper shape, when the flywheel was spun again, the motor responded with a welcome roar and throb. "Now see if we can make it!" cried Mr. Ringold, as he took the wheel. "It's a bare chance!" It was, and how slender the boys did not realize until later. The powerful current pulled and tugged at them, to force them off the course, and into a branch of the stream that ended in a dismal swamp. But the _Clytie_ was a stanch craft, and was in good hands. Slowly but surely she fought her way against the cross-current, pulling away from danger. "I'm giving her all the gas she can take," murmured Mr. Ringold, as he advanced the throttle to its limit, and set the spark timer at its most advantageous position. "She can't do any more!" Blake and Joe stood ready to do all possible, but it was not much. They had to depend on the motor. And that machine made good. The propeller, beating the muddy water to foam, slowly shoved the craft ahead, and to one side, until, finally, the pull of the cross-current was lessened. Then, gathering speed, the boat made her way into the main channel. "Safe--for a while at least!" cried Mr. Ringold. The danger to which they had been exposed rather unnerved them for the time being. All that afternoon they kept on down the great river, the boys taking occasional pictures. The rain still held off, for which they were very thankful. "And now we'd better look for a good place at which to tie up for the night," remarked Mr. Ringold, when preparations for supper were under way. "That looks like a good place, just around that bend," spoke Blake, pointing to it. "We'll make for it," decided the manager. As they went along they found that the bend was caused by a "cut-off" having made a new channel for itself, to the left of the main stream. This "cut-off" was larger and deeper than any they had yet encountered. It was bringing down a mass of debris, too, and some care had to be used in navigating near it. "That will do for a place to spend the night," decided Mr. Ringold, as he shifted his course slightly. They were behind a wooded point, and, as they rounded it, the two boys uttered cries of astonishment. For, coming straight toward them, was a small house, turned completely upside down in the water. CHAPTER XII CHARLIE HOUSE "Look at that!" cried Joe. "I should say so!" echoed his chum. "Must have been a queer freak of the flood that could do that," commented Mr. Piper. "Me for a picture!" exclaimed Joe, as he got out the camera. "Is there light enough?" questioned Blake. "I guess so--for a short run of film," answered his chum, and then, as the house, in its queer position, drifted down stream, and as the motor boat approached it, the occupants seeking a safe place to tie up for the night, Joe got a series of moving pictures. "There it goes--stranded!" cried Blake, when his friend had finished grinding away at the crank of the camera. And, as he spoke, the house came to a sudden stop. Probably the roof which was submerged in the water, had struck against a sandbar, or some high place in the land that was under water. At any rate, the upside-down dwelling turned slowly about, settled a little to one side, and then remained stationary in the water. It had stranded in a small cove, in which the moving picture boys, and their two friends, had also decided to take shelter for the night. "We'll tie up to that big tree over there," said Mr. Ringold, pointing to a large oak that overhung the water. "I think that will stand, even though the waters rise higher." "Tie with a long rope," advised Mr. Piper. "The river may rise suddenly in the night, and if we are held fast by a short cable, and can't rise with the 'tide,' we'll sink." "I'll look out for that," promised the manager. "But I think the river is not rising so fast now. We can tell when we get near shore." "It looks like more rain," remarked Joe, with a glance at the sky. "You wouldn't think there could be so much water; would you?" "Hardly," agreed Blake. The work of making the boat fast was soon finished. Certainly the oak tree to which they tied seemed, with its great trunk, and spread of roots, strong enough to withstand many a flood. "And now for supper!" cried Joe, it being his turn to prepare the evening meal. The gasoline stove was started, and soon the appetizing odor of ham and eggs floated over the flood waters, for our friends had purchased a supply at the last village where they had stopped to make inquiries. "I only hope Birdie Lee, and the rest of 'em, are having as good a meal as this," murmured Blake, as he passed his plate for a second helping. "I'd give a good deal to know where they are now, and be able to help them." "I think we all would," came from Mr. Ringold, and he spoke rather solemnly. "It's strange we can't get any word of them," he went on. "At the next town we make, if they have any telegraph service, I am going to wire my New York office, and ask if any word has been received there. Levinberg probably knows I'd be anxious about them, after hearing of the flood, and he might think to wire me." "Pretty bad telegraph service, all along the river now, I guess," commented Mr. Piper. "But they may be able to get a message through, somehow," said the manager, hopefully. "We'll wait half a day or so, after I send the dispatch, in case an answer should come back." Supper over, the bunks were arranged for the night. The weather was calmer now than at any time since the storms began that had caused the flood. The sun shone through the clouds a little, as it set. Blake and Joe, on the after deck of the motor boat, looked about them. On all sides stretched a vast extent of waters. They had driven a stake in near shore, and watched it to note the rise of the river. It was very slight now. "Say!" exclaimed Blake, as he glanced over toward the upside-down house, "let's go over there and look inside. Maybe we can find something of value, that we might save for the owners." "I'm with you," agreed Joe. Mr. Ringold offered no objection, and, after casting off the line, the motor boat was started up, proceeding slowly to the side of the overturned dwelling. The craft was then made fast to a hook in one corner. "Let's go in," proposed Blake, when they had gazed through a window for a moment, not being able, however, to distinguish much. "How do you act in an upside-down house?" asked Joe. "You have to walk on the ceiling, of course," answered his chum. "The ceiling is the floor and the floor the ceiling. Come on." They crawled in through a window. As Blake had said, they had to step on the ceiling, and with caution, too, for it was only lath and plaster. Over their heads was the floor, with the sagging carpet still tacked to it. Of course all the furniture was on the ceiling, too, and it was in great confusion. Bureaus had fallen on their sides, smashing the plaster, and pictures had dropped from their hooks and lay on the ceiling. The house was a flat-roofed one, and all of what had been the third story was now under water. The third story was now the cellar, and the cellar, or what had corresponded to it, was the attic. Though, as the bottom of the cellar had been left on the ground when the house was washed from the foundations, there was no roof to the "attic." "Quite a mix-up!" murmured Joe, as they went from room to room, stepping over the tops of the door openings. Beds and furniture were piled in confusion in the different rooms, much of the stuff being broken. There were evidences, too, that water had come in some of the rooms, probably when the house turned over, but it had drained out, and now the rooms on the middle or second story were comparatively dry. "Let's go upstairs, or, rather, downstairs, to the first story," suggested Blake. Once on the top, or, rather, bottom floor, the boys found more confusion. The dining room table had fallen with its legs in the air, and piled about it was a buffet and chairs. The dishes lay about, broken and cracked. In the kitchen the weight of the stove, falling from the floor to the ceiling, had caused it to crash through the lath and plaster, in which it was imbedded, partly covered by the cooking utensils. "Nothing much of value here," commented Blake, as they walked about on the ceilings. "Let's go back up; or, rather, downstairs," suggested Joe. "Find anything?" asked the manager. "Nothing worth saving for the owners," Blake answered. "Well, then, we'd better be getting back," suggested Mr. Piper. "It will soon be dark, and there's no telling when this house may go adrift, or turn right-side up again. I don't want to be in it when it does." They were about to crawl out of the window again, to get into their boat, when a curious cry stopped them. "Hark!" exclaimed Blake. "What was that?" "It sounded like someone crying," said Mr. Piper. "Mamma! Mamma!" came the plaintive call from one of the bedrooms. "It is someone crying!" decided the manager. "And in here, too," added Blake, as he made a turn in the direction of the sound. Again it came--a pitiful cry: "Mamma! I want you!" "Where are you? Who are you?" asked Mr. Ringold, as he and the others followed Blake. And there, sitting up amid a pile of bedclothes in a corner, hitherto unobserved, was a small boy, about eight years old. He had evidently just awakened, and was starting to cry. He rubbed his sleepy eyes. "Well, my little man, who are you?" asked the manager, kindly. "I'm Charlie," was the answer, "and I want my mamma." "Charlie; eh?" went on the manager. "Well, tell us your other name, and maybe we can find your mamma for you. What's your last name?" "Ain't got none. I'm just Charlie, and I want my mamma!" was the answer. "Just Charlie," went on Mr. Ringold. "Well, I guess we'll have to take you along with us, and we'll try to find your mamma. Will you come with us, Charlie--er--well, 'just' Charlie?" and he smiled at the little chap. "Call him Charlie House," suggested Joe, with a smile. "We found him in a house, so call him Charlie House." "Good idea! We will!" decided the manager. "Will you come with us, Charlie House?" "Yes, I'll come with you," answered the boy, as he threw off the bedclothes. "But my name is just Charlie." "Well, Just Charlie, or Charlie House, come along then. I expect you're hungry, and we'll feed you, and do all we can for you," the manager said. With the confidence of childhood, that knows no fear, the boy walked over the ceiling toward the rescuers. His clothing was in disorder, and his face was grimy from crying. Evidently, after the accident, he had cried himself to sleep. How he came to be alone in the overturned house could be but guessed. "What's that?" suddenly cried Blake. The whole house seemed to shake and tremble. "She's adrift again, and going to turn over!" yelled Joe. "Come on! Let's get out!" It was evident that the dwelling was going to be righted by the flood, for it tilted more and more. CHAPTER XIII LOOKING FOR MOTHER "Look out!" "Make for the boat!" "Grab up the boy!" "Lively, or it will be too late!" Thus exclaiming, the rescuers made their hurried way toward the window, near which the boat was tied. Mr. Ringold had caught up Charlie House, as they had elected to call him, and, with the child in his arms, was given the right of way--that is, the others stood aside, and let the manager get to the window first. Luckily the turning of the house was slow, and by a chance swirl of the current, the motor boat had been swung broadside to the window. Also the tilting of the house was in the direction of that side where was the window by which they had entered, so that the upper part, corresponding to the sill, was nearer to the water, so they could more easily get over it, and into the _Clytie_. In an instant Mr. Ringold had leaped into the boat and moved back out of the way, to make space for the others. "Go ahead, boys!" cried Mr. Piper, as he stood to one side in the house, near the window, and waited for Blake and Joe. "No, you go!" insisted Blake. "Come on--don't argue! She's going to turn over again!" cried Mr. Ringold, and then the gloomy comedian fairly thrust, first Joe, and then Blake, through the window, from which the sash had been broken. The moving picture actor followed an instant later, and not a second too soon. "Cut the rope!" yelled the manager, who was holding Charlie. The boy was crying again, probably from fright. With one stroke of his keen-bladed knife, Blake severed the cable, and the boat drifted away from the house. And, no sooner was the craft free than, amid a great swirl of the waters, the dwelling turned right-side up again, the furniture and kitchen utensils inside falling from ceiling to floor with a crash. So big was the wave caused by this righting of the house that the _Clytie_ was nearly swamped. She bobbed about on the swell, and went nearly over. But she was a well balanced craft, and, after a bit, rode on an even keel once more. "Narrow escape, that," said Mr. Ringold, solemnly, as he tried to comfort Charlie. The little lad was sobbing: "I wants my mamma, I does! I wants my mamma! I want to go home!" "We'll take you home, and to your mamma, as soon as we can," promised the manager, soothingly. "But don't you want to sleep in this nice boat, to-night? And see, I'll make the choo-choo engine go for you. Won't that be nice?" "Yes," answered Charlie, now, smiling through his tears. The motor was set going, and, as the house drifted on down stream, upright once more, and freed from the sandbar on which it had stranded, the motor boat was steered toward the big oak tree, where she was to be tied for the night. Charlie House was so interested now, in the working of the machinery, and the various novel sights aboard the motor craft, that he forgot his loneliness. Blake spread him some bread and jam, and this completed the temporary happiness of the poor little waif. Later he was given more supper, which he ate with a fine appetite, showing that he must have been without food for some time. There was a spare bunk on the _Clytie_, and Charlie, the traces of his tears washed away, was soon sleeping comfortably in this. "What are we going to do?" asked Blake, when the others sat in the small cabin that night, talking over the situation. "Well, we've got to try to locate his mother, of course," said Mr. Ringold. "I'll have a talk with him in the morning, and see if I can't find out from what town or city it was his house was carried away. He ought to know where he lived, even if he doesn't recall his own name. And that may come to him by daylight. We'll just let him sleep now, and get some ourselves." "For we've got a lot of work ahead of us," commented C. C. Piper. "Going to stand watch and watch to-night?" asked Blake. "I don't see any need of it," answered Mr. Ringold. "We are out of the way of the main flood here, and, even if the river does rise, we'll be all right. I think we'll all go to bed." The night was a rather restless one for all save Charlie House. The little chap slept through it all, though about midnight the river began to rise again, as those aboard the boat could tell by her motions. But they were moored with a long cable, and it would need a great lift to put them in danger. "Did my mamma come?" asked Charlie, as soon as he opened his eyes in the morning. "No, but she'll be here soon, I hope," said Blake, who was near the bunk of the small chap. Charlie's eyes filled with tears. "Come on, and see me get breakfast," urged Joe, who was willing to do his share in providing amusement for the little fellow. "I'll show you how to make flap-jacks," he went on. "What's flap-jacks?" asked Charlie, interested at once. "Well, maybe your mamma calls them griddle-cakes--or pancakes," said Blake. "Oh, I love pancakes!" Charlie exclaimed, and the danger of a crying spell was over, for the time being, at least. With prepared flour, Joe mixed up a batter, and soon the cakes were browning on a greased griddle, on the gasoline stove. There was maple syrup to eat on them, and with hot coffee for the older ones, there was served a meal anyone might have enjoyed. "We're having it too easy," complained Blake, as he took a third helping of cakes. "It seems as though, in a flood like this, we ought to be eating hard tack." "Well, we may come to that yet," said Joe, with a sigh. And it was not long after that when they recalled this talk, at a time when indeed they would have given much for even some hard tack. But matters were propitious enough now, and, after the morning meal, the boat was started off again on her now double quest. "I think the best plan for us to follow," said Mr. Ringold, when they were heading into the main river, "will be to stop at the first town we come to, and make inquiries, both about our friends, and Charlie's mother. I'll question him and see if he knows where he used to live." But Charlie's memory was either very faulty, or the events of the flood had driven all recollection from his mind. All he could say was that he lived "home" with his papa and mamma, and he wanted them both, though, for the time, he was willing to stay with his new friends, and watch the "choo-choo" engine. "But what did your father do?" asked Blake, thinking they might get some clew, if they knew his occupation. "He works," said Charlie, contentedly. "He works for mamma and me." "And you don't know where you lived?" inquired C. C. "I lived home," was all Charlie would say. "Then it rained, and mamma and papa took a lot of things out of our house, over to grandma's house. Grandma lives on a hill." "They must have moved their valuables out when they saw the flood rising," commented Joe. "What happened after that?" asked Blake. "It rained," said Charlie, simply. "Mamma and papa took more things over to grandma's, and I went to sleep. When I woke up it was all dark, and my bed was crooked. I guess I fell out of my bed," he added. "That was when the house went upside-down, I guess he means," suggested Mr. Ringold. "I can imagine what happened," he went on, in a low tone, as the boy went to the after rail to watch the debris floating by. "His folks began carrying out their valuables, and left him in the house. They made one trip too many, and the house was carried away, and upset. Charlie was in it, and he stayed in it until we rescued him. Now we've just got to trust to luck to find his folks." They were fairly out on the flooded Mississippi again, and from the manner in which they were tossed about, and swirled this way and that, it could easily be guessed that the river had been augmented during the night, and that more rain had fallen along the upper water-shed. They stopped, about noon, at a small village, partly under water, and, while Joe and Blake made some pictures, Mr. Ringold and C. C. inquired for any word of the missing players, and for news of Charlie's folks. To send off any telegrams proved out of the question. So many families had been separated, and so many mothers were looking for lost children, as well as children inquiring for missing parents, that no progress was made. However, Charlie House seemed contented enough now, with his new friends. He was much better off than in the upside-down house, for he was comfortable and had enough to eat. He had been rescued only just in time, too, for he probably would have been killed, or at least severely injured, when the dwelling righted itself again. The work of saving their belongings was being undertaken by many of the people of the village where our friends stopped, and scenes of this were filmed by the moving picture boys. Work was also in progress on a hastily-constructed levee, in an endeavor to prevent the whole of the town from being washed away. Once more the rescue party was off. There was more danger now, as there was still more debris coming down the big, muddy water, and several times the boat was nearly struck by a floating house, or barn. "We've got to keep a sharp lookout!" decided Mr. Ringold. "It won't do to be swamped--there'd be no getting ashore in this flood. Keep your eyes open, boys!" With one in the stern and another at the bow, taking turns, the rescuers did all they could to prevent the boat from being damaged, by fending off logs and heavy driftwood. The day wore on, and though they stopped at several other towns, in a search for Charlie's mother, their quest was unsuccessful. Nor was anything heard of the missing players. "Well, I guess we'll have to look for another stopping place for the night," remarked Mr. Ringold, late that afternoon. He was about to turn the wheel over to Joe, for a rest, when Blake, who was in the extreme bow, cried out: "Quick! Put her over! We're going to ram a barn!" CHAPTER XIV FIRE AND FLOOD For a moment Joe and Mr. Ringold did not know whether or not Blake was joking. But the lad in the bow cried again: "Steer to the right, or you'll be into the barn, sure! It's directly in our course!" And then Blake, springing back out of the front of the boat, gave his chum and the manager a clear view ahead, for he had been rather obstructing their vision. The two at the wheel saw a small barn, swirling around in the water. It was upright, and was directly in their path. With a quick spin of the wheel Joe turned the rudder, and the _Clytie_ glided past the barn, her rub-streak fairly grazing the structure. The barn had been hidden from view by a large tree which had drifted down with it, and the sudden separation of the foliage and the farm structure, revealed the latter to Blake just in time. Then, as the motor boat swept on, there came from the interior of the barn a loud: "Moo!" At the same moment a cow stuck her head out of a small window, and looked piteously at the rescuers. "Too bad! We can't do anything for you, old cow!" cried Blake. "I guess you're done for, unless your barn floats to shore. I wish we had room for you," he went on, whimsically, "for we could use fresh milk very nicely." They had been obliged to put up with the condensed variety thus far. The barn swept on down stream, turning around and around, as the boat went past it, the cow's head appearing at each turn, thrust through the window. With a small moving picture camera, Blake got a few views of this odd scene, to add to the others already taken. They decided to tie up for the night just above a small town, that was far enough from the banks of the Mississippi to have escaped the flood, thus far. But the inhabitants were in constant fear, and all available men were at work strengthening the levee. Our friends managed to purchase a few supplies, and they got some fresh milk, which luxury Charlie had missed very much, for he was accustomed to drinking it. The little boy was quite fretful after supper, and cried for his lost home and parents. But Blake induced him to listen to some fairy stories, and finally Charlie House fell asleep, and was put in his bunk. "Poor little chap," murmured Blake, as he tucked the child in snugly. "Poor little chap!" And then Blake thought of Birdie Lee, and the others of the lost theatrical party. "If you boys will stay here with the boat, Mr. Piper and I will go to town and see if there is any answer to the telegram I sent this morning, from the upper village," said Mr. Ringold, when dusk had fallen. He had taken this method, instead of waiting for an answer to his wire. A message had been sent to the New York office, asking if any news had been received of the missing ones, and a request was made that any reply might be sent to Canton, which was the village above which they were now tied up. "Sure, we'll stay here," agreed Joe. "And I hope you get some word." But it was a vain hope, there being no reply to the message of inquiry. "The river is slowly rising," remarked Mr. Piper, with something of a return of his former gloomy manner. "It's going up about an inch and a half an hour. The townspeople are afraid it will break the levee, which is only a temporary one." "I wouldn't want to live out in this country," commented Blake. "This flood is likely to occur every year." "Oh, I guess they're used to it, somewhat," spoke Mr. Ringold. "But this is the worst they ever had. I'm really alarmed for our friends." "I've been alarmed all along," went on C. C. "That is, of course there may be a chance for them," he said, quickly, for he had made up his mind, at least while on this voyage, to try to look on the bright side of things. "I sincerely hope there will be a chance," murmured Mr. Ringold. "I would feel very badly, indeed, if I thought they were lost while making pictures for me." For some time that evening the rescuers sat about in the small cabin, talking over the situation. For some reason, though no one could account for it, there was a feeling of gloom in the hearts of all. Perhaps the fact that no word had come from New York induced it. But, certain it is, that no one felt very cheerful. They were moored near shore, and just above where the temporary levee, to protect the village, began. Below, above, and in front of them, swirled the dreary waste of waters. The Mississippi had spread itself out to more than twice its usual width, and had inundated much valuable land. It had washed away many houses and farm buildings, and many towns and cities were partly under the flood. And there was no certainty that the storm was over. True, the skies brightened now and then, but, as night fell, the heavens were overcast once more, and the wind, shifting, seemed to promise more downpours. "I guess I'll put double water-proof wrappings on the films, to-night," said Joe, just before he prepared for bed. "I certainly wouldn't want anything to happen to them now." Blake aided him in the work, and the boxes of exposed films were made as secure as possible against dampness and water. In the middle of the night Blake awoke. He heard a curious roaring, throbbing noise on the deck over his head. "What's that?" he asked, speaking aloud, involuntarily. "More rain," answered Joe, in a low voice. He, too, had been awakened. The storm had started again, and the drops were pelting down on the afflicted land. "This will make the river still higher," went on Blake. "I wish we were out of this--and had the missing ones, and Charlie's folks, safe." "So do I," answered Joe. "My! but I'm sick of the sound of rain!" The little boy, in the bunk near Blake, awakened, either from hearing the talk, or from the noise of the storm. "I'm hungry! I want my mamma!" he called. "I'll get you something to eat," said Blake, kindly, "and maybe mamma will come in the morning." He got up, and made some cracker and jam sandwiches for Charlie, who munched them contentedly, and went to sleep again. Blake then opened the cabin door, and looked out. "How is it?" asked Joe. "Pretty fierce!" murmured Blake, as he crept back to his bunk. "Pretty fierce. It's a raging torrent out there." Morning brought no cessation of the rain, though it was not coming down quite so hard after the dreary dawn broke. As our friends sat down to breakfast, they could see the alarmed villagers working frantically at the levee. For the rising waters were already lapping the top of it. Long lines of men, carrying bags and baskets of dirt and stones, piled them along the bank--the frail bank that alone stood between the flood and their homes! The boys took some pictures of the work, and then, casting off the mooring line, the trip down the river was resumed. Although it rained, Blake and Joe were not idle. They knew that many pictures were needed, and they set to work to get them, though they would not be as good as those made in clear weather. After dinner, rounding a bend in the stream, they came in sight of a town the greater part of which was under water, and, as they steered toward it, Mr. Ringold having said they would make a stop, Joe cried out: "Look! There's a house on fire!" "So there is!" shouted Blake. "Fire and flood together! It couldn't be much worse!" Those on the boat looked with awe, and feelings of deep sorrow, on the unhappy scene. The fire seemed gaining headway, in spite of the rain, and, as they approached, a second house caught from the first, the black smoke rolling skyward. "Put over there!" cried Mr. Ringold to C. C., who was steering. "Maybe we can help them--or rescue someone! Put over!" CHAPTER XV A HAPPY MEETING Fanned by a strong wind, the flames gained headway rapidly, and soon both houses were wrapped in fire, while over them hung a black pall of smoke. The dwellings were close together, and it seemed likely that more would catch, as there was no possibility of using the fire engines, if so small a town possessed them. For the streets of the village were three feet or more under water, and the curious sight was presented of houses surrounded by a flood being destroyed by fire. "The stoves must have upset, or something like that, to cause the fire!" cried Blake, as the motor boat was steered toward the blazing dwellings. "They're beginning the work of rescue now," called Mr. Ringold. "See, they're coming in boats." A number of small craft, containing several men, who had evidently been engaged in either rescue or salvage work, in another part of the town, came rowing along the inundated streets toward the scene of the fire. "Look!" shouted C. C. "Someone just jumped from one of the windows then! And there goes another!" They all looked in time to see a body plunge downward into the water, and one of the boats swerved toward it. Those aboard the _Clytie_ saw, a moment later, a woman pulled from the flood, and taken into the small boat. At the same moment another body shot from a window of the first burning house, and this person, too, was rescued. "After all, the water is a good thing," remarked Blake, as he hastily oiled the motor. "They couldn't jump on the hard ground, but the flood saves them, even if it does destroy their houses." "They are certainly having their own troubles," observed Joe. "We'll help them all we can!" cried the manager. "Get out some of the life preservers, boys, and the cork rings. It may be that we shall need them." They had provided themselves with these appliances before starting off on their trip, and Blake and Joe now took them from the lockers and laid them where they could be gotten at instantly. "I saw a fire once," remarked little Charlie, who was an interested observer of the fearsome scene. "Did you?" asked C. C., who had taken a great liking to the small chap. "Where?" "Our barn burned up," the child went on, "but pa, he got our horse out, and the cow." "He must have lived on a farm," said the actor to the boys, "and yet that upside-down house we took him from didn't look like a farm dwelling. It was more like a city place." "He may have lived on a farm when he was younger," observed Blake. "I wonder if we'll ever find his folks?" No one answered him, for they were all intent on watching the fire. Five houses were now ablaze, and people were jumping from all of them, so that the men in the boats had all they could do to make the rescues. Farther along the row of dwellings, persons were preparing to leave, for it was evident that nothing could save their homes except a change of wind. But boats were needed to enable them to get safely away, and it seemed there were not enough craft. True, the water was not more than three to six feet deep, and a man, or even some strong women swimmers, might have gotten along safely, but frail ones, and the children, could not. "We'll have plenty of chance to help!" cried Blake, as they came nearer the scene. Their approach was welcomed with cheers by those in peril. "Hurray for the motor boat!" yelled one enthusiastic lad--enthusiastic even in peril. His house was three or four dwellings removed from those already burning. "We'll take you off!" shouted Joe. "That's the way!" cried one of the men in the small boats. "Just run 'em over to the high ground, and come back for more. We will have to put up tents to house 'em, I guess." The _Clytie_ was steered close to a burning house, and the anxious eyes of those aboard her sought for signs of life. There were no persons at the windows, however, and they were about to pass on to the next, the roof of which was just beginning to blaze, from the sparks falling on it, when Joe cried: "There's someone!" "A little girl!" added Blake, as he saw the figure of a child at an upper window. "Jump!" called Mr. Ringold, while he reversed the propeller, to hold back the boat against the force of the current. "Jump, little girl!" "I--I'm afraid!" she sobbed. "We'll save you!" added Mr. Piper, holding out his arms encouragingly. "Jump, the water won't hurt you." "I must get a picture of this," murmured Blake. "There are enough others to aid in the rescue work, and I'll leave the camera, and help, the minute I'm needed." "Yes, it's too good a chance to miss," agreed Joe. And, while the child hesitated at the window, the flames increased. Blake got the moving picture camera into action. "Come! You must jump!" called Mr. Ringold. The child hesitated a moment longer, and then, as a backward look into the house showed her the raging fire coming nearer, she burst into tears, and climbed out on the window sill. Waiting there a moment she let herself drop, feet foremost, into the flood. "Watch her!" cried Mr. Ringold, as he remained at the wheel. The child disappeared beneath the surface of the muddy water. "I've got her!" yelled Mr. Piper, as she bobbed up a moment later, and he hauled her aboard. "Now you're all right, little one," he said, soothingly, as he cuddled her in his arms. "We'll take care of you." "We'll have to get out of here," shouted the manager. "It is getting too hot!" They had drifted in close to a burning house--so close, in fact, that blazing brands fell on the deck of the boat. But they were quickly extinguished by Joe. Blake continued to grind away at the camera, getting a series of remarkable pictures of the burning houses in the flood. The small boats, having taken their loads of refugees to safety, returned to continue the work, and the _Clytie_ was steered on down the row of houses to where others were waiting to be saved. Dwelling after dwelling was emptied of its occupants, and soon the motor boat was laden to the limit of safety. "We'll take 'em to high ground, and come back!" said the manager, as he turned the bow of the craft up a side street, that led to the hills back of the town. They went in as near shore as was safe, and then those whom our friends had saved were taken off on an improvised raft, and cared for by volunteers who had hastily organized to help in this time of stress and trouble. "The fire will soon burn itself out," remarked Blake, as they went back to it again. "I'll get all the pictures I can, though." There were only a few more houses left in the row that had started to burn, and when the last of these was gone there was a wide space which would preclude the possibility of more being devoured by the flames--at least until another blaze started. There was nothing that could be done to check the conflagration. In fact, as the boys learned later, the town was without fire protection, save a volunteer company, with a hand engine, and this was, of course, useless in the flood. Proceeding to a house at a point below which the small boats were engaged in rescue work, those aboard the _Clytie_ saved a number of women and children. These were taken to a place of safety, and another trip back made. "There goes the last house!" cried Blake, as the final one in the row caught. "Yes, and there's a woman signaling to us!" added Joe. "Two of 'em!" yelled Mr. Piper, as he caught sight of two forms at a third-story window. This house was all aflame on one side, from the water's edge to the roof, but it had not yet kindled on the side where the women appeared. They had made their way to the top floor, perhaps on account of fire being below them. "Jump!" yelled Blake, as he put aside his camera, for the reel of film had run out, and he did not want to stop to thread in more. "Yes, jump!" added Mr. Ringold. "We'll save you--it's your only chance!" "I'm coming!" answered one woman, and she made a dive into some deep water an instant later, evidently being an accomplished swimmer. She came up near the motor boat, and was promptly taken in. "Come on!" cried Mr. Ringold to the other woman. She hesitated, and drew back, evidently being in great fear, and she seemed to be saying something, for her lips could be seen to move. "You must jump!" the manager shouted, as he slowly backed the boat to keep her as nearly as possible in a favorable position for picking up the woman when she dived. She gave a backward look into the house, and what she saw must have caused her to make up her mind, for she prepared to leap into the flood below her. The one who had been at the window with her, having gotten her breath after her leap, added her entreaties to those aboard the _Clytie_. "Jump, Mary! Jump!" she begged. "It's your only chance!" The woman at the window hesitated no longer. She tumbled, rather than dived, into the water, but the rescuers were on the alert, and though the woman came up some little distance from the craft, Blake, with a boathook, caught her dress, and pulled her close enough so that Mr. Piper could haul her aboard. Then the _Clytie_ was put in motion, for the house was burning fast, and her position was anything but safe. For a few moments after her rescue, the second woman thus saved was hysterical. But her companion attended her, and soon she was more like herself. "You'll be all right in a little while," said Mr. Piper. "We'll take you to high ground, and the good women there will look after you." "Oh, what a terrible time it has been--fire and flood!" murmured the one called Mary. "It certainly has been, but the Lord is good to us--he sent these kind men and boys to save us," the other added, as she looked at Blake and Joe. "If only He would give me back my little boy," sobbed the second woman saved. "But oh, the flood has taken him!" She sobbed on her companion's shoulder. "There, there," soothed the other, "you may find him some day. Don't take on so, Mary." "I can't help it, Ellen. Oh, my poor boy!" It was evident that she was referring to some previous loss. Charlie, who had been in the darkened cabin, started suddenly as he heard the voice of the woman called Mary. He now came out on the open deck, and stared curiously at her. And the woman, who was supporting the head of the other on her shoulder, looked at Charlie. A change came over her face. She tried to speak but could not. Finally she did manage to gasp: "Mary! Look! Look! Here's Charlie now! Here's your boy!" The woman raised her tear-stained face. For a moment she did not comprehend, and then, as a look of great joy showed itself in her eyes, she held out her arms, crying: "My boy! My boy! Charlie! Is it possible!" And as for the little lad, with one glad cry, he threw himself into her loving clasp, sobbing over and over again: "Mamma! Mamma! Oh, I am so glad!" CHAPTER XVI A BOLT FROM THE SKY Blake, Joe and the others looked on in bewildered surprise at this touching scene. That Charlie should have found his mother in this fashion seemed scarcely possible, yet such was the fact. For several moments mother and son were in each other's arms, murmuring over and over again their protestations of love, and words of wonderment at the meeting. "Where did you find him?" the mother finally demanded, of our friends aboard the motor boat. "Oh, where ever did you find him?" "We got him out of a house, just as we did you," said Mr. Ringold, "only it was an upside-down house, and not a burning one. And so he is really your lost boy?" "Of course he is!" she cried, while Charlie added: "She's my mamma! I'm awful glad you found her for me. Where have you been, Mamma?" "It's a long story," she sighed. "But first I want to hear about you. Oh, I thought I would never see you again." "It won't take long to tell all we know about it," said Mr. Ringold, and he related the facts of the rescue of the boy they had christened Charlie House. "His name is Charlie Wentworth," explained his mother, "and that was our house from which you saved him. It's strange he did not know his last name, and where he lived, for he has often been lost, and he could always tell where he lived all right." "I guess the flood frightened him," said Blake, with a smile. "How did he happen to be left in the house?" "It was because of the confusion of the flood in our town," explained Mrs. Wentworth. "My husband and I were trying to save some of our things, taking them to my mother's place on a hill. We had taken Charlie to a neighbor's house before the water actually reached our dwelling, but he must have wandered back into it again when we did not know it, and have gone to sleep in the bed." "Yep. I went to sleep in bed," supplemented the lad, with a happy laugh. "Then the levee gave way suddenly," went on his mother, "and our house, and several others, were carried away. My husband and I supposed Charlie was safe at the neighbor's until we got there and found him missing. We were frantic, and searched everywhere for him, never dreaming he was in our own house. Then the flood grew worse and we had to flee to high ground. We gave him up for drowned. Oh, it does not seem possible that I have him again!" "Where is your husband now?" asked Mr. Ringold, as he guided the boat toward the place where the other rescued persons had been landed. "We came on to this town, where my sister lived," went on Mrs. Wentworth. "This is my sister," she added, nodding toward the woman who had first dived into the flood. "We had to take refuge with her, as we had no other home, and we did not think the flood would come here also. But it did, and it brought my little boy to me!" she cried, as again she clasped him in her arms. "My husband is out, doing relief work," she resumed, after a moment. "We heard a rumor, this morning, that some children had been rescued from a raft farther down the river and he went down there to investigate, thinking, and hoping against hope, that our Charlie might be one of them. "He will be more than surprised when he comes back to find my sister's house burned in the flood, and that I have Charlie. Oh, I wish he were here now!" "I want to see papa!" broke in Charlie. "And so you shall, my dear boy, as soon as he comes back. I expect him to-night," said Mrs. Wentworth. "Oh, I cannot thank you enough--ever!" and she gazed fondly at our friends. "It wasn't anything," said Mr. Ringold. "We happened to visit the house out of curiosity, and of course we brought Charlie away when we found him. He's a brave little chap." A little later the temporary camp, on the high ground, was reached, and there Mrs. Wentworth, her sister and son were cared for by loving hands. The others who had been saved from the burning houses were also being looked after. "Well, I guess we've done all we can here," said Blake, as they prepared to resume their journey down the river. The blazing houses were burning themselves out, down to the edge of the water, and the danger from the flames was over. But the peril of the flood still remained, for the waters slowly continued to rise. "We found Charlie's folks," remarked Joe, when they had bidden an affectionate farewell to the boy's mother, aunt and others of the rescued ones, "we found Charlie's folks, but we can't seem to locate our own friends." "And yet we may find them in just as unexpected a manner as we found Mrs. Wentworth," spoke C. C. "I tell you I'm mighty glad we happened along when we did. It's just like a story out of a book." "It would make a good moving picture, if we could show it all complete," spoke Blake. "It could be worked up into a drama, with the flood scenes you have," declared the theatrical manager. "I could film the missing scenes later. I believe I will." "There'll be one happy father to-night," observed Joe, thoughtfully. "When Mr. Wentworth comes back, unsuccessful, and finds his son, he sure will be happy!" "We'll miss the little chap," spoke Blake. "He was as good as gold while he was with us." On the chance that there might still be some in need of rescue in the town where the houses had burned, the _Clytie_ went back through the flooded streets, but men in small boats were patrolling the district, and, thanking our friends for their work, said they would look after matters now. "But there won't be much left to look after, if this keeps on," spoke one man, gloomily enough, as he looked over the burned section, and the flooded village. "We've been smitten mighty hard." "But we'll come up again, when the waters go down!" cried another, more cheerfully. "It might be worse. No lives have been lost, so far, that's one blessing!" "That's a good way to look at it," said Mr. Ringold, as he directed the craft out into the main flood again, and turned her bow down stream. As they were all tired, and wet from the work of rescuing those who had leaped into the water, it was decided to make a stop, tie up, have something to eat, and clean the boat, for there was much mud and water aboard from the clothing of the saved ones. Accordingly, in a sheltered cove, tied to a tree that stuck up out of the flood, they made a halt. The preparation of the meal, and the cleansing of the boat took longer than they expected, and as Blake wanted to get some pictures of that flooded section, they decided to remain there over night, and proceed in the morning. The weather had cleared again, at least for the time being, and, aside from their anxiety about the missing ones, our friends were fairly comfortable. They had put on dry clothing, and sat in the cabin of the boat, discussing the strenuous scenes through which they had recently passed. A loud crash awakened them all about midnight, no watch having been kept. It sounded like some great explosion, close at hand. "What was that?" cried Blake, sitting up in his bunk. He had his answer a second later, for there was a blinding flash, and another booming sound. "Thunder and lightning!" exclaimed Joe. "It's a storm!" A moment later there came a deluge of rain, that fairly roared as it struck the deck and awnings of the boat. "Whew!" exclaimed Blake. "This is fierce! If this keeps up long the flood will exceed its own high-water mark." "Better take a look at the cable," suggested Mr. Ringold. "We don't want to get adrift in this outburst." Blake put on a raincoat, and stepped outside. The vivid lightning, and the deafening thunder, kept up, and he was forced to cling to the rail to steady himself against the motion of the craft, and the force of the wind. The _Clytie_ was tugging hard at her mooring cable, which was strained taut. "It wouldn't do any harm to put on another rope!" cried Blake. "We'll do it," answered Mr. Ringold, from the sleeping cabin. Blake made his way to the cleat to which the boat end of the rope was made fast. He saw, with concern, that the rope was frayed, and would not hold much longer. "Better hurry!" he called, but he had scarcely spoken when the very sky seemed rent with a bolt of lightning, and, as the raging, roaring, flooded river was lighted up by the flash, the rope parted and the motor boat was carried away. "We're adrift!" yelled Blake, as intense darkness succeeded the bright glare. CHAPTER XVII THE COTTON BARGE For a moment there was the utmost confusion aboard the craft. The words of Blake, the sudden motion as the rope broke, the tossing and pitching, as the boat was borne on the crest of the flood, seemed to deprive them all of the ability to act. Blake himself had nearly been carried overboard, so suddenly did the cable part, but he managed to grasp a rail and so saved himself. "Can you see anything?" yelled Mr. Ringold, as he was struggling into his raincoat. "Only when it lightens," answered Blake. "It's a fierce storm, all right." The others came out on deck, and, as flash succeeded flash, they viewed the mad scene all about them. On raced the motor boat, a frail thing indeed in that wild waste of waters. "We've got to start the engine!" yelled Mr. Ringold, for one needed to yell to be heard above that storm. "It's the only way we can be safe," the manager added. "Start the motor!" "And where will we steer?" Mr. Piper wanted to know. "Anywhere we can, to get in some sheltered place," suggested Blake. "But it's doubtful if we can stem this wind and current." "We'll have to quarter it," spoke Mr. Ringold, when he had taken an observation, by the aid of a lightning flash. Meanwhile Joe and Mr. Piper had started the motor, and, as the welcome throb and hum were heard, Blake and the manager went to the wheel. "Better light up," the moving picture man said. "No telling what we may run into, or what might run into us. There are probably boats afloat, bad as the storm is." Save for a single light in the cabin, and a riding light outside, the _Clytie_ was in darkness when the cable parted. But now the incandescents were switched on. They were operated by a large storage battery, charged by a dynamo, run by the motor flywheel. With a powerful searchlight at her bow, her stern light, and the red and green side lamps, as well as the cabin lights, aglow, the craft now presented a more cheerful aspect, and she was certainly safer. The lights, too, helped to take away the really terrifying effect of the vivid lightning. The place at the wheel was partitioned off, and that little pilot house, as it were, was left in darkness, to enable Blake and Mr. Ringold to see to steer. They could do little, however, save to try and cross the current in a diagonal direction, to make their way to some sheltered cove. "This certainly is the limit!" murmured Blake, as he stood at the manager's side. "I didn't think there was any more rain left in the clouds." "There seems to be plenty coming down," observed the theatrical man, grimly. They listened to it pelting on the cabin roof. It was a constant roar, and added to it was the thunder of the sky artillery, following each flash, and the never-ceasing hiss and hum of the rushing river. "We'll have to look out for debris as best we can," spoke Mr. Ringold. "There are some big logs afloat, and if one hits us end on----" He did not finish, but Blake realized what he meant. "Look! That struck just in front of us!" cried the youth, as he and his companion shrank back, instinctively, from a particularly vivid flash. His words were drowned in the shock that followed, and indeed it was seen that the bolt had struck the water but a little way in advance of the boat. A smell, as of sulphur, filled the air, and there was a sensation as though everyone aboard the craft had received a mild electric shock. "That was close enough!" murmured Joe, as he come into the cabin, after having seen to the oiling of the motor. "I should say so!" agreed Mr. Piper, who followed him. Try as Mr. Ringold did to send the craft out of the main current, he seemed unable to accomplish it. It was as though the boat were in the grip of some powerful hand, that was shoving her forward. Several times, as they fairly flew onward, the propeller aiding the current in making speed, those aboard felt the bumps and shocks as they struck objects in the water. Fortunately the debris was moving at considerable speed also, and in the same direction as was the motor boat, or serious damage might have been done. "There goes another hit!" cried Blake, as he saw a second lightning bolt descend into the water. This one, though, was far enough off so that no unpleasant effects were felt by our friends. The bolt from the sky, however, hit and split wide open a big tree that was floating down stream. "If it strikes us," murmured Mr. Piper, "we'll----" And then he thought better of what he was evidently going to say, and did not finish his sentence. "It's of no use," said Mr. Ringold, after a while, "We can't make any headway across the river. We'll just have to go on and trust to luck." He and Blake kept a sharp lookout ahead, and managed to avoid, several times, collisions with floating debris in the shape of logs, and parts of buildings. As they rounded a turn, which could be made out by the flashes of lightning, Blake uttered a cry. "What's that--just ahead?" he shouted. He pointed to a large black object, looming up on the right. At the same moment there came another flash, seemingly of greater intensity than any that had preceded it. The flash appeared to completely envelope the big, dark object, and with one voice Blake and Mr. Ringold cried: "A cotton barge!" "And struck by lightning, too!" added Blake, a second later, as, despite the downpour of rain, flames burst from several places on the loaded boat. The lightning had indeed set fire to the cotton, which was floating down the river. It had probably broken away from the place where it had been moored, or from the tug that was towing it. Rapidly the flames gained headway, and, as there came a sudden cessation to the rain, which might have extinguished them, the tongues of fire leaped higher and higher. "I hope we will be able to keep well away from her," murmured Mr. Ringold, and for a time it seemed as though they might, for the burning barge was well in advance of our friends. But it was a vain hope. A little later the barge suddenly grounded on some obstruction, and remained stationary, while the motor boat was borne down directly on it. "Steer to one side!" yelled Blake. "I'm trying to!" echoed the manager, but it was easily seen that he was not going to be able to do this in time. A moment later the _Clytie_ poked her bow against the barge, with great force. Fortunately, however, a bale of cotton, hanging partly overboard, took the brunt of the blow, so no damage was done. "Back water!" cried Joe. "We'll be on fire in another minute!" It certainly seemed so, for though they had struck the barge at a place where, for the time being, there were no flames, the fire was rapidly enveloping the whole cargo. Mr. Ringold pulled the reversing lever, throwing in the gears, but the craft remained with her bow still against the cotton barge. The force of the current back of the _Clytie_ was too much for her to overcome. She was gradually being swung around sideways to the barge. The flames were getting hotter. They roared and crackled, and vied with the thunder and lightning in adding to the scene of terror. "Send her ahead!" suddenly cried Blake. "That's our only chance!" "What for?" demanded his chum. "We may be able to shove the barge off the bar, or away from the snag, or whatever is holding her. Then she'll drift away from us. It's our only chance!" "You're right!" cried Mr. Ringold. Once more he changed the lever, and now the propeller beat the muddy water to foam, as the bow of the motor boat pushed hard against the side of the barge. And Blake's advice proved to be the best. For, hanging an instant on the bar that had caught her, the barge suddenly gave way, and now, almost completely wrapped in flames, she once more started on her journey down the swirling torrent. Then Mr. Ringold was able, by a quick turn of the helm, and by speeding up the engine, to swing to one side, and away from the burning craft, which was left to go on to her own destruction. "Whew! Hot work!" exclaimed Blake. "I should say so," agreed Joe. The first fury of the storm seemed now to have passed. The thunder was less heavy, and the lightning not so vivid. The rain had started again, but it was a mere drizzle. For several miles more the _Clytie_ went on, at the mercy of the current, and then, as the lightning flash revealed a little cove to one side, Mr. Ringold determined to steer for it. To his delight he found that the boat answered her helm well, the river being wider at this point, and the current less powerful. And then, a little later, they were able to come into comparatively quiet waters, where, with the aid of the searchlight, they found a big tree, to which they tied, and with double cables. CHAPTER XVIII OVERBOARD "Well, what's the program for to-day?" "Down the river--more pictures--and make all the inquiries we can about our friends." It was Joe who asked the question, and Blake who answered it. The moving picture boys were getting breakfast aboard the motor boat, which was still safely tied to a big tree in the cove where they had made a stop the night before, following the fire on the cotton barge. It had stopped raining, but the sky was not clear, and the flood was all about them, the waters being higher than ever. There seemed to be no cessation to the increase. "We certainly are getting a fine lot of pictures out of it all," murmured Joe, as he glanced at the pile of films in the water-proof cases. "Yes, that's the one redeeming feature," agreed Blake, as he put the coffee on to boil. "How's the weather outside?" called Mr. Ringold, from his bunk. "Nothing to boast of," replied Blake. "Looks as if it would rain more any minute." "Anything out there worth filming?" "Nothing much--a lot of stuff coming down the river, but we've got enough of that," spoke Joe. "I only wish we could have filmed the burning cotton barge, but we had enough to do as it was, to get clear of it ourselves." "I should say so," came from Blake, as he recalled the danger of the night before. Breakfast over, preparations were made for again moving down stream. The boys got the camera ready to take any scenes that might be worth filming, and Mr. Ringold and C. C. took charge of the boat. As the lines were being cast off, there came rowing along the stream, close in to shore, so as to keep out of the strong current, a farmer in a skiff. He seemed somewhat surprised to see our friends, but hailed them, asking: "I say, you folks ain't seen nothin' of a spotted cow critter around here; have you?" "A cow? No," answered Blake. "We saw one floating down in a barn a day or so ago. Was she yours?" "No, my barn's still on land, but my spotted cow critter is missin' and I thought maybe you folks might have seen her." "She'd have to be swimming if she was around here," remarked Joe, looking at the waste of water. "Yes, I reckon so," agreed the farmer. "She jest naturally likes to wander off, that spotted cow critter of mine does. I guess she'll be drowned some day. Well, I'll look a little farther, and then I'll git back. Water's gittin' higher all the while. Where you folks bound for?" "No place in particular," Blake informed him. "We're looking for some friends of ours." "There's been a good many lost in this flood," the farmer said. "I had two hens and a rooster drowned in the last flood. I lived on low ground then. I've moved back a piece since. I'm hopin' the water don't come up to me now." "Is there any town near by--below here?" asked Mr. Ringold. Their supplies were getting low, and needed replenishing. "Yes, quite a good sized one about three mile down the river. The folks is workin' hard too, to keep the water out. There's a big shipment of cotton on the wharves waitin' for a boat to take it off, I hear. But if she don't come pretty soon the cotton will go floatin' off by itself. They can't git no help to move it back, 'cause all the men are busy on the levee." "That might make a good picture for us," suggested Blake to Joe, when they had called good-bye to the farmer who was looking for his "spotted cow critter." "I believe it would," agreed Joe. "We'll have a try at it, anyhow." "Kill two birds with one stone," said Mr. Ringold, "we'll get supplies, and pictures too." They started down stream, proceeding with care, for there was an unusual quantity of debris in the river--logs, part of lumber rafts, dismantled houses, barns and sheds. But the _Clytie_ was navigated safely through it all. Our friends had gone about a mile, when, as they went around a wooded point of land, they saw a curious sight. It was a large steamer, stranded inland, about a quarter of a mile from the water. It was listed to one side, and about it were many men, engaged in digging a trench, or canal, so as to float the craft back into the stream. "Well, what do you know about that?" cried Joe, in surprise. "Got to film her, all right!" declared Blake. "How could such a thing happen?" C. C. Piper wanted to know. "They probably went through a 'cut-off,'" explained Mr. Ringold, "and must have gone aground. Then, before they could float her, the waters took a new direction, made a new channel, and left the steamer where she is. I've read of such things, but never saw one. We'll go over and find out." The motor boat was directed to a point nearest the inland steamer, and, taking the camera, Blake and Joe went ashore, followed by the manager and actor. And, while the boys were taking moving pictures of the men at work digging the trench, to bring the river to the steamer, since the boat refused to go to the water, Mr. Ringold questioned the captain. "That's about how it happened," the latter said, when the manager had asked about the accident. "I tried a short cut, and we anchored for the night right about here. I s'posed I'd have water enough to go on in the morning, and maybe save about ten miles by this 'cut-off.' But, by George! When we tried to start in the morning we found the waters going down, and, before we knew it, we were high and dry. I don't know as we'll ever get afloat now." Indeed it did look like a hopeless task, but the men were working hard to take advantage of the high water. Once the flood subsided the steamer might never be floated, until another period of unusually heavy rain set in. "Well, I guess we've got enough of this," remarked Blake, as he took the final scenes at the steamer. "Now for some views in the village below." Once more they were under way, and a little later they came in sight of the town, which was the principal shipping port for cotton in that vicinity. "Say, there's a big crowd working there!" exclaimed Joe, as they headed for the levee, only a small part of which was out of water. "Yes, there's a big crowd there, but look at the few who are working at the cotton," spoke Blake. "There's a big pile of it, and it'll take those few men a good while to move it. The water's rising fast, too." The levee at this town was a sloping one, faced with cobble stones, and when the river was low, horses and wagons were driven down it to the landing stages of the steamers. There were no permanent docks, except on the very top of the levee, and it was there the cotton was stored. The absence of permanent docks, or wharves, close to the water was due to the sudden rise and fall of the stream at this point. Sometimes the steamers could come up to the permanent wharves, at the top of the levee. At others they were some distance off, and goods had to be moved down the slope in wagons, to the temporary landing stages, thrown out by the boats. The danger to the town, should the levee give way, was so evident, that every available man had been called on to strengthen the sloping bank, which kept back the waters. The owners of the cotton, it seems, had appealed in vain for help in moving their cargo back out of danger, and so they were obliged to do the work themselves. And it was no easy matter to handle the big, clumsy bales. The motor boat was tied where it would not be in the way, and, from the bow, Joe and Blake took a series of moving pictures while Mr. Ringold and C. C. went ashore to get some supplies, and make inquiries regarding the missing theatrical company. In regard to the latter, however, they received no satisfaction. Nothing had been seen or heard of them. The telegraph line, however, was in good working order, and Mr. Ringold sent a message to his New York office, asking if any news had been received from the missing ones. "We'll wait for a reply," he said. "It ought not to take many hours, and we can easily spare the time." "Joe," remarked Blake, when they had filmed several views of the scenes at the levee, "suppose we take the boat down stream a short distance. I want to get nearer to the piles of cotton, so they will show up well on the screen." "All right. I can work the boat, and you can manage the camera." Mr. Ringold and the actor were up in the town, but the manager had told the boys they might move the boat about as they pleased in getting pictures. Accordingly Joe cast off the line, started the motor and headed the craft nearer to the cotton wharf. "Hold her there now!" cried Blake, as he took a position at the bow with the camera. He was grinding away at the handle, paying no attention to the boat, or river, when suddenly a swirl of the current carried a big log directly against the bow of the craft. She was being headed slowly up stream, Joe working the motor only fast enough to maintain a slight headway. There came a jar that shook the _Clytie_ from stem to stern. "Look out!" yelled Joe to Blake, but the warning came too late. The young moving picture operator shot overboard, into the muddy water, the camera clattering to the deck behind him. CHAPTER XIX A COLLISION "Man overboard!" yelled Joe, more from a sudden instinct than because there was anyone beside himself on the boat to be informed of the fact. Then, with a leap, Joe was outside the pilot house, and standing in the bow of the still-moving craft. Joe had caught up, in his rush, a cork life ring, attached to a rope, one being kept on the forward deck in readiness for any emergency in the flood. The young operator shoved the fallen camera to one side, and peered eagerly down for a sight of his chum. "Here you go, Blake!" Joe cried, a hasty glance toward shore showing him two men coming in a rowboat, in response to his cries. "Here you go! Grab this!" For he had a glimpse of Blake's head emerging from the water. Blake was a good swimmer, but he was handicapped by his clothes and shoes, and the fact that the current was rather swift. The young operator shook his head, to rid his eyes of the blinding water, and then reached out for the ring which Joe tossed to him. He caught it in one hand, and then was quickly pulled toward the boat. "All--all right--Joe--good--work!" Blake managed to gasp. A moment later he was safe on deck, and Joe had to run back in a hurry to the steering wheel, for the _Clytie_ was headed directly for the small boat. The men in it were crying out in alarm, and endeavoring to get out of the way. But the unguided motor craft seemed bent on running them down. "All right! Don't worry!" shouted Joe, as he twirled over the steering wheel, and changed the course of the boat. "I guess we'd better go back and tie up," he added. "Did you get enough pictures, Blake?" "Well, we'll call it a day's work," panted the young operator, as he managed to get a full breath after his sudden bath. "I was almost finished when that bump came and knocked me overboard. What was it?" "A big log. I didn't see it in time." "Neither did I, or I'd have taken a brace," said Blake, grimly. "Well," he went on, as he picked up the camera, and found that it was not damaged, "I guess I'll change my clothes. These don't look just fit for going to a party," and he laughed. The camera had closed automatically when he ceased grinding at the crank, so no pictures were spoiled. "Can we do anything?" asked one of the men in the boat. They were working on the levee, and had dropped everything, and pushed off in their craft, when Joe's cry of alarm reached them. "Thank you--no. It's all over," said Blake, as Joe guided the motor boat back to her moorings. Nothing worse than a wetting was the result of Blake's tumble overboard, and soon, in dry clothing, he was ready for whatever came next. As they had enough pictures of the work on the levee, and at the cotton wharf, the boys decided to await the return of Mr. Ringold and the actor, who had now been gone some time. "Suppose we go up to town ourselves," suggested Blake, after a bit. "It will give us a chance to stretch our legs, and we can help carry back the rest of the supplies," for the latter had not all been put on board yet. "I'm with you," agreed Joe; and, seeing that their craft was securely moored, they went ashore. The town was a fairly large one, and contained several stores. But business was practically at a standstill now, for everyone who could was working at the levee. There were anxious looks on the faces of all--men, women and children. But women and children were about the only ones in the streets, the men all being at the river front. "Look!" exclaimed Joe, pointing to a moving picture theater. It was closed, probably from lack of patronage during the flood season, but in front were some advertising lithographs. "Some of our films!" cried Blake, as he saw some gaudily-colored representations of those pictures he and Joe had taken in earthquake land. "So they are!" echoed Joe. "Who'd ever thought of seeing them here?" "I wonder how they took with the audiences?" went on Blake, for he always interested in the financial end of their business, and he and his chum really tried hard to get the very best sort of moving pictures. "I'd sort of like to know that, myself," murmured Joe. A small boy was standing in front of the lithographs of the colored pictures, looking at them interestedly. "Would you like to go in? What time does the show start?" asked Blake, handing the boy a dime, which he took eagerly, and wonderingly. "Would I like to go in, mister? Well, I guess I would. But they ain't givin' no shows while the river's risin'. Nobody comes and the feller what runs the place says it don't pay him to open. But I saw them pictures," and he nodded at the ones showing a volcano in eruption, and the ground quaking--views that Blake and Joe had taken at a great personal risk. "How'd you like 'em?" asked Joe, winking at Blake over the lad's head. "Say, they was the bulliest pictures ever I see, and I go to all the shows when I can!" he cried with enthusiasm. "They was certainly some pictures, believe me! I would like to have been there myself, only not too close," he added, with caution. "The fellers who took them movies sure must have had nerve. I'd like to meet 'em." "We took those pictures," said Blake, suddenly. The lad looked at him for a moment. Then a curious look came over his face. "Say!" he remarked in withering tones, "I'm much obliged to you for the dime--I sure am, 'cause I don't git many. But there ain't no call for you to try to string me that way--jest 'cause you slipped me a dime." "But we did take those pictures," insisted Joe. The boy edged away, as though he were afraid they might take strenuous measures to compel him to believe them. Then, as a parting shot, he called out: "Much obliged for the dime, but I ain't as green as I look, mister. You take them pictures? Bah! Think I'll believe that?" And he set off on the run. "I guess we might have better kept still," spoke Blake, with a grin at his chum. "I guess so, too. I s'pose it was asking rather too much to get him to believe a couple of strange fellows took those views. And do you know, Blake," went on Joe, "sometimes when I get to thinking about what we've gone through since we used to work on the farm, I can hardly believe it myself." "That's right. The stunts we did in New York were strenuous enough for a starter, but in the jungle, and in earthquake land--good night!--as the poet says!" exclaimed Blake. "And this is going to be worse, if I'm any judge," went on Joe, as he nodded in the direction of the flooded river. "Guess you're right," agreed his chum. They kept on through the town, making a few purchases in stores where women were the only clerks, the men being down at the levee. "There they are!" exclaimed Joe, as he and Blake turned into the main street, from a side one, and caught sight of Mr. Ringold and C. C. "They look as though something had happened," observed Blake, as he noticed their friends hurrying toward them. "Maybe they heard about you falling overboard, but didn't hear of your rescue," suggested his companion. But it was not that, as the boys learned a moment later. Waving a slip of paper over his head, Mr. Ringold cried: "I've got news, boys! News of our missing friends!" "Really!" cried Joe. "Yes, they heard from them in the New York office. I just received a telegram. It's quite a story." "Where are they?" Blake wanted to know. "Somewhere down the river," answered Mr. Ringold. "A message came from them in a bottle." "A bottle!" cried Joe. "Yes. They must have been carried down on the flood, and only had time to write a hasty message and fling it, stopped up in a bottle, into the river. Here's a long telegram from the New York office. I'll condense what it says." "Then it's really news from them--from Birdie Lee and the others?" asked Blake. "It surely is," answered the manager. "What happened after they went to the island to make moving pictures isn't stated. But a few days ago this telegram came to the New York office." He then read: "We are being carried down the river on part of a house that was washed away in the sudden flood. We are all together, but suffering very much. The waters rose very suddenly. Cannot tell where we will land. I am writing this and putting it in a bottle, which I will throw into the flood. Someone may pick it up and transmit it to you. Come to us if you can!" For a moment the boys were silent, and then Blake asked: "How did the message get to New York?" "I had to make inquiries to find that out," replied Mr. Ringold. "It seems that the bottle was washed ashore and picked up by a colored man. He took it to his employer, who read the messages inside. They were signed by Mr. Levinberg, who also put in a five-dollar bill, to insure the sending of the telegram. With the note he wrote for transmission to me was one asking the finder of the bottle to take the message to the nearest telegraph office." "But where was the bottle picked up? Where may we expect to find our friends?" asked Blake. "Somewhere below here, I think," said Mr. Ringold. "The message was sent from a telegraph office about a hundred miles above here. Our friends probably drifted on the flood near there. They are still in the--beyond----" and he motioned to the flooded section lying to the South. "Then let's start!" cried Joe. "Every minute counts." With the provisions aboard, a new supply of gasoline, and with the films Blake was taking when he went overboard safely put away in water proof cases, the rescuers once more took up their voyage. The remainder of the day they kept on down the flooded river. Several times they came within a short distance of big pieces of debris, and collisions were narrowly averted. The afternoon wore away and dusk settled down. It began to rain again, and it was rather a discouraged party that looked out from the cabin of the _Clytie_. "Worse and more of it," murmured Blake, who was at the steering wheel. "Will it ever stop?" "Now, now! None of that C. C. stuff!" spoke Joe with a laugh. "Things will come out all right yet. It's something to have had news of our friends, when we didn't expect any." "Yes, but think of the plight they must be in--floating down this river in some house, that may go to pieces any minute!" cried Blake. "It's terrible--for Birdie and the others. The men may be able to stand it. But the ladies----" "Well, perhaps they are rescued by this time," said Joe, cheerfully. "That message was dated several days ago, you notice. And it must have been two or three days afloat. I have a feeling, somehow, that we'll find them all right." "Well, I sure do hope so," spoke Blake. "Pshaw! I oughn't to be this way!" he exclaimed. "I must look on the brighter side. Perhaps they are all right, after all." They ate supper in the enclosed cabin, for there was a cold drizzle of rain that made going outside unpleasant. No one felt much like talking, but the unexpected news had, in a measure, cheered them up. "If they could only have given us some definite clew," spoke Mr. Ringold. "I'd do anything I could to rescue them. But it is like searching in the dark." "And, speaking of the dark, reminds me that it will soon be dark here, and we'll have to look for some place to tie up," remarked Blake. "I think we'd better be getting over toward shore." "And I agree with you," said Mr. Ringold. He took the wheel, relieving Joe, who had not yet eaten. The craft was directed over toward the eastern shore, and a sharp lookout was kept for some sheltered cove where the night could be spent. It grew darker rapidly, and the rain increased in violence. "There's a lot of stuff coming down," observed Blake, as he stood at the wheel, beside Mr. Ringold. "More debris than we've seen in some time." "That's right," agreed the manager. "There's an island just below us," he added. "I wonder if, by any chance, our friends could have landed on that." "We might stop there and see," suggested Blake. "It might be a good place to spend the night." "I'll try it, at any rate," Mr. Ringold said. The island, now that the waters had risen on all sides of it, was rather small. The motor boat was steered along the Western shore of it, but a nearer view showed that there could, by no possibility, be any one on it. For it was long and narrow, and a view could be had entirely across it. "I guess we won't stop--there's no one there," the manager said, as he veered the boat away. "No--there's no sign of them," agreed Blake. They were approaching the foot of the island--that is, the down stream end, and, as the motor boat shot past it, carried by the powerful current, and her propeller, Blake uttered a cry of alarm. "Look out for that raft!" he yelled. Mr. Ringold looked in time to see a big lumber raft, unmanned and uncontrolled, coming down on the other side of the island. It turned the lower end just as the motor did, and before those on board the craft could do anything to avoid the danger, the raft had collided with them, striking the _Clytie_ on the starboard bow with a resounding crash. The boat heeled over, and seemed about to capsize. CHAPTER XX ON THE RAFT "We're sinking!" "Get out the life preservers!" "Save the films and cameras!" "And grab something to eat! Don't forget that!" Thus cried those aboard the _Clytie_, for it was evident that the stanch craft had made her last voyage. She was careened at a dangerous angle, and her motor had stopped. "The raft ripped a big hole in the bow!" shouted Mr. Ringold, who, with Blake, had been thrown against the side of the pilot house, and was somewhat stunned by the shock. "Are we sinking?" asked Joe. "No, but it is only a question of a few minutes. We must save ourselves." "And our outfit--if we can," said Joe. "What shall we do?" A hasty examination showed that the jagged front logs of the raft had been driven completely into the motor boat, staving in her planking, through which the water was rushing. And, so violent had been the blow of the collision that the _Clytie_ was actually impaled on the floating tree trunks, that were bound together with ropes. "Take to the raft!" cried Mr. Ringold. "It's our only chance!" "That's right!" shouted C. C. "Come on, boys! Load all we can on the raft!" The water was now up over the cabin floor. It was evident that she was going down fast. Only the fact that the raft stuck part way through her held her up. Once filled with water, as she soon must be, she would pull herself loose by her own weight, and go to the bottom of the Mississippi. "Food first, water--and something for a light!" cried Mr. Ringold, issuing his orders calmly. "Then, if you can, boys, save the cameras and films." "Oh, we'll save them!" exclaimed Blake. "I should say so!" murmured Joe. A keg of water, some packages of food, and two lanterns were hastily lifted over the side of the motor boat, and placed on the raft. Then some blankets, bedding and other things were tossed over in a pile. "Now the cameras and films!" yelled Blake. "Get on the raft, Joe, and I'll pass them to you." Stopping only to gather up a few personal belongings, Joe leaped to the surface of the raft. It had been a large one, though only part of it remained now, and it was well up out of the water. "Here you go!" cried Blake, as he handed down the reels of exposed film. And how glad Blake was that they had taken the precaution to wrap them in oil-cloth! For it was raining, and he had to lay the reels down on the raft, where the water would drizzle on them. "Any more?" asked Joe, as he came back from the center of the log raft, where he had piled the things Blake handed to him out of the motor boat. "The cameras now. They're loaded, so be careful of them. We may get a chance to take more views," spoke Blake, hopefully. "It doesn't seem so," commented Joe, as he glanced at the sinking _Clytie_. Mr. Ringold and C. C. were busy saving what they could to give aid and comfort while aboard the raft. It could not be much, for there was little time to spare. "She's going!" warned the actor, as he passed out another roll of blankets and bedding. "I think she is," agreed the manager, as the impaled motor boat gave a lurch, and pulled partly away from the raft. She was filling rapidly with water, and the great weight of that, as well as the weight of the motor, was dragging down the hapless _Clytie_. "Come on! Jump!" urged the actor to Mr. Ringold and Blake, who were aboard the sinking boat. "No time to lose." Blake paused only long enough to grab up a light rifle, and some cartridges, which were in the cabin, and then he leaped to the raft. He was followed by Mr. Ringold, and none too soon, for, a moment later, with a rending of planks, the motor boat pulled away from the jagged ends of the raft on which she was impaled. A second's hesitation, and she sank with a gurgling, bubbling sound beneath the muddy, swirling waters of the Mississippi. "Good-bye, _Clytie_!" said Blake, softly, and it was as though he was saying farewell to some dear friend. "Well, I guess we've seen the last of her," murmured Mr. Ringold. They stood silent for a minute, huddled together, a wet, miserable group on the big raft that was racing down stream. Then, as he gazed at his companions, and then at the pile of their possessions, C. C. Piper remarked: "What happened, anyhow? What does it all mean? Is it a dream or reality?" "It's real, all right," spoke Joe, mournfully enough. "We were rammed by this raft--that's what happened. And it's lucky for us that these logs stood by long enough for us to get aboard, or we'd be swimming out there in the big muddy," and he nodded toward the river, from which they were kept by none too stout a craft. "It's my fault," said Mr. Ringold. "I should have seen this raft racing along." "Well, let's see what sort of a boat the raft's going to make for us," interrupted Joe. "We've got to stay aboard to-night, at all events." "Yes, and maybe longer," added Blake. "Well, there's a cabin to take shelter in, anyhow. Let's take a look at that." He nodded toward the stern of the raft, and, looming up in the darkness, could be seen a sort of shack, or shanty. It was where the raftmen did their cooking, eating and sleeping, while navigating the big collection of logs down the river. "Let's see what sort of place it is," Blake went on. "Maybe there are bunks in it, and a stove where we can cook what stuff we've got left," and he looked at the little pile of food they had been able to save from the sinking boat. CHAPTER XXI ADRIFT AGAIN "Not so bad." "That's right! It might be a whole lot worse." "It's rough, but we can stand it." "We've got to. There's no going ashore while this flood keeps up." Thus, in turn, Blake, Joe, Mr. Ringold and C. C. commented, as they stood in the doorway of the slab shack erected on the stern of the lumber raft. Blake had lighted the lantern he had taken the precaution to save from the sinking motor boat, and this gave light enough to see the interior of the cabin that must be their abiding place, for how long they could not tell. "Well, there's a place where we can stretch out, anyhow," said Blake, after a pause. "And a stove to cook on, and plenty of wood for fires," added Joe, as he looked down at the raft. "It won't be so bad, after all." The slab cabin was a roomy one, made to accommodate at least half a dozen men, for there were that many bunks. There were rude chairs, a couple of tables, and some cooking utensils and dishes. Evidently the crew that had been bringing the raft down stream had counted on being aboard for some time. "They must have gone off in a hurry," commented Mr. Ringold, for some of the chairs were overturned, and there were the remains of a meal, partially consumed, on the table. Articles of clothing were scattered about, and the bed coverings were tossed back on some of the bunks, as though the sleepers had hurried out, without waiting to stop and gather up their belongings. "There must have been some sort of accident to the raft," observed Mr. Piper. "Probably it was suddenly caught in the rising flood, and maybe it collided with a boat, or another raft. Part of it was carried away, that's evident from the jagged end that hit us. And I reckon the men fairly jumped overboard, leaving everything here just as we see it." "That's probably the explanation," agreed the manager. "Well, let's get our things in out of the rain, and see what we can do." It was showering heavily now, and the boys were more glad than ever that they had taken the precaution of wrapping the films in waterproof coverings. Some other lanterns were found in the cabin, and, being filled with oil, they were lighted and hung up on the walls. "We ought to show a light outside, too, I suppose," said Blake, reflectively. "That's so, to avoid being run down by a passing steamer," said Mr. Ringold, "though I don't believe many vessels will take a chance of navigating the river when it's in this condition. Still, it's best to be on the safe side." There was a pole about amidships of the raft, evidently intended to be used for displaying a light, and a lantern was put as high on this as possible. By this time our friends had brought into the cabin the things they had so hastily removed from the motor boat, and then they sat down to consider matters, and decide on some course of procedure. "First of all," began Mr. Piper, "we must----" "Have something to eat!" interrupted Blake. "There's dry wood in here, and a stove. I see a coffee pot, and I know we brought some ground coffee--not much, but some. Where's that keg of fresh water?" "Here," replied Joe, who had brought it in. "It won't go very far, though." Indeed the water supply was going to be a serious matter, though, if worse came to worst, they could use the river water, by allowing it to stand for some hours, to settle. It was fresh, but full of mud, and unpleasant to taste and smell. They could also catch the rain as it fell. "I saw a barrel outside the shack," spoke Mr. Ringold. "Maybe that has water in it." "I'll look!" offered Blake. "It has!" he cried a moment later, "and it's fresh water, too. That will last us some days." "Then go ahead, and make coffee," suggested Joe, "and we'll see what else there is here." An inspection of the cabin showed that there was some food left. It was not very choice, but it was better than nothing, consisting of canned stuff, and, with what our friends had managed to take off their sinking boat, would do for a while. A fire was soon crackling in the rather dilapidated stove, and the odor of coffee, fragrant and appetizing, filled the air. "Well, this isn't so bad," remarked Blake, as he sat munching a canned corned beef sandwich. "We're pretty snug in here." "Yes, and we don't have to worry about running a motor, or sinking," added Joe. "We can't sink. I really like this better than the _Clytie_, after all." "You might--if you say it quick!" spoke Blake, half-sarcastically. "Still we're a good deal better off here than out there," and he nodded toward the river. "But the question is: What's going to become of us?" asked C. C. "We can't stay here for ever." "Nobody wants to," said Blake. "But we've got to--for a while; until we're taken off, anyhow. We certainly can't swim to shore. We're about in the middle of the river now, and this is several miles wide. We've got to make the best of it." "We can't do anything but let her drift," said Mr. Ringold. "The sweep, or steering oar, is gone, though we might manage to rig up another. We'll try in the morning." The meal, rude as it was, revived them all, and cheered their drooping spirits. They discussed the matter, and decided there was little use in keeping a watch during the night. They had just to float on. "Well, it's good and dry in here, anyhow," observed Blake, as he crawled into one of the bunks. "Yes, that's another comfort, and we've got more room than we had aboard the _Clytie_," said Joe. "Don't go to making fun of the old craft," cautioned his chum. "She served us well. I'm sorry she's gone." They went to sleep with the rain pattering on the roof of the cabin, thankful for the raft, in spite of the havoc it had made in their plans. A dreary, drizzling day succeeded. They made themselves as comfortable as they could in the cabin, and went carefully over their food supplies. "Enough for two days, anyhow," said Mr. Ringold. "After that, well----" He shrugged his shoulders, and did not finish. But they all knew what he meant. They were in the middle of a wide and desolate stretch of the Mississippi. In the far distance, as they rushed along with the swift current, they could see small towns and villages. They could not, however, reach them, for they could not steer the raft. They tried to make a long sweep, such as the lumbermen use, but they had no pole long enough, and no tools with which to cut one out of the lumber at their disposal. Joe and Blake did, indeed, try to construct a pole out of one of the loose slabs on the side of the shack, by splitting it with a small axe. But the result was only a weak, wobbly staff, that broke the first time it was used. "We've just got to drift on--until something happens," said Mr. Ringold. Joe examined their cameras, for they had two, and also the developed and undeveloped films. The latter were safe in the water-tight cases. In the afternoon, when it cleared a little, Joe and Blake took more moving pictures from the front end of the raft. They saw no craft of any kind. They seemed alone on the waste of waters. Night came, and they floated on. They ate less now, for they wanted to make their food supply last as long as possible. But the victuals seemed to go alarmingly fast. "Maybe we'll drift ashore to-morrow," said Mr. Ringold, hopefully. "If we do we'll leave the raft, and walk until we get to some place where we can hire a boat. For, now that we are reasonably certain that our friends are somewhere down the river, we must make every effort to find them." It was about midnight when they were all awakened by a severe shock. "What's that?" cried Mr. Ringold, leaping from his bunk. "We hit something!" cried Joe. "I should say we did!" yelled Blake. "We're ashore, that's what we are. We're not moving!" The raft was not moving, save for a slight undulating motion, due to one end being afloat, and the other on land; at least so they supposed. Taking one of the lanterns, Blake went outside. There was no rain, and a pale moon, behind some watery clouds, gave a little light. "What is it?" Joe wanted to know. "We've run into an island--or an island has run into us," Blake answered. "An island!" echoed Mr. Ringold. "I was hoping it was the mainland." "No such good luck," went on Blake. They joined him "on deck," if one may use such a term concerning a raft. Looking forward they saw that the front, and jagged, end of the raft--the same that had rammed and sunk the _Clytie_--had struck on a small island, and was wedged fast in the bank. They did not sleep much more that night. In the morning, an examination showed that it would be out of the question to remain on the island, and leave the raft. The spot of land, in the midst of the flood, was too small. Probably when the river was at its ordinary height the island was considerably larger. It proved of one advantage to our friends, however, for there was a spring in the middle of it, where the ground was higher, and this gave them a supply of fresh water. "I wonder if we couldn't work the raft off?" mused Blake, when they had eaten a very light lunch, for their food was now very low. But the raft was too heavy, and too firmly imbedded in the soft mud of the island, to enable our friends, try as they might, to float it. They toiled and tugged all the afternoon, for they felt the almost vital necessity of getting away, and reaching a place where they could get more food. "I guess we're stuck--and stuck fast!" said Blake, wearily. Then it began to rain again, and they retired to the cabin and went to bed, though no one slept much. It was about ten o'clock when Joe, getting up for a drink, felt the raft suddenly move. "Something's happening!" he cried. At once they were all aroused. The affair of logs trembled and shivered. Then, with a rending, splintering sound she floated free of the island. "We're afloat again!" cried Joe. "The river must have risen and pulled us free." CHAPTER XXII ON A BIG ISLAND "Say, we're having luck, all right!" exclaimed Blake, when it was made certain that they were adrift again. "I thought we'd be stuck on that island for days." "So did I," returned Joe. "Yes, we've had luck, of a certain kind, but it isn't going to feed us," and he looked at the shelves of that part of the cabin called the "pantry." The shelves were empty of all save one small tin of corned beef, and a box of crackers. That, with coffee, must be their breakfast. It seemed as though that night would never pass. Slowly it wore on, and, through the storm and darkness, through the rising water, floated the raft, bearing the rescue party onward. It was scarcely a rescue party any longer, however, being more in need of rescue itself. But, desperate as their plight was, our friends had not given up hope of finding and saving the missing theatrical company. The chance and hope were slim indeed, but Blake, Joe and the two men were not of the sort that give up easily. "Conditions must be fierce all along the river, the way the water keeps on rising," said Blake, when the first faint streaks of dawn showed in the gray, leaden-colored sky. "I should say so!" agreed Joe. "The river must have gone up almost a foot in the night, to lift us off the island. It took considerable power to pull the logs out of the mud where they were stuck." "I think the raft broke, and twisted away from the front logs," was Blake's opinion, and this, later, was found to be so. So firmly imbedded in the mud had been the jagged and sharp ends of the logs, that they had remained there. But the stern of the raft, rising, had broken the fastenings, and a section of it had been left on the island. "All hands to breakfast!" called Mr. Piper, a little later. "And curb your appetites," he added, grimly, as he pointed to the crackers and corned beef on the rough table. "Don't ask for more than one helping of pie, only one slice of white turkey meat to a customer, and no gravy. What do you expect, anyhow?" They made as merry as they could over the frugal repast, but it was really no joke. Fortunately the coffee held out, and they knew they could live on that for some time. "If we could only work the raft to shore, or signal for help to some steamer, we'd be all right," complained C. C. "But we can't do it." The great flood had caused an almost complete cessation of river navigation, at least in the stretches where they now were. They had seen no craft of any kind since being obliged to take to the raft, and the river was so wide that they could not communicate with towns on shore. They passed several small hamlets that were deserted, for the water was up to the second stories of the houses. The inhabitants had fled back to higher ground. "Well, we've got to do something," said Blake, when noon came, and the pangs of hunger were felt. "I wonder if we couldn't build a signal fire, or raise a flag of distress, or something like that. It might bring help." "We could try," agreed Joe. "Let's hoist a blanket up on the lantern pole, and make a smudge fire. It'll be safe, for there's so much water around us that we can put it out easily enough. It might do some good." A ragged blanket was nailed up as high on the pole, amidships, as they could reach, by standing on some boxes. Then preparations for making a smudge fire, or one that smoked, rather than blazed, went on. "Make it up forward," suggested Mr. Ringold. "And take a piece of the stove grate from the oven to keep the blaze up from the logs. They're green, but they might burn through, and cause trouble." Blake went forward to look for a good place to make the fire, which would be fed with damp wood, to cause more smoke. Joe was preparing some splinters and light kindling, from packing boxes, to start it. "Say, but I am hungry!" murmured Joe, as he looked for matches. "So am I!" echoed his chum. "But I guess we'll have to take it out in--coffee." The fire was made, and a dense cloud of smoke arose. "They ought to see that from shore, if it is two or three miles away," remarked C. C. "If they'll only come out to investigate, and take us off," spoke the manager. "Those who see it may think it is only a pile of rubbish on fire." "Well, we've done all we can," said Blake, despondently. A spirit of gloom seemed to have settled down over them all. Probably the lack of food caused it, though their plight was bad enough without that being added to it. Late in the afternoon, Blake, going forward to put some more wet wood on the smouldering blaze, came hurrying back with a strange look on his face. "Say!" he cried to Joe, who was making a pot of coffee, "there is some kind of an animal on the front end of this raft." "Animal?" repeated Joe, wonderingly. "What do you mean?" "I mean just what I say. There is some animal up forward there under that pile of boxes," for some empty packing cases were stacked up front, evidently placed there by the lumbermen to use, later, for fuel in the stove. "You must be dreaming," spoke Joe. "I am not! Come and see!" invited Blake, and, slipping into the cabin, he came out with the small rifle he had taken from the motor boat. "What are you going to do?" asked Joe. "Shoot it, if I get the chance," replied his chum, in determined tones. Together the moving picture boys advanced cautiously. "How did you happen to see it?" asked Joe, as they approached the pile of boxes. "Why, it ran out just as I stooped over to put some wood on the fire. Then, when it saw me, it ran back again." "What was it? How big was it?" Joe wanted to know. "Well, it was pretty big," said Blake, "and it looked like a muskrat, as much as anything." "Maybe it was a muskrat," Joe suggested. "There must be a lot of 'em in this river, especially since they've been driven out of their homes by the high water." "Are muskrats good to eat?" asked Blake. "Why, yes, I've heard of people eating them," Joe replied, doubtfully. "Why do you ask?" "Because we might have to eat 'em," Blake went on, with a grim look coming over his face. "I'm not going to starve." "It isn't much fun," admitted Joe. "You go over there, and tear down the pile of boxes," suggested Blake, "and I'll stand ready to pop at it when the beast comes out." "All right," assented Joe. One by one he took away the empty boxes, tossing them aside. He was soon down near the bottom of the pile. "There doesn't seem to be anything here," he said. "Oh, it's in there, all right," spoke Blake, confidently. Hardly had the words left his lips than there was a scurry in one of the boxes, and a big, grayish animal ran out. "There he goes!" cried Joe. "Pop him over! Get him!" Blake did not answer, but he threw the rifle to his shoulder, took a quick aim, and pulled the trigger. There was a sharp report, a little squeal, and then the animal, which had run out to seek new shelter, curled up near the edge of the raft--dead. "There's your muskrat," said Blake, calmly. "Now let's eat him. We can't be squeamish." "Muskrat? That's no muskrat!" yelled C. C. Piper, as he came running up to inquire the cause of the shot. "What is it, then?" asked Blake. "It's a 'possum, and a fine fat one, too!" "Opossum!" repeated Blake. "Is it good to eat? That's what interests me now, more than what sort of an animal it is." "Good to eat! I should say so!" cried the moving picture actor. "They're fine, baked with sweet potatoes." "Well, we'll have to get along without the sweet potatoes, boys," remarked Mr. Ringold, laughingly. "But it's lucky you got him, Blake. Opossum is good eating." Blake and Joe looked a bit doubtful, but, when the animal was served, they ate with a zest that comes from a good appetite. "It must have jumped on the raft the time we were stuck on the island," said Joe. "And it's lucky for us that it did." The opossum, so providentially obtained, served to put them over that day and part of the next. It was nearly noon, and the last of the opossum meat had been served, and the last of the coffee made. Blake and Joe went down to the pile of boxes, to lift them about again. "We might find another 'possum," remarked Blake, and he took the rifle with him. But, to their regret, there were no more aboard. "I'd be glad to see even a muskrat," spoke Joe. But none of those animals, which are greatly relished by some persons, was on the raft. "If we only had our fishing tackle, we might try our luck in the river," suggested C. C. "I guess we could rig up something," said Blake. There was no need to do this, as they found some lines and hooks in the cabin. They used some of the opossum skin for bait, but either the river was too high, or the bait was not tempting enough, for they got no bites. Late that afternoon the raft swung around a bend in the river, and at once there appeared, just below, a large island. "We're heading right for it!" yelled Blake. "We'd better try to steer to one side." But to do this was out of the question. They had no method of steering their unwieldy craft. On they rushed, straight for the island, which was of large extent. It was quite high, and well wooded. "I guess we've got to land there whether we want to or not," cried Mr. Ringold. Hardly had he spoken, when the raft crashed into the island. The forward logs were piled up brokenly on the shore, and a creaking, splintering sound gave warning that the raft was going to pieces. "She's breaking up!" yelled Blake. "Save what stuff you can!" shouted Joe. "The cameras and films!" CHAPTER XXIII THE LOST ONES The raft, pushed hard against the end of the island by the power of the river current, buckled. The middle part rose up in the shape of the inverted letter V. The logs tore from their fastenings of ropes and chains, and broke and splintered one against the other. "Come on!" yelled Blake. "Save what we can!" He and the others rushed into the cabin, where their things had been stored. There was no food to be saved, and no time to roll off the water barrel. They would have to take their chances of finding a spring on the island, or drink the river water. "The cameras! The films!" cried Joe, again. "Save them!" He and his chum gave their attention to these. With them in their arms they rushed, as best they could, over the raft toward land. Mr. Piper and the manager looked after the clothing and bedding. By this time the raft had swung around, broadside to the island, bringing the cabin that much nearer the shore. This made it more easy to save what few belongings they could take with them. Back and forth they ran from the raft to the island. The cameras and the films were put in a safe place, and then the two moving picture boys helped in removing the other belongings. Some clothing, some bedding, an axe, the rifle, and a few other things were all they had time to save. Then, with a splintering of timbers, a cracking of chains and a parting of ropes, the raft divided into two parts, one being swept down one side of the island, and the other portion down the opposite shore. Blake, Joe and the two men stood beside their little heap of belongings, looking at one another with solemn faces. For a moment no one spoke. They looked at the logs, rushing on down the river, and then Blake said: "Well, things haven't stopped happening yet." "I should say not!" cried Joe. "This is worse and more of it. What next?" "No telling," said C. C., gloomily. "We'll probably starve here." "Oh, I hope not!" said Mr. Ringold, with assumed cheerfulness. "There's probably a restaurant around the corner. We'll go there and have some roast chicken. Don't all speak at once." To the credit of Mr. Piper be it said that he laughed. His gloomy periods seemed to be leaving him. "Well, let's see where we're at," suggested Mr. Ringold. "What have we here?" "Nothing to eat; that's certain," remarked Joe. "And I could take in a whole----" "Don't you dare say porterhouse steak!" interrupted Blake. "That would be adding insult to injury." "All right; then I won't," agreed Joe. "It's coming on night," spoke Mr. Ringold. "If we can't have supper we must, at least, provide some sort of shelter. We have some blankets, and we can cut down poles, and make a tent. It looks as though it was going to rain again." "It sure does," agreed Blake. "We've got to have some sort of shelter." "To say nothing of something to eat," added Joe, in a low voice. "Eat! I'd give a good bit, just for a muskrat sandwich!" said Blake. Tired and discouraged, but still not giving up all hope, our friends set to work to make a rude tent. By the use of blankets and poles they made one, well up from the water. Fortunately the island was of high, sloping formation, and, knowing that the river might rise suddenly, they went far enough away from the edge, to preclude any possibility of being overwhelmed in the night. "This must be a big island," observed Joe, as he and Blake worked together. "When the water is at the regular level it must be some miles across." "I guess it is," agreed his chum. Penetrating into the woods, in search of more tent poles, Blake uttered a cry of surprise. "What's the matter?" shouted Joe. "Have you found anything?" "I should say I had!" answered Blake, as he came rushing out with a square tin box in his arms. "Look here! Pilot biscuit--a whole tin of it, and only a little of it is wet! This will keep us alive for a while, anyhow." "Where in the world did you find it?" asked Joe. "Back there, by that big tree. It must have been washed down here by the flood." "I don't care how it got here," cried Joe, "give me some." Mr. Ringold and Mr. Piper came up on the run to view the find. As Blake had said, it was a large tin of pilot biscuit, and only a little water had come in, thanks to the waxed paper covering. "Say, if we only had the clam chowder that goes with these crackers, wouldn't it be great!" mumbled Joe, as he took another pilot biscuit. "Quit it!" begged Blake. For, be it known, pilot biscuit are large, hard, round crackers, made on purpose for serving with clam chowder, with which they make a most excellent combination. As they sat there in the dusk, making a meal off these crackers and drinking water (a spring having been found), Mr. Piper asked: "Where did you say you found these, Blake?" "Right up there, on that little knoll, by the big tree." "And how did you say you thought they got there?" "Why, I suppose the flood must have carried away a country store, and washed the box up there." "Did you see any other stuff washed up there--anything other than debris, or anything else in the eating line?" "Not a thing--I wish I had." "Well," remarked Mr. Piper, "I don't wish to raise false hopes, or anything like that, but I should say that this tin of pilot biscuit was dropped, or left, up there by someone who has been on, or who is still on, this island!" "You mean--people?" cried Blake, leaping to his feet in surprise. "That's what I mean. Why, this box of crackers never was washed up there by the flood--the water didn't come high enough. That box was dropped there by someone who took refuge on this island." For a moment no one spoke, after C. C.'s announcement. Then Mr. Ringold remarked: "I believe you're right!" "Of course I'm right," declared the actor. "Why, it stands to reason that the box of biscuit was never washed up here. The flood hasn't got that high yet." "And do you think whoever dropped it is still here?" asked Joe. "That's more than I can say," went on Mr. Piper. "They may have been here a short time, and gone off again. Pilot biscuit is often carried on boats, for it keeps well, and is always good eating. Some boating party may have been here before the flood, having a picnic, as it were." "Don't talk of picnics!" begged Blake. "It makes me think of good things to eat." "Well, aren't you eating?" Joe wanted to know, with a grim smile. "It's better than nothing," admitted Blake, as he took another cracker. Our friends passed a wretched night. If you have ever tried to sleep in a leaky tent, in the rain, having had nothing worth while to eat, and, at the same time, anxious about your safety, you can, perhaps, imagine what Blake, Joe and the others suffered. They slept in fitful dozes, in spite of their wretchedness, and how they welcomed the morning light, raining though it was! "First call for breakfast!" shouted Joe, as he brought out the tin of biscuits. "Regular prison fare--bread and water," he commented, with a laugh. "Well, it's better than nothing," declared Mr. Piper, and the others rejoiced that, in this time of adversity, he could be so cheerful. Leaving the cameras and films under cover of the tent and some blankets, as well as in the water-proof coverings, the party set off on a tour of exploration. "We'll see if there are any persons on this island," said Mr. Ringold. Through the rain they started off. It was not easy going, and they were weak from lack of proper food. But, doggedly, they kept on. There was a hill in about the centre of the island, a hill that would seem to give a good view of the surrounding land. Blake reached the summit first. He looked about him, and then gazed, steadfastly and earnestly, into a little glade that was below him. "See anything?" asked Joe, as he panted up after his chum. "I don't know--I--I----" and Blake's voice trembled. "Are those tents down there, Joe, or--or is it only mist?" "They're tents all right, old man! Big tents, too! Say, there are people here!" he fairly shouted. "Come on!" cried Blake, starting down the slope. They fairly ran down the hill. A little way from the tents the party of refugees came to a halt. Blake rubbed his eyes, as though to brush away clinging cobwebs. He stared at a girl who came from one of the tents. "Birdie Lee!" he gasped. "Blake Stewart!" came the surprised answer. "You here!" And the two stared wonderingly at each other. CHAPTER XXIV RISING WATERS Others came running out of the tents--Mr. Robertson, Mr. Levinberg, Miss Shay--several other actors and actresses, and also the moving picture operators. "Look--look!" cried Birdie, pointing to Blake. "Is it Blake, or am I dreaming?" No one answered her for a moment. They were all too surprised. Then, looking back up the hill, the company of players saw Joe, Mr. Ringold and C. C. Piper. "How did you get here?" "Where did you come from?" "Were you looking for us?" These were some of the questions rapidly fired back and forth. "Say!" cried Blake, at length. "Have you anything to eat? We're most starved--nothing but some pilot biscuits that we found in a tin." "There!" cried Birdie Lee. "I knew we left those biscuits behind. We must have dropped them when we moved our camp. And I did so want them with the canned clam chowder." "Clam chowder!" cried Joe. "Say, where is it? I'll eat the can itself!" "But where did you come from? How did you get here?" asked Mr. Levinberg. "Let's feed them first, and have explanations afterward," suggested Birdie Lee, as she clasped a hand each, of Blake and Joe. "Oh, we are so glad to see you!" she cried, impulsively. "Just a word of explanation!" begged Mr. Ringold. "I can't understand this. How did you folks get here? We've been looking for you all along the river." "We hoped somebody would come for us," said Miss Shay. "Have you a boat so you can take us to shore?" "A boat? No!" cried Blake. "Our motor boat was hit by a raft and sunk, and then the raft hit this island and went to pieces. We're stranded. Haven't you folks a boat?" "Not a boat," said Mr. Robertson, with a shake of his head. "We're marooned on the island." "Come on! I'm sure they must be starved!" laughed Birdie Lee. "Feed them first, and talk afterward. At least we have plenty of food." And, when the moving picture boys and their companions had made a hasty meal, explanations were made. "We were caught in the flood, when we went to that first island," said Mr. Levinberg, "and carried down the river in our boat." "And we thought surely we would be drowned," put in Miss Shay. "But we weren't," resumed the chief actor. "Fortunately our boat was a large one, and we had plenty of food and supplies. We went out equipped for a long stay, you know, with tents that were to be used in some of the island scenes, and many other things. We had time to put most of these aboard the boat, before the flood came. "Then we tried to get back to Hannibal, but the current was too much for us. So we decided to come on down, and trust to luck. But luck was against us, for our rudder broke, and we could not ship a new one. So we were carried on down, utterly unable to guide our boat. "We tried to signal for help, but we were carried too far out to allow our signals or cries to be heard by persons in the towns we passed. Anyhow, I guess they had their own troubles. We met no other steamers, and all we could do was to come on with the flood. "Finally we swashed into a house, and, house, boat and all, we landed on this island, and we've been here ever since," concluded the actor. "We've been hoping against hope that someone would come to our relief, for, though we still have considerable food, it will not last forever." "But where is the boat in which you came here?" asked Mr. Ringold. "Can't you repair the rudder and use it?" "We haven't the boat now," said Birdie. "The high water carried it away one night, and the house too, though we saved some stuff from it." "That's right," said Mr. Levinberg, "our boat slipped her cable, and went on down stream. Luckily we had all our supplies out of her. "We landed at the end of the island where you struck," the actor went on. "We made a camp there, and then moved up here." "And that's how we left behind the tin of pilot biscuit for clam chowder," said Birdie. More and detailed explanations of the experiences of the two parties were exchanged, and then preparations were made for housing the four newcomers for the night. There was another tent that could be put up--one of several taken along to be used in the picture films--and with their own bedding our friends were made fairly comfortable. "Say, but it seems good to eat once more!" remarked Joe, at supper that night. "Nothing but crackers and water--whew!" "And 'possum!" added Blake, and he told of shooting that animal. A fairly complete camping outfit had been brought along and saved by the picture players, and this did good service now. Of course the food was all of the canned variety, but even that was welcome in the emergency. The day after the two parties were united proved bright and sunny, and Joe and Blake took a number of pictures of the players and the flood. "But the river is still rising," reported Mr. Ringold, with a worried look, as he came back from a trip to the shore of the island. "If it covers this place----" "Where will we be?" asked Mr. Piper. No one answered him. And that the water might rise even high enough to completely cover the island seemed very possible, for, in spite of the brightness of the morning, it rained hard in the afternoon. Inch by inch the waters rose. Faster and madder they swirled past the island on either side. Gradually the area of land grew smaller and smaller. "We shall have to move the tents," said Mr. Ringold, on the second day. "We must go to the highest point possible." It was hard work shifting camp in the rain, but it had to be done. Finally the white canvas houses were set up on the top of the knoll whence Blake had looked down to see their friends whom they sought. And still the rain came down, and still the waters rose. "Another day, at this rate, and it will be all over--except the swimming," said C. C., grimly. "Can't we make a raft?" asked Blake. "We have an axe, and there are trees to be cut down." "Good!" cried Mr. Ringold. "We should have thought of that before. We'll build a raft! On that we may float to safety." CHAPTER XXV THE GOVERNMENT BOAT But building a raft was not an easy matter. True, the trees could be cut down, but our friends were not skillful woodsmen, and there was nothing with which to bind the logs together. There were some tent ropes, but they were needed to keep up the canvas shelters as long as possible. "We'll do the best we can, though," decided Mr. Ringold, as he and the men and boys labored at the raft. They hastened with the work, for the water crept higher and higher. By using tough withes, and wild grapevines, they managed to bind the logs fairly well, but, at best, the raft was a very frail affair. "I'll never trust myself on that!" declared Miss Shay, shuddering. "I don't much fancy it myself," admitted Mr. Piper. "But it will be better than staying here and getting--well, getting your feet wet," spoke Blake. He was going to say "drowned," but changed his mind. Higher and higher came the water. There was now only a space of not more than a hundred feet square, to which the refugees had retreated as an area of safety. The raft floated in the water, moored by a long rope of twisted grapevine, and ready for our friends to embark on it. Packages of food were made ready to be taken along, and also a keg of fresh water. The water supply troubled them, as the spring was now covered by the flood, and all they had was some which they had stored for just that emergency. "We'll take along the tents," said Mr. Ringold. "They'll come in useful, as shelter on the raft." "And we'll have to take to the raft in the morning, I think," Mr. Piper said. "At the rate the river is rising, we won't have ground under our feet much longer than that." Gloomy, uncertain and miserable was that night. The campfire, which had hitherto been kept up, not without a great deal of work, went out in the rain, and, save for a few lanterns, there was no light. Naturally there was no heat, and cold victuals were the portion of the refugees. Still no one complained, even C. C. maintaining a brave front in the face of danger and privation. Everything possible was made ready for embarking on the raft in the morning. After that---- No one knew what would happen. "I suppose we'll have to abandon everything," said Birdie Lee, talking to Joe and Blake, after "supper," if so the meal could be designated. "Well, I'm going to stick to the films and the camera to the last!" exclaimed Blake. "That's what!" cried Joe. "We may get to some place where we'll be able to get a few more pictures." The night passed slowly and miserably. At the first streak of dawn Blake was astir, ready to help take down the tents and load the raft. But, as he looked toward the place where it had been tied, he saw only the twisted end of the grapevine cable. "The raft is gone!" he cried. "It's been carried away in the flood!" "What's that?" called Joe, hardly believing. "The raft is gone! And our last chance is gone with it!" Hurriedly they all came out of the tents. It was but too true. The rising waters had pulled and tugged at the raft, until they had carried it down stream. There was no time to make another. Already the space on which the refugees had taken shelter was growing smaller. Inch by inch the waters rose. The pegs of one of the tents, in which supplies were kept, were now being lapped by the muddy waves. "Oh, for a boat!" cried Blake. "We've got to do something!" yelled Joe. "We can't stay here much longer." That was evident to all. Yet what could be done? "Cut down some trees!" cried Mr. Ringold. "We can use them for life preservers, and perhaps float to safety. Cut down trees!" "This means good-bye to our films!" sighed Blake. "If not good-bye to ourselves," echoed his chum. There was little time left. With the one axe, and the camp hatchet, the men began chopping away at the trees on the summit of the hill, where the refugees had made their last stand against the rising waters. They could remain there but an hour longer, at most. Blake and Joe carried their camera and waterproof packages of exposed film, to the dryest place they could find, in one of the tents. "We can't take any food with us, when we float down on the logs," said Mr. Piper, sadly. No one had the heart to answer him. They were now gathered together in a space about fifty feet across, on the very summit of the hill. Several trees grew there, and, by climbing into them, it might be possible to remain above the rising water a little longer. But would even this respite save them? It did not seem possible. The tree trunks had been felled, and were in readiness. They would make but poor life preservers at best, but better than nothing. Inch by inch the water rose. Birdie Lee, Miss Shay and some of the other actresses were in a group, looking at each other with tear-stained faces. It seemed the end of everything. Suddenly, through the moisture-laden air, came a shrill whistle. "What's that?" cried Blake. "Sounded like a steamboat!" answered Joe. "It _is_ a steamboat!" called Birdie Lee, as she looked down the flooded river. "See! There she comes! Oh, we are saved!" "Thank the dear Lord," echoed Miss Shay. Pushing her way up against the powerful current, was a big boat--a steamer--from the funnels of which belched black smoke. "Wave something!" "Call to them!" "Make them hear us!" "Show a signal!" Thus cried the refugees, as they saw help approaching. In another instant the boys and men raised their voices in a united shout, and coats and caps were frantically waved to attract the attention of the pilot of the vessel. "He sees us! He's coming!" cried Blake, joyfully. "And just about in time, too," added Joe, for the water was creeping higher and higher. With loud blasts of the whistle the pilot indicated that he had seen the signals of distress, and was coming to the rescue. In quick time a small boat was lowered, and a few minutes later the refugees were safe on board the steamer, which proved to be a government boat, sent out to aid in the rescue work. "And we've saved our films and cameras, too!" cried Joe, for the moving picture apparatus, as well as some of the personal effects of the stranded ones, had been brought away from the summit of the island, which alone was out of water, now. "Yes, and if we get a chance we'll use up the rest of the undeveloped film, and get more flood pictures," added Blake. "We'll leave you at the first large town," said the captain. "I guess the flood is at its height now. It won't get much higher, and there isn't much use in me going farther up the river until I take care of the passengers I've already picked up." Accordingly he turned back, and that afternoon our friends and several others were taken ashore. The place where they were landed was within a few miles of a good-sized town, and they found quarters there, being well looked after by the hospitable inhabitants. "Well, we're safe, anyhow," murmured Blake. "Yes, and no more Mississippi life for me--especially in a flood," added Joe. "I've had all I want." But the boys were not quite done with the flood. There were two or three more days of high water, and in that time they managed to get some wonderful pictures, going out in a hired boat. Then, having no more undeveloped film, they packed up their cameras, and waited for the waters to subside. The rains ceased, the sun came out, and the Mississippi River began to assume its normal level. Gradually the distressing scenes of the flood disappeared. "Well, we certainly got some great pictures," said Blake, when the last of the reels had been packed up for shipment to New York. "That's so!" agreed his chum, "and we've got a great story to tell." "It's been about the most exciting time we ever had, since we got into this business," went on Blake. "Not even excepting earthquake land," laughed Joe. "I wonder if we'll ever duplicate this?" And whether they did or not may be learned by reading the next book in this series, to be called: "The Moving Picture Boys at Panama; Or, Stirring Adventures Along the Great Canal." And now, I believe, I have told you all there is to tell concerning the adventures of Blake and Joe in the big Mississippi River flood. With the going down of the waters all danger was passed, though the peril had been great, and the toll of lives and property heavy. But, aside from the loss of some personal belongings, and the films which the theatrical company had taken, matters were not so bad. And the loss of the dramatic films was more than balanced by the ones taken by Joe and Blake of the big inundation. By a lucky chance a clew was obtained to the stolen films of the relief train, and others, taken at that time. As had been suspected, Munson, or, rather, the Pullman car porter, whom he had bribed to do so, had stolen the films. But when an attempt was made to exhibit them our friends heard about it and secured the valuable celluloid strips. This was as far as Munson's plot went. "Well, what are you going to do now?" asked Birdie Lee, of Blake and Joe, when they were once more on their way home, away from the flooded district, that was rapidly drying up. "I know what I'm going to do," said Blake. "What?" asked Joe. "I'm going back to that farm, and finish out my vacation," answered his chum. "And I think I'll send the rest of the theatrical company along with you," said Mr. Ringold. "They are certainly entitled to a rest after what they've suffered." And so, for a time, we will take leave of our moving picture boys and their associates, and say good-bye. THE END ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE TOM SWIFT SERIES By VICTOR APPLETON UNIFORM STYLE OF BINDING. INDIVIDUAL COLORED WRAPPERS. These spirited tales, convey in a realistic way, the wonderful advances in land and sea locomotion. Stories like these are impressed upon the memory and their reading is productive only of good. TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR CYCLE TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR BOAT TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIRSHIP TOM SWIFT AND HIS SUBMARINE BOAT TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC RUNABOUT TOM SWIFT AND HIS WIRELESS MESSAGE TOM SWIFT AMONG THE DIAMOND MAKERS TOM SWIFT IN THE CAVES OF ICE TOM SWIFT AND HIS SKY RACER TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC RIFLE TOM SWIFT IN THE CITY OF GOLD TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIR GLIDER TOM SWIFT IN CAPTIVITY TOM SWIFT AND HIS WIZARD CAMERA TOM SWIFT AND HIS GREAT SEARCHLIGHT TOM SWIFT AND HIS GIANT CANNON TOM SWIFT AND HIS PHOTO TELEPHONE TOM SWIFT AND HIS AERIAL WARSHIP TOM SWIFT AND HIS BIG TUNNEL TOM SWIFT IN THE LAND OF WONDERS TOM SWIFT AND HIS WAR TANK TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIR SCOUT TOM SWIFT AND HIS UNDERSEA SEARCH TOM SWIFT AMONG THE FIRE FIGHTERS TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC LOCOMOTIVE GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS SERIES BY VICTOR APPLETON UNIFORM STYLE OF BINDING. INDIVIDUAL COLORED WRAPPERS. Moving pictures and photo plays are famous the world over, and in this line of books the reader is given a full description of how the films are made--the scenes of little dramas, indoors and out, trick pictures to satisfy the curious, soul-stirring pictures of city affairs, life in the Wild West, among the cowboys and Indians, thrilling rescues along the seacoast, the daring of picture hunters in the jungle among savage beasts, and the great risks run in picturing conditions in a land of earthquakes. The volumes teem with adventures and will be found interesting from first chapter to last. THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS IN THE WEST THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS ON THE COAST THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS IN THE JUNGLE THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS IN EARTHQUAKE LAND THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS AND THE FLOOD THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS AT PANAMA THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS UNDER THE SEA THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS ON THE WAR FRONT THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS ON FRENCH BATTLEFIELDS MOVING PICTURE BOYS' FIRST SHOWHOUSE MOVING PICTURE BOYS AT SEASIDE PARK MOVING PICTURE BOYS ON BROADWAY THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS' OUTDOOR EXHIBITION THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS' NEW IDEA GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH SERIES By GRAHAM B. FORBES Never was there a cleaner, brighter, more manly boy than Frank Allen, the hero of this series of boys' tales, and never was there a better crowd of lads to associate with than the students of the School. All boys will read these stories with deep interest. The rivalry between the towns along the river was of the keenest, and plots and counterplots to win the champions, at baseball, at football, at boat racing, at track athletics, and at ice hockey, were without number. Any lad reading one volume of this series will surely want the others. THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH Or The All Around Rivals of the School THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH ON THE DIAMOND Or Winning Out by Pluck THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH ON THE RIVER Or The Boat Race Plot that Failed THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH ON THE GRIDIRON Or The Struggle for the Silver Cup THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH ON THE ICE Or Out for the Hockey Championship THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH IN TRACK ATHLETICS Or A Long Run that Won THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH IN WINTER SPORTS Or Stirring Doings on Skates and Iceboats 12mo. Illustrated. Handsomely bound in cloth, with cover design and wrappers in colors. GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE OUTDOOR CHUMS SERIES By CAPTAIN QUINCY ALLEN The outdoor chums are four wide-awake lads, sons of wealthy men of a small city located on a lake. The boys love outdoor life, and are greatly interested in hunting, fishing, and picture taking. They have motor cycles, motor boats, canoes, etc., and during their vacations go everywhere and have all sorts of thrilling adventures. The stories give full directions for camping out, how to fish, how to hunt wild animals and prepare the skins for stuffing, how to manage a canoe, how to swim, etc. Full of the spirit of outdoor life. THE OUTDOOR CHUMS Or The First Tour of the Rod, Gun and Camera Club. THE OUTDOOR CHUMS ON THE LAKE Or Lively Adventures on Wildcat Island. THE OUTDOOR CHUMS IN THE FOREST Or Laying the Ghost of Oak Ridge. THE OUTDOOR CHUMS ON THE GULF Or Rescuing the Lost Balloonists. THE OUTDOOR CHUMS AFTER BIG GAME Or Perilous Adventures in the Wilderness. THE OUTDOOR CHUMS ON A HOUSEBOAT Or The Rivals of the Mississippi. THE OUTDOOR CHUMS IN THE BIG WOODS Or The Rival Hunters at Lumber Run. THE OUTDOOR CHUMS AT CABIN POINT Or The Golden Cup Mystery. 12mo. Averaging 240 pages. Illustrated. Handsomely bound in Cloth. GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE MOVING PICTURE GIRLS SERIES By LAURA LEE HOPE Author of "The Bobbsey Twins Series." 12mo. BOUND IN CLOTH. ILLUSTRATED. UNIFORM STYLE OF BINDING The adventures of Ruth and Alice DeVere. Their father, a widower, is an actor who has taken up work for the "movies." Both girls wish to aid him in his work and visit various localities to act in all sorts of pictures. THE MOVING PICTURE GIRLS, Or First Appearance in Photo Dramas. Having lost his voice, the father of the girls goes into the movies and the girls follow. Tells how many "parlor dramas" are filmed. THE MOVING PICTURE GIRLS AT OAK FARM, Or Queer Happenings While Taking Rural Plays. Full of fun in the country, the haps and mishaps of taking film plays, and giving an account of two unusual discoveries. THE MOVING PICTURE GIRLS SNOWBOUND, Or The Proof on the Film. A tale of winter adventures in the wilderness, showing how the photo-play actors sometimes suffer. THE MOVING PICTURE GIRLS UNDER THE PALMS, Or Lost in the Wilds of Florida. How they went to the land of palms, played many parts in dramas before the camera; were lost, and aided others who were also lost. THE MOVING PICTURE GIRLS AT ROCKY RANCH, Or Great Days Among the Cowboys. All who have ever seen moving pictures of the great West will want to know just how they are made. This volume gives every detail and is full of clean fun and excitement. THE MOVING PICTURE GIRLS AT SEA, Or a Pictured Shipwreck that Became Real. A thrilling account of the girls' experiences on the water. THE MOVING PICTURE GIRLS IN WAR PLAYS, Or The Sham Battles at Oak Farm. The girls play important parts in big battle scenes and have plenty of hard work along with considerable fun. GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE OUTDOOR GIRLS SERIES By LAURA LEE HOPE Author of the popular "Bobbsey Twin Books" and "Bunny Brown" Series. UNIFORM STYLE OF BINDING. INDIVIDUAL COLORED WRAPPERS. These tales take in the various adventures participated in by several bright, up-to-date girls who love outdoor life. They are clean and wholesome, free from sensationalism, and absorbing from the first chapter to the last. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS OF DEEPDALE Or Camping and Tramping for Fun and Health. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT RAINBOW LAKE Or Stirring Cruise of the Motor Boat Gem. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN A MOTOR CAR Or The Haunted Mansion of Shadow Valley. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN A WINTER CAMP Or Glorious Days on Skates and Ice Boats. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN FLORIDA Or Wintering in the Sunny South. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT OCEAN VIEW Or The Box that Was Found in the Sand. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS ON PINE ISLAND Or A Cave and What it Contained. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN ARMY SERVICE Or Doing Their Bit for Uncle Sam. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT THE HOSTESS HOUSE Or Doing Their Best for the Soldiers. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT BLUFF POINT Or A Wreck and A Rescue. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT WILD ROSE LODGE Or The Hermit of Moonlight Falls. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN THE SADDLE Or The Girl Miner of Gold Run. GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH SERIES By GERTRUDE W. MORRISON 12mo. BOUND IN CLOTH. ILLUSTRATED. UNIFORM STYLE OF BINDING. Here is a series full of the spirit of high school life of to-day. The girls are real flesh-and-blood characters, and we follow them with interest in school and out. There are many contested matches on track and field, and on the water, as well as doings in the classroom and on the school stage. There is plenty of fun and excitement, all clean, pure and wholesome. THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH, Or Rivals for all Honors. A stirring tale of high school life, full of fun, with a touch of mystery and a strange initiation. THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH ON LAKE LUNA, Or The Crew That Won. Telling of water sports and fun galore, and of fine times in camp. THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH AT BASKETBALL, Or The Great Gymnasium Mystery. Here we have a number of thrilling contests at basketball and in addition, the solving of a mystery which had bothered the high school authorities for a long while. THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH ON THE STAGE, Or The Play That Took the Prize. How the girls went in for theatricals and how one of them wrote a play which afterward was made over for the professional stage and brought in some much-needed money. THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH ON TRACK AND FIELD, Or The Girl Champions of the School League. This story takes in high school athletics in their most approved and up-to-date fashion. Full of fun and excitement. THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH IN CAMP, Or The Old Professor's Secret. The girls went camping on Acorn Island and had a delightful time at boating, swimming and picnic parties. GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE BOBBSEY TWINS BOOKS For Little Men and Women By LAURA LEE HOPE Author of "The Bunny Brown" Series, Etc. 12mo. DURABLY BOUND. ILLUSTRATED. UNIFORM STYLE OF BINDING. Copyright publications which cannot be obtained elsewhere. Books that charm the hearts of the little ones, and of which they never tire. THE BOBBSEY TWINS THE BOBBSEY TWINS IN THE COUNTRY THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT THE SEASHORE THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT SCHOOL THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT SNOW LODGE THE BOBBSEY TWINS ON A HOUSEBOAT THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT MEADOW BROOK THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT HOME THE BOBBSEY TWINS IN A GREAT CITY THE BOBBSEY TWINS ON BLUEBERRY ISLAND THE BOBBSEY TWINS ON THE DEEP BLUE SEA THE BOBBSEY TWINS IN THE GREAT WEST GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK 
54121	----	Tom Pinder, Foundling, by D. F. E. Sykes, LL.B. Part 1. Tom. ...... Pinder,... Foundling. (A Story of the Holmfirth Flood.) by D.F.E. Sykes, LL.B. Price one penny ______________ Slaithwaite: F. Walker, Commercial and Artistic printer, Britannia Works. 2,000-2-06 Later published under the title "Dorothy's Choice" About the author D F E Sykes was a gifted scholar, solicitor, local politician, and newspaper proprietor. He listed his own patrimony as 'Fred o' Ned's o' Ben o' Billy's o' the Knowle' a reference to Holme village above Slaithwaite in the Colne Valley. As the grandson of a clothier, his association with the woollen trade would be a valuable source of material for his novels, but also the cause of his downfall when, in 1883, he became involved in a bitter dispute between the weavers and the mill owners. When he was declared bankrupt in 1885 and no longer able to practise as a solicitor he left the area and travelled abroad to Ireland and Canada. On his return to England he struggled with alcoholism and was prosecuted by the NSPCC for child neglect. Eventually he was drawn back to Huddersfield and became an active member of the Temperance Movement. He took to researching local history and writing, at first in a local newspaper, then books such as 'The History of Huddersfield and its Vicinity'. He also wrote four novels. It was not until the 1911 Census, after some 20 years as a writer, that he finally states his profession as 'author'. In later life he lived with his wife, the daughter of a Lincolnshire vicar, at Ainsley House, Marsden. He died of a heart attack following an operation at Huddersfield Royal Infirmary on 5th June 1920 and was buried in the graveyard of St Bartholomew's in Marsden. Introduction Tom Pinder, Foundling is a romance and moral tale, set in the early part of the 19th Century, to the backdrop of the Greenfield and Holme Valleys when both were a part of West Yorkshire. It deals with the life of a foundling, Victorian values, the burgeoning of the cooperative movement and the Holmfirth flood. The book was first published c. 1902 and subsequently published under the title Dorothy's Choice (A Rushing of the Waters). Sykes is one of few novelists who chose to portray the lives of common people in this period and for this reason alone it is a valuable resource as a social history. His use of the local dialect, ability to sketch interesting characters and their relationships adds greatly to its readability. CHAPTER I. THE _Hanging Gate_ is a public-house of venerable aspect. It stands at the corner of one of four cross ways, where the road from the summit of Harrop Edge cuts the turnpike from Leeds to Manchester. It pays rates in the township of Diggle, and to Diggle it properly belongs; but the small cluster of tumble-down cottages that constitutes a very small hamlet rejoices in the name of Wakey, a name whose origin has hitherto baffled the researches of local antiquarians. The inn itself is a low, two-storied, rambling building. Its rooms are so low that a moderately tall man must dodge the oaken rafters. There is much stabling, now largely abandoned to the rats, for the pristine glory of the _Hanging Gate_ departed with the stage coach. A long horse-trough by the side of the inn front still stands to remind the wayfarer of the days when the highway was quick with traffic, but the sign itself bears eloquent testimony of decay and fallen fortunes though it still flaunts its ancient legend on a miniature crate that rocks and creaks over the narrow doorway: "This Gate hangs well and hinders none; Refresh and pay and travel on." But on a certain winter's night of 183--, when this story opens, the guest more bent upon refreshing than travelling on might have pleaded good excuse. Outside, the snow lay upon field and road knee-deep, the thatches, gables, and very faces of the scattered houses of Wakey were splashed and bespattered with snow, which for days had fallen in big flakes, silent and sad as the grey leaves of latest autumn, making thick the air as with the lighting of grasshoppers. The moon in the low-hanging sky was veiled by heavy masses of dark cloud that stole across the heavens like mutes oppressed by the sombre garb of woe. Signs of life about the Wakey there seemed none, save the mellowed light that shone across the bisecting roads from the curtained lattices of the _Hanging Gate_. It was eight o'clock and the hand-loom weavers or mill-hands habiting the small stone-build houses that straggled from the valley up the bleak sides of Harrop Edge had gone to bed, not so much because they were weary as to save fire and light. The village smithy flanking the stables of the _Hanging Gate_ was closed and the smith himself, big burly Jim o' Little Hannah's had forged his last shoe and blown the last blast from his bellows, poured his last pint down his throat in the neighbouring taproom and trudged home to his little wife and large family. The few frequenters of the tap-room had tarried till tarry they might no longer, for times were bad, money was scarce and the credit given by the best of innkeepers has its limits. Mrs. Betty Schofield, the buxom hostess of the _Hanging Gate_ was no wise dismayed by the slackness of her custom. Rumour had it that Betty was a very warm woman. She had been some years a widow, and her husband had left her, as the gossips said, well worth picking up. Look at her as she sits in the long kitchen before a roaring fire of mingled coal, peat and logs. Below the medium height, with wavy brown hair, a soft brown eye, a dimpled chin, now inclined to the double, a full and swelling bust, a mouth not too small and smiling lips that parted only to display a perfect set of teeth--it does one good to look upon her rosy cheek.--Happy the man, you say, who shall own those ample charms and for whom shall beam the ready smile or soften the warm brown eyes. There are another two seated in the brick-tiled kitchen. Mary o' Stuart's commonly called Moll o' Stute's, and Mr. William Black. Moll shall have precedence in honour of her sex and calling, a noble calling, of a verity, for Mary was the midwife of the valley. She is scantily clad for the time of the year, yet you judge that it is not from cold that she huddles by the fireside, but rather for convenience of lighting the black clay pipe she so intently sucks, one long skinny brown arm resting on her knee, her eyes fixed upon the glowing fire that casts its flickering light upon the sharp hard-featured face. Her black hair is long and though streaked with grey is still abundant, and rebellious locks, escaped from the coil, stray over the scraggy shoulders, round which a shabby, faded, flannel shawl hangs loosely. No one knows where Moll lives, if it be not at the _Hanging Gate_, which, if not her home, is for Moll a sort of _Poste Restante_, and if not there to be always seen there she can always be heard of. Moll has less need of fixed abode than ordinary mortals. She has reached the age of fifty or more, and still bears her virgin name and owns to neither chick nor child, though there were that breathed mysterious hints of wild passages of thirty years gone bye, when Moll's cheek was soft and rosy and her form, though tall, lacked nought of grace and suppleness. "A saucy queen," the village grannies said, "and one that always thought herself too good for common folk; but pride had had its fall,"--a reflection that seemed to bring comfort to the toothless, hollow-cheeked beldames as they wheezed asthmatically of the scandals of a youth long fled, when Mary's foot light upon the village green and her laugh was readiest at feast or wakes. On the opposite side of the hearth sat Mr. Black, the village Schoolmaster, a little lean man well past his meridian, his hair sparse and thin, and sparse and thin all his form and frame. He is clean shaven, but his lips are firm and his eye bright and keen. Though he has the lean and hungry look of the born conspirator, never did such a look so belie a man; for a gentler being never breathed than William Black, nor one more secure in the affection and esteem of high and low for many miles around. He was not a that country man and how or by what fate, driven by what adversity or sore mischance, he had drifted to that wild neighbourhood none presumed to know. He kept a day school for boys and girls, whose parents paid fourpence a child per week when they could afford it, and less when they couldn't--generally less. Then on alternate week-nights he kept a night-school where strapping and ambitious youths from loom or farm or bench, whose education had been neglected in their tender youth sought painfully to learn to read and write and sum. These were known to pay as much as twopence a lesson. Mr. Black--even in those irreverent days and parts, where few even of the better sort escape a nick-name, he was always called _Mr_. Black,--was a bachelor, and his modest household and Mr. Black himself were ruled by a spinster sister, shrill of voice, caustic of speech, with profound contempt for her brother's softness, but unceasing and untiring in the care of the household gods, and happiest in those "spring cleanings" that were not confined to spring. But to-night Mr. Black has fled before his sister's voice and twirling mop, and a look of seraphic content rests upon his face as he meditatively puffs his long churchwarden and sniffs the fragrant odour of the mulled ale that simmers in the copper vessel, shaped like a candle-snuffer, or, as Mr. Black reflected, like a highly burnished dunce's cap, and which the plump hand of Mrs. Schofield had thrust nigh to its rim in the very heart of the ruddy fire. The schoolmaster's thin legs, clad in stout stockings of native wool, knit by Miss Black's deft fingers, were crossed before the blaze and the grateful warmth falls upon them, the while the clogging snow slowly melts from his stout boots. "Redfearn o' Fairbanks is late to-night," he said at length, after a silence broken only by the click of Mrs. Schofield's steel knitting needles. "Aye, it's market day in Huddersfilt, yo' know, Mr. Black, an' th' roads 'll be bad to-neet. But Fairbanks 'll win through if th' mare dunnot fall an' break his neck." "Th' mare's nooan foaled 'at 'll break Tom o' Fairbank's neck," said Moll o' Stuart's, grimly. "It's spun hemp that bides for him, if there's a God i' heaven." "Whisht yo' now, Moll, an' quit speakin' o' your betters, leastwise if you canna speak respectful." "Betters! Respectful! Quo' she," retorted Molly with a defiant snort, pulling hard at her filthy cuddy. "Aye betters!" snapped the landlady, or as nearly snapped as lips like hers could snap. "It's me as says it, an' me as 'll stand to it. Wheer i' all th' parish will yo find a freer hand or a bigger heart nor Tom o' Fairbanks? Tell me that, yo' besom." "Aye free enew," said Molly curtly. Mrs. Schofield bridled indignantly. "Oh! It's weel for yo' to sit by mi own fireside an' eat o' mi bread an' nivver so happy as when yo're castin' up bye-gones 'at should be dead an' buried long sin." "Aye, aye, let the dead past bury its dead," put in the schoolmaster soothingly. "An' what if Redfearn o' Fairbanks ware a bit leet gi'en i' his young days," went on the irate hostess. "He's nooan th' first an' he'll nooan be th' last. He's nobbut human like most folk 'at ivver I heard tell on. He's honest enough now, if he's had to wear honest. An' it's weel known...." But what was so well known that the voluble tongue of Mrs. Schofield was about to repeat it at large shall not be here set down, nor was destined that night to enlighten the company; for the outer door was opened, and a gust of keen wind laden with feathery flakes of snow whirled up the narrow passage, well nigh extinguishing the slender light of the oil lamp on the wall, and causing the great burnished metal dishes and the very warming-pan itself to sway gently on their hooks. "It's Fairbanks, hissen," said Mrs. Schofield "Talk o' the de'il," muttered the irrepressible Moll but no one heeded. Then was heard much stamping of feet in the outer passage and kicking of boot toes on the lintel of the door and not a little coughing and clearing of the throat. "Ugh! Shut the door to, man," cried a hearty voice; "do yo' want me to be blown into th' back-yard?" The heavy bolt-studded door was pressed back and there strode into the room a tall well-built man. Top-booted, spurred, with riding-whip in hand, and wearing the long heavy-lapetted riding-coat of the period--a hale, hearty man fresh-complexioned, with close cropped crisping hair, the face clean shaven after the fashion of the times, a masterful man, you saw at a glance, and one who knew it. Though he was over the borderland of his fifth decade, time had neither wrinkled his ruddy face nor streaked his crisp brown hair. Behind him as he strolled into the kitchen, shambled a thick-set, saturnine, grim-visaged churl, who knew more of his master's business and far more of his master's secrets than the mistress of Fairbanks herself. It was Aleck, the shepherd and general factotum of Fairbanks farm, Aleck the silent, Aleck the cynic, Aleck the misogynist, against whose steeled heart successive milk-maids and servant wenches had cast in vain the darts and arrows of amorous eyes and who was spitefully averred to care only for home-brewed ale, and the sheep-dog, Pinder that now, already, was shaking the snow oft his shaggy coat preparatory to curling himself up before the fire. "Sakes alive! It's a rough 'un, good folk," said the master of Fairbanks, "Good night to yo' Betty, an' to yo', Mr. Black. I was feart aw should miss yo'. Give me a stiff 'un o' rum hot wi' sugar an' a splash o' lemon; an' yo' Aleck, will't ha' a pint o' mulled?" Which redolent compound Mrs. Schofield was now pouring into a capacious pitcher. "Tha knows better, mester," was Aleck's blunt reply. "A quart o' ale, missis, an' nooan too much yead on it--no fal-lals for me, mi stummack's too wake." This was an unusually long speech for Aleck, and he sank exhausted on a settle that ran beneath a long narrow window, whilst the dog prone upon the hearth, his jaws resting on his fore paws, feigned sleep, but blinked at times from beneath twitching eyebrows at the rugged visage of the tanned, weather-beaten herdsman. "An' yo' stabled th' mare aw nivver heerd th' stable door oppen?" queried Mrs Schofield. "Nay, I left Bess at th' _Floating Lights_. She cast a shoe coming over th' Top. So we'n walked daan an welly up to mi chin aw've bin more nor once--it's th' heaviest fall aw mind on." "But you're late Fairbanks," said Mr Black. "I looked for you this hour and more. Have you had a good market?" "Aye nowt to grumble at, an' we Aleck? Sold forty head o' beast an' bought thirty as fine cattle as ever yo' clapped e'en on, eh, Aleck? An' we're nooan strapped yet," he laughed, as he drew a leather pouch from an inner pocket and cast it jingling on to the table. "Here Betty, put that i'th cupboard." "Have yo' counted it?" asked Mrs. Schofield, handling the greasy bag gingerly. "Count be danged," said Mr. Redfearn, "saving your presence, schoolmaster. Gi' me another jorum. Sup up, Aleck." Aleck supped up and silently handed his pewter to Mrs Schofield. "But it wasn't the market that kept me so late," went on Mr Redfearn. "There were a meeting o' th' free holders o' th' district to consider the new Reform Bill. We met i' th' big room at th' _George_, but it all came to nowt; though Harry Brougham talked and talked fit to talk a hen an' chickens to death. Gosh! Our Mary's a good 'un, but she couldn't hold a can'le to Brougham." "Aye, did you hear Mr. Brougham?" asked Mr Black, with interest. "What manner of man is he?" "Why nowt much to look at--aw could blow him away like thistle down; more like a monkey up a stick nor owt 'at I can think on. But talk! You should hear him! But he didn't talk my vote out o' me for all that. King and Church for me, say I. Th' owd ways were good enough for my father an' my father's father an' aw reckon they'll do for me." "But he's a marvellous man," said Mr. Black. "Who but he could leave the Assizes at York, travel, there and back, over two hundred miles after the rising of the Court, address half-a-dozen meetings and be back next day taking his briefs--I think they call them--as fresh as new paint." "Aye, but that wern't Brougham," said Redfearn. "It wer' Owdham browies." "Eh?" queried the schoolmaster. "Aye, Owdham browies. I had it from a sure source. Th' other day i' th' Court Harry wer' fair done an' it wer' getting late. 'Won't your ludship adjourn, now?' He says, as mild as milk." "'No, sir,' says th' judge,'I shall finish this case if I sit till midnight.' Yo' see he knew Harry only wanted to be off spoutin' an' th' owd judge wer' a Tory." "'Very well, my lord,' says Harry an' turns to his clerk, an' in a jiffy there war a basin o' haver-bread wi' hot beef drippin' poured on it an pepper an salt an' a pint o' old port wine stirred in, an' Harry spooinnin' it into him like one o'clock, slap under th' owd Judge's nose. Th'owd felly wer' a bit hungry hissen, an' th' smell set his mouth a watterin' an' he jumped up an' adjourned th' Court, an' if he didn't say 'curse yo',' they say he looked it. But what ails Pinder?" The sheep-dog had pricked its ears, then listened intently, then gone into the passage whining and growling. "Pinder thinks it's time to be goin' whom'," said Aleck, as he followed the cur into the passage. The dog laid its nose to the bottom of the thick door; whined and began frantically to scratch at the door beneath which the snow had drifted in thin sprays. When Aleck neared the dog it leaped on him and then with looks more eloquent than speech compelled him to the door. "Ther's summat up," said Aleck, as he opened the door. "Bring th' lantern, missus." The dog bounded out, set its head to the ground and howled dismally. Aleck stooped, his big hands swept away a big mound of snow and he lifted something in his arms. "Mak' way theer," he cried, as nearly excited as ever Aleck had been known to be; "mak' way; it's a woman an' oo's dead, aw'm thinkin'." He bore his burthen, almost covered with its cold winding sheet of snow, into the warm kitchen, and laid it before the fire. Mrs. Schofield had snatched a cushion from the settle and placed it under the head of the lifeless figure. The men had risen to their feet and gazed helplessly at the rigid form. They saw the fair young face, marble white and set, fair tresses, sodden through. Upon the feet were shoes of flimsy make, the heel gone from one of them. A slight cape covered a thin dress of good make and material, but far too tenuous for winter wear, and all was travel-stained and soaked through. Moll o' Stute's thrust the men aside. "Go whom," she said, "yo're nooan wanted here." She put her hand into the woman's bosom. "Gi' me some brandy," she said. It was there already, held in Mrs. Schofield's trembling hand. A little passed the lips and gurgled down the throat. A little more and the potent spirit did its saving work. The white thin hand twitched, the eyes partly opened, then closed again as a faint sigh breathed from the pallid lips. "Put th' warming pan i' th' best bed, an' leet a fire upstairs," commanded Moll. "I'st be wanted afore mornin' or aw'st be capped." "Shall Aleck fetch Dr. Garstang?" ventured Mr. Redfearn. "Garstang fiddlesticks," snapped Moll. "This is wark for me, aw tell yo'. There'll be one more i' this house bi morn, and happen one less, God save us. But get you gone an' moither me no more." CHAPTER II. MR. Black did not sleep well that night. He had fevered visions of Alpine crevasses, of St. Bernard dogs and of fair blanched faces set in long dank tresses of clinging hair. He had had, too, before seeking his narrow pallet, a rather bad and disquieting quarter of an hour with his sister, who had demanded in acrid tones to be told what made him so late home. He was losing his character, the irate Priscilla had declared, spending every spare moment at the _Hanging Gate_, whose landlady everyone knew to be a designing women and openly and unblushingly "widowing." A nice howdyedo it must be for him, a scholar, to have his name bandied about in every tap-room between Diggle and Greenfield. But she would see Mr Whitelock the vicar of St Chad's, and perhaps her abandoned brother would take more notice of his spiritual adviser than he did of those that were his own flesh and blood so to speak. But if he meant to go on that gate, drinking and roistering and maybe even worse, she, for one, wouldn't stand it, and nevermore would she set scrubbing brush to desk and floor or duster to chair, no not if dirt lay so thick, you could write your name in it with your finger--and so forth. Mr. Black had smiled when Mr Whitelock was mentioned, for well he knew the worthy vicar's cob stopped without hint from rein as it reached the _Hanging Gate_, and no one knew better than the reverend gentleman the virtues of those comforting liquids Mrs. Schofield reserved for favoured guests. Priscilla, however, had been somewhat mollified and allowed the cauldron of her righteous wrath to simmer down, when her brother told her he had been detained by Mr. Redfearn of Fairbanks, and that she might expect a basket of butter and eggs, with maybe a collop, as a mark of friendship and esteem from Mrs. Redfearn herself. Mr. Black struggled hard with his early breakfast of porridge and milk, but it was no use. He pushed away bowl and platter and murmuring something about being back in time to open school he seized his beaver, donned frieze coat and made off to the _Hanging Gate_. His heart sank within him when he found the door closed though not bolted, and every window shrouded by curtain or blind. Mrs. Schofield was rocking herself in the chair and looked, as was indeed the case as if she had known no bed that night. There were marks of tears upon her, cheeks, and her glossy hair, was all awry and unkempt. "Eh, but Mr. Black," she half sobbed, "but it's good for sair e'en to see yo' or any other Christian soul after such a time as aw've passed through this very neet that's passed and gone. Glory be to God. And oh! Mi poor head, if it doesna crack it's a lucky woman Betty Schofield will be. If it hadn't been for a cup o' tay goodness only knows but what aw'd ha' sunk entirely, and Moll o Stute's wi' no more feelin' nor a stone. But sit yo' down, sir, an' drink a dish o' tea." Now black tea in those days was 8s. a pound and a tea-drinking was almost as solemn a function as a Church sacrament. Tea was not to be lightly drunk, and indeed was reserved chiefly for funerals and christenings. The women folk of the middle classes drank it at times to mark their social status, as people now-a-days emblazon emblems of spurious heraldry on the panels of their broughams. The men held it in derision as a milksop's beverage and swore by the virtues of hops and malt. But Mr. Black was fain to forget his manhood nor resisted over much when a certain cordial, darkly alluded to as "brown cream" and commonly supposed to mellow in the plantations of Jamaica, was added to the fragrant cup. "And the poor woman?" he asked timidly at last. "Ah! Poor woman well may yo' call her, though mebbe now she's richer nor any on us, for if ever misguided wench looked like a saint i' heaven she does--an' passed away as quiet as a lamb, at two o'clock this mornin' just as th' clock theer wer strikin' th' hour. Eh! But she's a bonnie corpse as ever aw seed but she looks so like an angel fro' heaven aw'm awmost feart to look at her. Yo'll like to see her, but Fairbanks 'll be comin' down aw doubt na an' yo'll go up together." "Did she speak, is there anything to show who or what she is?" "Not a word, not a sign, not a mark on linen or paper; but oo's no common trollop that aw'st warrant, tho' she _had_ no ring on her finger." "Maybe her straits compelled her to part with it," suggested Mr. Black. "Weel, weel, mebbe, mebbe, tho' it's th' last thing a decent woman parts wi', that an' her marriage-lines. But, as I said, th' poor thing med no sign. 'Oo just oppened her sweet e'en as Moll theer laid th' babby to her breast, an' her poor hand tried to touch its face, an' just th' quiver o' a smile fluttered on her lips, an' then all wer' ovver, but so quiet like, so quiet, 'twere more a flutterin' away nor deein'. Eh! But awm thankful 'oo deed i' my bed an' not o'th moor buried i' a drift"--and the tears once more trickled down Mrs. Schofield's rounded cheek. Mr. Black took the plump left hand that rested on the widow's lap and gently pressed it in token of the sympathy his lips could not express. Could mortal man do less? "It's times like these a poor widow feels her lonesome state," murmured Mrs. Schofield. Mr. Black withdrew his hand, and the grim visage of Priscilla flashed across his vision. The twain had been so absorbed that Moll o' Stute's had glided into the kitchen, and now was seated on her accustomed stool by the fireside. She had a soft bundle of flannel in her arms and as she sat she swayed gently to and fro murmuring, not unmusically, some crooning lullaby of the country side. "The babe?" whispered Mr. Black, and Mrs. Schofield nodded silently, and then, sinking her voice, "Moll's got another maggot i' her head. She thinks th' poor lass 'ats dead an' gone wer' seeking Tom o' Fairbanks. Yo' know how daft she is when 'oo sets that way." "Aye, give a dog a bad name and hang him. An old saying and true. We all know Fairbanks was a sad fellow in his young days, but bar a quip and maybe a stolen kiss from ready and tempting lips, he's steady enough now". "Aye, aye, worn honest, as they say," acquiesced the hostess. "But here he comes. Aw med sure he'd be anxious to know the end o' last neet's doin's--an' wheer Fairbanks is Aleck's nooan far off, nor Pinder far off Aleck." Nor was Mrs. Schofield wrong in her surmise, Mr Redfearn came almost on tip-toe through the passage into the kitchen. The presence of death needs neither the whispered word nor the silent signal. Its hush is upon the house of mourning as the Sabbath stillness rests upon the fields. Even the phlegmatic Aleck had composed his rugged features to a more impressive rigidity than was their use, and the very dog stole to the hearth with downcast head and humid eyes. "It came to th' worst then?" asked Mr. Redfearn, after a solemn silence. He needed no reply. "Well, well, we all mun go someday; but she wer' o'er young an' o'er bonnie to be so cruel o'erta'en." "Aye it's weel to hear you talk, Fairbanks," broke in the irrepressible Molly, as she strained the child closer to her shrunken breast. "But there's someb'dy 'll ha' to answer for this neet's wark an' who it is mebbe yersen can tell." Redfearn checked a hasty retort. There were, perhaps, reasons why he must bear the lash of Molly's tongue. "Is she i' th' chamber?" he asked. "Yo'd like to see her," said Mrs Schofield. Softly, the farmer and the schoolmaster followed their guide up the narrow creaking steps that led from the passage to the best bedroom, the room of state of the _Hanging Gate_. Upon a large four-poster lay the lifeless form fairer and more beautiful than in life. Mrs. Schofield drew the curtain of the window and the morning light streamed upon the couch and cast a halo on the pure child-like face. The long silken hair, deftly tended, had been drawn across each shoulder and in rippling streams fell about the bosom. It was hard to think that Death was there--'t was more as though a maiden slept. The men stood by the couch side gazing reverently on the fragile form. Redfearn drew a short and gasping breath and passed his hand furtively across his eyes. "A good woman, schoolmaster, a good woman. I'd stake my life on that." The dominie moved his head in silent assent, then with broken voice breathed low, "Let us pray," and Mrs. Schofield flung her apron over her head as she sank upon her knees, and Redfearn and Mr. Black knelt by the bedside. 'Twas but a simple prayer that God's mercy might have been vouchsafed to the sister who had passed away, far from her friends and home, a nameless wanderer, with none to help but the Father who had called his wandering child to the land where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest,--His own sweet home; a prayer, too, that God would raise up friends for the orphaned bairn that would never know a mother's love nor perchance a father's care. And as he prayed Redfearn's hand pressed heavy on his arm and in hoarse tones the farmer muttered. "God forgive me all my sins--I'll find the wee lad's father, if he's in the three Ridings, an' if aw dunnot th' lad shall nivver want for bite nor sup." Then as though ashamed, he groped his way down the dingy stair-case and flung himself into the big oaken arm-chair that none ventured to dispute with him. But it was not in the nature of the man to be long oppressed by brooding thought or to abandon himself to the bitter-sweet reflections of sombre-visaged melancholy. His active, restless temperament was impatient of reflection and his practical mind turned to the present need. "Aleck, yo'll go to Sam Sykes's an' order th' coffin, an' tell him to see about th' grave i' Saddleworth churchyard. Gi' my respects to th' vicar an' ask him to fix all about th' buryin', an Sykes 'll see about th' undertaker. Yo'll see th' poor lass put away, Betty, an' yo' too, Moll, an' yo'll want a black gown, aw dessay. Well, thank God ther's a shot i' th' locker yet. Give us th' bag out o'th cupboard, Betty. It's weel aw left it last neet, aw med ha' known. An' now what wi one thing an' another awm fair done an' yo mun bring me summat to put a bit o' heart i' me." "It's weel talkin' o' puttin' folk away," broke in Moll, in no way softened by the prospect of a new gown. "Th' dead's soon away wi'; but what abart th' child here?" and Molly turned aside the flannel covering the infant face. "Dooms! Aw'd fair forgetten th' bairn," said Fairbank, "Let's ha' a look at it bi th' winder mi eyes are none so good as they used to be." Molly reluctantly placed the little one in the farmer's outstretched arms and he bore it to the light. "A fine child as ivver yo' seen," said Mrs. Schofield. "It's gotten my Benny's things on, leastwise them at 'aw made for him wi' my own fingers, but it warn't to be, for th' poor lad nivver breathed but once. Eh! It's a queer warld; them as could do wi childer an' thank the Lord for 'em cannot ha' 'em, an' them as sudna ha' 'em,--they come a troopin'. It passes me altogether." Mr. Black was casting anxious glances at the long sleeve clock, its long brass hand now marching upwards to that ninth hour of the morn that every schoolboy dreads. "I must be going," he said. "Nay, rest you," urged the widow. "Gi th' childer a holiday--. Yer' none yersen tha morn, an' to be sure which on us is? I'll ha' some ham in th' pan i' a jiffy, an' it's Fairbanks fed, an yo know what that means." "Nay, nay, tempt me not, tempt me not. Those lads o' mine e'en now are up to their eyes in mischief. There'll be a crooked pin in the cushion of my chair, a chalk drawing of Priscilla, none too flattering, on the map of Europe, and those of them that are not playing cots and tyes for buttons will be playing 'Follow mi leader' over the forms and desks. It's much if the windows arn't broken and there wont be a button left on some of their clothes--inveterate gamblers as though they shook a box at Brighton Spa." Mr. Black's tone was harsh, but there was a gleam in his eye that took away the sting of his speech. "Yo're a good Churchman, aw know," said Redfearn, "for yo' do as th' owd Book tells us--yo' spare the rod an' spoil the child. But we mun settle summat about th' bairn here, an' aw'll be down to-neet as soon as I can get." Mr. Black bent over the sleeping babe nestling in its nurse's arms. "Come early," whispered Molly, "aw've summat to say to yo' partic'ler." It was but a distracted mind the teacher gave that day to the budding genius of his school. He was lost in conjecture as to what Moll might have to say to him, and not less in surprise that she should have aught at all, for though that hard-featured damsel of the rasping tongue treated him with a deference shown to no other he could think of no subject demanding the secrecy Molly's manner had seemed to ask. He did not fail to be early at the _Hanging Gate_, indeed Mrs. Schofield, her wonted serenity restored by an afternoon's nap on the settle, had but just sided the tea-things, after that meal which is locally called a "baggin'"--(another term whose origin is shrouded in mystery) and was still in the sacred retreat upstairs, where she was accustomed to array herself as beseemeth the landlady of a thriving hostelry, with money in the bank, and that could change her condition by holding up her little finger. Molly no longer held the child in her arms. It had been transferred into the highly polished mahogany cradle, which Molly worked gently with her foot, and which also had doubtless been purchased for the use of that disappointing Benny. "Eh! Aw'm glad yo'n come," she said eagerly, as Mr. Black removed his wraps. "Speak low, th' missis is upstairs, an' these rafters is like sounding boards." She thrust her hand deep into one of those long linen pockets beneath the upper gown and that only a woman can find. "Here tak' it," she said, "tak' it. It's welly burned a hoil i' mi pocket. Dunnot let me han'le it again or aw'll nooan answer for missen. It's gowd, man, gowd, aw tell yo' an' there's figgerin on it i' some mak o' stones at glitter an' dazzle till yo'd think the varry devil wer' winkin' at yo', an whisperin' i' yo'r lug to keep it quiet an' say nowt to nobody." She placed a trinket in the schoolmaster's hand and heaved a sigh of relief. It was a locket of gold, heart-shaped. On the one side was worked, in small diamonds, a true-lovers' knot, on the reverse, in pearls, a monogram. A.J. The like neither dominie nor nurse had ever gazed upon before, save, perhaps, through the tantalizing barrier of a jeweller's window in Huddersfield or Manchester, and, it is safe to say, never before had either held in hand article of so much value. "Yo' know aw helped to put her to bed," whispered Molly, with a motion of head towards the best bedroom, "an' aw undressed her, an' when th' missis wer' airin' a neet-gown for th' poor thing aw' spied that teed round her neck wi' a bit o' velvet. So aw' snipped it off, for aw seed weel enough oo'd nivver want it again. Aw'd meant to keep it till aw could mak it i' my way to go daan to Huddersfilt; but aw stood at th' bottom o' th' stairs when yo' wer prayin' yesterday, an' oh, Mr. Black, it wor' a tussle, but aw couldna keep it, aw couldna keep it after that." Mr. Black was much moved. He took Molly's hand in his and bowed over it. "You are a good woman Molly, and One who seeth in secret will reward you openly." "Dunnot tell th' misses," urged Molly, flushing even through the tan of her hard face at a tribute seldom paid to her. "Oo'll mebbe think aw sud ha' gien it to her; an' though aw've no patience wi' her airs an' her greetin' (crying) an' settin her cap at's aboon her, thof poor they may be, but still oo's reet at t'core, an awd be sorry to fa' out wi' her." Mr. Black nodded, and carefully placed the locket in the pocket of his vest. "I must think over this. I don't like secrets; but you shall go harmless. This trinket, valuable as it doubtless is of itself, may be more precious still as a clue to that poor child's parentage and I must take counsel with Mr Redfearn." Molly shook her head in emphatic dissent. "You wrong Fairbanks, indeed you do, Molly." "Ah, yo' ken, yo' ken," said Molly, brokenly, "who but Fairbanks ruined my young life?" "And hath he not repented and would have made amends? As you stand in need of forgiveness, Molly, learn to forgive. 'Tis a lesson we all must learn." The entrance of Redfearn himself precluded the further discussion of a delicate and painful subject. Molly assumed with some difficulty the control of her features, but there was lacking, for a time at least, that resentful defiance and general contrariness his presence seemed generally to arouse. Drawing back into the shade of her favourite corner she devoted herself to the assiduous care of the cradle, whilst Mrs. Schofield, now resplendent in her evening finery of black silk, with massive gold brooch and long gold watch chain that reached in double folds from neck to waist, with her own fair hand decocted the soothing compound demanded by the master of Fairbanks, nor disdained to pump the humming ale that was the nectar of the attendant herdsman. "Well, Aleck, tha wer' tellin' me," said Redfearn, "tha's seen Mr. Whitelock an' th' sexton an' th' undertaker, an' all's arranged?" Aleck made no reply till he had lowered the pewter two-handled quart measure, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand--a good pint had disappeared, and you might have heard it gurgling down his throat like water down a bent and choked drain. He nodded his reply: then gruffly: "To-morrow, three o'clock. Th' hearse an' coaches here at two." "An' now what's to be done about th' little 'un?" queried the farmer. "I've thowt an' thowt, an' better thowt. An' aw'm nooan a bit nearer. Aw thowt mebbe yo' could tak' care on it, till its own folk wer' found. What ses ta, Betty?" But Mrs. Schofield shook her head. "It wouldn't do Fairbanks, it 'ud nivver do. Aw met manage if Moll wor allus here to look after it an 'oo could give a hand i' th' taproom o' Saturday neets and Sundays. But wi' her, nivver to be depended on five minutes together, knocked up i' th' middle o' th' neet when least yo' look for it, an' nivver knowin' when oo'll be back or wheer oo'll be next more like a gipsy or willy-wisp nor a regular lodger, an' me a sound sleeper--yo' can see for yorsen it 'ud nivver act." "Why dunno yo' offer to tak' him to Fairbanks?" Molly could not forbear asking, with some malice. "One more or less 'll mak' no differ to yo', an' th' lad 'ud sooin be o' use on th' farm." "Not for a thousand golden guineas," exclaimed Redfearn. "Our Mary's th' best o' women; but if 'oo has a fault it's jalousin' about every bye-blow that's born i'th' village. There's her an' your Priscilla, schoolmaster, bin collogin' o'er this job already, bi what aw can speer, an Mary looked sour enough to turn a field o' red cabbage into pickles, when aw started fro' Fairbanks to-neet. Didn't 'oo, Aleck?" concluded Redfearn, with his usual appeal to his faithful henchman. "Oo did that," said Aleck, starting out of a deep reverie. "Yo' might lay it to me," at last Aleck said, "awst nooan mind, an' aw say Pinder 'd get used to it in a bit." "What could yo' do wi' a child i' th' hut, you numskull?" laughed the farmer. "Well, settle it yo'r own gate--it's all a price to me. Best chuck it i' th' cut an' ha' done wi' it." If a look could have blasted man, as lightning blasts the oak, never more would Aleck have herded flock on the lofty heights and stretching moors that edge Diggle valley and its rippling brook. "Out on yo', Aleck no-name," cried Molly, springing hotly to her feet. "Eh! But if aw could nobbut see mi way, yo' bonnie bairn, none sud ha' yo' but mysen. These hands received yo', an' these hands sud tew for yo', if aw worked 'em to skin an' bone. But it canna be, my bonnie pet,"--she apostrophised the unconscious babe--"An' Moll o' Stute's nooan fit to ha' th' rearin' o' such as thee, quality-born if ivver ther' wor one." "That reminds me," interposed the schoolmaster, as he drew forth the locket and told its tale. "Well, aw nivver did," gasped Mrs. Schofield, eyeing the keepsake and with some difficulty prizing it open with the point of her scissors. "Black hair an' leet, crossed an' knotted. Th' leet coloured 'll be th' poor lass's, silk isn't in it for fine, an' th' black 'll be th' father's, aw'll be bun'." Even Aleck could not refrain from admiration. "It'll come in handy some day," he predicted, "aw sudn't wonder if it fot enough to breech th' lad, when th' time comes." "Breech th' lad, in sooth; hear him. Why, yo' stupid, it 'ud buy twenty o't best sheep ivver tha seed i' pen. Our Mary's nowt to marrow it, wi her mother's an gret-aunt Keziah's thrown in." "Twenty ship!" repeated Aleck. "Weel, weel, fooils an' ther brass is soon parted." "But we get further off i'stead o' nearer th' point," pursued the farmer. "Yo'n said nowt, Mr. Black; what's to be done wi' th' child?" "Well, first and foremost we must advertise i' th' _Leeds Mercury_ an' th' _Manchester Courier_, for you see we've nothing to guide us which way she came. It may well be sorrowing parents, perhaps a conscience-stricken lover, or indeed, perchance, a distracted husband, at this very moment is seeking far and near for the poor wanderer. What tale of wrong those sealed lips could tell we may not even surmise. But the locket and these initials may put us on the right track. Anyway it won't cost much, and it's our clear and bounden duty to both the living and the dead." "It's reet weel thowt on, Schoolmaster. See what it is to be educated. Thof aw will say aw hannot much hope. Aw onest lost a cow for three week--yo' moind on it, Aleck?" "Three week an' three days," muttered the shepherd. "An' aw 'vertised an 'vertised but nowt cam' on it. But Pinder fan her didn't ta, lad?" Pinder winked his dexter eye and lazily stirred his tail. "An' if th' advertisin' comes to nowt, what then?" said Molly. Aye, what then! There was indeed the rub. "Mr. Black's nooan finished yet," said Mrs Schofield. The schoolmaster thoughtfully stirred his rum toddy with the metal crusher. "I should dearly like to take the child as my own and rear him up to follow me when I've closed the school door for the last time and the long vacation begins for the old dominie. I could bring the lad on in arithmetic, grammar, the use of the globes, mensuration, algebra up to quadratic equations, Latin as far as Caesar _De Bello_ and the Greek Testament as far as Matthew," and Mr. Black's eyes glistened at the alluring prospect. "To be sure yo' could, no man better," assented Mr. Redfearn, none the less stoutly that he did not know what Mr. Black meant. "Aw'd a dog once called Caesar, but Bello's beyond me." "It's to 'prentice him to th' blacksmith, can't ta see?" said Aleck. "Aw see, an' a very gooid notion too." "But I cannot take the child on, though fain I'd be to do it. You know Priscilla's never wed. She says it's for my sake, and doubtless she knows best. But she isn't as young as she was, and those plaguy boys have tried her temper. I wouldn't say it to anyone, but Priscilla is a little, just a little, mind you, tetchy, so to speak, and certain sure I am she'd neither be willing nor able to do for a helpless bairn." "Aw see how it'll end," cried Molly. "Sakes alive! Farmer, missus, an' schoolmaster all backin aat, like those folk i' th' Bible 'at wer' bid to th' weddin', an' nooan on 'em could come. There's nobbut one end for yo' an' that's th' work'us, th' big hoil o'th' hill yonder, as weel say it as think it," and the incensed virago bounced out of the kitchen and joined the company in the taproom in a game of "checkers" and sparing neither partner nor opponent the rasp of her biting tongue. "Yo' could make it, easy for th' bairn?" went on Mr. Black. "An' th' matron's a motherly body wi' childer o' her own," put in the hostess. "An' we needn't lose sight o' th' lad," added Mr. Redfearn. "And I could spare an hour or two a day, when he's big enough. I'll make a course of study this very day. It's the very thing. Good Molly, _rem acu tetigisti_, as we say in the classics." "Exactly," assented the farmer. "By the way, Aleck, did yo' say owt to Mr. Whitelock about th' chrisenin'? Aw'd welly (well-nigh) forgetten it." "After th' buryin', t' same day," said Aleck the terse. "Yo'll be god-mother, Betty, na' who'll stand godfather?" "I've always understood in case of a foundling it takes the finder's name," said Mr. Black. "That's Aleck," said the landlady. "Nay it wer' Pinder theer," protested Aleck. "The very thing," exclaimed Mr. Redfearn, smiting the table so the glasses danced. "Tom Pinder, fit him like a glove. We'll weet his yed i' glasses round an' then whom (home) and bed, say I." Mr. Redfearn glanced at the schoolmaster, the schoolmaster at Mr. Redfearn. "You're the chairman of the Guardians," said the teacher mildly. "An' th' biggest ratepayer, worse luck," said his crony. CHAPTER III. THE Workhouse for the Saddleworth Union is a low stone building of no great dimensions, standing on about as bleak and cold a site as could well I have been selected. It stands on the hill-side on your left hand as you walk from Diggle to Saddleworth, part of that dorsal Pennine Range we call "the back bone of Old England." Its exterior is grim and forbidding, nor is the external promise redeemed by any extravagance of luxury inside. It is in unenviable contrast to the palatial structures modern architects design for the option of the sick and destitute. But it is healthily situated, and that counts for much. All in front as you look down the valley, are the green fields; at its rear stretch the moors on which sheep graze and lambs bleat and gamble conies sport and burrow and where the warning "Go-back, go-back" of the grouse salutes the ear as summer softens into autumn, and the purple heather hides the luscious bilberry. At the time of which I write no mill chimney belched their smoke into the air and the breezes that swept the Workhouse on every side though blowing at times with unwelcome force, were pure and sweet. The Workhouse kine yielded milk so abundantly that adulteration was never thought of; the kitchen-garden, tended by the pauper hands, was rich in its herbs and vegetables, and a small flower garden gave forth the fragrance of the hardier roses, of musk and mignonette, whilst sweet williams, forget-me-nots and stocks gave colour and variety, dear to the eye of the female paupers. It is true the wards were low, the benches hard, the light and ventilation far removed from modern notions; but in this respect they differed in no wise, or if they differed, differed for the better, from the houses of the well-to-do farmers and tradesmen of the district. Anyway there the young foundling of my story was in babyhood and boyhood tended, petted, and made much of. Consigned to the charge of an elderly pauper he had a not unkindly foster-mother. Rare, thank God, the women whose hearts do not soften to the helpless child. Tom sucked his bottle like a hero, waxing chubby and rosy, "poiting" with his legs on which the flesh lay in creases, and crowing lustily as he grew. Mr. Redfearn, it has been said, was the Chairman of the Guardians and did not conceal the interest he felt in the lad; Mr. Black, a privileged visitor everywhere for miles around, had to be restrained by the nurse from gorging his protege with lollipops. The story of his birth had spread in all those parts and lost nothing in the telling. For anything the master and matron knew the Workhouse might be entertaining, if not an angel, unawares, at least a baronet. The lad, when able to run about, was transferred to the particular care of "Workhouse Jack," a pauper of some thirty years of age, supposed to be "not altogether there," or as it is sometimes put, to have at least a half slate off. Jack was the messenger or Mercury of the Workhouse. He fetched the masters newspaper from the village post-office, he was entrusted with commissions to the grocer and draper by the matron, and smuggled snuff and twist and forbidden luxuries to the inmates. He knew every farm-house and every shop for miles around, and never wanted for a meal or a copper when he went his rounds. But, best of all, he knew the habits and the haunts of every bird that nested in the tree or hedge, on the greensward or, like the stone-chat, in the crevices of the long, grey dry-walling of the pastures. He knew, too, to an inch, the curvature of the field drains, their exits and their entrances. He kept surreptitiously in the old, two-stalled stable of the House a sharp-toothed ferret, which he oft-times carried in his pocket and that allowed him to handle and fondle it with quite appalling familiarity. It took Tom a long time to overcome his shrinking awe of that lithe and stealthy ferret, but he did it, and once nearly sent Mrs. Schofield into convulsions by insinuating it from his own into the capacious pocket of this steadfast friend. For I regret to say that Jack was a daily visitor at the _Hanging Gate_, and was doubly welcome when the little Tommy toddled, _haud aquis passibus_, by his side. But Jack had a seasoned head and though he called, on one pretext or another, at many an hostelry, was never overcome and had the rare good sense to inculcate sobriety on his admiring charge by many a precept if not by example. To Tom, Jack was the very incarnation of wisdom, and his very first battle was fought at the back of the Workhouse stable with another foundling who had called his guide, philosopher, and friend by no less derogatory a title than "Silly Billy." From that encounter Tom emerged with streaming eyes and nose, but in the proud consciousness of victory. Nor was Jack's lore confined to the creatures of the air and land. Down the mountain sides trills many a gushing stream to join the Diggle Brook, pellucid waters murmuring over the worn pebbles and larger fragments of volcanic rock that still, to this day, resist the action of the fretting air and pelting storm. Who so deft a hand as Jack at tickling the shy trout that darted among the sedges and rushes of the banks or lurked beneath leaf and boulder motionless as the stones themselves. And if the matron, when the dainty fish graced her table was not scrupulous to ask whence came this toothsome addition to the dietary approved by my lords in London town, whose business was it to interfere? Ah! It is grand upon the billowing hills to wander idly in the sweet spring-time; to mark the lark rising above its nest high in the azure sky, trilling joyous melody, to hear the lambs calling to their dams, to see the kine cropping pensive, in the meadows the sweet new blades of the greening grass; sweet is it to bask at mid-day nodding on the heather and lulled to sleep by the hum that, like distant muffled music, just falls upon the ear, and sweet too, is it as the western sun drops to its rosy curtained couch, to call the cows with their swelling udders from pasture to their byre; sweet to stand by rustic maid of rosy cheek and buxom form as, piggin betwixt her knees and head pressed on the flanks of patient and grateful beast, she strains the warm and frothy fluid to the can. Glorious, too, to hearken to the whetstone drawn by practised hand across the scythe, to bear its swish as the swathe lengthens out before the steady strokes of the mower; glorious to strew the damp, green grass upon the ground to catch the morning sun, and grander still to mount upon the load of fragrant hay and be borne triumphant with the gathered harvest of the fields. Who that has passed his early youth on the hill sides of Marsden and Diggle can ever forget the changing raptures of those early days or weary in recalling them when the brain is distraught by the turmoil of the town, and the heart turns sickening from the searing sorrows of thwarted schemes and fallen hopes. It may seem to the reader that Tom Pinder's workhouse life was not the life depicted by the immortal genius who told the piteous tale of a pinched and bruised Oliver asking for more. But be it remembered that all masters were not and still less are not Bumbles. The Saddleworth Workhouse in the thirties of last century had few inmates. The people on the sparsely populated hill-sides were mostly hand-loom weavers; not a few of them had a patch of land, a cow, a pig, and poultry. They were as clannish as the Scotch and when age, infirmity, or affliction overtook the declining years it was counted shame even of distant kin to suffer one of their name and blood to go to the big House. The poor then were mindful of the poor, and though the pinch of want was felt in the long winter days it went hard with folk if a neighbour's cupboard was left bare or his grate without the mountain peat. Add to this that the master and matron were good, easy-going folk; that the Guardians knew well every inmate of the House; had perchance played truant with them in their youth and been birched by the same cane, or employed them in their prime, and, to cap all, forget not that Saddleworth was an obscure Union, scarce worth the expenditure of red-tape or the visit of an inspector. Mr. Black did not forget his promise to see to Tom's education. Almost before the child could lisp he was at him with the alphabet, and with his own hands designed alluring capital letters and emblematic animals so that to his dying day Tom never saw the letter D without thinking of a weaver's donkey going "a-bunting," or in other words, taking in his master's warp. At six Tom could read big print, and at seven was set to read chapters of the Bible to the old grannies of the women's side of the House; at eight he could do sums in Practice and was not afraid of Tare and Tret. But beyond this he stubbornly refused to budge. In vain Mr. Black wooed him to decline _Rosa_, a rose, or to conjugate _Amo_. Tom feigned indeed an interest he did not feel, but promptly forgot on one day all the Latin he had learned the day before. Mr. Black was fain to confess with a sigh that Tom was not bent by nature to a clerkly calling. "Well, he's none the worse for that," said Mr. Redfearn, consolingly. "Look at me, schoolmaster. I can read a newspaper, make out a bill though it's seldom called for i' my trade, thank the Lord, write a letter, and what more do I want? How could I tell the points of horse or beast if mi head wer' allus running on th' olden times an' chokefull o' a lot o' gibberish, saving your presence, an' no offence, Mr. Black, as well yo' know. We can't all be schoolmasters, nor yet parsons an' as for lawyers and doctors aw've very little opinion o' awther on 'em, an' th' less yo' have to do wi' 'em th' better. Not but what a cow doctor's a handy man to ha' wi'in call; but th' lawyers! Aw've had three trials at th' Assizes abaat one watter-course on another. An' lost one case an' won two, an' th' two aw won cost me no more nor th' one aw lost. No! Th' lad's fit for better things nor a black gown. He's getten th' spirit o' a man choose wheer it comes fro'. Aw put him on Bess's back t'other day, wi'out a saddle an' his little legs could hardly straddle fro' flank to flank, an' he catched her bi th' mane an' med her go round th' field like a good 'un. He rolled off into th' hedge at th' Bottom Intack, an' 'steead o' sqwawkin' and pipin' he swore at Bess like a trooper an' wanted puttin' up again. Oh! He's a rare 'un, that he is. Larnin's thrown away on him. It 'ud nobbut over-weight an' handicap him, so to speak." "I'm sorry to hear of the lad swearing," interposed Mr. Black. "That's Work'us Jack's teachin'," commented Mrs. Schofield. "It's surprisin' how easy th' young 'uns 'll pick up owt they shouldn't know, when ther's no brayin' what they should know into their little heads." "Well, well," went on Mr. Redfearn, to get out of a sore subject, for he had recognised some of his favourite expletives in Tom's scholeric words; "th' point is, th' lad's handier wi' his hands nor his head piece. Yo' can tak' a horse to th' watter but yo' cannot mak' him drink. An' talkin' o' watter, th' young scoundrel gave me a turn t' other day an' no mistake. Yo' know th' dam aboon Hall's papper-mill? Weel it's th' deepest dam bi a seet for miles round here. Aw'd gone up wi mi gun to see if aw could pick up a rabbit or two for th' pot an' theer wor Tom reight i' th' middle o th' dam, throwin' up his arms an' goin' dahn like a stun, and then he cam up blowin' like a porpus. Aw' sent th' retriever in after 'im an' th' young devil, 'at aw should say so, cocked his leg over th' dog's back an' med him, carry 'im to th' bank, an' 'im laughin' all th' time fit to crack his young ribs. He'd nobbud pretended to drown to fley me." "Jack's doing again," said Mr. Schofield. "Well, but, what's to be done with him?" persisted Mr Black. "Can't you take him on to th' farm, Fairbanks?" "'Tisn't good enough," said Fairbanks. "He's fit for better things. At best he could never be much more nor a sort of bailiff an' _they're_ noan wanted about here. If we could send him out to Canada now, or Australey, theer's no tellin' what he med come to be. At least so they sen. But i' th' owd country farmin's nowt wi'out brass, an then it's nowt much but a carryin' on. Nah, I've thowt o' a plan. We could 'prentice th' lad out to a manufacturer. Th' lad's sharp an' 'ud sooin sam up owt there is to larn. Th' Guardians 'ud pay th' premium for him' an' nobbut a fi' pun note or so an' aw think aw know th' varry man to tak' him an' sud do well by 'im if ther's owt i' religion?" "Who is it?" asked Mr. Black. "It's Jabez Tinker, o' th' Wilberlee Mill, i' Holmfirth. He's the main man at Aenon Chapel,--a pillar they call 'im an' preaches hissen o' Sundays, so he suld be fit to be trusted wi' a lad." "I'd rather he'd ha' bin Church," commented Mrs. Schofield. "Aw've often noticed 'at those 'at put it on so mich o' Sundays tak' it aat o' th' Mondays. Devil dodgers, aw call 'em." "There are good men among the Dissenters." Mr Black's spirit of fairness compelled him to testify, "though I wish they could find their way to heaven without making so much pother on earth." The days of the Salvation Army were not as yet, and sound and salvation were not convertible terms. "There's one gooid thing abaat it," was the landlady's opinion. "Holmfirth's nobbut over th' hill, so to speak, an' th' lad could come to see his old friends at Whissunday and th' Feast, when th' mills are lakin'." "Aye, aye, a lot better nor them furrin' parts," agreed the farmer. "Owd England for me, say I." "And I have not lost hopes of clearing up the mystery of the boy's birth," concluded Mr. Black. "He must stay near us." To this time nothing had been said to Tom about his parents. He knew he had no father and no mother--that was all. He knew other lads had fathers and mothers, and how he came to be without did not concern him very much. Once, indeed, one of the village lads had jeered at him as a love-child. He did not understand what this might mean, but he had sense to perceive something offensive was meant. "What is a love-child?" he asked Mrs. Schofield one day, suddenly. "All childer's love childer," fenced Mrs. Schofield, but Tom was not satisfied. "What's a love child, Jack?" he asked his bosom friend. Jack ruminated. Definition was not his forte. "It means a lad's mother's nooan as good as she should be." Tom flushed hotly, and said nothing: but that night a village lad with lips much swollen slept with a raw beefsteak over his eye. The germ of thought had been sown in the youthful mind. _Why_ was he different from other lads? Time had been when in some confused sort of fashion he had looked on Mrs. Schofield as his mother and Mr. Black as his father. "Mr. Black," he asked one day, "where is my mother?" It was a question that the Schoolmaster had looked for at every recent visit that he courted and yet dreaded. It was on a Sunday noon as the congregation left the porch of St. Chad's some lingering by the gateway to exchange neighbourly greeting, others sauntering with an air of unconcern to the door of the Church Inn across the way, whilst yet others still made with leaden foot to a recent grave to pay the tribute of the mourner's tears. Tom had been with other pauper lads in the gallery, a spot of vantage screened from the verger's eye, and where it mattered to nobody what heed you took of the service or sermon so long as you did not make too much noise. He had made haste to get outside the churchyard so that he might not miss his ever gentle friend, the schoolmaster, and now stood by the village stocks outside the graveyard wall and watched the stream of worshippers pass slowly by. Presently his hand was in the schoolmaster's, who turned his face to the road which led past the workhouse boundaries down to his own home at Diggle. "Mr. Black, where is my mother?" The schoolmaster paused, hesitated. They had left the rough and narrow road and crossed a stile into the fields. They were on the higher ground and could plainly see the churchyard. The loiterers had gone their homeward way or drifted into the Inn to seek a solace that is supposed to be appropriate alike in the glad hours of rejoicing and the heavy time of affliction. "Your mother lies yonder," said Mr. Black, solemnly and sadly. "Show me," said the boy, simply. They retraced their steps and sought the ancient burial ground with it's sunken crosses and mouldering mossy stones, and those little mounds without a name that cover the humble dead. In a distant corner Mr. Black stood with uncovered head by a small marble cross and stone slab. sacred to the memory OF A. J. AN UNKNOWN WANDERER WHO DIED IN CHILDBED AT THE HANGING GATE, DIGGLE. JAN. 11TH, 183--. Tom gazed upon the simple monument till he could gaze no more, for blinding, scalding tears welled into his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. "Let us go home," he said, "let me stop with you to-day." In the evening of that peaceful Sunday the school-master told the foundling all he knew: he placed in his hand the precious locket taken from the mother's neck and promised that it should be transferred to Tom's, keeping when he should be old enough to keep it safely. "You will treasure it as the immediate jewel of your soul," he said; "for thereby you may clear your mother's name." Then, falling on his knees he read the evening prayer, and with his blessing dismissed the lad. CHAPTER IV THE ancient village of Holmfirth on the river Holme was, in former days, of considerably more pretension than it is to-day, when the neighbouring town of Huddersfield dwarfs the surrounding communities. Holmfirth stands near the head of the valley of the Holme, and at one time was looked up to as a petty capital by the straggling hamlets that intervened between the river's head and the spot where, some nine miles below, its tortuous course joins the river Colne at King's mill in Huddersfield, whence the united currents sweep in broader stream to blend with the Calder at Cooper Bridge, and so onwards to the capacious bosom of the Humber. Best known and best accustomed of all the shops in Holmfirth was that of Ephraim Thorpe, sometimes; known as Eph o' Natt's o' th' Thong, but more as "Split," from a tradition current in the village that he would split a pea rather than be guilty of giving over-weight or measure. The shop was low and dark, it's floor of blackened stone seldom scrubbed. The two counters were not cleanly, their surface much worn by the friction of heavy vessels and the testing of doubtful coins. But what article of household provision you failed to get at "Split's" you might despair of purchasing anywhere nearer than Huddersfield itself. A candle rack ran round three sides of the shop, just above the counters, and the sickly odour of tallow pervaded all the spot, dominating even the smell of treacle and "shilling-oil" as the oil used for lamps was called. Flitches of bacon hung from the rafters; bags of flour and of oatmeal with open necks were propped up in corners. Bars of soap, piles of soft-stone and white stone, tins of tea and coffee, pats of butter, skins of lard, papers of blacking and black-lead, pots and pans, and brushes hard and soft, eggs and herrings, peas and beans and Indian corn for poultry, gridirons and porringers, thimbles and shoelaces, clogs and pocket-handkerchiefs--all these and sundry others were the articles of commerce retailed at fifty per cent, profit to a grateful public by Mr. Ephraim Thorpe. That public consisted for the most part of those employed in the neighbouring mills, and few were the families of the humbler sort entirely out of Ephraim's debt. He was always willing to trust a man that he knew to be fairly sober and in fair work, and to his regular customers at the crisis of a funeral or a wedding, lend a guinea or so at the easy interest of sixpence in the pound per week; so long as the interest was paid regularly he never pressed for the principal. But woe betide any housewife who took her ready money to a rival tradesman, or ventured to go shopping at the flaunting stores of Huddersfield. The Court of Requests and the "Bum" were words of terrible portent, and Ephraim knew every trick of the law. He knew, too, the wages of every working family in the district how much they ought to spend when they bought in for the week, and how far it was safe to trust when work was slack or sickness rife and ready-money not forthcoming. Truly no lord of the manor in the good old days of dungeon-keep, thumb-screw and rack, was held more in awe than the red-headed, freckled, yellow-fanged, parchment-skinned, ferret-eyed "Split," general dealer and deacon of the Baptist Flock that gathered at Aenon Chapel, Holmfirth, "the altar by the rushing waters." For Ephraim was as zealous in his chapel-going as in his shop-keeping. Sunday morning and afternoon saw him in his pew, dressed in sable doeskin, but with a subtle flavour of soap and chandlery exhaling from his pores. He rented a high, uncompromising pew, in which he could coop himself up and barricade himself from the non-elect. It was a capital sentinel-box, whence he could espy the gaps in the ranks of the faithful. He could note when Ned o' Ben's, or Bill o' Sue's absented himself from service, and speculate at his leisure whether a bull-baiting or a cock-fight had lured to sinful delight, and recall to a nicety the amount that stood to the delinquent's debit in the long narrow, greasy, skin-bound ledger of hieroglyphics that only Ephraim understood, and at whose sight the stoutest good dame's heart would sink and the shrillest-tongued virago's voice be hushed. Mr. Thorpe was a widower, and though it is possible--such is the amiable of a women for the bereaved and afflicted--that more than one might have been willing and lend attentive ear had he wooed again, a widower, Ephraim announced, he meant to live and die. His daughter, and only child, Martha, was old enough to keep the house above the shop, in which the father and daughter dwelt. The spiteful gossips of the village said she was not only old enough, but ugly enough. But said gossips suffered their critical judgment of the daughter to be warped by their unfavourable opinion of the father. It cannot be denied that Martha's hair was not only of somewhat harsh and coarse texture, but of hue from her sire. It is true also that her face was angular and pinched, and freckled to boot, and that her form displayed none of the graceful curves so suggestive of clinging warmth and seductive softness; nor was her voice the soft and dulcet fluting that disarms not less than melting eye or witching smile. Poor Martha had been crushed and stifled and starved all her life. She had never loved nor been loved but the timid, wistful, yearning look that stole unbidden from her grey eyes told of a heart that hungered for the love that makes a woman's life. Though she lived, and had lived for years under the same roof with her father, she could not remember to have heard from his lips one caressing word, to have received from his hand one gentle touch, or; seen from his eye one glance of affection. He was not unkind to her, save in the negative way which is the withholding of kindness; nay, if in any way. Ephraim could be said to be extravagant it was in the lavish adornment of his daughter's person. The vicar's wife had not a richer silk or costlier shawl; no manufacturer's daughter finer feathers or more elegant bracelet. But Martha would have preferred a much homelier garb and a necklace of beads or jet; she asked only to slink unnoticed through her chill life, and had an half-formulated idea that her father dressed her as he did his shop windows, in the way of trade and to abash his neighbours. Martha had practically no friends. The daughters of the manufacturers could, of course, not be expected to have more than a go-to-meeting, bowing acquaintance with a shop-keeper's daughter, though that shop-keeper was popularly supposed to be able to buy up any two mill-owners put together. To be sure the Rev. David Jones, the pastor at Aenon Chapel, and Mrs. David Jones and Miss Lydia Jones called at times and dutifully partook of tea and muffins in the sitting-room above the shop from which no ingenuity had been efficient to bar the insidious blend of many odours from the store beneath, and true also Martha was a constant attender at Dorcas meetings, class meetings, prayer meetings, and Chapel and Sunday School tea-parties, called by the scoffing and ungodly herd, "muffin-worrys." But Martha was constrained, awkward, _gauche_, and though her heart, was ready to go half-way to meet an overture, she could not make an advance. Little children were not allured to her, girls of her own age ridiculed whilst they envied her dress jewellery, staider matrons thought it shame that grasping miser's scarecrow daughter should "peark" herself out in dainty raiment whilst their own well favoured ones went in cheap cottons or plain home-spun. Of all the worshippers at Aenon Chapel, none was more considered than Jabez Tinker. There were many reasons for this. One undoubtedly was that Jabez Tinker was one of the leading manufacturers in the valley. No one, not old Daft Tommy, who was reputed to be over a hundred years old, could remember a time when the Tinkers were not a great name in Holmfirth and when Wilberlee Mill was not run by them. The very name of Tinker is, curiously enough, significant the family connection with the staple industry of the valleys of the Colne and the Holme. It is said to be derived from the Latin, _tinctor_, a dyer, and to have come down from those far off times when the Roman conquerors introduced the arts of civilisation to the aboriginal Celts of these northern wilds. Certainly Jabez Tinker's father and grandfather and great-grandfather before him made cloth and doubtless dyed it. And they had made good cloth, buckskin and doeskin of the best. They were not a pretentious nor an ambitious race. They worked hard made shrewd bargains, paid their way expected to be paid, and put by money slowly but steadily. They had mostly married money too, not, perhaps marrying for money, but taking care to marry where money was. They were just to their work people and were slow either to put a man on or to take a man off. Once get a job at Wilberlee Mill and you were there for good, if you behaved yourself--or, as the heads said, if Tinker didn't know when he had a good man, the man knew when he had a good master. It was not that the Tinkers paid more than ruling prices for their labour. They made no pretence at being industrial philanthropists--that would not have been business; but they contrived to keep the mill running, shine or shower. Times must be parlous bad indeed if the great water-wheel did not turn at proper times in the race at Wilberlee; and constant employment is more to a man than high wages, with slack times in between, if men had only the sense to see it. It is not necessary to go far back into the ancestry of the Tinkers, though, in a quiet way, they were not a little proud of it. Old William Tinker had left two sons, both of whom had been brought up to the business, and to both, as partners, the business had been left. Jabez, the elder, I shall have much to say. Richard, the younger, might not have been a Tinker at all. He did not "favour" the Tinkers, who were traditionally tall lean, wiry, big-boned men, somewhat sallow of complexion, with dark straight hair, scant of speech, inflexible of will, their word their law, neither grasping nor prodigal, and as strict at chapel as the counting-house. But Dick Tinker, Dick o' Will's o'th Wilberlee, had been a "non-such." He had blue eyes that always sparkled with mirth; curling chestnut hair, that affronted Puritanic sense; and he was a sad spendthrift. He had a hearty word for everyone. He liked to go of a night to the _Rose and Crown_, and led the revels there. He never missed a meet of the harriers, and he kept his own game-cock. He had a very appreciative eye for a pretty face, even though it was half-hid under a weaver's shawl, and for a neat ankle, though cased in clogs. During his widowed father's life he had gone dutifully to chapel, when he couldn't make any plausible excuse for shirking attendance, for it was no small matter to stand up against the old man's will. But when the father died, Dick stoutly declared, with not a few oaths, that he was sick to death of the Hard-bedders--such was his irreverent term for the Particular, very particular, Baptists--and contented himself by going to the Parish Church, on those rare occasions when he felt need of spiritual solace. Then he capped all his follies by marrying the pretty, penniless, governess at the Vicarage, a girl said to be from down Lincolnshire way, who spoke with refined accent, had gentle, graceful ways, and was so clearly a lady that every woman in the district, save the Vicar's wife and the working folk, resented it. But the moors were too bleak for her and she had the grace to die after two years--which had been like Paradise to Dick--leaving him an infant daughter, Dorothy. Jabez had not liked his brother's marriage. He had nothing to say against his sister-in-law, except that it would have been better if she had been a "that country's" woman. Why couldn't Dick have done as the Tinker's had done from time immemorial, and married in the valley. "There were lasses anew, and to spare," he said, "well favoured, and only waiting to be asked." Then Dick's bride had brought him nothing but the clothes she stood up in, and that was another grievance. But Dick had laughed, in his careless way, and said it was time to mend the Tinker breed, by bringing some grace and beauty into the family, and "my Louie has that, you can't deny." And Jabez could not deny it. "Why don't you marry yourself, Jabez? You, all alone i' th' old homestead, with nobody but old Betty to look after you! Dreadful lonesome you must be. Th' house is none too cheerful at th' best o' times. But a woman's pretty face, an' a soft voice, an' th' patter o' little feet 'll lighten it up if now't else will. And tak' advice, Jabez, look further afield, not among th' Wrigleys, an' Wimpennys, an' th' Brookes. Their lasses are weel enough, an' there's money with all on 'em. But they run too much to bone, an' they've been chapelled, an' missionarized, an' dragooned till religion 's soured on 'em, an' when they love they love by rule o' three." But Jabez had winced, and changed the subject. After his wife's death Dick had gradually fallen back into his old courses. He loved his little wench, as he called his daughter, passionately; but a full-blooded, hearty man, still in the very pink and flower of his manhood, one used all his life to the bustle of the market, the free and easy ways of an inn and the sports of the field is not very much at home in a nursery. So Dick, who had felt, when the cruel blow fell, that life had nothing left for him was once more to be seen o' nights at the _Rose and Crown_, roaring out a hunting song, or arranging the details of a coursing match, a pigeon shooting, or a cock fight--and the maidens of the valley of the Holme took heart once more, and began to feel a lively concern for the poor orphaned babe in the lonely house. They forgave Dick--handsome, rollicking Dick--his passing aberration, his one overt act of treason to their charms, and reflected, with satisfaction, that his married life had been so brief, it might be considered as not counting at all--an episode, not a history. But the rising hopes of these speculative spinsters were rudely dashed. One bright winter's morning, when a sudden thaw had softened the iron fields and promised the scent would lie, Dick rode forth cheerily on his hunter to the meet at Thongsbridge. There was a substantial breakfast at Mr. Hinchliffe's a brother manufacturer and a county magistrate. Dick did ample justice to the cold beef and ham but declined coffee for old October. Then he must needs drain a stiff glass of brandy and water "to warm the old ale," he said; and in very merry mood was Dick when the hounds broke covert. Now save the stone walls of Galway there are no worse fences than those of the Valley of the Holme. You must clear them at the peril of your neck. There is no crashing through a dry-walling,--a "topping" _may_ give once in a way; but it is odds that it wont. Dick--Dare-devil Dick they called him in the hunting-field,--rode straight. The ground in the higher reaches had not yielded to the thaw or the morning sun. His horse baulked at an awkward fence, slipped, and failed to recover itself, and before Dick could disengage boot from stirrup, fell upon its side, with Dick crushed beneath. The broken ribs were pressed into the lungs, and though he lingered a few days at Mr. Hinchliffe's house, he was borne from it a corpse. "You will be good to Dorothy?" he said to Jabez and Jabez had pressed the clammy hand in silent promise. "You'll take her to live with you. She's a bright little lass, like a ray of sunshine in the house. You wont let her forget her mother or her worthless dad, will you, Jabez? You'll be taking a wife someday yourself, lad, an' have childer o' your own. But you won't be hard on th' little lass, will yo', Jabez?" And Jabez said she should be as his own. "She won't be bout brass, yo know, Jabez," gasped the dying man, the sweat standing in heads upon his pale brow. "There's my share i'th' business, and odds and ends. Yo' know all about 'em. I'd never no secrets fro' yo, Jabez, though yo' wer' always a bit close, weren't tha, lad? I've left everything to Dorothy an' made yo' her guardian an' th' executor. I know yo'll do right bi th' little 'un. I'm none feared for that. Th' Tinkers aren't that sort; but don't be hard wi' her. She's nooan as tough as some, her mother's bairn, God bless her." And so poor Dick was gathered to his fathers and lay in the old churchyard at Holmfirth by the fair, fragile wife's side in the grim vault of the Tinkers. Not a mill worked in the district as they carried him to his grave. Men and Women "jacked work" with one accord and lined the route from the dead man's house to the very side of the grave. For Dick with all his faults, perhaps, because of them, was dear to the simple folk of the valley, and many, a tale was told in the village inns, of cheery word and ready jest, and helping hand in time of need; and many a buxom housewife, as she stirred porridge for good man and bairns, smiled sadly and gave a gentle sigh as she saw herself again a sprightly wench chased at Whitsuntide round the ring at "kiss in the ring" Or "choose the lad that you love best," and found herself a willing captive, but panting and struggling still, whilst Dick saluted the rosy cheek. For at the Sunday School treats at "Whis-sunday," all classes were on a level, and even the parson himself must run as fast as legs could carry him if tap of maiden greatly daring fell upon his shoulder, or her kerchief dropped at his feet. Whether it was the necessity of having some other companionship than old Betty for the young niece so solemnly committed to his charge, or whether he was weary of his bachelor solitude and felt the need of a woman's presence in the old homestead in which he had been born and which he had inherited on his father's death, certain it is that Jabez Tinker began seriously to think about a wife. He was now nearing his fiftieth year, and the romance of youth--love's young dream--he sadly told himself was not for him. Perhaps he had never been young; but be that as it may he was now a staid, prosaic man, who looked all his years and more, his whole soul in his business, in parish affairs and in other spheres in which the gentler emotions have no concern. Business was with him as the breath of his nostrils. Had he liked, he could have retired on a fair competence; had he been asked he could have given no solid reason why he should continue to toil and moil and put by money. Dorothy was his nearest relative, though of remoter ones--cousins and half-cousins, agnates and cognates as the Roman lawyers said, he had them by the score. But it certainly was neither for Dorothy nor other relative, near or distant, he spent more and more time in mill and counting-house, planning fresh outlets for the produce of his looms, building additions to the old mill, and watching eagerly every improvement in the machinery of his trade. He did it simply because he must, as a successful lawyer takes briefs upon briefs, or a popular doctor case upon case. And he resolved that in his choice of a bride he would look for money that would buy out Dick's share in the business, and leave him sole master of Wilberlee mill. And in this mood his thoughts turned to Martha Thorpe; he scarce knew why, except, perhaps, that he was used to the sight of her Sunday after Sunday, and at the weekly services and social functions of the chapel and Sunday school. All the world knew that Martha would have money, but none the less did all the world--of Holmfirth--gape and exclaim with its "Did yo' evver?" and its "Aw nivver did," when the reserved master of Wilberlee was seen, not once or twice, but, in time, Sunday after Sunday, pacing slowly by Martha and Old Split's side from the chapel gates to the modest home above the shop in Victoria Street. But when it become known that Jabez Tinker actually took his roast beef, and Yorkshire pudding, and apple pie (with cheese) at Splits, the spinsterdom of the village was divided between wrath and scorn. "Such a letting down to th' Tinkers," declared one. "I'll never believe it till I see it," affirmed another. "It's money he's after," a third alleged. "He's enough o' his own." "There's no telling. Happen he's speculated. Besides, much will have more, an' Tinkers wer' allus rare 'uns for th' main chance," was the general conclusion. "All but poor Dick," said his old cronies of the _Rose and Crown_. "By gosh! But Ginger o' Split's 'ud be a pill as 'ud bide some gilding for my taste," vowed the jolly landlord. "Jabez mun ha' a good stomach." And what thought Martha? It was inconceivable to her at first that the visits of Mr. Tinker, of Wilberlee, could be anything but visits of business to her father; doubtless some matter connected with the Chapel or the Sunday School. But Ephraim dropped hints. "How would ta like to be wed, lass? "Father!" "Aye, it's father now. It 'll be happen gran'father afore long," and the old man chuckled a greasy chuckle. It could not be true, murmured Martha to her heart. That anyone should come a wooing to her, unless, perchance it were some needy parson after her money, seemed preposterous. And yet everyone said Mr. Tinker was more than well-to-do. And, after all, was she so very plain? Is there in this wide, wide world a woman's glass that does not tell a flattering tale to one, at least? And, as she looked, a warm glow tinged the pale cheeks, and a light shone in her eyes they had never known before. To be loved! To be loved for her own sake! To get away from that horrid shop; to be Jabez Tinkers lady; to queen it over those who had sneered at her behind her back! There was rapture in the thought. And oh! She would love him so; she would be his very slave; no house should be like theirs. Never did the heart of Andromeda leap to meet the coming Perseus, as Martha's heart went out to this prince, come, if come indeed he were, to break the chains that bound her to the cruel rock of barren life. Her heart overflowed with gratitude, and humbly she thanked her God that His handmaiden had found favour in this great Lord's sight. She did not ask for the fervent worship of an ardent wooer's love. She only asked to be allowed to love, and to be loved a little--oh! just a little, in return--as the parched ground thirsts for the grateful shower, so thirsted the heart of the patient Martha for a good man's love. CHAPTER V. HAPPY'S the wooing that's not long a-doing, and Jabez Tinker, his mind resolved, was not the man to let the grass grow under his feet. Martha was not the one to insist on all the formularies of a protracted siege; she surrendered the citadel of her heart at the first blast of trumpet. She only insisted that the wedding should be a quiet one. As this jumped entirely with her lover's notions she had her own way, though Ephraim protested. "We don't kill a pig every day, and blow th' expense. If aw pay th' piper surely I ought to chuse th' tune." But he was not suffered to choose the tune, though none questioned that he paid the piper, and paid him handsomely. Exactly how many thousands of pounds made over his humble counter went to swell Mr. Tinker's balance at the Bank no one but he and his son-in-law and the bankers knew, and is no concern of ours. Jabez took his bride to London for the honeymoon. The wool-sales were on at the time, so that the manufacturer was able to combine business with pleasure, and to avoid that exclusive devotion to his wife which even more ardent husbands are said to have found somewhat irksome. But he took care that Martha should see some of the sights of London--the Houses of Parliament, the Abbey, St. Paul's, and the Tower. Theatres were, of course, not to be thought of, but on one never-to-be-forgotten Saturday, the two went up the river to Hampton Court. Then for the first time Martha realized that the world is very beautiful and often amid the bleak hills and stone walls and hideous mills of her mountain home, her thoughts would dwell upon the green fields and rich hedges and rustling, swaying, leafy branches and deep flowing waters of the fair valley of the Thames. The portraits at Hampton Court shocked her, and she hurried through the rooms with crimson face. But her heart was very light and glad as she entered her own home at Wilberlee. The ancient homestead of the Tinkers was hard by the mill. It was a long two-storied building of rude ashlar, now dark with age. There was a sitting room or company room, low and gloomy even on a bright day, for the windows were overhung by the ivy that covered the house front. The furniture was massive, dark mahogany. There were but few pictures or ornaments in the room, the pictures mostly oil-paintings of dead and gone Tinkers in stiff stocks, precise coats, with thick watch-chains and seals hanging from the fob; the women with smooth plaited hair, long stomachers, and severe looks. By the looking-glass over the mantel-piece were deep-edged mourning cards, in ornate frames, recording the deaths of defunct ancestors, with pious texts and verses expressive of a touching confidence in the departed's eternal welfare. The bedrooms of the upper story were furnished in the same enduring fashion, were even gloomier than the dismal sitting room, the vast four-posted mahogany bedsteads with their voluminous drapery casting heavy shadows, and as the narrow windows were never opened, the chamber air, in summer time, was heavy laden with the blended smell of feathers, flocks, and lavender. It is marvellous what a dread our forefathers, who lived so much in the open, had of fresh air and thorough ventilation in the sleeping rooms of their homes. But, after all, the kitchen or living room was the main thing. A roaring fire in winter time, walls yellow-washed, floor ochred and sanded, dark rafters overhead, flitches, hams, ropes of onions, dried bushes of sage and parsley, burnished tins that caught and reflected rays of fire and gleam of sun, a long table, its top white as soap and scrubbing brush can make the close-grained sycamore, long shelves laden with Delf and ancient crockery--ah! It was a paradise for a good housewife. And a good housewife Martha proved to be. There was not a cleaner house in all that country side. She had kept on Betty for Dorothy's sake, and there was besides, Peggy, scullery maid and general help. Betty and Peggy would very much have preferred that their mistress had been neither so keen of eye nor sharp of tongue--for the Mistress who, as callers said, could not say boh to a goose, could talk thirteen to the dozen, so Betty averred, anent a grease spot or an iron-mould. Martha's lot, it may be said, if not an ideal, was now a serene one. Had she but had child of her own, she thought no happier woman could have been found in the wide West Riding. But in this Fate was unkind, and the withholding of the crowning blessing of a woman's life, to hold her own babe to her breast, was all the harsher measure, that Martha knew her husband in his secret heart brooded over their long disappointment and nursed it as a grievance. Poor Martha! How many prayers, how many vows, were thine for this boon so freely granted to your husband's poorest workman! It was in vain that Martha tried to stay her heart's longings by filling a mother's place to the little niece left by that graceless Richard. All that duty dictated Martha did; did ungrudgingly conscientiously. But there is one thing in this world that is absolutely beyond the human will: it is the human heart. Love knows no reason, and is uninfluenced by the sternest logic. It is like the wind that bloweth where it listeth. School herself as Martha would she came, in time, to have a smouldering jealousy of little Dorothy, and the child's quick perception taught it to shun the eye, and soon the company, of her aunt, and turn for comfort to buxom, homely Betty. It is a Sunday afternoon in the Summer of the year '45--a glorious summer's afternoon. The garden at Wilberlee, stretching below the parlour window right down to the river-side--no great stretch, indeed--is ablaze with colour. The sky overhead is of rich deep blue, flecked with trailing wisps of feathery cloudlets. The lark sings high in mid ether. From the meadows round about comes the scent of the hay, and the garden gives forth its fragrance of musk and rose. In a low basket-chair, placed beneath the shades of an umbrageous chestnut tree, Mrs. Tinker sits, stiff, erect, unyielding. She is dressed in rich dark silk, and the lace of collar and cuffs have come from the skilled fingers of the nuns of Belgian convents. A religious periodical, the "Baptist Magazine," lies unheeded on her lap, for Martha is watching, with wistful eyes, the graceful movements of a young girl, who flits from flower to flower, and bends occasionally to snip a bloom or leaf. "Why are you getting flowers of a Sunday: Dorothy? You know your uncle would not like it. I'm sure we don't want any more in the house--the parlour smells almost sickly with them--besides, it's Sunday." "I don't want them for the parlour, aunt Martha. They are for poor Lucy Garside." "Who's Lucy Garside?" "Why, aunt, how can you forget? She worked in uncle's mill till she had to leave. It is something the matter with her legs and spine. Don't you mind that pretty, rosy Lucy Garside, that used to be in your class at the Sunday School? But she isn't rosy now--oh! so pale and thin, and has to lie all day on the settle." "You mean the sofa, child." "No, aunt, the kitchen settle I mean, they have no sofa; but they try to make it comfortable for her with shawls and things; and her mother is making a list hearth-rug for her to lie on, and then, may-be, she'll be easier--and she loves flowers. You will let me take them, aunt Martha, won't you?" "Well, they're gathered now, and it's no use wasting them. But, in future, you must ask my leave before you cut more. And I don't quite know how your uncle would like you going trashing about among those low mill-girls." "But, aunt"--and here Dorothy lowered her voice and glanced timorously at the opened window of the parlour--"but, aunt Martha, they say--in the village, I mean, not Lucy's mother--that Lucy's hurt her spine and crooked her legs working too long in the mill--hours and hours, and hours, they say, all the day and nearly all the night, and sleeping under the machines because she was too tired to go home to bed; and that, and not enough to eat, the doctor says, has made poor Lucy a cripple for life." "Then Dr. Wimpenny ought to be whipped for saying such things, and I won't have you listening to these tittle-tattling stories. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, to let folks tell you lies about your uncle's mill. Folk ought to be glad they can send their children to work, to earn their own living. How would they live if they couldn't? But there's no gratitude left in the world--that's a fact. But there's your uncle finished his nap, and you'd best be off; and don't let me hear any more of your silly tales about things you don't understand." It was a very prim and demure maiden that walked sedately from the side-gate of the house at Wilberlee, a large bunch or posy of flowers grasped in one little hand, a basket in the other. Dorothy had coaxed sundry delicacies from the not reluctant Betty--a loaf of bread, some slices of meat, a pot of jam, a glass of calves'-foot jelly, and a small packet of tea. "Bless her bonny face," remarked Betty to Peggy, the underling, "it isn't i' my heart to refuse her owt. But it's to be hoped th' missus 'll never find it out." "Saints preserve us," devoutly ejaculated Peggy, who was shrewdly suspected to have Milesian blood in her veins. "Isn't she a pictur'?" said Betty, as her eyes followed her little mistress until the gate shut her from admiring gaze. "'Deed, then, she is--an' as good as she's purty," assented Peggy. "It's Mr. Richard's own child, she is," went on Betty, reminiscently--"th' same dancin' e'en, an' gladsome look, an' merry smile; and yet, sometimes, when she's thoughtful-like, an' dreamy, you'd think she wer' her own mother, as I could fancy her as a lass,"--and Betty heaved a very deep sigh, from a very capacious bosom. And, indeed, Dorothy was a picture to gladden the eyes of man. The small coal-scuttle bonnet of Leghorn straw, with its drab strings, could not hide the pure oval of the face, nor its shade conceal its rich, warm complexion. The auburn ringlets, not corkscrewed to mechanic stiffness, but loosely curling, fell in clusters about her shoulders; and the child moved with an instinctive grace. Once out of the view of the garden and the house windows her pace quickened, she began to skip along joyously, her bonnet thrown back from the head, and her little feet, peeping and twinkling from beneath her shortened skirts, beat measure to the snatches of songs, that were not hymnal in their wording or their melody. As she passed the cottage doors, the good folk--standing by their thresholds to breath the air, or bask in the grateful sun, or while away the sleepy hours of unwonted rest in friendly gossip with "my nabs"--would turn to look upon the sweet and glad young face, and not one but had a hearty word and a friendly greeting for Miss Dorothy. "Eh! But oo's a bonny wench. A seet ov her 's fair gooid for sore e'en. Oo'll be a bright spot i' some lucky chap's whom some fine day, please the pigs." And Dorothy had a nod, and a smile, too, for everyone; for she knew them all by name, and most of them worked for her uncle, either in the mill, or at their own loom in the long upper chamber of their little cottages. "Oo's bahn to see poor Lucy Garsed, Ben's lass, aw'll be bun; an' oo's noan empty-handed noather. See th' posy oo's getten; an' mi mouth fair watters when aw think o' what there'll be i'th basket--noan o' th' missus' sendin', aw'll go bail." "Aye, there'll be summat beside tracks, if Miss Dorothy's had a finger i' th' pie,"--and so the old wives' tongues ran on. The cottage of Ben Garside was barely furnished, but all was spick and span. Ben was a hand-loom weaver, and, of a week-day, by earliest day, til sunset in the spring and summer-tide, you could have heard the clack of his loom overhead as the nimble shuttle with its trail of weft sped across the warp. But to-day Ben has gone to stretch his legs on the moors, and it is Lucy's mother who bids Dorothy welcome and relieves her of her parcels. A long oaken settle runs under the deep window of the "house" or living room. The window ledge is full of pots of geranium, fuchsia, musk and rose that turn their petals to bathe in the glorious sunshine that streams with tempered warmth through the thick glazing of the long low window. Poor Lucy lies upon the couch, her cheeks so hollow, her skin so transparent, her brown soft eyes so unnaturally large and her look of patient suffering, and of the resignation of abandoned hope so heart-rending when it is stamped on the face of youth. But the large eyes brighten as Dorothy comes to the couch, and her thin hand, so white and bloodless, rests in loving, lingering caress upon Dorothy's glossy tresses as she stoops over the invalid and leaves a kiss upon the pallid lips. "Better to-day, I hope, Lucy." And Lucy, with a suspicious catch in her voice, says: "Oh! Yes, better to-day, Miss Dorothy, almost well." Alas! There will be no well for Lucy till that best of all days shall dawn for her, where sickness and suffering enter not, and tears forget to flow. "See what Aunt Martha has sent you," said Dorothy presently,--may heaven forgive the fib,--"no, not the flowers. I gathered them all myself because I know just what you like best, and now all the afternoon, when I'm gone, you know, you must just do nothing but arrange them in that big glass on the drawers there. And this jam is for you, too, and the calves'-foot jelly to make you strong, you know, and the tea is for you, Mrs. Garside, when you've been washing and feel just like sinking through the ground, as I've heard you say you do." "And thank the missus kindly, Miss Dorothy, my respects; but whativver's this?" and Mrs. Garside extracted the bread and meat. "Oh! I'd forgotten them. These are for Ben." "Eh! But aw'm feart they'll nivver keep till next Sunday i' this welterin' weather. To be sure aw might rub 'em wi' salt, but Ben do want such a power o' ale a'ter salt meat. But we'll see, we'll see. Eh! Miss Dorothy, but it's yo' that thinks o' ivverybody an' thof yo' say it's yor aunt, it's well aw know--but least said, sooinest mended. But sit yo dahn an' aw'll dust that cheer i' hauf a tick-tack--it's fair cappin wheer all th' muck comes fro' this warm weather, fit to fry yo' like a' rasher o' bacon; sit yo' dahn, do, an' throw yo'r hat off an' yo'll read ith Book a bit; not 'at aw held so much religion but Lucy theer likes it an' it's cheap, that's one gooid thing or th' poor folk 'ud get little enew on it." Mrs. Garside, who, it will be observed, did not allow her power of speech to rust for want of use, paused to draw breath for another effort. "What shall I read, Lucy?" "Oh! Just that story about Jesus at the pool of Bethesda. How I wish I could have been there." Mrs. Garside composed herself to listen, putting on that look of impenetrable stolidity and unreceptiveness that a good many people seem to think most appropriate for a Scripture-reading. "In these lay a great multitude of impotent folk, of blind, halt, withered, waiting for the moving of the waters.... 'Sir, I have no man, when the water is troubled, to put me into the pool; but while I am coming, another steppeth down before me.'" "Nah! If that isn't Holmfirth all ovver, my name's not Hannah Garsed" broke in that lady. "Holmfirth all ovver. Aw can see just how it wer'. Th' poor man wer' ligged theer all bi hissen, an' nobbudy to help 'im. Then fust one an' then another comes up an' thruts 'im o' one side. An' if them watters wer' owt like th' Booik says, yo may mak' sure 'at there'd be th' rich folk theer wi' their sarvants, an' lackeys, an' nusses an' lady's maids, to put 'em i'th' watter an' they'd ha' th' pick o' ivverything. An' yar Ben sez 'at if th' heealin' o' th' man wi a infirmary wer' a miracle, it's a bigger miracle 'at someb'dy hadn't bowt that pool up an' med a fortin' out o' it. Not 'at aw hold wi' all yar Ben says, for there's gooid folk amang th' quality, as we'd no need to look further nor Wilberlee," she concluded, with a penitent glance at the table. "But I've some news for you, Mrs. Garside," interrupted Dorothy, "and I hope it will be good news." "It'll be summat fresh if it is," murmured the irrepressible dame, "weel, out wi' it." "You know uncle has been very busy lately, putting in new machinery?" Mrs. Garside nodded. _That_ did not concern her, except perhaps that it might mean either more or less country-work to the hand-loom weavers. But that would be to try for. "And he is going to take another apprentice," continued Dorothy. "I heard him tell Aunt Martha so and ask her where she should lodge him. Aunt Martha said she hadn't an idea, anywhere would do for an apprentice. So I managed to catch uncle all by himself, and I said perhaps you would be glad to do for a boy." "And that's what yo' ca' gooid news, is it, Dorothy? As if aw hadn't enough to do wi' th' house-work and th' cookin', though that's easy enough, God knows, an' me bobbin-windin' to keep Ben agate at th' loom, an' th' little lass theer at might ha' been a help an' a comfort laid o' her back fro' morn to neet an' neet to morn an' all to do for, not but what it's a pleasure to do for yo', my pet, an' it's more aw wish your owd mother could do, an' aw wodn't swap her agen ony lass i' all th' valley; but a noisy lad a rampagin' all abaat th' haase an' whistlin' an' happen stoppin' out o' neets till all hours, an nivver' wipin' his feet except upo' th' fender rails, an' makkin' enough noise to wakken th' deead, an' eitin' enough for two! Not but what th' bit o' brass 'ud be welcome, an' thank yo' kindly. We'll see when th' time comes; its no use meetin' trouble hauf way nor lawpin' afore yo get to th' stee, an' doubtless yo'r aunt 'll be speikin' to me or yar Ben, an' that 'll be time enough, which awm obliged to yo' all th' same, miss, for givin' a thowt o' us an speikin' a gooid word for us, though yo'r aunt knows weel as if aw _did_ ha' a boy aw'd do for 'im as well as here an' theer a one, though aw say it, mebbe, as suldn't." Who can unravel the tangled skein of life and say, as the foolish say, "This is fate," or as the wise, "This the foreordaining of God, the will and fashioning of the great Designer, from the foundation of the world?" But call it Fate or what you will, certain enough it is that the very day after Dorothy's visit to Dame Garside's cottage, Jabez Tinker mounted his stout cob and rode up the road that leads past the Bilberry Reservoir, past the Isle of Skye and far-famed Bill's o' Jack's, past the grey pile of St. Chad's, and so to the Workhouse On the hill. His horse was taken at the gate by Workhouse Jack and Tom Pinder, and led to the stabling in the rear to have a draught of meal-and-water and a feed of oats. Jack and Tom lingered in the stable admiring the gloss of the horse's coat, running fingers through its mane, smacking its warm flanks with many a "Whooa hup" and "Stan' ovver, lass," examining its hocks and its teeth, and generally doing those knowing things affected by the veriest tyro who would be thought wise in the deep and subtle matter of horseflesh. But presently came the Workhouse Porter: "Tom Pinder, th' Master wants you in th' office. No, not you, Jack; you can go into th' potato patch and don't let me catch you here again or you'll know about it." The porter was a much more dignified man and more important in his own esteem than the master himself, so it is just as well he had not eyes at the back of his head to see that sign made by a certain application of thumb and outspanned fingers which in all times and countries has been deemed significant of contempt unutterable. Tom followed the Porter wondering to the office. The Master was closeted with a tall, broad-shouldered, sparer, man, with clean shaven face, keen grey eyes, and hair tinged with grey at tee tell-tale temples. He sat by the table, a tankard of ale at his side, and his hand swinging his riding whip idly to and fro. "This is the lad, then, Mr. Redfearn wrote to me about? He seems a likely lad enough, but somewhat overgrown. How old are you boy?" "Rising fifteen, sir." Mr. Tinker eyed the youth from head to foot and turned him round and round, feeling the muscles of his arm and the thews of his thigh and calf as though he was appraising a horse at the Cattle Fair. "Sound in wind and limb, I should judge," he concluded, "but his age is against him. A lad should go into a mill young, Master, before his bones are set and his fingers stiff, if he's to be any good. I'm not in your Union or I would have seen to this. The Guardians have no business to keep a big lumbering lout of a lad lazying about the House and eating his head off. It's demoralising to the lad and is enough to pauperize a whole neighbourhood. What's his name?" "Pinder sir, Tom Pinder," answered the Master, and, whilst Tom stared with all his eyes on the stranger, wondering vastly who he might be and what this interview might portend and wondering too if Workhouse Jack would remember to feed his rabbit and find a fresh sod of grass for his lark, the Master made apology for Tom's height and girth. "You see, Mr. Tinker, Pinder's been kept longer than usual. There's a sort of mystery about him, and both the Chairman and Mr. Black have taken uncommon interest in him. Indeed the Schoolmaster's so wrapt up in him he couldn't have been more if th' lad had been his own son, which I'd almost think he was myself if it wasn't so ridiculous. But there's never no telling, is there, Mr. Tinker? these quiet uns is often as deep an' dark as a pit, bu' we're all human, eh?" And Master winked a wink meant to be a summary of profound knowledge of the universal fallibility of the human race. But Mr. Tinker was not a man to be winked at or joked with, nor apparently was he disposed to discuss the tempting topic of man's--and woman's--depravity--with a Workhouse Master, the sole audience a Workhouse foundling. "Pinder,"--he said musingly, strumming meditatively on the table, and somewhat brusquely declining the Master's hospitable offer to have in another jug of October ale, or something shorter if a cordial for the stomach would be more acceptable.--"Pinder--Tom Pinder? it isn't a this country name. There was a Pinder at Marsden, a clothier in a small way--took to drink, banked, and showed his creditors a clean pair of heels; but you wouldn't have a Marsden brat in this Union." "But he wasn't called after his father," said the Master, somewhat curtly, for if Jabez Tinker could be curt, curt too could the Master be, and any way, he was sovereign there except on Guardian days. "Damme, I can crow on my own dunghill," he thought, "or I'm th' poorest cock ever crowed this side of Stanedge." "Oh! I forgot, Mr. Redfearn said something about his being a bastard, a chance child--a rambling tale. I didn't mind it, I was thinking about something else. 'Twill be his mother's name?" "No, nor his mother's," said the Master. "I don't rightly know who he was called after. It had something to do with Mr. Redfearn's shepherd. But it's a long time since, and I forget. But what's the odds? There th' lad is. You can either take him or leave him, it's all a price to me, and I reckon to th' Guardians too." "When can he come?" "Next week. There'll be th' papers to make out. Th' overseers will sign th' indentire. Five pounds they've to pay, I think t'was settled." "Yes, five Pounds; but if I'd known his age and size I'd have stood out for more. But it's too late for haggling you'd send him over this day week. I'll arrange about him. Tell him to bring the cob round, Tom, and so good day to you, Master. Time's money these days, and I've wasted a whole forenoon over this job. Pinder, Pinder, it's a strange name and yet there seems a look i' the lad's eye I've seen before somewhere. My respects to Mr. Redfearn when you see him, and tell him he should be too old a farmer by this to keep his cattle till they're almost too far gone for the market." The Master smiled the official smile at a Guardian's jest; but it was no very friendly glance that followed the erect form of the Holmfirth manufacturer as he turned his good mare's head over the hills. "Tom's in for a bad time of it, I'm thinking," said the master. It was Mr. Black who conveyed the lad with a father's love from the Workhouse to Holmfirth. And the lad went with a heart light enough, though on his cheek the tears were wet he had shed at parting from the faithful Jack. He had solemnly made over to the lamenting Workhouse drudge his boyish treasures,--the lark, that obstinately refused to sing, the lop-eared rabbit, and the hedgehog he had rescued from the clogs and sticks of a posse of village urchins--captive not of bow and spear, but of fist and toe. Moll o' Stuarts, too, had been to bid him farewell, and, as a parting gift, had bestowed on him a child's caul. "Keep that all th' days o' your life; nivver part wi' it, wet or fine. Yo'll allus know th' weather by it, as guid as a glass an' better nor bi a mony on 'em. An' as long as that caul's thine, drowneded bi watter yo' canna be. There's mony a fine spark at sails the seas 'ud be main glad o' that same. Hanged yo' may be, tho' God forbid, but drownded nivver." And in after years, of which the reader shall read in good time, Moll o' Stuarts was able to invoke her prophetic soul, and to attribute to her own prescience the wonderful deliverance this story shall narrate. Moll, too, brought a pair of stout stockings knit by the widow Schofield's own plump hands, and a crown-piece, that the night before had jingled in Tom o' Fairbank's well-filled leathern purse. Over the hills trudged the Schoolmaster and his ward; the dominie thoughtful, and not a little sorrowful. "Pray God we've done for the best," was his pious hope, as they reached the low wall of the Church of St. Chad's, and one at least thought of the fair unknown, whose son was setting forth into the untried paths of life, with all the glad, unquestioning undoubting confidence of eager youth. Hard by the Church Inn they turned to the face of the steep ascent of almost unbroken moorland, threaded by a rude and rutty path, strewn with rubble and boulders, torn and wrenched from the crags above by the driving storms and angry raging winds of the rolling years. On the lower face of the hill they passed, here and there, the rude shelter of a moorland cottier, whose cow and pig and poultry gained precarious living in the lean enclosures won from the sweeping stretch of heather and coarse grass or the lowly cottage whence the familiar clack of the hand-loom told of swaying beam and scudding shuttle. Anon they reached the summit; Mr. Black, notwithstanding the help from Tom's sturdy arm, fain to rest upon one of the vast rocks belched forth from the bowels of the earth in some angry vomiting of the prisoned airs, and now, rounded and smooth-worn and dark with the gloom of ages, resting massive on the commanding summit called Pots and Pans. "Yes, that indeed, is Bill's o' Jack s," panted Mr. Black, in answer to Tom's eager questioning. "That is where the murder was done, murder most foul. Poor hapless Bill and Tom, I knew them well, a hale and hearty farmer, and his son a strapping gamekeeper. Done to death, whether for gain or revenge, none knew for certain, though it was shrewdly guessed, but nothing was ever proved and for ought is known, the murderers may dwell in our very midst. See yon little window left of the door, 'twas the old man's bedroom. There, in a pool of blood, his lifeless body was found; his son,--his head cleaved by a heavy bill-lay lifeless in the kitchen. It was a little wench, who went betimes for milk, gave the alarm." "Was it long gone sir?" asked Tom, gazing spellbound at the farmhouse in the valley's dip. "In '32--the year of the great Reform Bill. You were a bouncing baby then, Tom. But see how thick the bilberries lie snugly in the heather, and how a film settles on the ripened fruit as though the mist of the hills had kissed them with a lingering kiss. Better fill your kerchief, for well I guess they'll be right welcome at Mrs. Garside's, where you must make your home. "And now, lad, turn your eyes once more upon the old church and towards the fields you know so well. Remember in that valley you were born and bred, and in that valley are those that love you well and who have knit you to their hearts. Yonderwards, in the other valley, is your future home; what trials, what labours there await you, who shall say? but as David said to his _son_, say I to you: "'Be thou strong and shew thyself a man, and keep the charge of the Lord Thy God, to walk in His ways, to keep His statutes, and His commandments, and His judgments and His testimonies that thou mayest prosper in all that thou doest, and whithersoever thou turnest thyself.' And now, come, lad, 'tis a brave step from here to Holmfirth and the way will be long for me when I come back without thee." CHAPTER VI. Tom Pinder was "apprenticed"--so the phrase ran--to Jabez Tinker with all the form and circumstance and not a little of the verbal exuberance of the law. The manufacturer bound himself to the overseers of Saddleworth who stood to the foundling in _loco parentis_, to teach his apprentice the art and calling of a clothier--so manufacturers were then styled, when men were less fond of high-sounding terms and preferred plain English to foreign-fangled names. He also undertook, under his hand and seal, to feed the said Tom and provide him one new suit of clothing each year until he should attain the age of twenty-one years. The overseers, on their part, engaged that the "said Tom should faithfully serve the said Jabez Tinker and his wife and family, his and their lawful orders should do, his secrets should keep, and his goods protect," likewise that the said Tom, so long as his indenture should endure, taverns should not frequent, bowls nor dice should play, fornication should not commit, and marriage should not contract. As the delicate subject of wages was not so much as hinted at in this formidable document, it seemed pretty certain that the ingenuous apprentice would not be exposed to much temptation either from tavern or dice-box; and Mr. Black, after reading, no less than three times, the articles of this solemn covenant could not withhold his admiration of the zealous care the law manifested for the morals of the young. He should think better, he averred, of lawyers ever after, and was inclined to believe they must be a much maligned body of men. If there had only been some mention of the catechism, he said, the deed might have been framed by a Bishop. Mr. Redfearn to whom he thus unbosomed himself said nothing, but there were volumes in the wink he conveyed to the stolid Aleck. "I could ha' thoiled th' absence o' ony mention o' th' catechism if there'd been some mention o' wage," was his only spoken comment. "But think of the immense advantage of learning the whole art and commerce of a clothier under such a teacher as Mr. Tinker," urged Mr. Black. Mr. Redfearn apparently did think, and what he thought was again conveyed to Aleck by a surreptitious wink. Tom was not long in proving for himself the advantages of being an apprentice. They consisted, so far as he could make out, of being harder worked and more harshly treated than a paid hand, and as for instruction or initiation into the mysteries of the clothier's craft, he was left to learn so much as his own eyes could teach him and his gumption acquire. It was fortunate for him that Ben Garside, with whom he lodged, lived at no great distance from the mill, for he had to be at his work by daybreak in the summer months, and long before the first uplifting of night's black curtain in the cold winter morns. Many who worked in the same mill, young boys and girls not yet in their teens, had to trudge in all weathers from distant homes on the raw hill sides, often by lanes and footpaths deep in mud or slush, often by the light of the many stars, sometimes by the pale glimmer of the lanthorn, sometimes in Egyptian darkness, feeling their way by the touch of walls or hedges or trees, drenched by rain or sleet, pelted by hail, sinking into deep ruts or forging through the drifted snow, lightly clad, the warmest garment of the girls the shawl about their head and ears, their faces pinched and blue with cold, their fingers aching with the shrewd wintry pinch, starting from home without breakfast and hurrying with empty stomachs to their dreary work, ill-clad, ill-shod, worse-fed, and still worse paid. The hours of labour were long. Wilberlee Mill was, though not exclusively, mainly a water-mill, the motive power being led from the mill-dam by a head-goit to the great waterwheel, and from the wheel-race restored by the tail-goit, little diminished, to the river's course, to serve the turn of mill owners lower down the stream. Often in dry seasons the supply of water was scant enough and hence it came that when the dam was flush of water the manufacturer reversed the process of making hay while the sun shone by making pieces while the rain fell. There was little or no restriction in the age at which a child might be sent to work, or the hours for which it might be kept there. It was of so common occurrence as to be almost regarded as a matter of course, not calling for comment, that a child nine or ten years of age should stand to its work sixteen or seventeen hours at a stretch, cramming its meal of water-porridge down its throat in the fluff-laden air of the weaving shed or spinning room, afraid to break off work even to eat a hurried and unsavoury meal. Sometimes the children were locked in the mill all night, and many would fall asleep as they stood, or drop exhausted by their machines only to be roused by a kick from the slubber's clogs, a blow from a roller, or a resounding smack from the slubber's strap. Tom had been set to billy-piecing, but it was found that his fingers were too big and his joints too set for such work, so, to his great delight, he ceased to rub the skin off his knuckles till they bled again, and was transferred to the "scouring-hoil" and in time had charge of a willey, or as it was sometimes called a "devil," or "fearnowt," an iron monster into whose maw he threw the scoured wool just fresh from the "drying-hoil," to be torn and "teased" by the hundred fangs of the insatiable mouth, digest as it were, in its mechanic stomach, and thence cast out in a light and airy fluff ready to be scribbled, slubbed and in time spun into warp and weft. But though, for a time, Tom escaped the most arduous and confining and debilitating part of an operative's daily lot, his lines were hard enough. He looked back upon his workhouse life with a sickening yearning, and when he remembered the regular and abundant meals of the House, his gorge rose at the ever-recurring surfeit of water-porridge to breakfast, water-porridge to dinner, water-porridge to supper, and water-porridge between meals. But for all that Tom grew apace, and his was not the willowy, weedy growth of the towns. If the advocates of vegetarianism want to press their proofs, let them recur to the country-bred, porridge-fed youngsters of a by-gone generation, when they were not cooped up in mills and worked beyond the endurance of Nature. As Tom was often sent out with the lant-barrel to collect from the cottages for miles around the scouring liquid for which ammonia is the modern substitute, he had ample opportunity to stretch his legs and broaden his chest and brace his sinews; so that when, as time went on; he attained to the dignity of a loom, he was as well-set-up a youth as one would meet in a day's march, straight, old Hannah Garside vowed, as any "picking rod," with strong limbs and corded muscles, and, best of all, with a sound head and a warm heart,--a happy contrast to the many of his comrades whose shoulders were rounded, and backs bent and legs curved by weary hours of standing and stooping at tasks and under burdens beyond the immature powers of ill-nurtured bodies. It was a common saying in those days that nine out of every ten of the mill-hands of Holmfirth could not stop a pig with their legs. But the happiest chance that befell the young apprentice was that which made him a lodger with Ben and Hannah Garside. It was long enough before he had much more than a nodding acquaintance either with them or their invalid daughter; for, of weekdays, he took his meals at the mill, and at night he was so dead-beat that he was fain to wash himself and steal to bed; and on Sundays, for many a week of his early apprenticeship it was his glad custom to bolt his morning meal and make off as fast as his legs could carry him over the moors to Saddleworth, generally arriving at St. Chad's Church in time to be late for the morning service, but ample time to accompany Mr. Black or Mr. Redfearn home to a better dinner than Hannah Garside had ever seen, or even dreamed of. But as the summer mellowed into autumn and the autumn drooped to Winter, there came Sundays when wind and rain made the tramp over the storm-beaten moors a matter not to be undertaken merely for a jaunt's sake, and Tom had, perforce to put up with the somewhat meagre fare furnished by Hannah Garside. Sunday was the one day in the week when there was meat hot and fresh to dinner-roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with pickled cabbage, and sometimes rice pudding. One can imagine what a welcome day that weekly day of rest and feasting was, the day when the village "knocker-up" forbore to rattle at the door or tap the chamber window with long stick, calling out belike: "Ger up, Tom, an' howd th' dog while aw wakken thee." Daily use would break the morning sleep of the wearied toiler, but, oh! how sweet to remember with your first yawn that it was Sunday, and that if you liked you could spend the livelong day in bed, or at least, forego your morning meal and stretch between the blankets till the steaming fragrance from the revolving spit saluted your nostrils and sent you with yearning stomach down the rickety steps to cozen a sop from Hannah, stooping with reddened face over the spit, basting the revolving joint as it shed its dripping over the Yorkshire pudding, whilst Lucy, propped up with many pillows, peeled potatoes, or, on rare and great occasions, pared the apples for pie or pudding, chatting pleasantly, and soothing the ruffled temper of her mother. And it was of Sunday afternoons that began those long talks with Ben Garside that had no less influence on Tom's destiny than the earlier monitions of Mr. Black, or the shrewd worldly axioms of Tom o' Fairbanks. It had been a matter of less surprise than delight for Ben to find that Tom could not only read, but read without having to spell out or slur over long words. The joy of Hannah was great thereat, for so was Ben deprived of any pretext for sneaking out of a Sunday morning to the nearest public to hear the paper read. Now, she managed to produce each week a penny, by virtue of which Ben became one in a partnership of six, whose united contributions purchased a weekly paper. It mattered not at all that when it reached Ben's house it was much thumbed and soiled and beer-stained, for in virtue of receiving it when truly it was a week old and much the worse for wear, Ben was allowed to retain it in perpetual proprietorship, and, had made a cover of "rolling boards" in which the copies were tenderly hoarded up and treasured. Now Ben was a great politician, and if pressed upon so close and home a matter would profess and express himself an Owenite. Add to this that he very rarely troubled either chapel or church except on Christmas Day, and that he made a point of slinking out of the house if he chanced to be in when the vicar of the parish or the shepherd of a dissenting fold called at the cottage. "Aw cannot abide parsons," he confided to Tom one day. "Though aw wodn't let yar Lucy yer me say so for worlds." Now Tom, as we know, had been taught to respect the Church, and he was absolutely against when Ben Garside, a little wiry, keen faced, middle-aged man, eager of speech and not a little fond of the sound of his own voice, went on: "Weel, Tom, aw'm nowise minded to hurt yo'r feelin's, an' if th' parsons wer owt like that Mister Black 'at yo set such store by, an' well yo've a reet to by all accaants, if they tuk after him, aw'd happen ha' cause to alter mi mind. But "ifs" an' "buts" ma' all th' differ i' this world, an' they simply isn't." "Well, they couldn't be better," said Tom, pleased with this tribute to his benefactor. "Noah, but they set up to be. Nah aw'll nooan go as fur as some folk 'at aw know, 'at say as parson's bun' to be oather a rogue or a fooil." "That's strong, Ben, isn't it?" "Aye, lad, it's nooan exactly what yo'd call meeat for babes; but aw reckon it meeans summat like this--'at if a parson believes all he preeaches he's a fooil, an' if he dunnot he's t'other thing." "But surely," began Tom. "Aye, aye, aw know what yo'd say--'at they _do_ believe. Weel then aw'll tell yo' I'm too mich respeck for their intellec's to think at them, wi' all their college larnin', can believe one hawf o' what ther paid to teach. Nooah, nooah, religion as them mak' o' preachers mis-ca' their teachin' is nobbut fit for women an' childer, an' to keep th' ignorant i' awe. Nah! _aw'm_ a _reely_ religious man missen, an' that's why aw dunnot hold wi parsons." This seemed a somewhat novel reason for discrediting ministers, and Tom could but look his surprise, which was exactly what Ben wanted. "Nah! aw'll gi' yo' a hinstance," he said, sitting on a low wall--they were out for a walk--and bidding Tom follow his example. "Aw'll gi' yo' a hinstance. Yo'n bin to th' Baptis' Chapel, wheer Jabez Tinker goes?" Tom nodded. "Nah, then, if yo'll swallow all th' parson says at Aenon yo' mun believe that afore aw wer' born aw wer' predestined awther to heaven or hell--yo' follow me?" "Weel, tak' it 'at aw wer' predestined for hell, just for argyment's sake." Tom thought it more than probable that this dreadfully free-spoken man was at least in danger of the fire, so he conceded the postulate. "Nah! Do yo' think it fair o' God Almighty to send a poor weak sprawlin' infant into th' world, knowin' full weel 'at after mebbe sixty or seventy yer o' moilin' an' toilin' an' scrattin', he'd end up wi' weepin' an' wailin' an' gnashin' o' teeth for all eternity. Aw put it to yo' Tom, wod yo' ha' done it yersen?" "But if you were to go to Church, Ben, or even to Chapel," began Tom. "That doesn't touch th' point. Th' point is at One they sen is Love, suld suffer a bairn to be born i'to this world, weel knowin' its awful end." "And don't _you_ believe in God?" asked Tom, sinking his voice almost to a whisper and edging a little further off his companion. "Aw do that, lad, but nooan i' siccan a God as that'n. But aw'n nooan done wi' th' parsons yet--one thing at a time. Yo' know aw can read th' Bible, though nooan so glib-like as yo' can, but aw think on what aw read. Nah chew this tex' ovver th' next time yo' go to th' church. Yo'll find it i'th' General Epistle o' James:-- "'For if there come unto your assembly a man with a gold ring, in goodly apparel, and there come in also a poor man in vile raiment, an' yo' hav' respec' to him 'at weareth the gay clothin', an' say unto him, sit yo' here in a guid place; an' say to th' poor, stan' yo' theer, or sit under my fooitstooil.' Well, lad, tha's bin a Workhus lad thissen, an' yo' know weel enough wheer they towd yo' to sit." Tom did know, and reflected that on the whole he had very much preferred the dark corners of the gallery to the chief places in the synagogue; but he had the sense to know his reasons were not of grace. "Aye, an' it's th' same all through," went on the little hand-loom weaver, growing excited and warming to his topic. "It's th' same all through. They're all tarred wi' th' same brush, or welly (well-nigh) all on 'em. They uphowd th' rich, an' they patronize th' poor, aw' most to a man. Why, see yo', we'n been feightin' for th' Factory Act i' this district ivver sin Sir Oastler tuk his coit off an' put his neck to th' collar i' 1830, afore yo' were born. How many o'th' parsons i' this district, dun yo' think, has sided wi' th hand agen th' maisters? Ther' wer th' Reverend Madden, o' Woodhouse, _he_ com' aat like a man, but he had to dare to be a Daniel an' dare to stand alone, as th' hymn says. Yo'st take all th' progress 'at's bin made i'th' world sin th' days o' Adam, an' tak' it broadly speikin' yo'll find 'at th' parsons ha' bin agen it. There's Stephen's th' Wesleyan minister an' Chartist he cam' to Huddersfield wheer had he to talk do'st think? I'th' Parish Church? Not he, faith. I'th' Wesleyan Chapel? Not he. I'th Hall 0' Science, man, i' Bath Buildings, a infidel shop, th' bigots ca'ad it." "But surely, Ben, you believe in something. You say you believe in God. You believe in Christ too, don't you?" "Aye i' th' _natural_ Christ, but nooan i'th' travesty o' Jesus o' Nazareth 'at th' owd monks twisted an' fashioned out o' th' natural man till his own mother wouldn't ha' known him. _Aw_ believe in him, but th' parsons don't." "Nay, nay, Ben," expostulated Tom, bewildered, shocked, but interested. "They dooan't. They sen they do, an' they happen think they do, for it's wonderful, just fair cappin', how folk can cheeat their own sen. Nah! Aw'll just ax yo' if yo' wer to steal th' vicar's cooat, or poise his shins for 'im, wheer do'st think tha'd sleep to-neet? I' th' towzer,[1] wouldn't ta." [1] a lock-up or a police-cell. Tom thought this highly likely. "But that's nooan what Jesus towd folk. An' what abaat heeapin' up stores o' riches i' this world wheer moth an' rust doth corrupt an' thieves break through an' steal? Weel, if there's a chap i' all this valley at's keener after brass nor some o'th' parsons _aw_ know an' some o'th' deacons _yo_' kno, aw dooant want to have ony truck wi' 'em for one." Tom thought of Ephraim Thorpe, and was mute. "But that's nooan th' warst aw han agen th' parsons. They're nobbud men, though they set thersen up for saints, an' there's good an' bad amang 'em same as there is amang other folk, aye, an' allus will be as long as th' world goes round, but ther's just one doctrine 'at sticks i' my gizzard waur nor all th' others." Tom thought it must be a particularly lumpy doctrine, if this were so, for Ben seemed to have a narrow and constricted throat. "Yo' heard th' parson tell folk to be content wi' that station i' life to which it has pleased Providence to call 'em." "Well, it's no use being anything else that I can see," said Tom, getting tired of being talked down and jumped on, in a manner of speaking. "A'm ashamed on yo', Tom. Aw thowt better things on yo', after all my talkin' to yo'. Nah, my motto is, Be content just as long as yo' can't better yo'sen; but it's yo'r bounden duty to yo'r sen an' yo'r fam'ly, when yo' get one, an' yo'r fellow-men, to be as discontented as ever yo'n reason to be, an' to try all yo' know to better yo'sen an' them. Discontent, lad, 's th' basis o' all progress, an' yo'll nooan be a reformer till yo'r chock full on it. Look at Moses, nah!" But Mrs. Garside might be seen at the cottage door beckoning them to tea, for there was ever a cup of tea on Sunday afternoon with wheat bread and fresh butter, and lettuce or watercress and radishes and spring onions, when the season served, and these fresh pulled from Ben's little garden patch, or gathered from the brim of the purling brook. Tea over, Ben seated himself by the hearth on which was spread the large warm list rug, like Joseph's coat of many colours, lists which Lucy had herself cut and her own mother stitched into the stout canvas backing. Ben justly regarded this rug as a work of art, and when he ventured to plant his feet upon it of a Sunday night, did so, as it were, apologetically. "But we hannot finished our talk yet, Tom," he began, puffing vigorously at his clay pipe to assure that well-gripped glow that permits of soliloquy or monologue. "Aw wer' sayin' when Hannah ca'ed us in." "Now, father," interrupted Lucy, "remember what day it is, don't let us have any o' those horrid politics, they only put yo' in a fash an' a tantrum." "Tom 'll ha' to bide it," said Hannah, who was pleased to see her husband settle down by his own fireside and cross his legs upon his own hearth, as what wife is not. "Tom 'll ha' to bide it. Yo'r father's like a eight-day clock. If Tom's wun' 'im up, Tom mun let 'im run daan." "Well, aw wer' sayin'--at what wer' aw sayin'?--guise-'ang-me if aw hannot forgotten wheer aw left off--Oh! Abaat Moses. Nah, tak' th' Book theer. Reick it daan, Hannah, reick it daan, Tom 'll happen mash a ornament or crumple a fal-de-lal" and Ben winked at Tom in token that this must be taken as a subtle innuendo at Hannah's over-tidiness. But Hannah was impervious to innuendo, and carefully lifted down the ponderous family Bible, bound in stout leather covers with brass corners, and containing on the front leaf in faint ink and sprawling characters the brief records of marriages, births and deaths. The book had been given to Hannah by her grandmother on her death-bed, and never did priest of Levi touch the Ark of the Covenant with more reverent hand than hers as it held the sacred volume. "Nah, lad, read that abaat th' ovverseer an th' Hebrew." Tom looked at Lucy for further explication. "Father allus picks th' fightin' bits i' th' Scriptures," she said.--"I like th' stories o' Jesus best, myssen--but as long as it's i' th' Bible it must be good, so best humour him. It's wheer Moses felled th' taskmaster." And Tom read: "'And it came to pass in those days, when Moses was grown, that he went out unto his brethren and looked on their burdens: and he spied an Egyptian smiting an Hebrew, one of his brethren. 'And he looked this way and that way and when he saw that there was no man, he slew the Egyptian and hid him in the sand.'" "Aye, aye, blood's thicker nor watter, all th' warld ovver," commented Hannah, who sat rocking herself softly before the dying embers of the fire, her nervous fingers playing with the corners of her apron, lacking the knitting needles that are to a woman what a pipe is to a man. "Eh! That Moses wer' a man after mi own heart," burst in Ben. "Just think on it; theer he wer', browt up o' th' fat o' th' land, wi' th' best o' ivverything to eit an' drink, an' brass for owt; an' nowt to do but scrape his leg to th' powers 'at be an' he wer' a made man for life. There isn't one man in a thaasand, pampered an' fed an' thrussen up as he wer', but thrussen up as he thrussen up as he 'ud a left th' poor bondslaves to shift for theirsens, yo' needn't go aat o' Holmfirth to see that e'ry day o' yo'r life. Gi' a workin' man a bit o' power an' a bit more wage an' set 'im ovver t' others an' he'll what-do-you-ca' it?--'out-Herod Herod,'" and Ben paused in evident gratification at this rounding of his period, but added on reflection, "or mebbe, aw sud say, out-Pharaoh Pharaoh. But Moses nah"... "Yes but, father," said the gentle voice of Lucy, as she laid her thin white hand caressingly on her father's knee--"Yar Lucy can leead th' father wi' a threed o' silk," thought the mother.--"Yes but, father, Moses had a direct order from God; 'I will send _thee_ unto Pharaoh, that thou mayest bring forth my people out of Egypt.'" "True enough, lass, true enough: but yo'll obsarve 'at th' angel o' the Lord didn't appear to Moses till he'd shown th' stuff he wer' made on. Aw tak' it God likes to know summat abaat folk afore He sets 'em on to gaffer a job. Us workin' folk didn't go to Oastler i' that gret haase o' his at Fixby, aboon Huddersfilt yonder, till he'd written to th' pappers an' spokken aat like a man abaat th' ill-usage o'th' little childer. It's a long day sin' but we'st win yet, as sure as God's i' heaven, for He has surely heard the cry of the little uns, an' He has seen the oppression wherewith the Egyptians oppress them." "But, Ben," said Tom, "we aren't living in Egypt, an' Queen Victoria isn't Pharaoh, and we aren't bond slaves." "Oh! th' warst kind o' slave's him," retorted Ben, "as doesn't know he is a slave. Look at Lucy theer, her 'at sud ha' bin, aye an' wod ha' bin', as strong as a young colt, on' what is 'oo nah, a lily brokken on its stalk--mi poor lass, mi poor lass"--and the father's voice broke and the mother's face was turned aside. "Dunno greet, father I'm very happy, for aw nivver knew till aw wer bed-ridden how sweet life can be wheer love is." "Wheer's yo'r een, Tom?" went on Ben very fiercely, to hide his softer feelings, "wheer's thi e'en? aw say. Isn't Sam Buckley th' spinner at Wilberlee yet?" Tom nodded. "Weel, aw know Sam. 'As to ivver seen him peilin' an' cuffin' th' young 'uns abaat th' yed, wi' them big fists o' his'n, little, wee, puny, ramshackle things o' scorn an' eight yer owd, all skin an' bone, so to speak, an' precious little bone at that. Hasn't ta seen 'im strappin' 'em an' layin' abaat 'im reet an' left wi' a roller as thick ay yo'r shackle, an' crack'd 'em abaat t' poll till th' blood's come, when he's getten 'is skin full o' four-ale? Things ha' altered strangely if tha hasn't, or else tha'rt stone-blind and past prayin' for." Now Tom had seen this and felt it too; but he had supposed it was all part of the day's work. He saw others put up with it, and he had put up with it--it might, for aught he knew, be involved in that all-controlling indenture of apprenticeship. "Aye, it's true enough," he said, "I've wondered about it, Ben. Isn't ther' a law against it? Mr. Black says there's one and the same law for the rich and the poor." "Then Mr. Black's nooan as knowin' as aw tak' 'im to be. Law! Law fiddlesticks! Tak' an' overseer afore th' magistrates--most on 'em manufacturers theirsen--for beeatin' a child, nivver name a 'prentice--why, yo' might as weel fall out wi' owd Harry an' go to hell for justice.--But it's time yo wor i' bed, lad, if tha meeans to gooa to-neet, an' nivver tha forget abaat Moses. Gooid neet to yo'." Now it so befell that on the afternoon of the very next day it was Tom's ill-fortune to become embroiled with that same Sam Buckley. The foreman spinner was a big, burly fellow, broad-shouldered and vast of paunch. He had the fishy eye and mottled face of the heavy drinker and a short and uncertain temper; not, perhaps an ill-meaning man, but quick and heavy with his shoulder-of-mutton hands. It chanced that Mr. Tinker had been obliged to go to Huddersfield that day and was not expected at the mill till late in the afternoon. As the day lengthened, the sky had become overcast, the air sultry with the unseasonable warmth and closeness that tells of a brooding storm or the artillery of the heavens. The upper room of the mill, where the billy-pieceners were mostly engaged, was a long, low chamber. Its walls had once been whitewashed but were now a dull, dirty colour from mingled grease and fluff and dust. The floors were cased with grease. There was little ventilation, except the air that entered when the door opened or through an odd broken Window; pane or so. The inner air was hot to sultriness, laden with the breath of a score or so of workers and with the rancid smell of machine oil. The spinner had gone to his dinner, and it was seldom he missed "calling" on his way back to the mill. It was a toss-up whether he would return in a good or a bad temper. If in a good one he would probably spend a half-hour or so in the weaving-shed among the grown-up girls who worked there, making jests and taking the coarse liberties they dared not resent if they would keep their looms. If in a bad temper he would make for the "billy-hoil," where it would be safe to vent it. Now this afternoon he was in a particularly bad temper.--Monday is often given up to bad temper. The overeating of Sunday conduces to it, the fact that Monday is, in the parts of which I write, as sacred to the wash-tub as Sunday is to the chapel, does not soothe it. The moment Sam shoved open the door, with thunder on his brow and lightning in his eye, the quick-witted hands, sharp beyond their tender years, sniffed the threatening storm, and bent with intent looks and nimble fingers over their work. But little "Billy-come-a-lakin" had succumbed to the drowsy influences of the time and place. Sat upon the floor, his little legs outstretched, his back against the greasy wall, his dinner can by his side, Billy slept. He had just time to start from his slumber and his dreams when Sam pounced upon him and dragged him to the central gangway of the long chamber, the lad shrinking within himself, cowering and whimpering, and but half awake. "So aw've caught o', have aw, yo' young gallows bird? This is th' way yo' rob yo'r mester, as soon as a man's back's turned." "Please sir aw couldn't help it; summat cam' ovver me, an' mi legs seemed to ha' nooa feel in 'em, an' oh! aw wer so tired. Don' beeat me, Sam, it'll mak mi mother greet so, if 'oo sees th' marks on me when aw doff missen to-neet." "Aw'll mark yo' nivver fear, aye an' gi' yo' summat 'at 'll keep yo wakken, too, yo' idle good-for-nowt," and Sam swung in with a piece of belting thicker and broader than a navvy's belt. Now it was at just this moment that Tom took the door. He had come from the dyehouse to match a cop. "Hold," he cried, and strode quickly up the room, "you won't beat that child, Sam, wi' that strap. Drop it, I say." "An' who'll stop me?" roared Sam. "I will." "Then tak' that for thi' impudence yo' d----d, meddlin' workhouse bastard," and Sam brought the stinging leather right across Tom's flashing cheek. Then, quick as lightning, sped a downright blow, straight from the shoulder true between the eyes, and Sam fell like a stricken ox, ignominious, into a skep of cops. There was the quick catching of breath from a score of throats as two score eyes watched the bully's fall, and Tom, as he looked about him, felt prouder and gladder than all his life before. "Eh! but aw'st catch it for this," whispered Billy-come-a-lakin. "Aw'll run for it whilst aw've th' chance," and he fled the place, and his billy knew him no more that week. "Yo'n nooan heerd th' last o' this," said Buckley, as he slowly picked himself up, dazed and scowling. "Aw'll mak' yo' pay for this day's wark, if aw swing for it, mind yo'r piecenin', yo' young limbs o' Satan, an' quit yo'r gapin'," and the irate spinner stalked out of the "scribbling boil." Tom did the errand on which he had been sent by the dyer and made his way down the outer steps to return to his own work. He had to cross the mill-yard. Mr. Tinker had just ridden in at the gate and now was bending his head from the saddle to hearken to the tale Sam was pouring into his ear. Tom saw his master's brow contract. "Send him to me," Tom heard, "I'll deal with him. It's rank mutiny." Tom stepped forward and stood by the horse's side. "I'm here, sir," he said quickly, tho' he could hear the beating of his own heart. The riding-whip was raised with quick and angry menace. Tom never flinched, he only dug his nails into his palms to stay his tingling nerves. But the blow fell not. "_Where_ do you say you come from?" "Diggle, sir," and Tom's quiet grey eye looked his master in the face. "You hired me yourself at the Workhouse." Jabez Tinker peered, in the falling autumn light, into the lad's pale set face and scanned it searchingly. "How came that weal across your cheek?" "Sam can tell you best," was the quiet reply. "You said nothing of this Buckley," said the master. "Mind when you come to me again, you don't come with half a tale. Go your ways, Pinder, but let me have no more of this broiling or you'll soon regret it." And Jabez Tinker dismounted, threw the reins to Buckley, who stood surlily by, waiting the upshot of his complaint, and walked without another word to the office. But he had sighed as he watched Tom's upright, sinewy figure cross the mill yard, and a lingering, longing look followed the unwitting 'prentice. CHAPTER VII. TIME passed, as it will pass even in Holmfirth. Tom is still an apprentice, but in no fear of stick or strap from Sam Buckley, or any other Sam. The first Factory Act has become law, Ben Garside had a grievance the less, though when the night drew long it was still delight fighting his battles o'er again, to tell the oft-told tale of that famous march to York, when from Huddersfield, and all the parts contiguous, men, women, and little children made their weary way to York, to cry aloud that the iron-heel of capital might not crush out the infant life of the nation's self. Ben's limbs are stiffer by many a year since that historic tramp, but he straightens them and erect with flashing eye, as he dwells upon the heroic patience, the grim resolve of those who trod the long, long miles, and tells how weary men stayed with their arms the feeble, halting steps of bent and grey-headed sires, and worn and foot-sore women carried in their arms drooping children, not their own; how the rain fell in torrents, and the wind beat the cold showers in upon their drenched garments and many stole behind the hawthorn hedges, and the gray low stone walls, and slept the sleep of an exhaustion that was well nigh unto death; of how, as they came by some kindly waggoner, carting sacks of corn, or bales of wool, or barrels of good ale, the women and the children were taken up and given a sore-needed lift; how, as they passed through village and hamlet, hard-featured men and homely women came running into the road, and pressed upon them meat and drink, and wished them God-speed, and a safe return; of how when they reached the Castle yard in York itself, the clogs of many were clotted with the blood of their bruised and lacerated feet, and last, of how when their hearts were sick with hope deferred, the glad hour of triumph came, and the groans of the workers pierced the ears of Parliament, and the joy-bells rang to herald in the great Charter of the Toiler's freedom. But Tom had that to protect him which was better fashioned than any statute ever made, incomprehensible by amplitude of words. Now, in his nineteenth year, he is nearing the six feet of manhood, and his frame is well knit and strong. Simple fare has agreed with him, anyway, simple, fare and simple, cleanly ways. He is the delight of Hannah Garside's eyes, and of eyes, too, younger and brighter than hers, though the winsome mill-hands of the valley declare that Tom Pinder is as dateless as a stone. "It's time wasted on him," they say, "he thinks o' nowt but his books an' his wark, an' maybe o' that poor ill-shaped Lucy Garsed." It is Saturday afternoon, and Hannah's cottage is all "red up," and Hannah herself is washed and dressed and ready to don herself, and sally forth a-shopping, when the clacking of Ben's loom shall cease in the upper chamber. Lucy still tenants the settle under the window, but it is a stronger, bonnier Lucy than the wan frail Lucy of former days. Deformed she will always be, but some measure of bodily strength has been vouchsafed to her, and the bobbin-wheel by her side, presently to be put by, and a basket of bulky cops, and another of plenished bobbins tell that Lucy is no longer an unwilling divine in that busy hive, but can, with nimble fingers and pliant wrist, do the winding once her mother's care. "Now stand you there, Beauty, and stir a foot if you dare," a voice is heard outside, a pleasant girlish voice; and without knock or ceremony the latch is lifted and a merry face, all smiles and sunshine, roses and dimples, peers in at the half-opened door. "May I come in, and _do_ you mind my fastening Beauty to the door-hasp, he is so restive, and always in a hurry to rush off home," and without waiting for permission the speaker trips into the room and kisses Lucy on both cheeks, and gives Mrs. Garside a hearty hug. "Why, if it isn't Miss Dorothy!" exclaimed the good old dame. "My word, how yo' dun grow, miss, to be sure. Deary me, an' it only seems t' other day aw held yo' i' mi arms an' nussed yo' o' mi lap, an' yo' a wee-bit babbie kickin' an' croonin' an' little dreeamin' o' what yo'd lost upstairs, an' yo'r father awmost off his head wi' grief--deary, deary, how time dun fly, to be sure. But sit yo' daan, nah do." How beautiful, how utterly bewitching and distracting a picture was Dorothy Tinker my art would utterly fail to tell. Image to yourself a lissom maiden of sweet seventeen, just of that happy medium height that reaches to a tall man's heart, and of that rounded proportioning of form, with outline of graceful curve that company with health and exercise; dream of an oval face in which the blush rose dwells, a rounded dimpled chin, violet eyes dancing with mirth, carnation lips and ivory teeth, and the small head crowned with wealth of auburn hair, rippling in waves like a dimpling streamlet;--dream of all this, and still 'tis but a dream, and only eye and ear could tell you how sweet and dainty a maid was Dorothy. Men drew their breath sharp when first they looked on her, and young men ravished and betook themselves to poetry and woeful sighs, and wandering far and lone by moonlit ways. "We don't see much of you now-a-days, Miss Dorothy," said Lucy, smiling fondly at her visitor. "An what mak' o' a gown do yo' ca' that?" said the mother. "Oh! this, Mistress Hannah Garside, wife of Benjamin of that ilk, is my riding-habit and to be respected accordingly. It is, I believe, the only one in Holmfirth. Neat, isn't it?" "Yo' look like a lad i' petticoits. Is it quite decent for a wench?" asked Mrs. Garside, somewhat anxiously. "Decent! why, it's the very pink of the latest fashion: the only wear, in fact, though I _think_ I would rather be without the skirt on a windy day. _Then_ there'd be an uplifting of hands and a searching of hearts, if you like." Mrs. Garside only looked half-satisfied. "Yo'r th' same, an' yet not th' same," she said. "Not the same! Hannah, why I should hope not indeed, or my good uncle's money would be sadly wasted, and you know that wilful waste makes woeful want. I know or should know, for Aunt Tinker dins it in my ear every time I buy a new ribbon or a pair of gloves. The same, indeed! Why do you know, Hannah, I'm being _finished_," and Dorothy dropped her voice as though she spoke a word of doom. "Finished?" queried Lucy, "finished?" "Aye finished, in very sooth. Fashioned, moulded, formed taught carriage and deportment, and several other extras at Miss Holmes's highly fashionable, strictly select academy for young ladies in Huddersfield, and thither and thence I ride on Beauty every day of the blessed week bar Sundays and missin's--but that's an improper word and not to be spoken in genteel society." "A 'cademy! lor, think o' that now," said Hannah much impressed "an' what do they larn yo' now, furrin languages I'll be bun." "Oh dear, yes! I can already relieve my feelings to my aunt in French that she cannot understand, and which I dare say, would puzzle Mons. Feugley, our French master, and I know some German words that sound so like swearing that Aunt Tinker gasps and grows pale when I use them, and I can tinkle on the piano and sing indifferently well for a screechy voice." "That's nooan Gospel, my word," put in Hannah, stoutly, and Lucy held up a reproving finger. "And oh! tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Ascalon." "More furrin' parts" groaned Hannah. "I can, sh! speak low my voice, bend your heads and lend your ears.--I can dance!" "Dance!" gasped Hannah. "Yes, _vraiment_, which is French or German, I forget which, for of a verity and in good sooth--but they don't know at home. It's an extra extra, dancing is and Aunt Martha wouldn't hear of it, and Uncle declared it was a vanity. But I learn all the same." "How do you manage it?" asked Lucy, with an admiring, caressing but wistful look at the beaming face. "Why the other girls teach me, silly, in the bedroom. We dance in our nightdresses, when _Fraulein_ has put out the gas. But it isn't as nice, they say, as dancing with Professor Blanc, _de Paris, vous savez_." "Oh, Dorothy, how can you say such things!" and Lucy looked really shocked. "But you, Lucy, you are altered too. Ah! How my tongue runs on. But there, it is such a relief to let it run just once in a way, for at school, it's 'Miss Tinker, give silence, if you please,' and 'Miss Tinker, less noise.' and 'Miss Tinker, cease laughing,' till I'm Miss Tinkered to death, and you know what it is at home. I vow if it weren't for old Betty and Irish Peggy, I'd soon be competent to conduct a school for the deaf and dumb. Yes, Lucy, you are altered too; you're stouter and rosier, altogether happier looking, what's come over the child, Hannah!" "Ah! that's all Tom's doing," said Hannah, "and God's, mother dear," softly added Lucy. "Tom?" queried Dorothy, "who in the name of goodness is Tom?" "Why, Tom,--oh, Tom is just Tom," said Lucy, "you can't have forgotten him, Miss Dorothy, you must remember to have seen him." "Not a remembrance!" exclaimed Dorothy emphatically; "but it's an ugly name enough. Tom what? or maybe it's the cat." "Ah! now aw see you're only playing, miss," said Hannah. "Noah, sen yo'? why, wheerivver han' yo'r e'en bin not to see yar Tom, Tom Pinder, yo' know--he's warked for yo'r uncle these how mony years is't, Lucy, lemme see, aye these five year an' more, an' if yo' hannot seen him I'se warrant yo're th' only wench i' Holmfirth 'at ha not. "But what's this Admirable Crichton to do with Lucy's better looks?" "Why, ivverything, if truth be spokken, as ever it shall be i' this haase whiles Hannah Garsed has a tongue to speik. Yo' mind what a pale peaky helpless critter 'oo wor five yer back, none fit to do a hand-stir for hersen. That wer' after 'oo'd worked 'at yor' uncle's for a spell--but that's nother here nor theer. An' then, who but yo'r own sen up an' spak' to yo'r uncle 'at aw could, mebbe do wi' a lodger, an' didn't he come--yo'r uncle, aw meean--an' 'gree wi' me to tak' Tom an' do for 'im, an' he--yo'r uncle aw meean--wer' to pay me hauf-a-craan a week for him, at first, an' rise to four shillin' afore Tom wer' out o' his writin's, which awm sure it's little enough when th' weshin's considered, an' 'im that hearty yo'd think sometimes he'd eit a man off his horse, not but what he's welcome to all he can howd an' more till it, for aw couldn't think more on 'im nor do more for 'im, if he wer' my own lad, which aw sometimes awmost think he is, an' yar Ben that set up wi' 'im, an' 'im so clivver at his books 'at it's as gooid as a sermon an' better nor some to yer th' father an' 'im a argeyfyin' an' a argeyfyin' till yo'd think they'd nivver ha' done." "But what about Lucy?" "Weel, weren't aw tellin' yo'? Weel, at first when he come he wer' a bit shy, like, o' Lucy, an' her o' 'im; bud one day, a Sunday afternooin it wer, an' th' sun shinin', an' th' sky as blue as weshin'-powder, Tom says it wer' a shame o' Lucy to be cooped up i' th' haase an' ne'er taste th' taste o' fresh air; an' he just up wi' her in his arms, same as yo'd lift a babby, an' carried her aat into garden, an' th' hedge wer' all thick wi' May-blossom, both white and red, an' he gate a lot, an' made a posy for her; an' after that it wer' a regular outin' for her as long as th' weather held, an' after he'd come fro' th' mill, fit to drop, so to speik, he wer' nivver too tired to gi' Lucy her outin'. And then it wer' Tom 'at put into yar Ben's yed to ha' a cheer on wheels, an' he poo'd it hissen up an' daan th' loin, though lads and lasses, shameless hussies some on 'em, made nowt bud fun on 'im an' ca'd him dree-nurse. Bud he sooin garr'd th' lasses howd their tongues an' keep aat o' th' loin--trust Tom for that--an' when th' lads went th' lasses followed, trust _them_ for that." "And how did he make them?" asked Dorothy, laughing. "Oh! weel, he ca's it moral suasion; but it looked uncommon like feightin th' time aw' see'd it. Ben says it wer' effectual callin'." "H'm, I don't think I shall like this same Master Tom of yours. He's a paragon, and I don't think paragons and I quite hit it." "Aw dooan't know what yo' meean bi a Paragon, miss, but there's a Paragon what's a public-haase i' Westgate i' Huddersfielt, an' yo' nivver wer' further off yo'r horse, Miss Dorothy, though aw mak' bold to say so. Why, yar Tom nivver touches a drop stronger nor teea, an's awmost 'verted yar Ben, leastwise he tak's nowt no stronger nor whom-brew'd an' _aw_ see that'll nooan hurt 'im." "Aye, aye, I see, a paragon, a saint. Oh! I can picture him. Tall, you say? Yes, tall and thin and hollow-chested, stooping, pale, with long black hair as straight as a yard of pump-water; and he turns his eyes up and his toes in, and groans dismally, and his clothes don't fit him, and he wears black cotton gloves on Sundays, an inch too long in the fingers, and he goes to temperance meetings and prayer meetings, and regularly to chapel twice on Sundays, and attends experience meetings and turns his soul inside out for the world--of Aenon Chapel--to gaze at. Oh! I think I see him now, that quite too precious Tom!" "Weel, so yo' may, Miss Dorothy," said Hannah with a quiet smile. "He's had his bath upstairs--nivver such a one there wer' sin Adam for weshin' hissen all ovver once a week whether he wants it or not--an' nah, aw'll be bun he's mankin' i' th' garden." And Hannah went into the back kitchen or scullery at the back of the "house" and, still smiling, beckoned to Dorothy. "Aye, he's theer, sure enough." And this is what Dorothy saw: a young Hercules, stripped, save his vest, to the belted waist, his heels together, his toes out-turned, his knees braced, his breast expanded, his chin in air, and in his outstretched brawny arms whirled about his head a mighty pair of clubs--"it's a windmill," whispered Dorothy--"Oh! but he's a proper man." "As ever yo'd see in a day's walk," chuckled Hannah,--"more o' a Samson nor a saint, accordin' to my readin' o' th' Scriptur's,--but ther's neer a Dalilah o' 'em all 'll ha' to cut Tom's hair for 'im, trust owd Hannah for that." "H'm, that's as may be," said Dorothy in the maturity of wisdom, finished and formed at a select academy, and, turning to take her leave of Lucy. "I must run away now, dear Lucy; 't will never do to let your handsome lover catch me in this fright of a gown. I'll come again some day when you're likely to be by yourself. And, Lucy, dear, I daresay he isn't at all a paragon. There, now, and don't blush any more, or you'll be struck so." Now although from this time forth Dorothy Tinker made more than one occasion to visit her sick friend, popping in at uncertain times of the day, as Mrs. Garside said, "promis'us-like" it was not till nigh up upon Christmas time, that she ever had speech with Tom. And this is how that came to pass. One day, a week or so before Yule-tide, when the snow lay heavy upon all the hills, no other than Workhouse Jack presented himself in Wilberlee mill yard, looking very like a middle-aged, beardless, lean and hungry image of Father Christmas. He was met in the yard by Sam Buckley. "We don't want no hands: we're puttin' no fresh 'uns on this side Easter, so off yo' pack abaat yo'r business." "Be yo' Mr. Tinker, sir?" said Jack. "Nooah," answered Sam, somewhat mollified by the implied compliment; "nooah, what do you want?" "Isn't this th' spot at Tom Pinder works at?" asked Jack. "Aye, if yo' ca' it workin'; some folk 'ud ca' it lakin'. What does ta want to kno' for? no good awm sure." "Well, aw'n getten a letter for him." "A letter! Who's it fro'?" "Aw reckon th' letter tell that for itsen." "Well, hand it here, aw'll see he gets it." "It's varry partickler, yo' see," demurred Jack. "It's fro' a woman, an' oo' telled me at aw wor to 'liver it to nob'dy but Tom hissen, an' 'oo's a woman 'at generally has her own way i' our parts." "Well, yo' can oather gi' it to me or wait outside th' gate till he comes aat. Yo'll nooan see Pinder afore th' mills lose." "Tha'rt a liar; aw see 'im nah. Hey Tom lad, aw want thee!" and Jack adroitly dodged past the protesting slubber and ran up to Tom. Buckley deemed discretion the better part of valour and took himself off. "Sithee, Tom," almost gasped Jack in his eagerness, and casting a triumphant glance at the discomfited obstructionist, "sithee, there's a letter for thee. It's fro Betty Schofield at th' Wakey, an' tha's to go back wi me. 'Oo'd ha' put that i't' letter, aw wer to tell thee, but 'oo'd no more ink, an' th' pen gate cross-legged." And Tom read as follows: "Deer Tom, This is to let yew 'no at Mr. Black's bin took vary bad, an's frettin' becos yo' dont com' to see 'im. He's i' bed; wi' a stroke i'th reight side, hopin' you're well which it leaves me, so no more at present from Yours trewly, BETTY SCHOFIELD." Tom's heart smote him. He was conscious that latterly he had been remiss in his visits to his friends beyond the hill. His new life was growing on him, and new interests filling his mind. "Is it serious, do you know, Jack?" he asked. "Moll 'o Stute's says another do 'll finish him. He's had two doctors till 'im, an' Moll says his constitooshun' whativver 'oo meeans bi that, couldn't ha' stooid one, ne'er name two. But yo'll come, Tom, an' Betty says yo'll do him more gooid nor physic." It would have been nothing out of the common for a hand to "jack" his work without saying "by your leave," or "with your leave," but that was not Tom's way. He sought Mr. Tinker in the dingy little office, but he was not there,--he might be in the house, someone suggested; and Tom made for the house, a mere stride, not a stone-throw from the mill-gate. Jack trotted by his side like a faithful dog. "Weel, I declare, if there beeant big Tom Pinder comin' up th' walk, miss," exclaimed Betty, the cook, wiping her hands on her coarse apron, "an' as shallockin' a lookin' felley wi 'im as ivver yo' clapped een on," and a knock at the kitchen door coincided with her wondering "what's to do naah!" Now Dorothy was in the very thick of that daintiest of all household doings the making of pastry for the Christmas fare. She was garbed in a pretty print dress, and a white bib and apron, spotlessly clean, became her vastly. Her small and shapely hands were cunningly turning the well-greased tins, and shaping the dough within and above a noble array of large and portly tins crammed with the makings of pork-pies and jimping the edges of lesser tins designed for the mince-meat that, not innocent of the flavour of brandy, scented the warm kitchen air. The sleeves of her dress were rolled up and gave play to as white and rounded an arm, with a dainty dimple at the elbow, as ever delighted the eyes of man. Her cheek was flushed either with the heat of the roaring fire or confusion at being so discovered by eyes whose sudden glance, quick withdrawn, betrayed a startled admiration more speakingly than speech. "I beg your pardon, Miss, but is Mr. Tinker at home? He isn't in the office, nor about the mill," said Tom, whilst Jack alternate gaped and sniffed. "Can't yo' shut th' door after yo', Tom Pinder," exclaimed Betty, "or do yo' think yo're big enough to do for a door yersen?" "Uncle's not at home; he's gone to Huddersfield, I think," said Dorothy, hastily unrolling her sleeves, and hiding the glistening ivory of her arms. "Mrs. Tinker, perhaps?" hazarded Tom. "And aunt's in bed, as bad as can be with a sick head-ache. A pretty Christmas _we_ are likely to have; but is it any message you can leave?" for Tom had turned to go, "you look in trouble." "Jack here has brought me a message, Miss. It's from an old friend, perhaps from the oldest, and it concerns the best friend I have in the world. My more than guardian Mr. Black, the schoolmaster at Diggle, is sick, it is feared unto death, and Jack here has won over th' top through th' snow to fetch me to him." "An' dun yo' meean to say, Tom Pinder," broke in Betty, "'at this yer drowned rat of a man 'at stann's theer gaupin' as if he wer mooin-struck an' drippin' all ovver my cleean floor like a leeakin' piggin' 's come all th' way fro' Diggle i' this weather 'at's nooan fit for a dog to be aat in." "Aye, Betty," said Tom,--he was a prime favourite with Betty of old, and he knew it,--"not so warm as your kitchen, but it was urgent you see, and Jack's an old friend too, aren't you, Jack?" But Jack's eye and Jack's thoughts were fixed upon something more to a hungry man's purpose than mere matters of friendship--he had caught the whiff from the oven door--it was the scent of pork pie piping hot. Dorothy caught the glance that waywards. "Why how thoughtless I am. Now, Jack, I'm sure, as it's Christmas time"--needless qualification--"you can eat some Christmas fare. And they're the very first pies I've ever made, and I _do_ hope they'll be nice. Peggy, why don't you set some plates?" "And mind yo' hot 'em afore th' fire. Its simply beyond all belief how aw've to tell that girl to put hot plates wi' hot meeat, an' cowd wi' cowd, i'steead o' cowd wi' hot an' hot wi' cowd." "And you Tom,"--and then with a hesitation as though in doubt, "I mean, Mr. Pinder, you will take something before you cross those terrible hills?" If Dorothy had there and then asked Tom to sit down and make a comforting meal of dynamite washed down with prussic acid it is odds that he would have set to bowl and platter with a cheerful heart; but to put knife and fork into a rich brown crust that crunched beneath the blade and to see the hot jelly gush out over the plate and to catch the fragrance of the red and brown pork with judicious blending of lean and fat cut into squares like dice, and to see all this flanked by a crested jug of foaming beer.--Oh! Don't talk to me of nectar and ambrosia. "Yo'r health, miss," said Jack, politely and as distinctly as he could with his mouth full, "and yo'rs, too, aw'm sure"--this to Betty, whose ample form he surveyed with lingering approval "and a merry Chersmas when it comes." But Tom, even as he plied his knife and fork heard ringing in his ears the words that some instinct or some dim apprehension or prompting of native delicacy had compelled from Dorothy's lips.--"Mister Pinder". Tom had never been called Mister Pinder before in all his life "Gentleman Tom" and "Dandy Tom" he heard occasionally from the lasses of the mill, smarting from that worst of feminine ailments--_injuria formal spietal_,--the quiet unconsciousness of or indifference to advances none too coy. But "Mr. Tom"--'t was the baptism into a new life, the stirring of a new manhood, his accolade; it fell on his senses as falls the sovereign's sword on shoulder of kneeling knight. It was a new and nobler Tom that turned his face that afternoon over the hills to Diggle. "Go to see your sick friend?" Dorothy had cried. "Why, of course you'll go. I'm sure uncle would say so, and anyway if he faults anyone, why he must fault me." "An' aw hope his first mince-pie may choke him if he does," wished Betty, but kept her wishes to herself. Tom was shocked at the change a few weeks had made in the old schoolmaster Mr. Black had, truly, been failing ever since the sudden and unexpected death of the shrill Priscilla some twelve months before. His devoted if exacting sister had gone to that land where there is neither dusting nor teaching, and where she must have received a shaking of cherished convictions if she found any schoolboys. Since then her brother had lived alone, cooking and generally doing for himself, save that one of the boys scrubbed the schoolroom floor and scrubbed the desks, in consideration of being put on the school free-list. More and more as the days wore on the schoolmaster had seemed to shrink within himself, and find a placid joy in the not wholly unpleasing melancholy of reflection and regret. Perhaps Priscilla's faithful girding had been to him like a tonic and an irritant, and saved him from a natural tendency to the introspective absorption of a lonely life. Gradually the nightly symposia at the _Hanging Gate_ were abandoned, much to the wrath of good Mistress Schofield, who roundly declared that "if th' Schooilmaster had nobbut gone theer o' neets, takin' th' best chair, an' sittin' i'th' warmest corner, just to be out o' reick o' his sister's tongue, she for one fun' his room as gooid as his company." Perhaps one reason for Mr. Black's inconstancy might be found in the fact that so long as Priscilla lived, he knew there was a shield and buckler between him and the engines and weapons of attack the buxom widow knew so well how to employ. Priscilla gone, he felt himself as a city girt round and besieged, but helpless and defenceless, its strong tower razed to the ground. Reason be what it might the angle nook of the sanded kitchen knew him no more and the friendly circle had a very sensible gap. And ere long the news, the all but incredible news, spread through t' village, and up the valley, and about the steep hill-sides, that "owd Black wer' givin' up teeachin', and what to do wi' th' lads and lasses 'at wer' allus under yo'r feet, or up to some mak' o' devilment till they we' owd enough to go to th' mill, 'ud pass a weary woman's wits to tell." Tom felt as he neared the school a strangely depressing air of solitude and desertion. The playground no more resounded to the eager cries of boys revelling in a brief freedom, nor from the open windows came the murmuring buzz of unwilling voices droning in unison the tables of multiplication. The schoolmaster he found in his little bedroom, not in bed, indeed, but looking far fitter for bed than up. To Tom's surprise, he found Moll o' Stuarts in attendance on the sick man. She had, it transpired, carried the citadel of the sick-room by assault and taken possession with characteristic coolness and determination, and there she had announced her resolve to abide till the schoolmaster should be either better or worse. As for her more legitimate profession she declared: "They mun get someb'dy else. Onyb'dy wer' gooid enough to bring a fooil into th' world, but it wer' worth while tryin' to keep a wise man in it. Th' best of men's poor feckless things when i'th' best o' health, but if they nobbut cut their little finger, they're as useless as babes unborn, an' it were well there wer somebody to look after him, sin' those 'at had most reight to kept away for weeks at a time, an' ne'er cam' near till they wer' sent for." And with this Parthian shaft, Molly at a sign from the invalid, withdrew, to give Jack, who had stayed below, gazing open-mouthed at the maps and globes, the benefit of her pent storm of wrath. "I'm glad you've come, Tom. I knew you would, but hesitated to send for you. I know you have little time away from work, and youth companies best with youth when work is laid aside." "Indeed, Mr. Black, I had no notion you were so ill or nothing could or should have kept me away. I would have come to help and nurse you if I had had to break my indentures and go before the magistrates for it." "I know it, lad, I know it; and it was pleasant to think there was one not so many miles away who had a warm place in his heart for the old man. You have been to me, Tom, as a son since first I held you in my arms, and I have even thanked God that to my childless life He sent the blessing of one I could cherish and foster as my own." Tom could find no words. He pressed the thin and shrunken hand that rested, oh! so feebly, on the arm of the pillowed chair. "And now, lad, that you are here, you must let me say my say, for my strength is waning fast and a voice within tells me my days remain but few. Nay, lad, never greet my course is run, my work is done, and the vespers ring for eventide. I do not dread its shadows, lad, for a hand will hold mine when I tread the unknown way. Take this key, unlock that topmost drawer and bring me the case you will find there." Tom silently, treading softly did the master's bidding. Mr. Black raised the lid of the little casket and thence a small bundle of letters, their ink now faded to a pale yellow. They were tied together with a thin blue ribbon. Mr. Black touched them lovingly and sunk into a reverie from which Tom made no stir to rouse him. The vacant eyes of the invalid seemed to be looking through and beyond the stalwart youth or to be intent on the unforgotten scenes of a buried past. Then with a wan smile and a gentle sigh the faint voice said: "If I die, Tom, I trust you to place these with me." Then, like a maiden confessing her heart's secret: "Ah! Tom, even your old dominie was young once--but there was Priscilla, you know." And what tragedy of a sacrificed life those letters revealed was never betrayed to the eyes of Tom or other man, for unopened and unread they laid upon the faithful, uncomplaining heart that treasured them. "And, now, Tom, to business. This you see is my will. A man doesn't die any sooner you know for making his will. When I lost Priscilla, a rare woman, Tom, but over tender for this World, a matchless Woman,--I made a new will. I haven't much to leave, but what there is will be yours. I should like you to keep the books--don't part with them. They have been very precious to me. Perhaps some day you will know how precious books can be. I had hoped, fondly hoped, that you would turn to scholarship and take my seat by the old desk--but it wasn't to be, it wasn't to be," and the schoolmaster shook his head sadly. Again Tom could find no words--what could he say, how could he tell the master that a few hours before the glance of a young maid's eye and the trill of her glad young voice and the touch of her soft white hand had been of more moving eloquence than a guardian's pleading, and that, as he pushed over the hills that day through depth of snow and stress of storm to the sickbed side, revolving many things in his awakened mind, he had made a great resolve and vowed a deep and binding vow. "There remains but this," continued Mr. Black. "You have seen this locket before. It was your mother's. The time has come when I may place it where it belongs. You know its story. Wear it ever, and may God in His own good time raise the veil and grant light where now is darkness and certainly where all is fruitless conjecture." Tom took the locket, pressed it to his quivering lips and hid it in his bosom. "Lucy shall twine it about my neck," he said, "and I will wear it ever." "Send for Moll now. I must lie down. You won't forget Moll, when I am gone. She is a good soul, and has tended me well." The old man was assisted to his bed, and sank exhausted on the pillow. There was silence in the darkling chamber, save for the heavy breathing of the fast failing man. "Read me the twenty-first Psalm," he said, presently. But Tom's voice failed him, and broke as he read: "'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me, Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.'" And Tom kneeled by the bedside, and hid his face in the coverlet, nor restrained his tears. And the light trembling hand of him who had so loved him rested on the bowed head, and the feeble voice was raised in prayer and benediction. And the night fell and the "peace that passeth all understanding" entered therein and there abode. CHAPTER VIII. THE legacy left him by Mr. Black amounted to no less than a hundred pounds, which seemed to Tom a vast sum. Mr. Redfearn was sole executor of the will. Tom took possession of the books,--a few choice Latin authors, the Greek Testament, and many educational works. He selected, besides, a few articles of furniture, of which he made a present to Mrs. Garside; he did not forget Moll o' Stuarts. Out of the proceeds of the portion of the furniture which he sold, there was just enough to pay for a mourning suit of good broadcloth for himself, and strangely ill at ease he felt when first he beheld himself arrayed in the glossy doeskin. But after the funeral, he had only to wear it on Sundays, when most people who could manage it by hook or crook contrived to wear decent suits, mainly of black,--black was the general, if not "the only wear." The reason is not far to seek. Among the working-classes the better suit is a very distinct garment from what are called emphatically "wartday clo'es," and is seldom worn except on Sunday, and at funerals. There remained the hundred pounds, and the question was not easy of answer, what should he do with it? Under the will, Mr. Redfearn had power to apply the money for Tom's advancement in life, even before his majority when it was to pass into his uncontrolled disposition. Tom cudgelled his brain so much and so vainly as to the ultimate application of this immense sum that he came to be thankful he could not, as yet, touch the bulk, or he would have been tempted to throw it into the river. He did not get much help from Mr. Redfearn. "Yo' see, Tom," said his guardian, "a hundred pounds is a very awk'ard sum o' money. It's summat like a gooise, which is too much o' a meal for one, an' not enuff for two. Nah this legacy o' yo'rs is summat i'th' same fashion. It's too much to go on th' spree wi', an' ha' done wi' it, an' off yo'r mind, so to speeak, and it's too little to set up i' business on yo'r own account,--at leastwise i' ony business 'at's likely to suit thee. Yo' might start i'th' grocery line, to be sure, but I doubt th' little childer 'ud be feart to come into th' shop if they seed six feet of brawn and muscle behind th' counter. Besides they say it tak's a very light hand to weigh grocer's stuff aat to ony profit. I can think o' nowt else. You might go into th' public line on yo'r furtin in a smallish way, an' there's one thing 'at's i' yo'r favour, yo'd nooan want a chuckor aat." Tom shook his head emphatically: "Nay," he said, "I will never make my living by giving my brother strong drink to his hurt." Redfearn laughed, "they'll call yo' 'Parson Tom' in a bit, lad. But happen yo'r i'th' reight on it. For one gooid word yo' can find to say for drink yo' can find a hundred to say agen it, an' then start afresh an' tack another hundred to it. Folk will have it, but them as get's th' leeast has th' best share, an' I'll nivver be one to set a young lad i' th' way o' temptation. But has ta thowt o' onything thi sen?" Tom shook his head. "I've thought till I'm almost stalled of the thought of the money." "Well, there's no hurry, that's one comfort. Th' brass 'll nooan get less so long as it's ith' bank, that's a sure thing. An' yo're not be out o' your indentures yet. Tak' yo'r time i' makin' up your mind, an' remember 'at it's th' easiest thing i' th' world to put good money into business, but it's quite another thing getting it back after yo'n once let go yo'r how'd." On one point Tom was quite resolved. So soon as his apprenticeship should be at an end, and sooner if might be, he would be his own master. He would not live and die a weaver, nor yet be content even to live and die a slubber. Other men had conquered Fate and he was resolved that by God's help, he, too could and would. Why, the whole valley in which he did his daily task abounded with men who could tell of early privations, of years of patient unremitting toil, of Spartan endurance, of privations self-imposed and cheerfully borne, and of a notable success crowning and rewarding in middle life, the efforts of their youth and manhood's prime. And Tom felt that he had him the makings of a man and though he had, as yet, unbosomed the inner workings of his soul to man nor woman, being, indeed more given to seek commune with himself rather than another, yet was his mind firmly fixed either to make a spoon or spoil a horn, as the saying goes. But how? He had said nothing at home, as he now considered Ben Garside's, about his little fortune, and as for the furniture which he had placed in the little cottage, Hannah declared, and meant it, that though it was "gooid on 'im to think o' old fr'en's, an' like 'im, 'oo wer' nooan so greedy as to do owt but store th' thin's for 'im, till such times as he wer' wed, and warst wish 'at 'oo could wish 'im wer' 'at he'd wed a lass 'at 'ud put as gooid a shine on th' owd table, an' cheers, an' th' oak-chest an' linen-press and charney-cupboard as 'oo'd done, but that wer' past prayin' for now-a-days." There is no question that in this time of electricity and daily papers, news travels faster than in the times of our grandfathers but it travelled fast enough even then. And somehow it began to be whispered about the village that Gentlemen Tom "had come in for a fortin'." with that delicacy of reserve which is nowhere more to be found than among the better end of the working classes, neither Ben, nor Hannah, nor Lucy spoke to him on the matter. It was his concern, and if he choose to have secrets from his best well-wishers they were not going to force his confidence; though it cannot be denied that when neighbours questioned Hannah on the subject, as she stood with her flour-poke and basket waiting her turn at Split's counter of a Saturday afternoon she could give to her sibs no more satisfactory reply, than to tell them "to mell (meddle) o' their own business, an' 'ood try, God helping her, to mell o' hers,"--a reply which was no more satisfactory to herself than to her gossips, for it not only brought a discussion of a highly interesting domestic topic to an untimely end, but it deprived Hannah of that assumption of exclusive intelligence which is as dear to a woman of conversational gifts as to a newspaper editor. But when Tom became aware by many subtle signs that not only had people heard something of his windfall, but that Hannah was piqued by his silence he resolved to take counsel with Ben. Even should he get no better advice than to seek advice. "Ah, it's a seet o' brass lad, is a hunderd paands, an' a gret responsibility. Aw dunnot think aw ivver seed more nor ten all at onc't, an' that fair med me gip." It was thus Ben delivered himself one Sunday afternoon as he smoked his pipe before the kitchen fire. "Aw knew tha'd do nowt wi'out speikin' to me or yar Hannah abaat th' job, an' we thowt no waur o' thi' for howdin' thi tongue abaat it i'steead o' makkin a spreead abaat it waur nor a peeacock wi' it's tail as some 'ud ha' done. An' as for wearin' th' brass o' drink an' wenchin', as some 'ud ha' done; why it wer better for thi' 'at tha' sud ha' had a millstone then raand thi neck an' bin plumped fair i' th' middle o' th' mill-dam." "Yes, but Ben, I can discover for myself what I should _not_ do with the money; what I want to settle is what I _should_ do with it." "It's safe enew wheer it is, isn't it?" asked Hannah, anxiously. "Well, it' as safe as the bank, any way," Tom assured her. Hannah seemed dubious. "Aw dunnot ma' mich accaant o' them banks. Ther' wer' Ingram's, tha'll mind oo', Ben, i' Hundersfild. It went dahn th' slot an' lots o' folk lost ther brass through it. Aw'd just as sooin put my bit i' th' teea-caddy--but we're nivver safe, as th' lad said when he fun' a sov'rin'." Ben had puffed his pipe in silence, but now waved the long churchwarden to bespeak attention. "There's yo'r writin's to think on," he said. "Yo' munnot forget as yo'r bun' to Jabez Tinker till y'or twenty-one, an' thof mebbe nob'dy could blame yo' if yo' just went yo'r own gate as if th' writin's weren't ther; still aw misdoubt me th' law 'ud ha' summat to say: an' if yo' once get into th' lawyers' han's aw reely dunnot think yo' need bother yo'rsen abaat what yo' mun do wi' yo'r fortin'." "But, Ben, whatever comes I mean to do the square thing by Mr. Tinker. I've served him faithfully up to now, and I don't mean to end up by doing otherwise. But don't you think he would release me, if it were fairly put to him, and he received some equivalent." "He mote," said Ben, "an' then agen he moten't. But ther's no harm i' axin'." "Aye, that's just like yo' men," said Hannah, "nowt'll do but goin' at a thing like a bull at a red rag. Tom mun step i' to th' caantin'-haase, an' say: 'If yo' please Mr. Tinker, aw'd like yo' to breik mi writin's, aw'n had some brass left me.' Nah, that's nooan my way." "Well, what is it, Hannah?" "Sayin's tellin', an' if aw tell'd yo', yo'd be as wise as me. Th' question is, what mun Tom do when he's free?" "Aye, that's it," said Tom. "Well aw 've my plan, Tom, if th' missus, theer 'll let a man get a word in edgeways. Nah! Hannah, if th'rt fair run daan aw 'll go on." Hannah disdained to make reply. "Nah! my advice is," said Ben, "just go on, as it were, quiet, for the next few months; but i'stead o' bein' satisfied i' th' mill wi' just doin' what tha'rt set to, keep thi een oppen an' tak' th' cotton wool aat o' yo'r ears, if yo' happen to have ony in, an' larn all ther' is to larn at Tinker's. He 'greed to teeach thee th' trade o' a clothier, an' aw'll be bun' he has'nt swopped ten words wi' yo' sin a 'prentice yo'n bin an' as for that druffen swill-tub, th' slubber, he might teich yo' th' differ atween th' feel o' a strap an' th' feel o' a pickin'-rod abaat yo'r back, an' that's abaat all. But till th' time comes for thee to oppen aat to Tinker, aw'd recommend yo in a quiet way, to larn all tha can. Get to know th' feel an' th' qualities o' wool, an' th' prices, an' th' natur' o'th' dyes an' acids, an' aboon all mak frien's wi' th' tuner, an' larn to gear a machine, an' tune it when it's aat o' gear." Tom nodded. "Weel," went on Ben, "as aw'n said. A hunderd paand 's a seet o' brass, an' if yo' know yo'r way abaat yo' can get a set o' machines wi' it--what 'll do for a start ony road i' a sma'ish way, which is th' best rooad an' choose hah! Yo'll ha nooa difficulty i' gettin' room an' power, an' what's more, if yo' winnot think awm sayin' one word for thee an' two for mysen, if yo' like to start i' manifactorin' o' thi own accaant, owd Ben Garsed's mony a yer o' gooid wark in him yet an' he'll be yo'r man, an' that's more nor he'd say for ony other being 'at walks o' two legs atween here an' th' next spot." Tom's eyes sparkled with a sudden light, and he leaped to his feet to the imminent peril of his head against the rafters. "The very thing," he cried, "the very, very thing. 'Oh! wise King, oh! prudent King'--stupid that I was never to think of it before, couldn't see wood for trees.--Lucy, you shall be our book-keeper. Let me see--Garside and Pinder, woollen manufacturers Holmfirth. Carried unanimously. Put it. Lucy, put it and hold up both your hands. My word, Ben, but you've a headpiece if you like. We'st nivver mend o' that idea if we talk fro' now till Doomsday. But will th' money run to it?" "Ben 'll ha' considered that," said Hannah. "He's a deep un, is Ben, an' if he wadn't talk so much wod mak' heead way yet; but it's 'im for goin' round an' round a thing an' under it an' ovver it afore he's made his mind up. Yo'n awmost to shak' him to get an opinion aat on him sometimes." "Aw waren't long i' makkin' up mi mind abaat one thing ony road th' time aw clapt mi e'en o' thee, lass," said Ben, with a wink that comprehended both Tom and Lucy. "Aye, an' aw didn't gi' time to unmak' it, noather," chuckled Hannah, and cast a glance at Ben that made her look thirty years younger and set him thinking of the days when an apparently chance shaft from Hannah's eyes set his heart a pit-a-pat. "Aye, lad," said Ben, "there's folk started i' this valley wi' less nor a hundred pun', 'at fairly stinks o' brass naah. It's noan th' brass altogether 'at does th' trick; there's more i' knowin' haa to use it, an' more still in knowin' haa to keep what yo' mak' an' turn it ovver an' ovver like a rolling snowball. There's mony a man can mak' brass but it's stickin' to it bothers 'em." And so it was settled that Tom should bide his time, making haste slowly, as the Roman sage advises, and that, meanwhile, Ben should keep his weather-eye open for room and power. And Tom was not content with such knowledge as could be acquired in the Mill. Although his hours at the loom were long enough in all conscience, and he certainly led laborious days, he resolved also to shun luxurious nights, if idling through the evenings with a novel of Sir Walter Scott or doing odd jobs about the house for Hannah Garside or, in the summer, strolling about the lanes and over the moors could be said to constitute a luxury. He joined the classes at the Mechanics' Institute and nightly wrestled with the mysteries of Euclid, chevied the elusive _x_ through algebraic equations, acquired enough of statics and dynamics to be appalled by the height, depth, and breadth of his own ignorance, and enough of chemistry to bring him to the same conclusion that the highway to ruin would be to trust to his own knowledge of that weird and fascinating science. But if of learning to be likely to be really useful in the career he had marked out for himself, Tom attained to little enough, his mind was all the better for the mental gymnastics his studies compelled. The books he conned demanded close application and sustained thought, and so, had he learned nothing from them at all, were an intellectual discipline that would tell in the battle of life, and rescued him from that flabby habit of mind that comes from desultory and random reading. It was noticed too, that about this time Tom forsook in some measure his first love, the services of the Established Church, and became a very frequent worshipper at Aenon Chapel. Ben declared that he couldn't make head or tail of this change from country walks turned to profitable account, as Ben conceived, by Ben's discursive utterances _de omnibus rebus et aliis praterca_, but more particularly and recurringly concerning the high metaphysics of Calvinistic theology. "There's a screw loose, somewhere," he remarked solemnly to Hannah one Sunday afternoon when Tom, after brushing his suit of woe very sedulously and looking more than once in the little cracked glass to see if his tie were rightly bunched and his "toppin" duly "lashed" and parted had sidled rather shamefacedly out of the house with a hymn-book in one hand, whilst with the fore-finger of the other he assured himself that the coin destined for the collection box nestled securely in the corner of his waistcoat pocket. Hannah stayed her rocking and smoothed the sheen of her silken apron, but was mute. "Aye," continued Ben, "aw cannot tell whativver's come ovver th' lad. Aw say nowt agen his buryin' his nose i' books e'ery neet, an' hardly goin' to bed till aw'm thinkin o' gettin' up. That's improvin' his mind, that is, at least aw hope so--it's only to be hoped he won't addle it i'th process. But this chapel-goin's beyond me. Mind yo', aw nivver said so mich abaat his gooin' to th' church o' a mornin'. He wer' browt up so, and Mr. Black set a deal o' store on it, so it wer' like honourin' yo'r father an yo'r mother, in a fashion o' speikin'. But, dal me, chapel-goin's like turnin' his back on th' church altogether. What does _ta_ mak on it, Hannah?" "Nowt," said Hannah, and Ben knew from experience that the wife of his bosom thought more than she was minded to tell. "If it hadn't been Tom," continued Ben in a meditative and perhaps something of a tentative strain, "Tom 'at's as steady as a booat-hoss aw sud be enclined to speckilate ther' wer' a wench at th' bottom on it. What do'st think, Lucy, has he said owt to yo' abaat it?" "No, father. Tom has said nothing but that the new minister at Aenon 's a very good preacher. One o' th' new school, he says." "Aye, aye, aw'n yerd abaat him. 'A wind-bag,' some o'th owd hands ca' 'im. Bi all aw can mak' aat he's a trimmer 'at sets his sails to catch the wind o' approval fro' th' upper seats o' th' 'orthodox, orthodox Sons o' auld John Knox,' an' the gale o' applause fro' th' young 'uns 'at 'ud like to kick ovver th' traces. He's noather fish, nor flesh, nor fowl, nor gooid red herrin'--so folk sen, an' goes on refinin' an' refinin' and explainin' till Deacon Whiteley says he's refined and explained th' owd Trust Deed away, an' ther's lots o'th owder end dunnot know whether they're stood o' their heads or their heels. An' they dunnot hauf like th' Band o' Hope 'at he's started i' connection wi' th' Sunday Schooil, though aw'll say nowt agen that missen." "It 'ud be a gooid thing if they'd ha' a Band o' Hope for th' grown-up childer," said Hannah. "I fancy from what Tom said to me t'other neet--I mean night," began Lucy. "Neet's gooid enew," interrupted her mother in a sharper tone than Lucy often heard. "Though awm awmost forced to be dumb, when yo'r father's got owt to say, awm noather deaf nor blind, thank God; an' aw'n noticed lately 'at Tom's getten into a fine way o' speikin',--Miss Nancyfied aw ca' it,--an' yo'r followin' suit. There'll be no livin' wi' oather on yo' sooin if it goes on." "Well, what is it yo' wouldn't be capped at?" asked Ben, by way of diversion. "If Tom joined the Band of Hope," said Lucy quietly, and, one would have judged, sadly. "Th' lad's clean off," said Ben. "That brass has bin too mich for his yed. Wi' most folk it runs to drink, but aw reckon it depends o' th' constitooshun. But, dal me, if aw dunnot don missen up very next Sunday 'at ever is, an' gooa wi' 'im to th' chapel an' hear for missen; so, dooant forget, Hannah, to ha' me a clean shirt, for aw munnot shame th' lad." "Aye," assented Hannah, "gooa, bi all meeans, an' if a fooil's advice worth's takkin', please thissen abaat keepin' thi ears on th' pulpit, but keep thi e'en on th' pews." And with this Delphic utterance Mrs. Garside began to lay the little round table for tea, with a clatter that threatened the longevity of the "chaney" cups and saucers that had descended with the Family Bible, and were almost as venerated. And Lucy looked troubled with that trouble that seeks disguise in constrained cheerfulness. "It's a woman, then," said Ben to himself. "Who'd ha' thowt it, but whooa i' th' name o' wonder can it be?" Pursuant to his resolve, Ben, the next Sunday, volunteered to accompany Tom to Chapel, to Tom's undisguised surprise. "Well, yo' see, lad," explained the Senior, inwardly congratulating himself on the astuteness of his reply, "what's gooid enough for thee 'll daatless be gooid enough for thi partner 'at is to be." The Rev. David Jones was a man of middle stature, quick and nervous in his movements, and quick and nervous in his delivery. He had all the fire and not a little of the poetic feeling and imagination of his Welsh ancestry. He had the great gift of being able to see and understand the very crux of an abstruse problem and to state it lucidly. Then, when you held your breath for the solution, he would break into a rhapsody, and, in a torrent of words, metaphor piled upon metaphor in dazzling extravagance of phrase, he would scale the gamut of the emotions, and close the exordium as in the wild frenzy of an ancient seer. "Ther's a gooid deeal o'clout, Tom," whispered Ben, "but aw'n nooan come to th' puddin'." But Ben spoke to ears that heard not. The rhapsodies of the eloquent Gael were thrown away on Tom. His eyes were fixed on the ample pew in which Mr. and Mrs. Tinker sat erect and listening apparently with much attention to the sermon. Mr. Tinker's regard indeed, appeared to be more critical than appreciative. "Jabez is too owd a bird to be ta'en wi' chaff," thought Ben. "Th' parson's main clever, reight enough, but there's one yonder's gotten his measure, or awm mista'en." But neither on his employer nor on the severe face of Mrs. Tinker was Tom's wrapt look so intently fixed. By her uncle's side sat Dorothy, looking, said Ben, in his afternoon account to Hannah, "just as if butter wouldn't melt in her maath. She nivver took her e'en fro' off her Bible or her hymn book or th' parson, barrin' once, an' if 'oo didn't look plainly at Tom then 'oo looked at me, that's all aw can say. But it weren't a look straight out o' her e'en, yo' mun understand, nor wi' her eyes starin' out o' her yead, like some wenches 'll look at a young felly; but just a sort o' a squint aat o'th tail o' her e'en, an' then th' lashes fell part way ovver 'em, an' theer 'oo wer' gazin' at th' parson as if 'ood nivver blinked. It's a mercy 'oo didn't look at me th' same way again, or I'd ha' made a fooil o' missen some road or other, an' chance it. An' Tom, why he went as red as a peony, an' his hand trem'led so he dropped a book an' had to scrat it up wi' his feet by reason o'th pew bein' too narrow for him to get his yed dahn to reick it up wi' his hand i' th' ordinary way. Aw poised his shin for 'im under th' seeat to make him mind his manners for when aw _do_ go to a chapel aw like to behave some-bit-like, an' after that he listened to th' sarmon as good as gowd." "And do you remember the text, father?" "To be sure aw do, trust me for that. Aw gate Tom to nick it with his thumb in his book, an aw wer' settlin' dahn comfortable to th' exposition when aw gate th' full blast o' Miss Dorothy's look, choose 'oo it wer' meant for. It had liked to ha' bowled me ovver, but aw poo'd missen together, an' aw'n getten th' heads o'th discoorse. Reick us th' Bible, missus. It wer' eighth Romans, thirtieth. Read it up, Lucy." "Moreover whom he did predestinate, them he also called; and whom he called, them he also justified; and whom he justified, them he also glorified." "Nah! I thowt to missen, we're in for it. Aw liked th' chap's courage. It's holus-bolus, nah, says I, an' th' owder end they looked up at th' parson wi' a grim sort o' look as much as to say, 'Get ovver that if yo' can' an' then they glowered at th' younger end wi' a look 'at said as plain as a pikestaff, 'he's bahn to throw yo' ovver' nah, wi' yo'r new criticism an' yo'r refinin's.'" "An' did he?" asked Lucy and her mother in a breath. And it may be just as well to say here and once for all, for the benefit of those who through no fault of their own, to be sure, but to their great loss notwithstanding, have not the privilege of being Yorkshire bred and born, that half-a-century ago theological discussion was, among the mill-hands of the West Riding, as common as ratting or dog-fighting or as disputing over the form of a foot-ball player in these degenerate days. Any fine Sunday of the year, if you walked in the country, you would come across a group of men, gravely excited, discussing with acumen, and all the artillery of text and commentary, original sin, predestination, effectual calling and the inefficiency of works. "And did he?" Ben shook his head. "He's a deep 'un is yon'. They ca' folk 'at go to Church o' a mornin' an' chapel i' th' afternooin, devil-dodgers; but yon's waur, he's a deacon-dodger. He knew as weel as he knew his dinner 'd be spoilin' bi hauf-past twelve 'at ther' wer' owd Split an' Tommy Shaw, not to say Jabez Tinker, at's happen more charity, just simply waitin' to lay howd on a word here an' a sentence theer to condemn; but he slipped past 'em a'. It wer' clivver aw'll nooan gainsay, but it wer' nooan honest. Yo've happen no reight to expect brains i' a parson, but th' leeast he can do is to be honest." "But yo' dunnot tell us ha he han'led th' text," said his wife impatiently. "Why th' cream on it wer' this: 'at th' Almighty fro' th' beginnin' had foreordained th' law o' righteousness, just th' same as he foreordained th' law o' gravitation an' he elected to salvation them as walked therein, an' them as didn't were rejected. Same as th' law o' combustion," he said, "if yo' put yo'r finger i'th' fire God had pre-arranged 'at yo' sud be burned, an' sarve yo' reight." "Why that's common sense enough to please you, father, you couldn't find fault with that." "Aye' that wer' reight enough; but yo' should ha' heeard th' way he wrapped it up an' dressed it i'th catch words o' th' hard-an'-fast Baptists, so as to mak' them o' th' owder end think it wer' all th' owd dish sarved up a bit different. But it wern't; it wer' common sense an' nat'ral religion dressed up to mak' 'em sound like Calvinism. He caught th' deacons sleepin', as he thowt, an' stole their clo'es; but Jabez Tinker saw through him, aw tell yo', an' so did Ben Garsed, if he _is_ an' owd foo." "And what did Tom say to it all?" asked Lucy. "Tom! Aw've no patience wi' Tom. He walked all th' way whom as if he wer' dreamin', an' all 'at aw could get out on him wer' 'at pale blue went varry well wi some shades o' yoller. He wer' thinkin o' his dyein', yo' see." "Was he for sure?" asked Mrs. Garside, "which dun yo' think's th' blindest, Lucy, a bat or a mole?" But Lucy was looking out of the window and answer made none. CHAPTER IX. NEHEMIAH WIMPENNY, of Holmfirth, "Gentleman, one of Her Majesty's &c.," in other words a solicitor, was the only legal practitioner in the village or neighbourhood, and though not more than thirty years of age, enjoyed a considerable practice. His father, Ebenezer, had been a successful manufacturer and a zealous Methodist. Presumably he believed that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. Certainly he shared the common belief that lawyers are very scarce in the celestial regions. But these convictions did not deter him from storing up riches in this world, nor from bringing up his son to the legal profession. Perhaps he had confidence in the axiom that exceptions prove the rule. Nehemiah was well cut-out for a country lawyer: he had the native shrewdness and common sense, and if he did not know much law he found common-sense a very good substitute for it. His local knowledge was like that of a historic character extensive and peculiar, and his father's acquaintances and business connections who, at first from friendship, gave their business to young Nehemiah, had no reason to complain of lack of his attention to their interests or ability to protect them. In person he was of medium height, of sandy hair and pale complexion, with a cold and fishy eye and a cold and clammy hand. He dressed loudly and flashily, but as the extravagance of his raiment was attributed to a twelve months' stay in London in the office of a town agent its fashion or propriety few questioned. He was fond of jewellery, and displayed a good deal of it on his person, and was supposed by envious young manufacturers and merchants to be a "devil among the women,"--a reputation of which he was not a little vain, and which he sustained by the amorous glances and _doubles entendres_ of refreshment rooms and bars. He had spent a week in Paris, and hinted that he could an' he would tell a thing or two about the iniquities of the gay city. This did not prevent Nehemiah from attending with laudable regularity at the Methodist Chapel, and anxious mammas with marriageable daughters, secure in the assurance that a reformed rake makes a very passable saint, viewed with complacency the attentions which it pleased this very common-place Lothario to pay to the virgins of their flock and fold; and the pastor of Zion Chapel himself, doubtless reflecting that he was sent to the lost sheep of the house of Israel, and to heal those that were sick and not those that were whole, was very tender indeed to a church-member who gave weekly signs of grace in the form of substantial contributions to the collection box, and whose quarterly pew-rent could always be depended on. It is only fair to Nehemiah to say that he never permitted his dissipations which were possibly much exaggerated, to interfere with business, and that, however deep his potations of the previous night, he was always to be found at his desk with a clear head and a steady hand, a circumstance, of itself, that secured Nehemiah more appreciation in a hard-drinking community, than would have been inspired by an intimate acquaintance with the whole _corpus juris_. Among his clients Nehemiah numbered Mr. Jabez Tinker, and he was therefore not surprised when the master of Wilberlee presented himself in the small, dingy, stuffy office which Nehemiah found sufficient for his needs. Mr. Tinker, of course, was well aware of the somewhat dubious moral character of the gentleman he had come to consult; but then he did not go to Nehemiah for morals but for professional assistance. "Well, Mr. Tinker, and how do you find yourself this morning--warm, isn't it." "Very," said Mr. Tinker--"it's warm, and it's close for the time of the year. But any sort of weather 'll do for your kind of work, I guess, Wimpenny." "Rather,--the warmer the better--get me used to a sultry climate. It's as well to be prepared for the future, eh?"--Mr. Wimpenny's expansive smile indicated his own appreciation of a very feeble jest; but his client's countenance was not responsive. "H'm," said Mr. Tinker. "Well, Wimpenny, let's get to business. I want to make my will, and it's no use putting the thing off. I can always alter it?" "Yes, yes, certainly--as long as a man lives he can alter his will, always supposing he remain _compos mentis_; and we're all human, Mr. Tinker, we're all human." "It shouldn't be a very complicated affair either," went on Mr. Tinker. "Unfortunately, except the house I live in." "Snug little hole, but too near the mill," thought his adviser. "Except that, practically all I have is tied up in my business." "And a very good business too, Mr. Tinker, by all accounts." "I've nothing to complain of in that score; but it is unfortunate as things have turned out that I did not arrange differently. You see, I've no son to carry on the concern after my death." The lawyer nodded assent. "I must provide for my widow, of course. She must have the house and furniture for her life, and I thought of, say, three hundred a year--not a penny more, she'd only give it to the chapel." Again the lawyer nodded, making notes, as he listened, on a sheet of foolscap. "That's plain speaking," went on Mr. Tinker, "but where's the £300 to come from? That's the difficulty. Mills aren't easy to let, and the bigger they are the fewer people want them. I suppose there's nothing for it but the hammer. It's enough to make us Tinkers all turn in our graves. But there it is.--Even if Dick--you won't remember my brother, Richard,--if he'd had a son, it would have been different." "But we all know he left a very charming daughter," said Wimpenny with a bow and a smirk. "Dorothy's right enough," said her uncle, curtly. "But you can't turn her into a manufacturer. Though she's a sort of partner all the same. You know her father died suddenly." Of course Wimpenny knew. "And her father was part owner of the mill and business. Well, the girl's money is in the business still." "Phew! that's bad, Mr. Tinker." "I know it is, and the worst of it, I've kept no separate accounts. I've treated Richard's share just as my own. But my will must put all that right. Subject to my wife's provision Dorothy must have all. There'll be nob'dy else for it." Wimpenny did not speak for some time. He chewed the end of his quill instead, a way he had when absorbed in thought. "It's a bad business Mr. Tinker;" he said at length; "it was scarcely like you to confound accounts in that loose fashion and to put trust money into what was practically your own business. People might call it by an ugly name." Jabez flushed angrily. "What do you mean, sir? I treated my niece as my daughter, brought her up in my house as my own child, and now I propose to leave her my sole heiress. Nothing very ugly about that, I should think." "Not as things have turned out," was the reply, "but you know as well as I do they _might_ have turned out differently, and where would your ward's money have been? However, it's to-day and tomorrow we're concerned with, not yesterday. Has it occurred to you that Miss Dorothy may marry?" "Of course she may. One doesn't need to pay six-and-eight to learn that." "Exactly," said the unruffled lawyer. "Now an adopted daughter and an adopted daughter's husband are often quite two different beings, and should Miss Tinker marry it's the husband we should have to reckon with." "Well, I could pay him out, I suppose?" "Of course you could--by selling Wilberlee at a sacrifice, a great sacrifice, or by putting a heavy mortgage on the property if it would carry it. We must remember that there are eighteen years of profits to set-off against Miss Dorothy's up-bringing, and the Court of Chancery does not weigh trustees' profits in a hair-balance, I can tell you." Mr. Tinker rose impatiently. "I didn't come here to have you raise difficulties but to meet them, nor yet to be frightened by bug-bears." "Now you are unreasonable, Mr. Tinker. I shouldn't be worth my salt if I didn't put the situation plainly before you. You don't go to a doctor for smooth sayings nor yet for sweetmeats instead of pills. No use getting huffed, you know." But Mr. Tinker was huffed. He was a Tinker and a magistrate, and had been a man of mark these thirty years, and was not pleasant to be told these things by a young lawyer who might have been his son. But he had the good sense to know that what Nehemiah said was truth. "Ah, well," he said, "I dare say we are meeting trouble half-way. You know what I want doing. I did everything for the best, and I don't know that I care very much what the world says or your infernal Court of Chancery either, if it comes to that. When will you have the will ready, Wimpenny?" "Let me see. To-day's Monday. Say Thursday of next week. We close for Whitsuntide, you know." "Very good, so be it. I'll call in on that day. I'll be glad to have the thing off my mind before the holidays. Mrs. Tinker's at Harrogate, and I was thinking of running over for a few days. Till Thursday, then," and Mr. Tinker went his way feeling less comfortable in his mind than he had done for many a long day. "Confound the fellow," he said to himself, wiping his brow, "and confound his stuffy little office, too. It's worse than the sweating-room at the Bank." Left to himself Nehemiah Wimpenny sunk into a deep reverie; and, to judge from the faint smile that occasionally played upon his face, a not unpleasing one. "So Miss Dorothy's to be old Tinker's heiress," thus ran his thoughts, "and that means probably old Eph. Thorpe's into the bargain. Guess I rather frightened the immaculate Jabez with that hint of a probable Chancery suit. Talk about men starting at their own shadows, as if any possible suitor for the fair Dorothy would dream of muddling away not only her fortune, but her expectations by going to law with a man who could leave him or not leave him thousands of pounds just as the fancy took him. Should have thought Tinker was more level headed. It isn't the money he's frightened of, it's the scandal. These cold, reserved, proud men are always so devilish thin-skinned. Wonder who the happy man 'll be.--Haven't heard of anyone nosing around." "By Jove! why shouldn't I cut in myself? She's a pretty little filly and a high-stepper too. I've had my fling, and it's about time I looked around for Mrs. Nehemiah. Wonder I never meet her out anywhere. Tinker keeps her up pretty close apparently, perhaps she doesn't care for high-teas, small talk, and cribbage. Shows her sense." "Wonder how I can get to know her. No use fishing for an invitation to Tinker's. Jove! I have it. Didn't he say he was off to Harrogate to cheer up the old woman. Let's see, Jabez is an Aenonite. H'm, I must sweeten the Reverend David--well that's easy enough. Pity I don't go to Aenon; but that's soon got over. One chapel's as good as another to a broad-minded man. All retail the same blooming rot. I mean they all lead to the same place. Different roads to the same city--that's the phrase." "Whitsuntide is it, next week? Shouldn't mind a run over to Scarborough. Better than sulphur-water at Harrogate, friend Tinker. Why! there'll be the Sunday School treats, band, flags, processions stale buns and coffee grounds. The sportive Dorothy's pretty sure to be doing the cheap philanthropic with the kids--and Nehemiah 'll be there or thereabouts, you bet." "But I'll make sure how Richard left his money. Hearsay's all very well, but matrimony on hearsay might turn out a sell. I'll get a copy of his will. But that'll be all right, I fancy. Gad, it's dry work thinking. I'll step across and have a tiddley at the Crown, and I might as well take little Polly that pair of gloves I promised her. Heigho, I guess I'll have to swear off lovely Pollys, at any rate till the honeymoon 's over." But before the sagacious Wimpenny abandoned himself to the delights of gin-and-bitters and the lively sallies of the lovely Polly, he dropped a confidential note to his London agent to procure a copy of Richard Tinker's will and such information as the archives of Somerset House could furnish to the interested or the curious as to the Residuary and Legacy accounts filed by the deceased's executor, Mr. Jabez Tinker, to wit. This missive despatched with his own hand Nehemiah turned his steps towards the Crown, feeling very much at peace with himself and fully entitled to bask in the sunshine of Polly's ready smile. On the way he chanced across the pastor of Aenon Chapel, who was devoting his morning to calling upon sundry of his flock and getting up an appetite for his mid-day dinner. "Good morning, Mr. Jones the very man I wanted to see. I've a crow to pull with you. Won't there be the usual school treat this Whitsuntide?" "Certainly, Mr. Wimpenny We'd a special prayer last meeting for a fine day." "Well, now, I go to Zion. But we Nonconformists are not so narrow as our Church friends, eh? So long as the good work goes on, that's the main thing isn't it?" "Most assuredly, Mr. Wimpenny, most assuredly. We're only tools in the great Worker's hands." "Quite so, Mr. Jones, quite so; my sentiments to a T, only better expressed. Now I know these efforts of the Sunday School cost money. I'm not good enough to be a teacher; but you must let me help in my own way. I hoped you would have called, as your predecessor did, and asked for a subscription, then we could have had a comfortable chat," and Nehemiah slipped a sovereign into the parson's palm. Now Mr. Jones had gone very recently over the list of subscribers to the various efforts and celebrations of Aenon Chapel, and flattered himself that he knew to a nicety the amount for which every inhabitant of Holmfirth "was good;" but he certainly could not remember to have seen Nehemiah Wimpenny's name for so much as a widow's mite. But perhaps the lawyer was one of those worthy men who do good by stealth and blush to find it known. So he had no qualms about pocketing the coin. "They say open confession 's good for the soul," went on Nehemiah. "I was just on my way to have a nip and a snack at the Crown--just a glass of bitter, you know"--Oh! Nehemiah, Nehemiah!--"No use asking you, I know. The old Vicar, now, always had a glass of sherry with me when we met. But they say you are just ruining the trade, with your temperance sermons and your temperance missions. You mustn't do that Mr. Jones; for if you shut up public-houses _I_ might as well shut up shop too. Well, good day, good day." Mr. Jones's face was beaming. "Do they really say so?" he asked. "Of course they do, and mean it. There isn't a publican in the town but would rejoice to have you popped off like an Irish rack-renter. Oh! By the bye, whose field do you have on Monday for your gala? I might manage to have an hour's romp with your youngsters--any road I could squander a few nuts and have them racing for oranges." "Mr. Tinker has kindly let us have the loan of his paddock at the rear of Wilberlee. We've had it for years, till the school almost expect it as a right." "I see, I see--a prescriptive right. A better sort of prescription than a doctor's, eh?" Mr. Jones accorded the tribute of a smile. "You don't allow your drier studies to dull your sense of humour, I perceive. By the way, the dear children of Zion are joining us this year both in the procession and the after proceedings, so you will not be hampered by any sense of a divided duty. I must not omit to thank you for your generous donation, but I assure you we shall value your presence among us more highly than any gift." "Don't mention it--a bagatelle. Wish it were more. Make it yearly. But now I really must be off or I shall miss my snack." "And your glass of--bitter? I think you said," "Ah, well, I'll make it mild to-day. That's next to teetotal, you know. Again, good day. Hope to have the pleasure of an introduction to Mrs. Jones on Monday." "What a very excellent young man," mused the reverend divine, as he scurried through his calls. "I wish brother Brown of Zion put more fervour into Temperance work.--He might win that young man to the cause"--a conclusion Mr. Jones might have modified had he seen the wink with which the very excellent young man favoured himself as he took the steps of the Crown Hotel and called for his "usual, and a smile with it, please, Polly." "Miah's in extra spirits this morning. Wonder who's feathers he's been plucking so early," was the mental comment of the slim-waisted damsel as she handed the "usual" with a coquettish air and neatly evaded the proffered salute. "There's someone coming!" she whispered, as she skipped away. "There always is, damn 'em," said that very excellent young man. Whit-Monday in Yorkshire is the saturnalia of the Sunday schools, a festival to which both teachers and taught look forward with delighted anticipation. A committee of the teachers and those members of the congregation who are supposed to be musically gifted, select the hymns to be sung at the services and at the halts of the procession on its route, and the discussion and final settling of the hymn-sheets are not always attended by the harmony appropriate to the occasion. The lives of the organist and the choirmaster are made a burden to them, and before the sheet reaches the printer there is often a coolness between ladies who had vowed eternal friendship. The scholars are very zealously drilled by the choirmaster, the girls singing with zest at the "practices," the boys stimulating their attention by pulling their hair, but lifting up their own voices under protest. The young ladies of the Sunday School wear a subdued modification of their Sunday best at the week-night practices and as they have neither father nor mother to escort them home at the somewhat late hour to which the practices are prolonged, have to make shift with the arm of a blushing and embarrassed teacher from the Boys' School, and, to do them justice, the young ladies cheerfully submit to be thus accompanied. If it should be discovered during the homeward walk of this sober minded Phyllis and Stephen of the mills that their voices go well together, the practising at the school not unfrequently conduces to domestic duets, never, let us hope, to matrimonial discords. An ingenuous bride, not long ago, assured the writer that she simply doted on the Sunday School. When asked for the reason, she naively confessed that it was there she first met her Billy. As this frank young lady has since sent in her resignation as a teacher, it is to be assumed that she now dotes on Billy to the detriment of the Sunday School; but she has not thought it necessary to return the time-piece presented to her by her fellow-teachers on the eve of her wedding-day. He must be a very callous individual indeed who does not delight in the sight of the scholars as they marshal under the folds of the School flag, blazoned with the name of the chapel and borne in a somewhat staggering fashion by sturdy teachers who find consolation for their tribulations in the honour of being standard-bearers. Even a slattern mother and a drunken father will make a shift at sacrifice to turn the "childer" out decent for the "Whissun treat." It is indeed the time of year when the yearly Sunday suit is chosen. Poverty must indeed have made its home in the house of a Yorkshire mill-hand if a white muslin frock and brilliant sash and a new straw hat with bright ribbons cannot be found for the girls, and a new suit, be the material never so rough, for the lads. It is a feast to the eyes to see the young coquettes--a maid of five is often a promising if not a quite accomplished coquette--arrayed in all their glory, conscious of their charms and severely critical of the gowns of their comrades. There is the exhilaration of the strains of the brass band--which in all probability will be comfortably drunk before the day is out; there is the fluttering of the silken banners in the summer breeze, and, above all, there is the consciousness of being the beheld of all beholders. The boys look either bored or ashamed of themselves and wish they were nearer the buns and nuts, for which they are gloomily conscious they will have to pay by submitting to the humiliating exactions of kiss-in-the-ring. Every door of the village is open as the long procession winds through the narrow streets, and anxious matrons and elder sisters watch for their own to see the sash has retained its bunch and the flounces have not given: also to receive the soothing assurance that Annie or Lizzie is dressed as smart as the best of them. Then there is the singing of a hymn at the minister's house and before the deacons' and--pleasantest feature of all the day's proceedings--the lifting of the sweet young voices under the window of a sick companion who listens from a tear-stained pillow to the air she may never sing again. The distinction almost compensates for pain. Among those watched the procession was Ben Garside, Hannah, and Lucy. She had been wheeled to the open door. Her father and mother stood on the other side. Tom was in his bedroom, "fettling hissen," as Hannah put it. Ben had put on his better suit, and shaved himself in honour of the holiday,--the last holiday of the year for working-folk till Christmas should come again. There were no Bank Holidays in those days. Hannah had put on her somewhat rusty silk dress, and would have scorned to acknowledge that it pinched round the waist more than it did a year before. As the rear rank of the scholars and the last banner disappeared up the street, Tom's feet were heard descending the stairs. "Tom 'll be for off, nah," said Hannah, "pity he couldn't ha' his baggin' so's things wouldn't be lyin' abaat all hours." "Now Ben," said Tom, cheerily, "I'm ready, are you?" "By Gosh! Aw sud think yo' are ready: stan' ther an' let's ha' a looik at yo'." Tom laughed, and stood to attention. "Do the creases show very much?" he asked, "I feel like a draper's parcel wrapped in brown paper." It was a great event. Tom had got a suit of navy blue serge for the summer, and it fitted him like a glove. "Aw mun gi' yo' a pinch for new," said Hannah, nipping the upper arm. "An' put a penny in his pocket," added Lucy, "for luck." "It should be a shilling if it's to match the pinch," laughed Tom, rubbing his arm. "But where's your bonnet, Hannah, and your hat, Lucy?" "What's ta thinkin' on, Tom?" asked Ben. "Why that we're all going to the field together. I'm going to wheel Lucy and stand by her, and you and Hannah are to enjoy yourselves with the other young folk." Ben protested he wouldn't budge an inch. "Not but what he liked to see th' childer enjoy theirsen, but Whissunday wer' a heathenish festival an' a relic o' superstition." "But you've knocked off work and donned--I mean dressed yourself," remonstrated Tom. "Aye at nooinin'. Who could wark wi' that blethrin' brass band brayin' up an' down th' street?" Mrs. Garside looked at Lucy. "It 'ud be a treeat for th' lass," she said. "I should like it, but I should only be a hindrance. Fancy Tom standing by me for hours at a stretch and all the other young men in the field enjoying themselves. Take mother, father, and I'll stop at home. No one will run away with _me_." she added bravely, but there was a tear in her voice. "If you stop at home, I stop," said Tom emphatically. "Besides, as for being tied to your side all the time, when you get tired of me, and mother there's tired of mooning about with Ben, we can take turn and turn about. I couldn't enjoy myself a bit if you were stuck here all by yourself, and what's more, I won't try." "Well, then, that sattles it," said Hannah. "We'll all go, an' th' haase mun tak' care on itsen. Awst put mi silver spooins i' mi pocket, an' there's nowt else 'at means owt. Nah! Ben, stir thee, mon, an' dunnot stan' theer like a stuck sheep." "_Aw'm_ ready," said Ben, "Aw'n nowt to do but don mi cap an' that won't tak me as long as it'll tak' thee to don thi bonnet. Tom an' me could go to the field an' be back afore yo' an' Lucy 'll be ready." "Aw said stir thee. Put th' kettle on. What's th' use o' goin' to th' field an hour afore there'll be ony theer. Tha doesn't want a whole field to thissen, does ta? We'll ha' us baggin afore we start, an' then we'st ha' th' day i' front on us." "But aw could put mi finger dahn mi throit an' feel mi dinner yet," demurred Ben. "It's nooan three o'clock bi th' Church." "That's noah odds. Aw'm nooan baan to ha' thee worritin' me all th' afternooin becos yo'n nooan had thi baggin, an happen sneakin' off into th' village to get a pint becos tha's a sinkin' i' thi' stomach, an' me lookin' for thi all ovver th' field, wanderin' abaat gawpin' as if aw'd just bin let loise aat o'th 'sylum, an' thee stuck at th' _Cropper's Arms_ as large as life, makkin' a beeast on thisen becos it's Whissunday. Nooah! if yo' dunnot want yo'r baggin nah, yo' mun ha' it agen yo' do want it." Hannah's feet and hands had been as busy as her tongue. She had turned up the skirt of her gown and put an apron over all, spread the cloth, fetched up the bread and the butter, cut and spread thick slices for herself and the men, and thin ones for Lucy, washed the lettuce, radishes, and shallots, smoothed the top of the salt-cellar, set Tom to toasting a couple of currant teacakes, produced a jar of raspberry jam and mashed the tea before you could say Jack Robinson. "Aw've getten a caa-heel for thi supper, an' tha can bring thisen a pint o' Timmy (best ale) for supper as it's holiday time," she conceded to Ben, evidently in great good humour with herself at the prospect of their outing. And so as the large field near Mr. Tinker's house--there was but a privet hedge separating it from the house garden--began to fill, as the boys and girls gathered from their respective school-rooms, flushed from their hasty tea-drinking, the lads not without a guilty consciousness of a filched bun bulging their trousers pocket, as the brass band played their final tune before withdrawing to the nearest inn to partake of something better than "spotted Dick an' washin'-up watter," as a member irreverently styled the scholars' repast, Ben Garside sauntered into the field trying to look as if Sunday School treats were an every-day occurrence of his life, Hannah sailed behind, whilst Tom with Lucy brought up the rear. There grew a large beech tree on the slope of the ground, and under its full-leaved branches Tom drew the chair in which Lucy sat, her cheeks faintly tinged with a delicate bloom and her eyes sparkling with the unwonted excitement. Her mother raised her to a sitting posture and settled the cushions and wraps as only she could, and "theer yo' are, lass," she concluded, with a fond look at her darling child, "theer yo' are as right as ninepence." But the mother's heart was full as she remembered the day, but as yesterday, when Lucy's little feet would have skimmed the greensward light as a fairy's dance. But Hannah was not long suffered to indulge in reflections sad or otherwise she was a popular character in the village, and everyone knew that Hannah's bark was worse than her bite. Soon the good wives of the village began to stroll about the field, scanning each others' dresses, and exchanging kindly greetings, whilst their good men sought secluded corners where they might enjoy a furtive pipe, and talk over the topics of the day; the serious minded discussing the last sermon, the pugnacious revelling in the shortcomings of Parliament and the misdeeds of ministers. A small group gathered round Lucy's chair, some of them rosy-cheeked young lasses, who had worked with Lucy in the mill, and who now brought up their young men to be exhibited with all the pride of conquest. And Lucy had a smile and pleasant word for all, and many a strapping swain, as he lounged past the nook where Lucy held her little Court and let his glance dwell upon the delicate face with its refined and chastened beauty, knew rebellious thoughts against the fate that had put the crippled girl beyond the sighs and vows of man; and grey-headed grandsires, bent with age and toil, recalled the former days when they had suffered and striven for the easier lot their children owned. "Eh! but it's gran' to see yo', Hannah," one would say, "Why aw declare aw hannot seen yo' donned up an' aat sin' we put owd Susan o' 'Lijah's under th' graand. An' yo' do looik weel to be sure, an' aw will say 'at if theer's a woman i' th' village 'at does her clo'es credit it's yo', Hannah. And your Lucy, too, aw declare oo's quite a colour. Yo're lookin' mony a pund better nor th' last time aw seed thi, Lucy, an' tha mun keep thi heart up, lass, theer's no tellin' yet. See yo' Hannah, theer's yar Jud (George) an' yo'r Ben t'other side o'th' field, an' Jud's shakkin' his fist i' Ben's face, an' Ben's dancin' like peeas on a bake-ston'. It's them plaguing politics, but they're enjoyin' theirsen. An' theer's yar 'Tilda yonder i'th' kiss-i'th-ring an Jim Sykes after her. Run, lass, run--eh! he's caught her. Th' clumsy felly, he'll rive all th' clo'es off her back. Gi' 'im one an' get it ovver. Eh! it fair ma'es one young agin to see th' young folk enjoy theirsen." Lucy had insisted on Tom joining the revels of the field, the gay and innocent sports of the youths and maidens, and her eyes followed him as he joined in the games at "Tirzy," hand ball, and what not. But Tom's thoughts seemed elsewhere, and Lucy knew that his eyes wandered from the laughter-ringing throngs to the rustic gate that led from Wilberlee to the pasture land. "He's watching for Dorothy," she thought, and there passed, maybe, a shadow over Lucy's gentle face, "and there comes Dorothy herself. Ah! well, I knew it long ago. God send it may not spoil our Tom's young life." There was a rush of twinkling little feet to meet the young mistress of Wilberlee as she passed slowly through the gateway, and moved into the field, clad in a loose gown of sprayed muslin of palest blue. She swung her hat in one hand that the soft cool air might play about her face, and the rays of the declining sun gleamed upon the auburn tresses, and gave them a golden sheen. A dozen youngsters danced up to her, shouting their childish welcome, and more than one little toddlekin did Dorothy catch up in her arms and kiss. They danced round her as she walked up the field, or clasped her hand to claim her for some favourite game. And Dorothy smiled down upon the uplifted faces, and made feint to run away from them, but was captured and prisoned in their midst. And so, surrounded by bright and happy faces, Dorothy moved about the field, speaking to many, and giving a pleased recognition to all she knew,--and there was not a man or woman of Aenon chapel she did not know, not a worker at her uncle's mill she could not address by name. "As free as th' air, Miss Dorothy is," said one, "but she never demeans herself nor forgets she's th' young mistress." And the hands respected her, the more for it. The working people of the mills knew their place, and were not ashamed of it, nor servile to those above them. They did not care that anyone should assume a familiarity they knew must be feigned and which they were bound to suspect. The Rev. David Jones was in his glory. He had shaken hands with everyone there above the age of thirteen, had inquired about everyone's health as though he loved them, and their pains were his, had narrowly escaped being decoyed into a game at romps, and had looked as though he liked it when a hand-ball knocked off his hat. This did not prevent him confiding to Mrs. Jones, a placid little woman who took life serenely, that he should be glad when it was all over. As the afternoon wore to evening and the pastor, wearied of parading the field and repeating stale vacuities, he saw, with the pleasure we experience when we realize what we had hoped for rather than expected, that young Wimpenny had not forgotten his half-promise of a day or two ago. Wimpenny was speaking to the minister of his own chapel, a meek, timid man, but hard-working, sincere and self-sacrificing, beloved of little children and their mothers, and for whom even the hard-hearted operatives had a good word. The lawyer was not long in making his way towards Mr. Jones. "You see I have been able to come, though I'm afraid I'm a late scholar. Won't you introduce me to Mrs. Jones?" and the introduction was duly made. The three paced together through the changing throng, parted occasionally when some eager urchin, in full cry after the flying ball, darted under the parson's arms or a breathless Daphne, with ringlets streaming in the breeze, fled in simulated fright from a pursuing swain. "Miss Tinker seems to be enjoying herself," said Nehemiah to Mrs. Jones, after he had duly admired her own numerous offspring whom she had indicated in various quarters of the field. "Is she as nice as she is pretty?" "Yes, she is very nice, and seems fond of the people. She spoils the children though,--my husband is sometimes a little put out. She does not take life seriously enough, she says, and he is vexed she won't be baptised, though she is quite old enough to become a full church member. I asked her if she had religious scruples that Mr. Jones could assist her to banish; but she only laughed and said the immersion costume of the girls was hideous enough to account for a bushel of scruples without searching further. But then you know she is Mr. Tinker's niece, and I daresay she is indulged too much at home." Nehemiah did not think this very likely, but, all the same, he replied that it was a great pity. "Do you now," he said, "I have never had the pleasure of meeting Miss Tinker in society. She doesn't go out much. I fancy. Would you mind----?" "Certainly, Mr. Wimpenny, if you wish it. See, she is resting now and fanning herself with that outlandish hat of hers. Shall we join her?" And presently the diplomatic Wimpenny was making a somewhat exaggerated bow before the heiress of Wilberlee. And Tom's eyes followed the graceful girl as she walked by the side of Nehemiah, chatting gaily and seeming well content with his companionship; and Tom plunged his hands deep into his pockets and stalked moodily with clouded brow about the field, deaf to every entreaty from tempting lips to "choose the girl that he loved best," and feeling that for him life had lost its zest. The blue of the sky was dulled, the music of the lark soaring in the azure might have been the cawing of the rooks, and the gentle summer breeze that scarce stirred the leaves an icy blast from eastern shores. "What a fool I am, crying for the moon. I, Tom Pinder, apprentice to Jabez Tinker, Esquire and Justice of the Peace. Go to yonder rosy faced weaver with sparkling eyes and towzled hair. _She_ will lend a ready ear, you can send her home to-night, her heart in a tumult of delight; in her dreams heaven will open to her, and she will wake with your name upon her lips. Or go down yonder to the _Clothiers' Arms_. There are some jolly fellows there, and you will be all the more welcome because you have been set down as a strait-laced, sour-faced curmudgeon with lead in your veins for blood. Go drink with them and join in their drunken chorus; better that than eat your heart out after fruit that is not for you." And so with head down-bent he makes for where he had left Hannah and Lucy; and in his abstraction nearly walks into Wimpenny and Dorothy. Mrs. Jones had remembered the wise saying that two are company and three are none. "Mind where you're walking, will you?" exclaimed Wimpenny, cut short in a very flowery compliment which Dorothy was perhaps not sorry to have curtailed. "I beg your pardon, Miss Tinker, I'm afraid I was very careless. I did not see. I was thinking." "Now that is not a very gallant speech, Tom--I mean Mr. Pinder. Mr. Wimpenny would have assured me that he never thought at all except of me, and that he would have divined my presence by instinct a mile off." But Wimpenny was not to be rallied into good humour. He had put on a very tight-fitting pair of patent-leather shoes, and he suffered from the usual infliction of those who wear tight boots,--and Tom had grazed his foot. "Mr. Pinder! indeed," he thought, "why, damme, it's one of old Tinker's mill hands." Now Tom, having made his apologies to Dorothy, was for pursuing the tenor of his way, being by no means disposed to offer any to Mr. Wimpenny. "Oh, you mustn't go, Mr. Pinder, you must take me to Lucy; but first you must help me to gather some flowers. You know Paris so well, Mr. Wimpenny, and must excuse my accent. Shall I say _Au revoir_ or _A bientot_, and without waiting for a reply she turned in the direction of the garden at the house, Leaving Nehemiah dumbfounded. "Curse the jade," he muttered to himself, "chucked over for a dirty weaver, by Jove. But I'll be even with her yet. It doesn't do to play tricks with Miss Dorothy, and so you'll find some day. But I can bide my time. I'll go and have a drink at the _Crown_, Polly 'll be glad to see me anyhow." And Tom walked as in a dream. The sky was blue again, and the lark trilled a clearer note, and all the earth was glad in its summer joyousness. CHAPTER X IT is one thing for a maiden to invite a young man to a garden, and quite another to know what to do with him when she gets him there. It would have puzzled Dorothy to say exactly why she had asked Tom Pinder to help her cull flowers. The ostensible pretext given had been the gathering of a bouquet for Lucy; but we all know that a woman's ostensible pretexts are--well, ostensible pretexts. For one thing Dorothy had had enough of Nehemiah Wimpenny, and wanted to be decently free of him for the rest of the day. She had wearied of the mild pleasure of poking fun at his French. But in truth Dorothy had acted from impulse and regretted her words all the more when she saw the sudden light of glad surprise that sprung to Tom's dark eyes. But there is safety in numbers, reflected Dorothy. The back door of the house was not locked. Dorothy looked into the kitchen, into the parlour,--neither Betty nor Peggy was there. She called their names at the bottom of the staircase, whilst Tom bided in the garden, but there was no answering cry from Betty or from Peggy, those handmaidens having very properly conceived that Whitsuntide comes alike for bond and free, and betaken themselves, in gay attire, to the delights of the field. Peggy, at this moment, indeed, was flying, with fleet foot, from the outstretched arms of an amorous young butcher, who 'livered the daily joint at Wilberlee, and the staider Betty was listening with all too ready ears to the somewhat halting wooing of the village constable, who, even in plain clothes, was still a proper man and had, perhaps, a prophetic vision of a village-inn with himself as keeper of order and the purse-strings, and Betty as buxom but bustling hostess. "It is very tiresome," said Dorothy, as she returned to the garden where Tom was pretending to be wrapt in the contemplation of the beauties of a _Gloire de Dijon_, "I did so want a cup of tea, but Betty and Peggy have played me truant. Don't you think, Mr. Pinder, you had better go find them, and say I want one of them, no matter which, very particularly." But Tom had taken possession of the handbasket and the scissors, and was oblivious to hints. "Some of these blooms want cutting very badly," was his only answer, "they will fall in another day." Then there was silence save for the clicking of the scissors, the humming of the bees, the good-night song of the birds, and the laughter and cries from the field. Unconsciously, as the basket filled, the steps of Dorothy had turned the gable of the house. The merry crowd was hid from view. The garden here sloped to the river side, and by its brim was a rustic seat. Dorothy sank upon it weariedly. "I confess I'm tired," she exclaimed "I seem to have been on my feet for a week," and she put out the tiniest point of a shoe-toe and contemplated it ruefully. "Now, what do you mean, Mr. Pinder, standing there swinging that basket like one of those boats in a fair that make you dizzy to look at them? Can't you find a seat somewhere?" Tom looked all around. He might have found a seat by climbing on the branch of an adjacent tree. Some such thought may have crossed his mind, for by that magic of association that passes the wit of man came to him the couplet that he had read long ago: "Fain would I climb, but that I fear to fall," with its answering "If thy heart fail thee, do not climb at all." Tom did not climb. He sat instead on the edge of the garden seat, as far from Dorothy as space permitted. "I wish you wouldn't call me 'Mr. Pinder'," he said. "I never feel quite sure you are not making mock of me." Dorothy had taken a rose from the basket and was looking for leaves to bind it with. "Well you see, you are getting rather too big for me to call you Tom. And besides, you are a man now, and besides, oh!--lots of things." This did not seem very lucid. Tom went on: "I was never called 'Mr. Pinder' in my life till you called me so. Then I was very glad and very proud. It put new thoughts into my mind. It was like a 'new birth,' as the chapel-folk might say. But it has done its work now, and I should like once more to be plain 'Tom' to you." "Well, plain Tom then be it, if that will please you; but we really must be going, or we shall miss Lucy. Hark! many of the people must have left the ground already. I can hear them talking as they go past the mill. Bring along the basket, Tom, and don't spill more than you can help." "I don't think I should take the flowers to Lucy in the field. People would say you favoured Lucy more than other folk's children." "And what do I care what people say; I do like Lucy more than any other girl in the village." "I was not exactly thinking of what you might care about miss. I was thinking more of what Lucy would feel." "Oh! Of course," said Dorothy, not without a suspicion of pettishness in her tone. Really, this young man was too frank. To say exactly what one thinks is no doubt commendable in the abstract. But then we should be careful to think only what will fall pleasingly on the ear, if we wish to please. "Oh! of course," said Dorothy. Tom felt he had blundered. "The air comes very sweet and fresh from the hills" he said, to change the subject. "How clear the stream looks to-night and how softly it warbles over the stones." "Yes," assented Dorothy, "I love the river when its waters are crystal as now; but you know it is so seldom we see it so bright and sparkling. The dye-water from the mill makes it all the colours of the rainbow, but you take care the colours are dirty enough." "There's something I wanted to tell you, Miss Dorothy," said Tom, after a lull in the conversation which both felt to be embarrassing. "Well?" "You see, Miss Dorothy, I shall be of age soon." "Really! Well that seems to me a thing you need not look so solemn about. It happens to everyone, more or less, if they live long enough. I shall be of age myself someday, I dare say, but I will try to bear it submissively, if not cheerfully. You'll get over it, Tom. You may even in time get used to it." "Yes, but it will make a great difference to me. For one thing my apprenticeship to your uncle will be at an end." "Oh!" said Dorothy, "Well, I should think you'll be glad of that. Uncle is sure to want you to stop on at the mill--I know he thinks well of you." "It is very good of him" said Tom and smiled as he thought of the day when his master had lifted his riding whip in quick, passionate anger. But that was long gone bye. "But I don't think I shall stop on, in fact I'm sure I shan't." "You won't leave Holmfirth, will you, Tom?" and she was surprised at the interest with which she awaited his reply. "You see," said Tom, slowly, and colouring as if he were confessing to a crime "I've had a bit of money left and Ben and me, that is Ben and I." "Oh! bother the grammar" cried Dorothy. "Ben and me's going into partnership, and there's a little mill at Hinchliffe Mill where we can get room and power. Higher up the river, you know. We will try not to send you more dye-water down stream than we can help. I shall always think when I draw the plugs that the water will pass your window, Miss Dorothy." Tom was distinctly improving. "It's a great venture," said Dorothy gravely. "A very great venture. I don't mean so much for you, you have all life before you, but for Ben, and what hurts Ben will hurt Lucy. You see other people besides you can think of Lucy." Now there was a piece of malice here, but Dorothy thought she could now cry quits. "Yes, it's a venture, Miss Dorothy, a great venture. It is one that perhaps would never have been made if you had never called me 'Mr. Pinder,' so don't throw cold water on our scheme. But it isn't just that I wanted to talk about. There's something more." "'Pon my word, Tom, you're worse than the brook. The teachers have come and the teachers have gone, but you go on for ever. But in for a penny, in for a pound. What more is there?" "Well, Ben and I have talked it over and over. Don't think me a Pharisee, Miss Dorothy, but we're going to try to run the mill on new lines." "H'm; that sounds like adding venture to venture, doesn't it?" "Perhaps: you see, Ben and I both belong to the working class." Dorothy bent her head in a somewhat hesitating assent. "I suppose so," she said. "And we know something of what working folk have to put up with, how hard they have to work, and how little they often get in return." "Come to that," said Dorothy, "I dare say a masters' lot isn't quite a bed of roses. You'll find that out soon enough for yourselves I'm afraid." "Granted," said Tom, "but fat sorrow's better than lean; but I don't mean to be a master." Dorothy rose. "It is later than I thought. Betty must have come in by this, or Peggy. And the field's well-nigh deserted. Whit-Monday's come and gone, Tom, and I must e'en go too. You must take the flowers home to Lucy, and give her my love. Say I will call for the basket some fine day." But Tom ventured to touch her arm as she made as though to go. "Nay, Miss Dorothy, I would I might say my say--but, perhaps, you don't care to know our plans?"--this wistfully. "Oh! but indeed I do. Just five minutes then. And indeed it is vastly pleasanter here than indoors. No more romping for me this day," and Dorothy sat down again. "I said just now I did not mean to be a master, Ben and I are indeed going to add venture to venture. You know something about co-operation?" "Why, what a question! Of course I do. Doesn't Mr. Thorpe tell us every time he comes to see my aunt that the Co-op's ruining him--and serve him right, Betty says. Aunt says that things at the Co-op are nasty without being cheap, for what they give you in 'divvy'--isn't that the word?--they take out in quality. I hope you're not going to start a Co-op, Tom. I really cannot fancy you in a white apron, simpering over a counter and asking me 'what's the next article, miss?'" "Then you would give us your custom?" he asked with a smile. "Oh! Perhaps I might sneak in occasionally for a trifle--for Lucy's sake, you know." "But you forget, I told you we had taken part of a mill at Hinchliffe Mill. It's there we're going to have _our_ Co-op." "Isn't it rather out of the way? Fancy, having to send all that way for a pound of candles. Oh! I beg Ben's pardon; there'll be no need of candles with such a luminary as he in the shops. You'll be selling philosophy by the yard and theology by the stone. But seriously, Tom, I don't see what a Co-op has to do with a mill." "And that's just what I want to speak to you about. You see Ben's a Socialist, and all his life he has been crying out against capitalists and capital. Now he declares I want to turn him into a capitalist for we are to be partners in this venture upon a venture." Dorothy shook her head. "I'm just as much in the fog now as ever," she said, "I see if I want to know anything about this wonderful new departure I must ask Lucy. Do get on; you and your Co-op that isn't a Co-op after all. But you will not be a very bloated capitalist, will you, Tom?" she concluded mischievously. "We aren't going to be capitalists at all. I'm just going to start the concern with my bit of a fortune--it doesn't look so much of a fortune as it did, now I know what a little way it will go. But any way Ben and I are going to work in it, side by side with the hands. We are all going to be hands together. Of course, in a sense, there'll be a master; but he will be a master in a different sense from what we're all used to. Every one of us that can do a full man's work is to have an equal share in the profit, always provided he does the work he is capable of. There will be shorter hours and less work for the youngsters. But the share of all will depend on the profits we make, and no one is to have a greater share than another." "But that seems ridiculous, Tom. If you are to turn manufacturer like my uncle, why, you must be a manufacturer. You will have to go to market as he does, and meet and bargain with your customers, to dress like them, to mix with them as an equal. How can you do that on the lines you are laying down? I am only a silly girl, may be, and certainly I don't know much about business, but go on,--this grows interesting." "I know the difficulties, Miss Dorothy, but the difficulty will not be in Ben, and I hope not in me. The difficulty will be in getting a sufficient number of men, capable, reliable, sober, industrious men who can be brought to see that in our scheme there will not only be an escape from the thraldom of the capital they denounce so hotly, but a realization of that equality and fraternity for which men and women have gone to their graves like bed. The difficulty will be to persuade men not merely that they will be better off themselves, but that they must be content to take part of their wage in seeing a worse workman than themselves better off too. Labour is just as selfish as capital. But in our mill no matter what a man's allotted task, so long as he does his work faithfully, he shall share and share alike." "But that seems just a little absurd, don't you think?" asked Dorothy, now genuinely interested. "You must make all this clear to me. You don't mean to say that if you, say, are the designer or the traveller, you are to draw no more profit out of the concern than a teamer?" "That's it, exactly--not a stiver. We're all to be partners together. We'll know neither master nor man at our mill. We're going to try an experiment in grim earnest, and oh! Miss Dorothy, for heaven's sake, don't shake your head and look so glum about it. I feel sure we can succeed. We _will_ succeed. I am young and there is no hardship, no sacrifice, no work for which I am not prepared. Perhaps I might get a situation under another; perhaps in time I might start on the usual lines and perhaps in time I might make a fortune for myself. But will it not be a grander thing and in itself a better, a more heart-satisfying future should we be able to gather round ourselves a band of workers, all knit together not merely by the selfish bonds of personal interest, but each rejoicing that he is advancing, too, his brother's welfare, and that in his well-being and in his well-doing each and everyone of us is concerned." Tom had risen in the earnestness of his soul's unburthening, and now paced the narrow strip of gravelled garden path which skirted the river-bank. His eyes were lit with unwonted fire, a flush was on his cheek, his voice gained strength and cadence as the long-pondered thoughts forced themselves to utterance, and the natural unstudied motions of his hands kept harmony with the spoken word. "Oh! Miss Dorothy, it may all be a dream, but if a dream it be, surely it is such a one as was dreamed by the Lake of Galilee or the slopes of Olive's Mount. Is it not meet that old men in the time to come should dream dreams, and the young men see visions. Had Ben Garside, good, staunch, true man that I know him to be, had not he dreamed dreams and seen visions could he have had it in his heart to strive and suffer as I know he did, not for himself but for the oppressed ones of his class. And shall not we of a newer time have _our_ visions, and mine is of a glad day when the band of man shall be against his neighbour, when this unresting, cruel strife of brother seeking to outvie his brother, building ever the fabric of his success upon the undoing of another shall cease from the land, and the Kingdom of which seers have dreamed and prophets foretold shall be indeed at hand." Dorothy gazed in wrapt regard at the young enthusiast. She drank in the music of his words with greedy ears, and they sank into her soul. Never had man so spoken to her before. Words like these, if spoken at all, were not, in her experience, words for every day life. They should be reserved to be voiced on Sunday from the pulpit and devoutly ignored and disregarded on the Monday. But as the unpent stream of cherished conviction flowed its impetuous course Dorothy felt that she too was being swept with it, and forgot that she was the daughter of a proud and exclusive race, and he who paced before her with rapid, agitated stride, the humblest of her guardian's henchmen. But withal Dorothy was a practical common-sense young woman, and as little likely as any of her very practical sex to forget the stern necessities of work-a-day life, in a momentary abandon to the transcendental schemes of an enthusiast. "Don't you think we had better know more about your Co-op?" she said. "These grand ideas may be all very well as abstract theories. I want to know how you propose to put them into practice and live. I seem to remember that St. John not only permits dreams and visions to you men; he also allows us daughters to prophesy." "Well?" "Now I venture to prophesy that if you and Ben set about your new venture in the manner you seem to have contemplated, it is not only good-bye to your small fortune, which, perhaps wouldn't matter very much--but it would be to handicap you at the very threshold of your life with the deadening sense of failure, and perhaps fill your whole future with the bitterness of blighted hopes and unrealized aspirations. Now I think I can suggest to you an attainable Utopia. It would not, perhaps, be such a neck-or-nothing affair as yours, but it should have enough of other-worldliness in it for a sane man." Tom sat down again by Dorothy's side, but this time he did not take the edge of the seat. His nervous shyness had vanished in the abandonment of his speech. "Ben says women can neither see nor feel an inch outside their own doorsteps," he said with a smile. "And a good thing for men, whose wives at all events are centred in their homes and families. But I am not Ben's wife, nor--nor anyone else's," concluded Dorothy lamely, flushing slightly at some unspoken thought. "And what is your attainable Utopia, Miss Dorothy?" asked Tom, very quietly. "Well, you must let me think, and, as it were, feel my way to a conclusion; for to tell the truth I have not read or thought much on such difficult problems as the subject seems to bristle with. Tell me, at our village Co-op doesn't a member's dividend depend on the amount of his purchases?" "I believe so." "And, roughly speaking, doesn't a man's spending power bear a sort of proportion to his earning power?" "Practically, no doubt." "Then you see that practical co-operation benefits a man according to his ability and application." "Clearly." "Well, I think that is right. Now if I understand _your_ principle of Socialism it makes no distinction between the skilled and incapable. Granting only equality of industry you reward all alike. Now that is not common justice." "I think it is," said Tom, stoutly, "a man can but do his best." "All the same, it isn't. Take the case of a man, a designer, say, in a mill, or a lawyer, or a doctor. He devotes money, time, and the hard sweating of his brains to becoming master of his calling. Whilst he is studying he is earning just nothing at all, in fact less than nothing. When he is qualified for it he rightly expects to be better paid than a man who knows how to handle a spade or pickaxe when his life of toil begins, and knows just as much and no more when his life ends in the workhouse or the grave." "You say 'rightly expects,' why rightly?" asked Tom. "Because when the skilled and educated labourer in whatever sphere you like _does_ begin to be paid it is common justice that he should be paid, not merely for the present years of harvest, but also for the years of seeding, cultivation, and growth. It is merely the analogy of the farmer. It simply means that the toil of preparation is paid for at a later day. It is payment deferred, but none the less payment of what is justly due. Now your navvy or artisan gets his payment from the first day he touches the mattock or throws a shuttle." "There seems some justice in what say, Miss Dorothy; but I thought you were going to show me the way to your attainable Utopia." "So I am. I should imagine that the current rate of wages is very much the measure of a man's comparative worth in this life-absorbing soul-cramping pursuit of wealth you call business. When these are paid and other outlays deducted, there remains, or doesn't remain sometimes, what the capitalist calls his profit?" Tom nodded. "And it is against this profit your sensitive soul rebels, your dainty fingers will not touch?" "If it pleases you to put it so, Miss Dorothy." "Then quell your soul's rebellion, let not your fingers touch. Distribute your profit among all the workers in the concern, yourself and Ben included, for I suppose your stomach will insist on its elemental right to be filled; but distribute to each a share of the profits proportioned to his wage. For taking it that a man's wage is a rough and ready measure of a man's share in building up the wealth, so, too, would it be a rough and ready method of determine your share in the profits. And now most potent, grave, and reverend seigneur, thy hand-maiden hath spoken, and lud-ha'-mercy, 'tis sick to death I am of long faces and your miserable economics. Did ever before a young man lure a maiden to flowery bower and discourse to her sweet--political economy! I warrant you have smoother sayings for Lucy's ear. And, now, good-night. I heard Betty shouting for me down the paddock this quarter gone. Don't forget my love to Lucy." And Dorothy tripped away, and Tom made homewards, carrying the basket very tenderly; but the rose that Dorothy had toyed with and cast aside he picked up, pressed to his lips and hid in his pocket-book. Someone found its yellow leaves years afterwards, and made-believe to be jealous because of them. "Law! Betty," said Dorothy that night, as she uncoiled the tresses of her gleaming locks. "I declare your Tom Pinder is as mad as a hatter; and faith, I think it's catching." "Smittling, yo' meean, miss. Well, some ailments be if yo' bide _very_ near them as has 'em." And Ben and Tom sat long that night talking over their plans for the near future. Ben conceded there was something in what Miss Dorothy had said. "By gow, who'd ha' thowt yon' wench had it in her, to pounce reet daan on th' weak spot, what yo' may ca' th' flaw o'th system, all in a jeffy like. But she's a head piece in a hundred. It'll be her uncle 'oo favvers, for her father had more heart nor yead." "An' what for should'nt Dorothy see what yo' two men blinked yo'r een at?" asked Hannah indignantly, "Haven't aw towd yo' scores o' times 'at a woman 'll lawp ovver a wall whilst a man's gooin' raand gropin' for th' gate. Aw'm fain someb'dy can ding sense into oather on yo'--it doesn't matter which, for what one on yo' says t'other 'll swear to. If 'oo's persuaded Tom theer 'at ther's sich a thing as lookin' after other folks consarns till yo'r own's gone to rack an' ruin, it's more nor e'er aw could do bi thee, Ben. Happen aw'd ha' had more chance if aw'd tried afore we were wed i'stead o' after, but ther's no tellin'. Some folk are born so; an' ther ne'er wer' a fooil brought into th' world but there wer' a bigger born to match him. But aw see hah it is, we'st burn more can'les talkin' abaat th' new venture, as yo ca' it, nor th' takkin's 'll run to i' a gooid season. Get thee to bed, Tom, an' dunnot yo' forget yo're Jabez Tinker's 'prentice lad yet, whativver yo' may be some day when me an' Ben's both under th' sod." The end of Tom's apprenticeship drew near. Stories of his project had already been whispered about the village, and some of the quidnuncs of the barber's shop, which was the central Exchange of local news tapped their foreheads significantly. "Talk abaat a slate off," the slubber at Wilberlee had been heard to say, "yon' Ben Garside's got a whole roof off, and that d--d young bastard fro' Saddleworth's worse nor Ben." But in time the real nature of the new enterprise was bruited abroad and was much discussed. The novel theme was felt to be a perfect godsend in a community which, like others of its size, becomes more agitated over a runaway horse in its main street than over a European convulsion. The landlord of the Croppers' Arms began to feel quite a glow of gratitude towards the sober, drink-shunning Pinder, so many pints of ale did his nightly customers feel necessary for the ample criticism of Tom's scheme. "Aw know for certain room an' power's ta'en at Hinchliff Mill," said Jim Thewlis, the landlord. "Th' agent for lettin' Denham's mill, as was, called in on his way fro' Huddersfilt' other day. We wer' speerin' abaat this young Pinder. Weel, aw wanted to do fair like so aw said at th' country talk wor' he'd had a fortin' left; th' worst there wer' agen him, so far as ivver aw'd heer'd, wer' 'at he wer' a teetotaller. Aw thowt that wer' enuff, but th' agent seemed no ways taken a-back. Said it were common as measles nah a days," concluded Jim, heaving a sigh over the degeneracy of the times. "But what's all this talk abaat a newfangled road o' payin' th' hands?" asked the village bellman, whose pimply face and swollen nose seemed to indicate that "Oyez! Oyez!" were thirsty words. "They're all to have a 'divvy,' same as they han at th' Co-op," explained one. "There'll be a new job for thi, Bellman," said another. "Tha'll ha to go round th' village cryin' th' divvy at Co-op Mill" "Aye, aye," said another, "Oh! yes, Oh! yes, lost, lost and can't be found, a han'some divvy thowt safe an' sound.'" Thus Josh o' Jonah's, the village wit and poet. But the light esteem in which their design was held by the topers of the Croppers' Arms did not disturb the equanimity of either Ben or Tom. "Th' more th' job's talked abaat, th' better for it," was Ben's expressed opinion. "An' if it's nobbut fooil's talk, talk's talk, an' that's why we want to start a Co-op. When folk get to know th' lines we're bahn to work on, there'll be plenty ready to throw in wi' us, _yo_' see if ther' isna, Tom lad. We'll ha' th' pick o'th mill hands i' this village if th' consarn goes--an' it _mun_ go, Tom; it mun go. Aw'st break mi heart if it doesn't. We'll mak it gee if we'n to sell ivvery stick we'n got to buy coil to fire up wi'. But we'st nooan need to do that. Aw've nooan bin idle, an' what does ta think aw've getten to tell thee?" Ben had not indeed been idle. It has been said that he was a popular character in the district. Men knew him for a shrewd, hard-working man, "wi' his yead screwed on th' reight road, if he _is_ a bit loose i' th' tongue." Of more moment still their wives knew him for a sober man, and the daughters of a good many of them evinced a very sympathetic interest in the scheme in which Tom's name was so prominently associated. Moreover, Co-ops were appreciated by the housewives. Co-operative distribution they understood; Co-operative production they had not before heard of but were quite prepared to take it on trust, as a sort of twin-brother of the system of trading they were already familiar with. "Aw know one thing," many a good dame declared, "it wer' a gooid thing for yar haase 'at aw put into th' Co-op. Aw allus know th' rent 'll be theer at th' quarter end, an' there'll be summat to buy cloes wi' at Whissunday, an' a bit o' summat extra at Kersmas, an' it's all mi eye an' Peggy Martin abaat th' stuff bein' dear an' nasty. That's Eph. Thorpe's tale, that is. Ther's nob'dy nah'll go to Eph's bud them as cannot pay ready brass for their stuff." More than one good workman, old friends and cronies of Ben's, had already had long talks with him about the matter. They were men who had a bit laid by and were ready to join the enterprise. "We will have no one with us," said Tom emphatically, "but those who work in the mill. We will have no one's money unless he gives his labour too. Every worker on the job must have his flesh and blood in it as well as his money. If we take money at all it must be as a loan at low interest. The thing is to have every hand a co-operator in production and a sharer in the profits." "Tak' as few in as possible till yo' see how th' job frames," was Hannah's prudent counsel. "If it goes all reet yo'll ha' plenty o' backers, an' plenty as'll want to ha' a finger i' th' paw (pie). Aw nobbut hope it winnot be like the gradely 'Holmfirth paw.'" "What's that?" asked Tom. "Brokken eggs," said Hannah, shortly, "cow-pie,--custard, for fine." Of course Jabez Tinker heard of the thing. A few days before the expiration of Tom's apprenticeship he sent for him into the office. The indenture was spread on the desk before him. "Sit down, Tom," his master said in a not unkindly voice. "So I suppose you are going to shake the dust of Wilberlee Mill off your feet." "Something like it, sir, I suppose, if you've no objections." "Nay, it's with my leave or without my leave now. Well, I've had no fault to find with you. Are your plans settled once for all?" "I've put my hand to the plough, sir." "Well, of course it's no concern of mine. But don't you think you might have consulted me?" "I should have been glad of your advice, sir," said Tom. Then added firmly, "but you have never given me any reason to suppose you would have been willing to give it me." Mr. Tinker glanced sharply at the youth. He saw nothing of impertinent suggestion in Tom's face. Tom had spoken, simply and plain, what was to him a plain and simple matter of fact. "What do you mean, Pinder? Have you any complaint to make. Haven't I always done my duty by you?" "I don't know, sir. If your duty was to let me severely alone, you have done your duty. You know better than I whether that is a master's duty to an apprentice. I'm no lawyer. But Mr. Black always told me I was to be taught your trade." "Well, it seems you fancy you know enough about it to start for yourself." "Little thanks to you," thought Tom, but what use to say? "But I didn't send for you to-day, Pinder, to discuss my duty or yours. I think you're foolish to begin on your own account. I have had it in my mind for some time back to put you forward in the mill. I'm weary of Sam Buckley and his drunken ways. He gets beyond bearing. I had thought of putting you in his place--at a lower wage, of course. 'Twould have been a big lift for you, but I've had my eye on you, and I think you'd have done." Tom's feelings at these unexpected words were of mingled pride, gratitude, and self-reproach. He had never suspected that his conduct in the mill was observed by the reserved, self-contained master. He had done his duty as he conceived it, simply because it was his duty. He knew, of course, that many of the apprentices shirked their work and gave as much trouble as possible. In acting otherwise Tom had neither sought nor expected notice and approbation. He was conscious-stricken both in that he had attributed Mr. Tinker's reserve to callous indifference, and in that the first use he contemplated making of his freedom was to start in what might seem to be a competition with one whom he knew now to have had his advancement in view. "I am getting older," continued Mr. Tinker, "As you know I have no son. I must look for a younger man to take some of the work from my shoulders. Of late I have felt the constant strain more than I used to. But, there, it's no use talking, I suppose. I think you're a young idiot all the same to start as they say you're going to. Take an old man's word for it, Tom Pinder, business and philanthropy don't mix. Make your money in trade and give what you don't want yourself in charity, if you like; but business must be run on business lines. It's some of Ben Garside's hatching, I expect; but then Ben was always crackbrained." "I am sure I don' know how to thank you, sir," began Tom. "Oh! I don't want your thanks. I was looking out for myself as much as you. Nothing for nothing--that's business you'll find. The question is, are you content to stop on at Wilberlee or 'gang your ain gate,' as the Scotch say. Yea or nay, or would you like to think it over?" Now Tom knew if he consulted Ben, just the advice that Ben would give--stop on at Wilberlee. He knew also that though Ben would say this promptly, and to all seeming cheerfully, it would be the shattering of the brightest dream his friend had ever dreamed. Besides, to fill Sam Buckley's place would bring him very little nearer--he knew what. No! he could wait and work, and Tom believed in the future foretold for him who knows _how_ to wait. Mr. Tinker took up the indenture, and seemed to read it. "H'm," he said, more to himself than Tom, "I've signed so many of these things that I forget what they bind a man to. But it's a mere form." "I'll burn this now, anyway," he said aloud. "Put it into the stove, Pinder." Tom did as he was bid, and as the stiff paper caught the flames, and the smell from the wax seals invaded the stuffy office he felt as though chains fell from his limbs and incense burned on the altar of freedom. "Well?" said Mr. Tinker at length. "I think I must go, sir. But I go thanking you from my heart," was Tom's reply. "So be it," said Mr. Tinker, curtly. "When you're done up dish and spoon don't come here for work, that's all." "I won't," said Tom, and went. And as he walked slowly homewards he resolved to keep his own counsel and say nothing to Ben or Hannah about the offer that had been made to him. It would disquiet Ben and lead to no good. Best say nothing about the matter; let it lie between him and Mr. Tinker. Besides if it got talked of in the village those who believed his statement would call him a fool, those who didn't a liar. It was all the easier to dismiss the subject from his mind when he found the following letter awaiting him: "Dear Tom, Seein it will be your berthday nex Sunday, an you will be twenty-one, me an Mister Redfearn have fixed it up to have a bit of a do here seein as it wer here you was borne. An Fairbanks has sent a goos an a turkey, an Moll has maid a puddin an you are to bring Mester an Missus Garsed wi my respecks to em an welcome, likewise their dowter too. Also to say as Fairbanks will send his trap bi Workus Jack for Missus an dowter an yo an Ben mun cum o Shanks mare. Dinner at nooin an no waitin. So no more at present hopeing this finds yo well as it leaves me. Yure affeckshinit, Betty Schofield" Go! Of course they would go; all of them. Where else could the auspicious day be better spent than in the very house he first saw the light, and among the friends of his infancy. Go! yes though the snow lay three feet deep on moor and fell, and the wintry wind howled round Pots and Pans and whirled the stinging atoms in a very blast hurricane and tornado of blinding blizzard. "Goa!" exclaimed Hannah, "aw'st goa if aw've to crawl o' mi han's an' knees. Yo' mun write a letter back, Tom, an' say we'st be theer at eleven i' th' forenooin if it's convenient to Mrs. Schofield, an' aw'll gi' a hand wi' th' bastin' an' sarvin' up, so's 'oo can cooil dahn afore 'oo sits dahn to th' table. Aw reckon aw'st want no cooilin' dahn long afore we're ovver th' top." And then Hannah and Lucy fell to at such a preparation, adjusting, re-adjusting, snipping, snipeing, cutting, hemming, tuckering of shawls and dresses, to such a trimming of hat and bonnet, and such a littering of the house with female finery, that if a wedding or a coronation had been afoot, matters could not have been worse. "Aw'st nivver howd aat till Sunday, Tom," Ben confided to him. "Aw haven't set tooith into a turkey sin' aw can't remember when an' ivvry time aw think on it mi maath watters soa aw can hardly speik. Do'st think there'll be sossidge wi' it? Tha mieet ha' just nudged her abaat th' sossidge when yo' wrote if yo'd gi'en it a thowt, but aw'm feart it's too lat' nah. An' gooise an' apple sauce, an stuffin', an' plum puddin' wi' brandy sauce--eh, lad, it's a pity tha cannot come o' age onst a week. But aw munnot show greedy. Aw onst knew a felly at a club supper 'at e't a whull leg o' mutton to his own cheek, wi' capers and onion sauce an' breead, an' supped two gallon o' ale. They'd to gie him kester oil for aboon a week at after afore he fair gate shut on it. Nah! aw ca' that a fair abuse o'th' kindly fruits o'th' earth. Nah! tha'll ha' studied ettiket nah tha's ta'en to talkin' townified. How mony helpin's dun yo reely think aw mieet ha' wi' out bein thowt greedy? Aw'm nooan a glutton, like that chap at Gowcar 'at went to a club dinner--Bill o' Natt's, aw think they ca'ed him--an' when he gate whom he rolled o'th' floor, an' all he could say wer' 'Howd, belly, howd, for if tha brusts awm done.' And Ben looked anxiously at Tom for a reply. But Tom only smiled, for he knew that Ben was merely talking to let off steam. So the excited little man went on: "Tha'll nooan be teetotal that day, Tom. It 'ud be a sort o' slur o' Missus Schofield. Aw tak' it at goin' to a feeast at a public wi' a publican an' ca'in' for cowd watter 'ud be just as bad manners as feedin' wi' a teetotaller an' axin for a pint o' drink. Nah! doesn't it strike yo' i' that leet, Tom?" But Tom explained that he had had that point over with his good friend Betty many a time before and that he wasn't going to begin his manhood by breaking the pledge he had taken with himself. "You'll have to drink my share too, Ben." "An' Lucy's, for 'oo's tarred wi' th' same brush as thee, Tom. Aw do believe 'at if yo' took to runnin' abaat th' village wi' a caa's tail atween yo'r teeth like them niggers yo'n read on o'th' banks o'th river Ganges, yar Lucy 'ud do th' same as well as her legs 'ud let her. An' thank God!--an' yo', Tom, 'oo can walk wi'out sticks nah." And Ben pressed Tom's arm as caressingly as ever maiden conveyed message to favoured swain. "You'll have to be careful, Ben, if you're going to drink for three." "Aye, aye, if all's weel aw'st be poorly th' day after, sha'not aw? But wi' one thing an' another aw just feel as if aw cud turn cart wheels slap daan th' sides o' Pots an' Pans till aw poo'd up at th' _Hanging Gate_. It is na th' eitin', lad, nor th' drinkin', though them's nooan things to be sneezed at, let me tell yo'. It's thowts at' mi Tom's so well thowt on bi all at's knowd him sin' he wer' a suckin' babe. Aw tell thee, lad, mi heart's so full aw could blubber like a cawf, if aw didn't howd missen in." And then Tom knew it was time for him to look intently in any direction but that of honest Ben's face. Sunday came, and with Sunday came Workh'us Jack, such a beaming radiant Jack as never village saw before: Jack, with a great white rosette on his breast and a white ribbon on the end of the whip with which he flicked the mare with many a soothing "so-ho, so-ho," and hortatory "come up;" an older Jack by many a biting Winter's lapse since first we met him; a stouter, plumper, rosier Jack, but with the same smiling face and unfailing cheerfulness. How, with infinite tenderness, Lucy was lifted into the trap, how Tom smothered her with wraps and shawls, how Hannah declared she would rather walk through the village because everybody was, she knew, stopping from chapel on purpose to gaup at her, and how she was hoisted bodily in under protest; how, as a matter of fact the neighbours and the neighbour's children turned out into the street braving the whipping of the gusty snow or peered from chamber window; how it was all over Holmfirth in no time that Gentleman Tom and Lucy Garside were "off over th' Isle of Skye to be wed at St. Chad's," how every gossip in the village insisted that she had expected nothing else these months back, and called upon her neighbour to testify that she had often been heard to say so; how the demure young maidens declared that Lucy for all her quiet ways was a deep one and a sly one, and that it was a shame a fine strapping young fellow should be trapped into wedding a pale faced useless thing, little better than a cripple; how Ben and Tom walked far ahead of the trap all the way up the ascent of road to the Isle of Skye, but were overtaken just as they reached the inn there: how Ben insisted on Jack taking "summat short" to keep the cold out, and Tom would have Hannah drink some hot port-wine negus to keep Jack company, and how Jack had another drink for the good of the house; how the exhilarating influence of the liquor passed by some mysterious process from the driver to the driven so that the old mare rattled down from Bill's o' Jack's to Greenfield, and from Greenfield to the _Church Inn_, at Saddleworth; how it stopped there of its own accord and positively refused to budge till Jack descended from his seat and had another drink; how Hannah made sure that Ben and Tom would be foolish enough to try a short cut over the moors and untimely perish like Tom's mother before them; and how finally the chaise drew up in fine style before the _Hanging Gate_, and Lucy almost fell into Betty Schofield's welcoming arms--all this the reader must imagine. And there, sure enough in the big room upstairs, with its mysterious cupboard labelled R.A.O.B., the sacred room in which the Royal Antedeluvian Order of Buffaloes declared every lodge night that they would "hunt the buff, would hunt the buff, would hunt the buffalo," though where to find it thereabouts would have puzzled them to tell. In this great room a glorious fire roared and cast its welcome warmth and the walls were hung with the Christmas decorations of the lodge, and the Christmas holly and mistletoe looked yet fresh and green, and the long narrow table down the centre was white with Betty's best napery, and Moll, feigning mighty indignation because Tom had caught her round the waist and kissed her smackingly under the mistletoe, busied about making a great clattering of plates and spoons and knives and forks, whilst a distracting odour of roast goose came up the narrow staircase. Mr. Redfearn was there betimes, and Aleck, all in his Sunday best. Then came the down-sitting, Mr. Redfearn at the table-head, Tom at the foot. Aleck facing Ben, and Hannah, and Lucy supporting the chair and vice-chair. Moll o' Stute's and Jack had their dinner later on. How many helps of turkey _with_ sausage and of goose _with_ stuffing and apple sauce, and of plum-pudding _with_ brandy-sauce Ben had I entirely refuse to tell, but only say with all his talk he came in a very lame second to Aleck. "It only wanted Mr. Black to make it just perfect," said Mr. Redfearn, "but we'll drink in silence to the memory of as good a man as ever walked i' shoe-leather." I refuse to tell, too, in what glowing terms Mr. Redfearn proposed the health of Tom Pinder, and many a happy return of the day, and of how Tom completely broke down in acknowledging the toast, and of how Ben proposed Mr. Redfearn's health, and Mr. Redfearn Ben's, and Tom the ladies, and then how they drank Mrs. Schofield's and the ladies with a three times three and God bless 'em, and then started the toast list all over again, till Lucy was more than glad when Moll brought in the tea-pot and cups, and they all drew round the fire, and the men lighted their pipes and sobered down to rational talk. Be sure Tom had to tell of what he was going to do now he was his own master, and of how Ben had "weighed in" to help him, and he had to explain till he was nearly hoarse before Betty could understand what a co-op mill was to be like. And then nothing would satisfy Betty but she must offer to put £50 "into th' consarn, sink or swim, it were all one to her if it 'ud do 'em any good;" and then Tom had to begin all over again and make it clear that only the actual workers were to have any interest in the mill. "An' wheer are yo' buyin' yo'r wool?" asked Tom o' Fairbanks. And Tom and Ben looked grave, for they would have precious little left for wool-buying when the machinery was bought and set up. "At Hirst's, the wool stapler, in Huddersfield, I suppose," said Tom. "Now I don't take it friendly of you, or either of you," commented Mr. Redfearn. "I've bales and bales left over from th' last shearing, haven't we, Aleck?" And Aleck said "To be sure we have, an' fair gettin' maggoty for want o' usin'." "You must take it off my hands, Tom and Co.," said Redfearn. "I'll let you have it cheap, and you can pay me for it when you've had time to turn yourselves round." It is very sad that such things should be in a Christian land; but it is none the less true that the wool which later on Aleck carted to Co-op Mill had never coated the back of any sheep that grazed on Fairbank's field or moors, and why, about the same time, Farmer Redfearn should be buying wool in Huddersfield, Charles Hirst, the Huddersfield wool stapler, spent many an hour in vain attempt to divine. It was a glorious feast and a happy gathering, and happy folk those whose faces shone in the dancing rays of the glowing fire; but happiest of all the happy there was Workh'us Jack when Ben and Tom offered him the post of teamer and handy man at Co-op Mill, for Co-op Mill, the low grey mill at Hinchliffe Mill, had been christened without informal ceremony. "Aw'd ha' come mysen an' helped i'th mill," confided Aleck to Tom, as he walked a part of the homeward way with him and Ben. "But yo' see aw'm th' only one 'at stan's atween th' mester an' ower mich liquor. It's his only failin'. Nivver thee tak' to sperrits Tom. Be teetotal off _them_. Stick to ale an' nivver sup more nor five quarts at a sittin'. Tha'll nooan get fur wrang on that if th' ale's saand. Gooid neet, lad." CHAPTER XI THAT was a grand moment for Ben and Tom when the shuttle of the goit at Co-op Mill was drawn, and the water from the dam began to stream into the wheel-race and catch the buckets of the great wheel, transmitting its revolutions to the main shafting and machines. Little enough stock of wool and dye wares had they, and few indeed the engines for transforming by multiple processes the greasy, clotted fleeces into warp and weft and good broad pieces. But both knew every branch of the manufacturer's art, and each was more than willing to take his part, and more than his part, at scouring, dyeing, scribbling, or weaving. They employed very few hands, and each of these thoroughly understood that he was to be paid not only a fair day's wage for a fair day's work, but also a share of the profits; and it did not take long for Yorkshire shrewdness to discover that the better, the more thoroughly, each one worked, the better for one and all. There was no scamping the work, no idling. And there was no breaking time for sprees, no "laiking" because a chap felt Mondayish, and wanted an off-day or two to get over the effects of Saturday's and Sunday's debauch. Every hand at Co-op Mill began in a very brief time to shake off the enervating consciousness of the subservience of a hired labourer. He would not only not idle himself, he would tolerate no idling in a fellow labourer. There are tricks in every trade, or every trade is solely maligned. There are ways of shirking work, of making time pass in merely _seeming_ labour that one would think one as irksome in the long run to the operative as they are undoubtedly unjust to the employer. There was none of that at Co-op Mill. Set a thief to catch a thief, and a man who shirks and dawdles at his work steals the time that is indeed money. But let the man who works by your side be personally interested in the work you do, and the way you do it; there is no room there for shirking and dawdling. The lever of labour is, after all, self-interest, and so ingrained is self-interest that the only thing that can be asked of average human nature is that self-interest should not impinge on the self-interests of another. Now matters were so arranged at Co-op Mill that self interest was necessarily and unavoidably altruistic, and when this great truth was once fairly grasped and assimilated by the hands a spirit prevailed from scouring house to pressing-room that secured ready, willing abundant and thorough work, and the quality and the quantity of the work soon made themselves manifest in the final output. The finished pieces were a delight to the eye and to the touch. There was no occasion to employ a traveller to push their goods. The goods sold themselves. It had been resolved that suit-lengths might be bought at the mill at a little below ordinary retail prices. This was to contravene the commercial code; but Tom did not see why a man should be compelled to go to a tailor and the tailor to a merchant and pay the profits to two middlemen because of a commercial code that chiefly benefited the middlemen and never the consumer. No, the difficulty did not consist in finding purchasers; the difficulty was in putting out goods enough to supply the demand. But as Ben had predicted, so soon as the system began to be understood, and especially after the first "divvy" had been declared and actually taken home by the men and handed to their wives, there was no lack of proffers of service from men who were able, ready, and willing to put their "bit" into Co-op Mill. At present there was some demur to terms--bare interest on invested capital, no participation in profits over that limit. On this point Ben and Tom were inexorable, adamantine. "It shall _not_ be a capitalists' concern, it _shall_ be a workers'." And it was wonderful too, and heartening to note the harmony, the goodwill, the general sense of brotherhood that prevailed from counting-house downwards. There was no cringing, no toadying, no tale-hearing. There was the very presence, spirit, and revelation of a moral resolution. Nothing so ennobles a man as to feel that, so far as man can ever be in this network of human organism in which no thread is self-sufficient and self-dependent, he is his own man, with need to go cap in hand to no other. It is a feeling that, in Yorkshire is perhaps apt to run to truculence and the very savagery of self-assertion; but even so it is better than the cringing, fawning self-abasement of the rural districts of the midland villages where squire and priest are gods of earth and heaven. A man who threw in at the Co-op was a marked and envied man. The pick of the operatives were willing to take the looms as fast as they could be put up. It was Lucy who suggested that the new concern should go into the making of shawls. Everyone who knows the manufacturing districts of Yorkshire and Lancashire knows the shawl of the mill girl. It is to her what the cloak is to the Irish butter-woman, the plaid to the Scotch shepherd, or the mantilla to the Spanish donna. It was Dorothy who designed the pattern for the first shawl and, as time went on, the warm, bright-coloured covering might be seen over the head and shoulders of the women and girls in every mill in the Valley of the Holme. There was no need to be concerned about the texture or the fastness of the colours. It was a Co-op shawl. That was guarantee enough. Tom and Ben worked early and late. Tom indeed had had a bed fixed up in a small room of the lower story of the mill. Many a night, indeed often for weeks together every night except Saturday and Sunday, he slept in the mill. He was the one to open the mill-gate in the morning and greet the hands as they streamed into the yard and hand them their time checks. His was the hand that, when the long day, yet all too short for his endless round of duties, lagged to its weary close, fastened the gate upon the last of the toilers; and oft and oft, far into the silent hours, he would bend over stock-book and ledger or, when the moon shone high above the mill, would walk round the mill dam and up the rugged hank of the babbling stream that fed it. His constant companion was Jack, no longer Workh'us Jack, but Jack, plain Jack, or Jack o' th' Co-op, or Tom Pinder's Jack, anything but Workh'us Jack; a new, transformed Jack, wearing his corduroys and smock as proudly as if they had been a Field Marshal's uniform. Sometimes a wag, further learned than others, would dub him "Man Friday;" but it was all one to Jack. He was Tom's body servant, his dog, if need be, to fetch and carry. And who so popular all through that beautiful valley and who so welcome at the hill-side farms and cottages as cheery, smiling, cherry-faced Jack with his kindly jest and merry quip and crank? Why, he was worth a dozen commercial travellers rolled into one. When he led the cart from the mill to the coal-shoots and back, or went his round with the great red-coloured barrel on wheels in quest of the ammonia laden refuse of the house-hold it was a sorry day for Jack when he did not bring back two or three orders for the pretty, taking shawls, and what insight into the delightful vanities of lovely maiden Jack did not acquire on his rounds was really not worth noticing. But it was on a shawl for Lucy that Jack spent his first week's earnings at Co-op Mill, a dainty, modest shawl of softest fleece, a shawl, Jack declared, you could draw through a finger ring, and perhaps one might if the finger were one of Jack's. The rosy-cheeked, brown-eyed lasses of the little farms and homesteads, and the more forward wenches of the valley mills wasted their becks and nods and wreathed smiles on Jack. He took them all as a matter of course; but a look from Lucy's soft warm eyes, from which the pathetic wistfulness of long suffering had not yet worn away, would set Jack "all of a dither." It was for Lucy, when the season came, that he ransacked the hill sides for the peeping snowdrop, and the hedge-bottoms for the shy primrose; for Lucy that he bore home the nodding blue-bells and the blushing fox-glove, or the rare wild rose; for Lucy that he searched the brambles for the luscious blackberry, and bent his back o'er the purple heather for the nestling bilberry; for Lucy that he brought the thrilling thrush; for Lucy that he nearly broke his neck down the steps of the church belfry the day he secured the wild young jackdaw; and for Lucy that he weaned the perverse bird of its natural addition to choleric speech and general bad language. In Jack's eyes Lucy was fair and beautiful as any angel--and indeed her pale face was very sweet to look upon--and for him Lucy's lightest word--nay, such is the divination of affection--Lucy's unspoken thought was as law. And who so surely as Jack could rouse Lucy from the sad reveries into which her thoughts would sometimes stray, and bring back to her lips the pleasant smile and the gentle repartee that had neither sting nor lash? Who was it but Jack that nearly killed the barman at the _Rose and Crown_ because he soiled his lips with an unseemly jest involving both Tom and Lucy; who but Jack that, however urgent his business errands might be, never passed Ben's cottage without solicitous enquiry as to Lucy's health, and what sort of a night she had had, and how she had felt that day; and for whom but Lucy did Jack forswear cakes and ale? But now the last wild rose of the summer has blushed in the hedgerows, and the bracken of the moors is greying to sickly death; the brooks and rivulets fall from the heights in fuller stream and muttering a gloomier song and the long nights are at hand when men-folk of a social mind seek the creature comforts and the good-fellowship of taproom and bar. And this was the season which Ben and Tom deemed fitting for the launching of still another experiment. They had resolved of a Saturday night--that most dangerous of nights, when the wages in the breeches' pockets seem as if they would stand any inroad for the quenching pint throughout the winter months to have night classes at the mills for their own hands, and for as many of their friends as liked to come. There were to be first of all lessons in English History, and with history was to be taught in the only way it can be effectively taught, the geography of the wide, wide world. And the lessons in history were to be enlivened and made the more seductive by the reading of books of fiction and romance, of fable and poem dealing with the period under study, so that by the light of such heroes as _Hereward the Wake_, and _The Last of the Saxon Kings_, and _The Last of the Barons_, by the deathless pages of Avon's Swan, by the muse of Chaucer, of Spenser, and of Milton, the ages of the past lived before the eyes of these eager sons of toil, and they dwelt in the stately company of kings and warriors, cloistered saints and beautiful sinners, and saw, as in a waking dream, the stately drama of their country's making. There were lessons, too, in chemistry: and in the explosions of gases, the evolving of composite stenches and the pyrotechnics of phosphorescent combustion the younger hands found a joy that knew no satiety or abatement. But Tom confined his teaching to the veriest elements of inorganic chemistry, those whose interest in the subject clamoured for more must seek their further advancement in the fascinating subject elsewhere. It was to teach, to drive home, the great truth of fixed, unchanging, ruthless law that had been, from the first, the dominating idea. And when his pupils had once grasped thoroughly the idea of the all-pervading law in the material world, what was easier than to lead them, without their realising his drift and purpose, to the conception of the fixed, the immutable in the moral law, and what more easy to expel from minds so prepared the baneful influence of the extra-natural creeds that led so many to repose their confidence in the adventitious, the possible interposition of a _Deus ex machina_ to rescue them from the disasters they had courted for themselves. That twice two make four, neither more nor less, is a great fact; that H and Cl make hydrochloric acid and not Devonshire cream is also a fact; that happiness ensues upon well-doing and suffering upon sin, this also is a fact; but one the churches attenuate to men's minds by insisting upon a rote punishment that may be averted by timely repentance. Tom taught that punishment, mediate or immediate, direct or indirect, is here, and in this present time. Now Tom was not such a fool as to dub his discourses Lectures on Religion. He knew well enough that to do so would be to talk to empty benches. The orthodox are suspicious of religious instruction unless they receive it wearing a Sunday dress, and a Sunday face, and in a conventional conventicle established by the State, or by that force which is more powerful than the State, the approval of Madam Grundy. The unorthodox, for quite different reasons, would have shunned his class-room, though it was the weaving shed at Co-op Mill they would have suspected a snare to trap them into saintliness. So the astute Tom called his theses "Lectures on the Science of Living," and succeeded insidiously in making his hearers perceive that the Science of Living and Religion are one and the same thing; by Religion, of course, not being understood that _olla podrida_, or hotch-potch of legend, fable, history, surmise poetry, rhapsody, and morals which so many confound with religion. The expositions of this quite unheard of Science of Living were delivered on the Sunday afternoons and in the weaving shed at the mill. Another novelty was that there was no collection. And the lectures began to be talked about and be popular. "What are ta' fidgettin' abaat, Luke?" a constant caller at the _Croppers' Arms_ would ask as the minute-hand of the clock plodded towards the third hour of the Sunday afternoon. "A'm nooan fidgettin'; but aw mun be stirring." "Sit thee still, mon. There's time enough afore turnin'-aat time. Th' churchwardens wi'not be raand afore three an' after. Sup up an' let's fly for another quart. It'll be a long while till th' oppenin' time to-neet." "Nay aw'll ha' no more. I'm thinkin' aw'll just ha' a bit o' a stretch to sattle mi dinner." "Aye, weel, aw dunnot mind if aw've a bit o' a walk missen to stretch mi legs. Which way did ta think o' takkin'?" "Weel there's a nice stretch o' country up by Hinchliffe Mill way, an' we'st get a mouthfu' o' fresh air." "Tha's no bahn to th' Co-op Gospel-shop, are ta?" "Weel, aw winnot say but what aw meet look in, just to wind missen. Its' a bit o' a poo' fro' here to th' Top. An' there's no wheer aw can ca' to-day, worse luck." "Tha'll get nowt at th' Co-op, chuse ha. It's nobbut dry drinkin' they han on tap theer, folk say. But aw dunnot set thi on th' road a bit, an' if tha can stand Tom Pinder's preichin' aw reckon aw can. It's nooan like a regular chapel tha sees." And thus the lecture room filled. Now there were two men of all others who received the doings at Co-op Mill with disfavour. One was the Rev. David Jones. That very energetic preacher did not like to hear anyone's praises sung but his own. His Welsh fluency, his striking, daring flights of rhetoric, his excursions into tempting but dangerous speculations on the fundamental truths of the creed embodied, consecrated, and enshrined in the Trust Deed of Aenon Chapel, had secured for him the admiring following of considerable numbers of men who, whilst still clinging as for dear life to the shattered remnants of the old dogmas, turned longing eyes to the rationalism of a new criticism and a faith grounded upon human experience. They were like the frail ones of the softer sex, who concede all favours but the last, their heart or their passions consenting, their timidity restraining. Aenon Chapel was now packed with a new set of worshippers whose presence was not too welcome to the "old end," as the Conservative adherents of Calvinistic theology and tradition were styled. "Owd fire an' brimstone" the irreverent styled their leader and spokesman. But the objections of those chiefly responsible for the maintenance and carrying on of the chapel and school, whose father's money had built and furnished the edifice in which Mr. Jones declaimed his mild heresies, were stripped of their accustomed force by one all-persuasive consideration--the collection box. Never before in all the history of Aenon Chapel had the anniversaries of church and schools yielded so profitable a harvest to the anxious treasurer. The debt, without which it is commonly supposed no religious work can prosper, was reduced. Mr. Jones's stipend was increased. The deacons of former days were consumed with envy, and dolefully acknowledging that Mr. Jones had gone up like a rocket, expressed their hope that he might not come down like a stick, but expressed it in a tone that indicated their hope and expectation were not as one. But the new officers of the chapel exulted in their swelling money-bags, in the well-filled pews, and idolized the preacher of the new inspiration. And not only in his own chapel, but far and near spread the fame of the Rev. David Jones, and to chapel openings and consecrations, to missions and special efforts, invitations came in showers. He became the rage, and though he protested at any term that savoured of Episcopacy and the Scarlet Woman, he, in his heart of hearts, acknowledged the discernment of an ardent admirer who had publicly referred to him as the Bishop of the Holme Valley. At nights he dreamed of the Presidency of the Union. And now, when all things seemed to go well, people began to talk of the Sunday meetings at Co-op mill, and of Tom Pinder, who, folk said, spoke out what Jones only hinted at. "Aw'll tell yo' what it is," said one shrewd level-headed critic, "Aw've heard that pea-i'-a-bladder preich at Aenon Chapel, and aw've heard Co-op Tom fro' th' same text, but Pinder doesn't ca' it preichin', he ca's it explainin'." "An' what wer' text?" "Why t' eleventh commandment, and mi own opinion is 'at Pinder sees as far as th' purson, an' spits it aat like a man, upright and dahnwright, and a babby could tell what he meeans: but th' other chap, he goes as far as Pinder, but he beats abaat th' bush, an' he 'perhaps this' and 'may it not be that?' an' he watches th' deacons an' th' chief pew-howders to see ha' it gooas dahn, an' he lets hissen aat an' he poo's hissen in like th' cap'n of a sailin' booat wi' one eye on the clouds an' t'other on th' shoals an' reefers." "Nah, Pinder just says what's in him, an' if yo' dunnot like it yo can lump it. An' what's more, at th' end o' ivvery lectur', yo' can get up an' just ha' a few minnit's enjoyment o' yo'r own accaant an' pitch into th' discourse like owd Billy, an' th' harder yo' hit th' more Pinder seems to like it." "An' why canno' Jones speik it aat plain same as Pinder?" "Well, there's some folk so constitooted, yo' see, 'at they like to swim wi' th' tide an' 'll tak' uncommon gooid care nevver to waste their puff swimmin' up-stream. An' then yo' see, Jones has a large fam'ly, an' my misses says 'at Mrs. Jones wi' her rings an' mantles, an' feathers, an' faldelals can do wi' all 'at Jones can addle an' more at th' top on it." Now, of course talk of this kind in a village like Holmfirth not only circulates, it percolates and in time the gist and substance of it reached Mr. Jones. He had had hopes of Tom at one time. He had observed with satisfaction that this very intelligent-looking, well-behaved, well-spoken, neatly dressed young man had been an attentive listener and frequent worshipper at his own chapel, and that, on occasions, he had brought with him that quite-past-praying-for Ben Garside, a notorious mocker and a scoffer. Mr. Jones had accepted their presence as one of many just tributes to his zeal and eloquence. One had been rescued from the tepid waters of the Church, the other was a brand plucked from the burning depths of infidelity, and Mr. Jones had duly rejoiced. And lo! now the neophytes had backslided and people "of a Sunday" would pass the inviting doors of Aenon Chapel and walk some two miles of a sultry or wintry afternoon to listen to one who was not only not one of the Covenant, but who was ordained neither by Bishop, Presbytery, nor Congress. He resolved to speak seriously to this erring sheep; and chancing to meet Tom one day descending the hill from Hinchliffe Mill to the village, stopped him, smiling affably and holding out a condescending hand: "Good morning, Pinder, I'm glad to see you. How are we this morning?" "Very well, thank you, Jones. How are you?" "Ahem! Mr. Jones, if _you_ please." "Certainly; Mr. Pinder, if you please." "Oh! certainly; you see in my position--" "Exactly--and in mine." Now this was not a very promising beginning. "Well?" said Tom. "I'll turn with you, _Mr_. Pinder. You are doubtless more pressed for time than I. Parson's Monday, you know, is Parson's Sunday." "Parsons seem to have a fair share of Sundays to the week," said Tom, but without any malice in the remark. "I remember good old Mr. Whitelock of St. Chad's couldn't bear to see a visitor on Saturday--preparing for Sunday, I suppose. Then of course there was Sunday itself, and on Monday every parson I've ever met declares that he feels like a wet rag or a squeezed orange." "Well it takes it out of a man to have to preach two sermons a day. But you should know something about it. I understand you have a sort of service at your mill on Sunday afternoons?" "You can scarcely call our meetings services," Tom replied. "We have no hymns, no sermon, and no collection. We have no preacher and no deacons." "But I thought you were the preacher." "Then you have been misinformed. It is true that I select some reading, generally not always, from the Scriptures. Then I try to make its meaning, or the meaning of some particular verse or verses, clear as I understand them. That's all; it's really more of a chat than a set discourse." "I see." "Then again the discoursing or preaching or chatting is not all done by one man. My experience is that the combined experience and wisdom of an audience are greater than those of any ordinary individual. We are so fashioned that most of what we read in the Bible is read by the light of the reader's own experience of life, his observations and his reflection." "Well?" "And so when I get around me twenty or thirty men of divers habits of thought and each with his own views of life, I have the chance of getting at twenty or thirty different commentaries on a text. That is a gain: another is that no single one of _my_ commentators is concerned to square his construction of a passage with a hide-bound creed or with the convictions of any one of his hearers. The only thing we are concerned about is to get at the truth." "And cannot you get at it in the recognised places of worship. Doesn't it savour of conceit to set yourselves apart as people better and wiser than their neighbours?" "Oh! Well, come to that, Mr. Jones, you are a Dissenter yourself, you know. You dissented from established orthodoxy. We aren't afraid of dissenting from orthodox dissent." "But there must be limits, young man; there must be limits." "Yes," assented Tom. "There must be limits. There are the limitations of the human mind. We don't seek to go beyond them." Mr. Jones was now thoroughly roused. He was a man of no mean intelligence and of a wide range of reading. If also he was a man of insatiable vanity and inordinate ambition, perhaps the atmosphere of adulation in which he lived, the incense of incompetent judges, were the chief causes. He felt now that he was talking to a man of sense and fearlessness. Now it is a treat to talk with a man who has the sense and the patience and the disposition to think for himself, and the courage to speak his thoughts. Mr. Jones walked in silence for a time, Tom moderating his longer stride to keep time with the cleric's shorter pace. "I hope," said Mr. Jones, at length, "I hope your teaching is based on the cardinal principles of Christianity?" "And those?" "The Immaculate Conception and the Resurrection of our Lord." "Those are not principles Mr. Jones. They are either facts or inventions." "And you declare them as facts?" "I don't myself touch on them at all. I confine myself to the cardinal principles about which you have enquired." "And those?" enquired Mr. Jones, in his turn. "The fatherhood of God, the majesty, the wisdom, the sanctity of His laws, and--the brotherhood of man." Mr. Jones shook his hand sadly. "That is merely Natural Religion," he commented. "Men will find it but a broken reed in the hour of temptation and the time of sorrow." "It suffices," said Tom "for some of the wisest, the best-living, the most benevolent of men." "Aye?" questioned Mr. Jones. "The Jews," said Tom quietly. "Contrast the life of the average Jew with that of the average Christian. Will you find the difference always in favour of the Christian?" "Surely, yes," said Mr. Jones. "An unbeliever can never have the impregnable assurance that we find in the crucified Christ." "Not in the loving-kindness of the Father," said Tom. "You exalt the Son at the expense of the Father?" "Dear me, dear me," said Mr. Jones. "This is worse than I thought. I am afraid you are all astray, my young friend. I beseech you consider your ways, reflect on the danger you are in, the perils that compass you round about. Above all pray without ceasing, pray for light and guidance." "I do pray, Mr. Jones. I pray every day; I pray at my bed-side, I pray at my work, in my daily walks." "Ah! But prayer without faith is but a beating of the air. You must have an intercessor with your offended God, a sacrifice for His outraged laws." "Mr. Jones, I respect your zeal and think you mean well. I do sacrifice. I offer myself as a living sacrifice. It is all I have to offer. When the great account is made up my life must plead for me. If that will not avail, I have little confidence in any other plea. But I did not seek this interview, Mr. Jones nor choose this topic, or is this, main street of Holmfirth, the best place for such discussion as we have drafted into. My main business to-day is to determine how much a bale I can afford to give for the best Spanish wool that is the part of my Master's business that I am intent on just now. If I remember that it _is_ my Master's business, I shan't be so far wrong, shall I? And I'm going to try to make a bargain with a Jew wool-stapler, and I'm no more afraid of being overreached than if he were a Christian. But come up to Co-op Mill, and have a fling at my class you'll be made heartily welcome. Fix your own time, but come." "God forbid," said Mr. Jones, as Tom darted into the railway station, just in time to catch the Huddersfield train. Jabez Tinker was as little pleased as his spiritual guide with the rumours to which he could not well be deaf, concerning the success of the novel enterprise of his former apprentice. From the first he had predicted disaster for the venture. It was the crack-brained scheme of an addle-pated enthusiast and a misguided, self-opinionated youth. That was his opinion, and he did not keep his opinion to himself. But as time went on and the bankruptcy he had foretold did not overwhelm the Co-op Mill; as old and tried hands who had been with him for years, one after the other, left Wilberlee for the small concern higher up the stream, Jabez began to feel the irritation of the prophet whose vaticinations have come to nought. It would not be fair to say that Jabez begrudged Tom and Ben their success. That success could scarcely be considered to have injured him in his business. The operations, the rise or fall of Co-op Mill, were in his eyes beneath anything but contemptuous notice. But he could not conceal from himself that he would have better pleased to have seen Tom coming to him, cap in hand, to sue for reinstatement at Wilberlee. He had a sort of rankling resentment against Tom for refusing his own proffer of protection and advancement. When he had made that offer he had plumbed himself on his magnanimity--and, indeed, it was a generous offer. Jabez Tinker's pride was wounded, and Jabez Tinker was a proud man. One day he chanced to meet Nehemiah Wimpenny, the lawyer. It was near the time for the elections to the Local Board, of which Mr. Tinker had been so long the chairman and autocrat that the other members of the Board might just as well have stopped at home as attended the monthly meetings. Wimpenny was the clerk. "Well, we shall soon have the elections upon us, Mr. Tinker, and I suppose you have heard the news. Rum start, isn't it? What next, I wonder." "I've heard no particular news that I'm aware of, Wimpenny. I'm no gad-about, as you know." "Ah, well! It's an old saying that we've to go from home to hear news, especially if it happens to concern ourselves. Not that this is likely to give you much uneasiness." "Well what is it?" asked Tinker, uneasily. "Oh! It's hardly worth retailing. Sorry I mentioned it; but they are saying in the village you are to be opposed at the next election." "Me! Opposed! Well, I'm ready, and pray, who is to be my 'honourable opponent,'--that's the expression, isn't it? 'Pon my word, I'll relish a good stand-up fight. I've been returned unopposed so often that a good, vigorous opposition will do me good." "Well," said Wimpenny slowly, "I'm not sure you'll think your honourable opponent a foeman worthy of your steel. You'll never guess who they're talking about." Mr. Tinker rapidly reviewed, mentally, all men of the neighbourhood likely to enter the lists against him. "I'm a bad hand at conundrums," he said, "I give it up." "What would you say to that insolent young upstart at Co-op Mill?" "What! Tom Pinder! confound the puppy. Why, there'd be little honour in defeating him. D----n his impudence. But you're joking, Wimpenny, and I tell you I like joking as little as conundrums. But there,--the fellow isn't worth a thought. A nameless workhouse bastard oppose me! Well, you've had your joke, Wimpenny; next time we meet try and think of a better one." And Tinker strode angrily away, without much ceremony. As a matter of fact there had been talk of nominating Tom for a seat on the Board, and the matter had been even broached to Tom himself. But Tom had from the first scouted the idea. He had enough on his hands looking after his own concerns, and he had sense enough to know that if a man won't stick to his business his business won't long stick to him. But when it transpired that, had he consented, he would have had to fight his old master, Tom was indignant. What did people take him for, he wondered. He felt that for him to pit himself against Mr. Tinker would have been a gratuitous insult to the man who had been his master for so many years. He knew that it would be to wound that master in his most sensitive spot, and he had a respect for family pride all the greater, perhaps, because he himself had no family ties or traditions to be proud of. And he shuddered to think what Dorothy might say to his presumption and ingratitude should the mere suggestion of his possible candidature reach her ears. But of Tom's way of meeting the proposal Mr. Tinker was, of course, as yet, quite unaware. He had taken it for granted that Wimpenny was well informed, that he would not have repeated to him a vulgar _canard_. And Mr. Tinker was therefore in high dudgeon when he spoke to Dorothy on the subject. "Does that Tom Pinder live at Garside's yet?" he asked. Dorothy opened her eyes in wonderment. It was the first time she remembered her uncle to have so much as mentioned Tom's name to her. "I believe so, off and on. But I think Lucy Garside, Ben's daughter, told me they see very little of him except on Sunday night. He seems to spend both day and night at his mill. Lucy says he does the work of three men." "You seem to be very intimate with these Garsides. 'Lucy' comes very pat to your lips. Do you see much of them? Do you ever meet this Pinder there?" "Oh, yes, sometimes." "I think you might remember you are my niece. Such people as we are not fit associates for the Garsides; still less for their lodger." "Law! uncle, what have they done now? I've known Lucy ever since I could toddle almost." "That may be. It's your aunt's fault, I suppose. I can't attend to everything. And now your aunt's illness keeps her at Harrogate you do pretty much as you like, I suppose." "When the cat's away the mice will play," thought Dorothy; but only thought it. "Well," continued Jabez, "you mustn't visit the house any more. I won't have it. If you don't respect yourself, you must respect me. You must drop these Garsides and Pinder too. By the bye, come to think of it, Wimpenny told me something about you seeming to be very familiar with Pinder at the Whitsuntide gathering. I didn't take much notice of it at the time. But be good enough to ignore him next time you chance to meet him." "I'm sure I'm much obliged to Mr. Wimpenny for his interest in my movements," said Dorothy. "Are you acting on his advice, uncle? Did he charge you 'six--an'-eight' for it? He must be very smart, for I'm sure it isn't worth half the money." "This is no laughing matter miss, I'd have you know, I tell you, you must drop these Garsides, and that young puppy too." "Who? Mr. Wimpenny?" "D----n Mr. Wimpenny," roared Jabez. "You know my meaning very well. See to it that you heed it. People will be saying next that you are running after the jackanapes." Dorothy blushed scarlet. There was an angry gleam in her eye. She drew herself up proudly. "I am a Tinker, sir, no less than you. I was left to choose my friends when I was young and needed, perhaps, a guide. I call Lucy Garside my friend, and so long as Lucy Garside deems me hers, be sure I shall not do as you command. As for Mr. Pinder----" "Your precious Pinder," snarled Jabez. "You had better go to him and learn from him how your brother's daughter and your niece should be addressed." Dorothy swept out of the room. Oh! Jabez! Jabez! How little you know the heart of woman. It is safe to say that from that hour Dorothy never thought of the unconscious Tom without resentment against her uncle, and a feeling that certainly was not resentment for Tom. Mr. Tinker felt in anything but a Christian spirit when his niece so defiantly left the room, and he knit his brow in angry meditation. "Am I never to be done with that Tom Pinder?" ran his thoughts. "I pick him up out of the workhouse; he knocks my overseer head over heels; he refuses the handsomest offer I ever made to anyone in my life; starts in business on his own account, and now, forsooth, has the audacity to try conclusions with me at the polling-booth. I've a good mind to let him have a walk-over. There'll be no credit in beating him--that I'm sure to do but if by any chance he should head the poll--but that's not to be thought of. I'll give the cub something else to think of besides canvassing, or my name's not Jabez Tinker. If a man will play at bowls he must expect rubbers." And as a result of his deliberations the manufacturer once more found himself in the office of Mr. Nehemiah Wimpenny. "Come to sign your will, Mr. Tinker? It's been ready for you this--I don't know how long. I thought you'd forgotten all about it, and yet you seemed in a precious hurry about it when you gave me the instructions." "No, it's not about my will I've come. That can wait, I think. In fact I may have to vary my instructions. I'm not quite satisfied with my niece's conduct lately. But we won't go into that at present. It's another, a more important one." Nehemiah settled himself in his chair and gave all his mind to his client; but Jabez seemed for the nonce to have lost his usual promptitude and decision. He had to pick his words. "It's a question of water-right," he said at last. "H'm, ticklish things, very," said Nehemiah. "Nothing more so." "So I've always understood," said Jabez--"and costly." "Yes, costly. You might almost pave Holmfirth with the gold that's been spent on law over disputes about water. But let me have the facts. Perhaps it may not be a complicated case at all." But his client seemed in no hurry to state the facts. He seemed to be more interested in the question of cost. "Suppose I have a complaint to make against a firm higher up the stream, what are the proceedings to be taken?" "What do you complain about, fouling or improperly tapping your supply?" Mr. Tinker took time to reply. "I don't quite follow you," he said. "Why," said Nehemiah, "water-right cases are usually complaints that a man has fouled the stream with dye-water or chemicals or by diverting ochre-water from above his own head-goit so that it may enter the river below his own mill but above his neighbour's. That's one class of case, and a comparatively easy one. The other is when a mill-owner fancies that the water that has passed over his neighbour's water-wheel is not returned to the stream for his own use lower down the stream. Now that's always a very delicate question, and one for experts. And it's well known that for one surveyor you get to swear on your side, another can be got to swear on the other. They're as bad as vets, in a horse-warranty case. Now which class of infringement do you complain of?" Again Mr. Tinker had to pause for a reply. "O both," he said. "Yes, certainly, both." "Why," exclaimed Wimpenny, "whose mill is it?" "The Co-op Mill," said his client, somewhat shamefacedly, as the lawyer thought. "What! That fellow, Pinder! By Jove, I'm glad of this. Gad! I'm as pleased as if you'd told me I was own brother to the Prince of Wales. But"--and his face fell. "But what?" asked Jabez, sharply. "It'll be lean picking, even if we win. I don't suppose the whole concern's worth powder and shot." "And why are you anxious powder and shot should be spent on Pinder?" asked Tinker, suspiciously. "Oh, well I don't mind telling you, Mr. Tinker. The fact is, I was rather hard hit by your beautiful niece, if you'll excuse my saying so." "Well?" said Mr. Tinker, stiffly. "But she seemed to prefer that low fellow Pinder's company to mine, and if she's no better taste than that, well, I'm not the one to enter the running against a screw." Mr. Tinker winced. "You seem to lose heart very easily, Mr. Wimpenny. Young men weren't so easily discouraged in my young days." "Much you know about it," thought the lawyer. "A spirited young woman like Dorothy Tinker's rather a different sort of an undertaking from old Split's scarecrow of a daughter." By mutual consent to the men reverted the less embarrassing question of water rights. "Just explain to me, Wimpenny, what must be done to vindicate my rights." "Well, you must file a Bill in the Court of Chancery, and you must file affidavits by the oldest inhabitants as to the customary service of the water, and by analysts as to pollution, and you must go for damages, and you'll have to get other manufacturers to assess the damages, and, oh!--yes, you might try for an _interim_ injunction." "And Pinder'll have to set another lawyer on?" "Of course he will." "And that'll cost _him_ money, win or lose?" "Rather." "Then go at him hammer and tongs, and the sooner you begin and the hotter you go at him, the better you'll please me." "But the evidence?" "You must find the evidence, sir. I don't care whether I win or lose. But Co-op Mill must stop. For want of water if we win: for want of funds if we lose." "Do you understand me?" "You bet I do, and I'll tell you this, I never went into a case with better heart. You may rest easy, Mr. Tinker. Co-op Mill's as good as broke." It was but a week or so after this interview that Workhouse Jack, loitering about the mill yard, espied a seedy looking fellow peering in at the mill-gates. It was a Saturday afternoon. The engine was stopped, the hands had trooped home, Tom and Ben had gone for a walk, and Jack was in sole charge. He was dressed in his Sunday best, and meditating a visit to the village, and, of course, Lucy. He knew the visitor at once for Wimpenny's process server. The process server did not know Jack. "Can I see Mr. Pinder?" the man asked. "Aye, if yo're none blind," answered Jack. "What's your will?" "Oh, beg your pardon, sir. Didn't know it was you. This is for you, sir, and he slipped a paper into Jacks hand." "It's a petition in Chancery filed by our client, Mr. Jabez Tinker, against you, sir." "A 'tition, is it," said Jack "an' what mun aw do wi' it nah aw've getten it?" "Better see your lawyer about it." "Oh! an' what 'ud ha' happened, now, just for argyment's sake, if yo'd dropped this ere precious dockyment i'stead o' 'liverin' it to me?" The clerk was not prepared to say. "I don't know indeed. Perhaps the action couldn't go on." "Oh! It couldn't, eh?" "I'm not sure. But any way, I _have_ served it: so it's no use going into that." "Aye, yo'n sarved it," assented Jack. "Just step this way, will yo', while aw run mi e'en ovver it," and so saying, Jack led the way into the boiler-house. Then Jack deliberately locked the door. "What does this mean?" asked the clerk. "It just meeans this. Yo' look as if a square meeal 'ud do yo' all th' gooid i'th' warld, an' aw reckon yo've got to eit this bit o' papper afore yo' cum aat." Jack flung it at him and sat quietly down. "Yo' may ta' yo'r time, aw'm no ways pressed mi sen. If yo' feel it a bit dry aw'll find yo' a can o' watter to wesh it dahn wi'; but eit it yo' do afore yo' see dayleet agen." "But, Mr. Pinder!" "Mr. Pinder, indeed yo' gorm fooil. A'm nooan Mr. Pinder. Mr. Pinder's a gentleman. Aw'm nobbut his man. Nah, ger agate: Sooiner yo'r' at it, an' sooiner yo'll ha' done." And in the boiler-house Tom found the custodian of Co-op Mill and his prisoner. To Jack's indignation Tom quietly pocketed the petition and released the clerk with an apology and a solatium. CHAPTER XII TO say that the service of the bill in Chancery on Tom was like a bolt from the blue would be but feebly to describe the consternation with which he perused the portentous document, and in time realized its meaning and effect. Tom was absolutely unconscious that either in thought, word, or deed he had wronged any of his neighbours below stream. He had not, to his knowledge, turned more dye-water into the river, or taken more pure water from it than the reasonable working of his mill demanded, and had been afore-time accustomed by his predecessor. He had received no complaint from Mr. Tinker, no request for abatement of any nuisance he might unwittingly have committed, or infringement he might innocently have caused, Nehemiah Wimpenny in his zeal to do his client's behests, and in the animus he himself cherished against Tom, had even pretermitted the usual letter of courtesy preceding the firing of the first shot, the letter which in litigation is like the pourparlers of ambassadors preparatory to the formal declaration of war--an omission by the way, which Nehemiah had subsequent occasion to repent in sack-cloth and ashes. But for the present Nehemiah was jubilant and elate. Affidavits simply rained upon Tom. Photographers and surveyors swarmed about the banks of the Holme above and below Co-op Mill, and its waters were analysed and tested qualitatively and quantitatively as though the fate of empires depended on the issue. It was plain that Wimpenny meant to press the motion for an interim injunction, the effect of which would be to stop, if but temporarily, the work at Co-op Mill, and would of itself be as disastrous to its tenant as a final decree after full trial. Tom and Ben discussed the situation in all its bearings. "Aw'll tell yo' what it is," said Ben, "it's nowt but spite. Aw've known this stream, man and boy, for ovver fifty year, an' th' Co-op Mill as mony. An' a hangel fro' heaven couldn't mak' me believe as we'n done owt 'at Jabez Tinker's a reight to complain on. It's nowt but spite, Tom, it's th' owd tale ovver agen o' th' wolf an' th' lamb. He meeans to eit us up flesh an' bone, that's th' long an' th' short on it. An' what for? That lays ovver me entirely. Tha's nivver crossed him i' owt, has ta, Tom?" And then, for the first time Tom told his friend of the offer Tinker had made to him at the close of his apprenticeship. "An' what didn't ta tak' th' shop for, Tom? It 'ud ha' been a seet easier for thee nor startin' at th' Co-op?" "Well, you see Ben, we'd made all our arrangements and--" "Aye, aye, aw see, lad, tha wer' feeart aw sud think tha'd thrown me ovver. Eh, lad, me and yar Hannah an' Lucy too, for that matter, 'ud ha' gone to th' big house afore yo' sud ha' gone agen yo'r best interests for us." "Oh, nonsense, Ben. I preferred the Co-op scheme. I never enjoyed my life so much as I have done since we went into it, and I shall never cast a regretful thought over either the labour or the wee bit money it has cost me. What worries me, Ben, so I can't sleep o'nights, is the thought of the men who have joined us and put their life-savings into the concern. I shall never hold up my head again if they are to lose their money through their confidence in me." "And i' me, Tom, i' me, too. Yo' see, lad, yo' wer' i' a manner o' speikin' a stranger; but they'd known me all my life. But aw'm nooan feeart they'll blame oather on us, after th' first shock's ovver. But if they dunnot ma' Jabez Tinker sweeat for this job, they're nooan th' lad's aw tak' 'em for. If yo' know onybody 'at's interested i' insurance companies just yo' tell 'em to fight shy o' Wilberlee Mill," answered Ben savagely. "That's nonsense, Ben, and yo know it. Now what's to be done?" "Let's go see Mister Re'fearn," suggested Ben. "I'm afraid he may think we want to ask him to help us out. We must take no money, Ben, from anybody. We'll keep our good names if we lose every stick we have." "Oh! tha needn't be so tetchy, Tom, Redfearn's nooan fooil enough to lend us money to throw away. But yo' know he's had more deealin's wi' th' law nor us, an' though it gooas agen th' grain, aw expec' we'st ha' to put a lawyer on to this job. We mun set a thief to catch a thief, aw ma' no daat." So Tom and Ben set off for Fairbank's and were fortunate enough to find Mr. Redfearn at home. He would hear no talk of business till all had sat down to a good dinner in his own well-furnished sitting room. "Folk always look on th' gloomy side of things when their belly's empty," he observed, "an' taking too doleful a way o' lookin' at things is just as foolish as takin' too cheerful a one," from which profound truism it will be seen that the farmer had learned something in the school of life that is not taught in academies or college. He listened at first to the story that Tom unfolded with the utmost attention and gravity. He even insisted on Tom reading to him the Chancery Bill and the pile of affidavits, but the prolixity and tautology of the legal phrasing soothed him like a soporific. "It's like bein' i' Church," he muttered drowsily; and presently to complete the analogy, fell into a slumber from which he was only aroused by the entrance of Mrs. Redfearn with decanters, lemon, sugar and hot water, and a bottle of home-made rhubarb wine for the special cheer of Tom, whose habits she knew. "Yo' munnot think aw've been asleep" said Fairbanks. "Aw wer' thinkin', an' aw can allus think best wi' mi e'en shut. Th' missus theer 'll tell yo' aw speik th' truth, for 'oo often thinks awm asleep when 'oo's givin' me a leckter upstairs; but aw know ivvery word oo's said th' next mornin' better than 'oo does hersen." "An' much good my talkin' does you, and much notice you take of it," said Mrs. Redfearn, "but if yo' _have_ been thinkin' let's hear what you've thowt on." "Tell Aleck to put Bob i' th' shafts. We'r' bahn to Huddersfilt. This is a lawyer's job, Tom, an' aw think aw know th' varry man for yo'. Yo' know Sykes 0' Wrigley Mill. He's a lad i' Huddersfilt 'at used to be a sort o' teacher wi' Mr. Black, an' then wer' 'prenticed to a 'torney in th' taan. He's started for hissen now. He's as full o' law as an egg's full o' meit, so folk sayn. But he'll neer ma' much aat awm feeart, for when he gets on his hind legs to speik, d-- me if he can say boh! to a gooise. His wits all go a wool gatherin' but he knows th' law, none better, aw'm towd. An' believe me or believe me not aw do think he's honest so that wi' his narvousness an' his honesty, he'll not mak' much aat as a 'torney. Aw'm feart oather on 'em's a drawback i' his job; but _both_ together's enough to sink a clivverer man nor Edwin Sykes 'll ever be." It cannot be said that the anxious trio got much comfort from Mr. Sykes. He told them frankly that at the very best the litigation must be costly and prolonged, and that in the long run the Court would probably be guided by the weight and authority of the expert evidence. "Now that means purse against purse. And I'm afraid, Mr. Pinder, that our guns are neither so many nor so heavy as our opponent's. And Wimpenny won't give us much rest." One grain of consolation they did bear away with them, however. Mr. Sykes was able to assure them that there was small likelihood of the Court granting an _interim_ injunction. "The Judge will know that to stop the work at the mill, even temporarily, would mean a probably irreparable loss. He won't prejudge the case on an interlocutary proceeding. That will give you time to turn yourself round, Mr. Pinder, and I should say your best plan would be to look out for a mill lower down the stream, _below_ Mr. Tinker's. Then perhaps you can have a fling at him some fine day." "Eh! he's a deep 'un is Ned for all his quiet ways. Talks like a judge doesn't he? What's that word--inter summat?" "Interlocutory," said Tom. "An' just think 'at aw've cuffed that lad mony a time when aw've found him moonin abaat Fairbanks wi' a book i' his hand. It's just wonderful what education 'll do." It did not remain a secret in Holmfirth that the new Co-op was in Chancery--name of dread import. _Omne ignotum pro magnifico_. The utmost that even the fairly well-informed could tell about Chancery was that it was a bottomless pit from which there was no escape, or a kind of legal den where the lawyers fed on the oysters called estates, flinging out the shells for the suitors to quarrel or get reconciled over. That was the utmost; but it was enough. Tom called a private meeting of all the hands and told them the facts. Their first feeling was one of blank dismay, their next and abiding feeling one of dogged resistance. "It's the devil's plot, and hatched in hell," said the spokesman of the men who had money in the concern. "But we'll fight to the finish, an' bi what we'n heard abaat this here Chancery, th' finish 'll be abaat th' same time as th' Day o' Judgment." The news reached Dorothy through the faithful Betty. "Well, the law can't hurt Mr. Pinder if he's done nothing wrong," said her young mistress "The law is for evil-doers, and I suppose Mr. Pinder is not an evil-doer. He's a very innocent looking one if he is." "Ah! it's little yo' know about th' law, or me oather, come to that. But aw keep mi ears oppen an' they _do_ say,--" "Which, being interpreted, means 'Serjeant Ramsden of the County Constabulary,'" interrupted Dorothy, with an arch smile. "Well, what do they, _alias_ Serjeant Ramsden, say." "Why," answered Betty in no wise abashed. "He, aw meean they, say 'at it doesn't matter a brass farden i' Chancery whether a man's i' th' reight or th' wrang. It's th' longest purse at wins i' th' long run. Th' Serjeant says, miss, 'at if Tom wins i' one court yo'r uncle can peeal to a higher court, an' on an' on till it reaches th' Lord Hissen." "The Lords, you mean, perhaps, Betty." "Weil, it's all as one, for ought aw can see. It's naked we come into th' world, and naked we go aat on it, an aw reckon Tom 'll be stripped pretty stark afore th' case gets up to th' Lords." "But what's it all about, Betty? Dear me, if being in love makes a woman so tiresome as you are, I hope such a calamity will never befall me. What _has_ Mr. Pinder done?" "Oh!" said Betty, "there's no hope o' yo'r escapin' it unless so be as yo'r minded to play a very one-sided game. But if yo' ax me what th' law stir's abaat, as far as aw can mak' aat th' _mester_ says it's abaat th' watter-reets to th' mill, but _folk_ sen it's nowt but spite, so nah yo' han it plump an' fair." "Meaning that my uncle has gone to law with his former apprentice from some petty feeling of jealousy, or just to cripple him or even ruin him?" "That's th' talk o'th village, choose ha." "Well, I don't believe it, Betty. My uncle is incapable of such conduct. But I'll soon find out for myself. Get me my hat and cape this moment. I'm going out." And Dorothy walked with quick, resolute steps to Ben Garside's house. She was fortunate enough to find Lucy alone, and of this she was glad, for she was in no humour to enjoy Hannah's garrulous speech. "What's this I hear, Lucy, about my uncle going to law with Mr. Pinder. I can make neither head nor tail of Betty at home, so I've come to you. It seems to me there's something about law that forbids people to be intelligible when they're talking of it?" "Your uncle," said Lucy very gravely, "has served a Bill in Chancery, I think they call it, on Tom." "What in the name of common sense is a Bill in Chancery? I know what a dressmaker's bill is, but the other variety is beyond me." "I don't quite know all the ins and outs of it," replied Lucy, still very seriously. "But so far as I can make out your uncle complains that Tom fouls the stream and takes more water out than he's any right to, and of course as Wilberlee is lower down the stream it must injure your uncle if it's true." "And is it true?" asked Dorothy. "Both Tom and father say there isn't a word of truth in it." "And you believe them?" "Of course I do," said Lucy simply. "Then what is there to look so gloomy about? 'Pon my word, Lucy, if you go on in the dumps like that I'll shake you. I only wish somebody would bring a false charge against me. There's nothing I should enjoy more than making them prove their words at no end of trouble and expense, and then laughing at the faces they'd pull when they failed to do it. If that's Chancery I call Chancery a very good joke." "Aye, but Tom says it will take all they have in the world to prove that they're in the right, and that month after month, for goodness knows how long, the money that should go for wages and in carrying on the mill must go to their lawyer. So it means ruin, win or lose." "And that's what they call law, is it?" exclaimed Dorothy. "Anybody could see a set of men noodles made it. But what are they going to do?" "Just carry on as long as they can, and then I don't know what. It doesn't matter so much for father. He can take to his hand-loom again, and now I'm so much stronger I hope to be a help to him. I can spin wonderful. But it will be a sad blow for Tom. His whole heart and soul were in the mill. Not for the money. I never knew anyone care less for money than Tom. But the hands were so contented and father says it was to prove a social and economic revolution, whatever that may mean." "It means apparently," said Dorothy "ruining yourself for the general good. Does Tom,--Mr. Pinder, take it much to heart?" "He pretends not to, always tries to put a cheerful face on when he talks to mother. But I know it's just crushing the youth out of him. But it's because those that went in with him may have to lose their money. And father says there'll be no room for Tom in these parts if th' Co-op's stopped. The other manufacturers are sure to side with your uncle, and they'll none of them give Tom a job if he asked for it." "Oh! they wouldn't, eh?" Then suddenly. "Is Tom _very_ dear to you, Lucy?" Lucy flushed, and her eyes fell before Dorothy's questioning look. But her voice, though low, was very steady as she spoke. "I love him very much, Dorothy. Next to the love I have for mother and father there is no one in the world to me like Tom. He is my big brother, you know," she added, with a faint smile. "Oh! Those big brothers have a way of turning into big lovers," said Dorothy. "That's just their artful way. They get a poor innocent confiding girl to feel like a sister, and then when she begins to feel she cannot very well do without him, nothing will do but a ring and a parson. I know them," said Dorothy viciously. "Tom will never be _my_ lover, Dorothy," said Lucy, quietly. "And why pray, Miss Pale-face?" "Because he loves someone else. He has loved her for years." "What Parson Tom engaged! Tragedy upon tragedy. There are two blighted beings then; the course of their true love, ruffled by this dreadful Chancery. And who's the luckless she? This is a world of surprises. Tom was not such a bat as to look outside this house for a prettier face and a sweeter heart than he'll find inside it." "I didn't say Tom was engaged," said Lucy. "I know you didn't. Well, if it isn't I'll not venture another guess. Still, I'm a daughter of Eve after all, and I confess I hope Mr. Pinder is not going to throw himself away on some good-looking empty-head of a girl--a calf-love. You said it was a malady of standing, contracted young, if I remember." "Yes, she's good-looking," said Lucy. "_And_ empty-headed?" "You wouldn't like me to say so." "I! What have my likes to do with it? It's no concern of mine. Really, you stimulate my curiosity. Is it anyone I know? Does she go to our chapel?" "Yes, she goes to Aenon," said Lucy. "But there, I'll tell you no more." "Oh! I can guess, and thank you for nothing. It's that apprentice of Miss Baxter's, the milliner. Now don't deny it. I saw Mr. Pinder looking at her very much the last Sunday he honoured Aenon. The girl with the green gloves. The taste of some men--in dress I mean." "Have it your own way," said Lucy, "you'll find out someday, perhaps." "Oh! Bother Tom Pinder and his lady-loves green gloves as well. However did we get talking of such a trifle! Now, seriously, Lucy, do your father and the other want to fight this case, and can they win if they can fight." "They say so. But what's the use of talking. If ifs and buts were apples and ducks!" "And who knows but they are," said Dorothy, springing to her feet. She kissed Lucy with a bright face. "Don't lose heart, little pale-face. They aren't beaten yet. Tell them not to give in. I say so. Now, good-bye,--you're sure it's green gloves?" "You know I never said so. But good-bye." It is never safe to be certain about anything connected with the law; but the opinion may be hazarded that never in the long years of his tenancy did the office of Mr. Edwin Sykes receive a fairer client than the young lady who was closeted with that sedate professor of the gloomy science not long after the interview just recorded. The young lady did not seem in the least impressed by the sombre volumes of statutes and reports that lined the walls of the room, nor yet by the tape-bound bundles of foolscap, draft, and brief, neatly docketed, that were spread on a table by the lawyer's side, so many pot-eggs, the ribald alleged, to tempt the unwary to lay. Dorothy had accepted the chair Mr. Sykes had handed her, but flicked its horse-hair cushion with a delicate cambric handkerchief before complying with his invitation to be seated. "How very musty everything is," she remarked in explanation. "If I'd walked the length of New Street after sitting on your chair without first dusting it, everyone would have said either that I'd been knocked down by a tramp and robbed on my way from Holmfirth, or been to visit an attorney. There mayn't be much difference in the consequences," she added reflectively, "but I don't want all the world to know my business. You can keep a secret, I suppose, Mr. Sykes?" "It is part of my business," the lawyer answered. "Even from Mrs. Sykes--there is a Mrs. Sykes, I suppose." "Well, yes, as you are good enough to ask, there _is_ a Mrs. Sykes,--and till to-day I thought her the most daring of her sex" he would have liked to add. "Ah! That's a comfort. Now I can tell you everything. You wouldn't think now I'm in great trouble, and I want you to help me out of it, and not a living soul but you must know about it." As Dorothy looked radiantly happy as she made this doleful plaint it may be assumed that Mr. Sykes argued her case was not so desperate as her words. "If you will tell me, Miss Tinker, the nature of your trouble I may be able to prescribe for you. We poor lawyers are not so clever as the doctors. We can't diagnose by the looks, or, I confess, I should not advise you to abandon hope." "And this is the lawyer Ben said couldn't say Boh! to a goose," thought Dorothy. "Now, how shall I begin?" she said. "Suppose you try the beginning," he suggested. "You know Mr. Pinder, of Holmfirth?" asked Dorothy, glancing at a formidable pile of papers on the desk labelled "Pinder at the suit of Tinker." "If you mean Mr. Tom Pinder, of Co-op Mill, Hinchliff Mill, I think I may go so far as to say I do." "Come, that's something," said Dorothy. "You are so very cautious you might have added 'without prejudice.' Now is it a very bad case?" she concluded. "Really! Miss Tinker." "Now I don't want any humming and ha-ing, you know, Mr. Sykes. I take a very great interest in Mr. Pinder--well, not in him you know. That's ridiculous: but in Lucy, you know" and Dorothy nodded with great significance, whilst the lawyer felt that he was getting deeper and deeper into a bog. "I confess I don't know," he said, "and I must ask you to be a little more explicit." "Well,--dear me! How tiresome you are--it's about this quarrel between uncle Jabez and Mr. Pinder." "Are you Mr. Tinker's niece? Then really, Miss Tinker, I think if your uncle wants to open up any negotiations towards a settlement he'd better send his lawyer." "What! Nehemiah Wimpenny! How could he? Didn't I tell you no one was to know anything of my visit but you and me, and Mr. Wimpenny's the very last man in the world I'd chose for any errand of mine." "But in what can I help you, Miss Tinker? You will understand, of course, that I cannot discuss my client's affairs with anyone without his knowledge and privilege,--no, not though an angel drop from the clouds." "I suppose that's a _rechauffé_ from one of your pretty sayings to Lizzie Hudson. Oh! Yes! I know all about it Mr. Sykes. Lizzie and I were at school together, and I thought it just odious of her not to ask me to her wedding." "And only a minute ago she asked me if there were a Mrs. Sykes," reflected the harassed young man. "Will she ever get to her story?" "And that's what gave me confidence to come to you, Mr. Sykes. Not the not being asked to the wedding, but because you were Lizzie's husband, and I did think of calling on her and bringing her with me, but she'd have guessed,"--and here Dorothy stopped abruptly. "Yes, she'd have guessed?" said Mr. Sykes, encouragingly. "Never you mind what Lizzie would have guessed. It's about this lawsuit I've come. I suppose I'd better come to the point." "Wish to heaven you would," thought the lawyer. "Now which do you think will win, uncle or Mr. Pinder?" "If law and justice were one, Miss Tinker, there could only be one answer--Mr. Pinder." "But they aren't,--so that means Tom, that's Mr. Pinder, will lose." "You really must excuse me, Miss Tinker, I've said, even now, more than I'd any right to say." "But don't you see, I want to help Mr. Pinder to win. That's what I came for. Didn't I tell you? Dear me, I wish I'd gone to Lizzie first. _She_ isn't slow, at any rate." Mr. Sykes smiled. "No, my wife is not slow-witted, and I'm afraid I am. Perhaps that's why she took pity on me." "Shouldn't wonder. Now the question is, how can we help Mr. Pinder, I mean Lucy, of course." Mr. Sykes felt his brain beginning to give way in the vain striving after his visitor's drift. "Lucy," he murmured hopelessly. "Yes, Lucy. She's my dearest friend. And she's to marry Tom,--Mr. Pinder I mean. That is to say she would if he would; but she says he wont, and perhaps she's right. Anyway, she wanted him to win this case, and I want him to win this case, and what's more, I mean him to win this case,--for Lucy's sake, of course, because she says it's all spite, and neither law nor justice, and you say so too, don't you?" "Yes, I do." "Now Lucy says it's all a matter o' money, I don't mean matrimony; for goodness sake _don't_ repeat that stupid jest. But I've had a long talk with Lucy, and she says it will cost Tom and Ben, that's Lucy's father, you know, heaps and heaps of money to fight the case to the end, and that's just what they haven't got. You're the blood-sucker, I suppose?" "Yes, Miss Tinker, I'm afraid I'm one of them--for Lizzie's sake, of course." Dorothy looked sharply at Mr. Sykes, and there was a slight flush of colour on her cheek as she repeated "Oh, yes, for Lizzie's sake, of course." Was it possible that this very sedate young man could guess beyond his brief? "Now _I've_ got some money; at least I suppose so; though I've never seen it. But I've always understood my poor father that I don't remember, made a will, and I was the only child. Now you must get to know all about that, and Mr. Pinder and Ben are not to go to the wall for want of money. Do you understand that?" "But am I really to understand, Miss Tinker, that you propose to spend your money in helping my clients in fighting your own uncle?" "I don't care if he's twenty times my uncle, though once time once is enough, thank you. But if he's mean enough to try to ruin Ben Garside--" "And Mr. Pinder?" put in the lawyer, quite casually. "And I thought this lawyer stupid," thought Dorothy, but ignored the interruption. "Then I'm mean enough to fight him with his own weapons, uncle or no uncle." "It sounds parlously like champerty and maintenance," said Mr. Sykes, more to himself than to Dorothy. "There's no sham about it, sir. I mean every word of it. I'll let my uncle see he can't treat me as he does poor aunt, like dirt under his feet." "God grant I'm spared the aunt," groaned Edwin Sykes inwardly "what with her Lucy and her own quite bewildering self there are quite women enough in the case, without introducing an aunt." "If I follow you, Miss Tinker, you are desirous, for your friend Lucy's sake, to help my client with money to carry on this unfortunate litigation. Have you any idea what the costs may amount to?" "Not the slightest. But that doesn't matter. The money shall be found." "I've another question to ask, Miss Tinker, and a very delicate one. May I ask how old you are?" "And this is the man that can't say Boh! to a goose," again thought Dorothy. "I suppose if I'd assurance enough for a lawyer I should tell you I'm as old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth," replied Dorothy merrily. "That's exactly what I'm driving at," was the reply very seriously uttered. "I'm not at all sure that I should be justified in taking your money without my client's knowledge and consent even if you were of full age, but from a minor!" "Pshaw, I sha'n't be a minor all my life. I shall be twenty one next birthday, and that's on May 21st." "There's many things may happen between now and your birthday.'' "Exactly, your client may be ruined and Lucy may be broken-hearted, and all because of a silly punctilio." "Have you a copy of your father's will." "Ah! Now you're talking. I haven't; but I suppose one can be procured. I should like to see one any way, for even a woman may be allowed a little curiosity as to her own fortune. After all, I may be as poor as a church mouse. But you can find out that for me and have no qualms, I hope." "Oh, yes, I shall be pleased to get you a copy of the will. I apprehend that you come to your inheritance in the general way." "And that is?" "If and when you attain the age of twenty-one years, or marry under that age. By the way, that suggests one simple solution of the difficulty, you might marry." "Oh! That's out of the question." "Not for, ahem!"--the young lawyer raised his long white hand to his mouth and coughed very slightly "not for Lucy's sake?" Dorothy rose with some dignity to close the interview. "Let me know please when have got the copy of the will. Meanwhile, I suppose I can rely on your discretion," and Dorothy made to go. "Nay, Miss Tinker, you have not permitted me to say my say. I am well aware that Mr. Pinder is a poor man. I am also a poor man. I had not intended to trouble my client in the event of defeat for more than the actual costs out of pocket. Those I couldn't afford to advance. If you give me your simple word that these shall be paid sooner or later by someone, no matter who," and here there was the barest suspicion of a twinkle in the young man's eyes as he added, "or for whose sake, rest assured I shall not allow Mr. Pinder's cause to fail for want of professional assistance. More I cannot promise." Dorothy extended her hand. "And you have my word that if I live you shall not suffer. I do so want Tom, I mean Mr. Pinder, to win if he's in the right. I'll do almost anything rather than he should be borne down simply by his poverty. I say _almost_ anything. I draw the line at marrying, you know; besides," and a look of sudden remembrance sprung to Dorothy's eyes. "Yes, besides?" "Oh, it's something you wouldn't understand, about a horrid girl with green gloves," and Dorothy tripped away with a smile and a nod. "This case fairly bristles with women," mused Edwin Sykes. Quintilian was right: _Nulla causa sine femina_. And the months went by and the trial of the great cause of "Pinder at the suit of Tinker" seemed as far off as ever. First blood had been drawn by the defendant: the motion for an _interim_ injunction and an account of profits had been refused by the Court, and the judge had made certain observation as to the precipitancy with which the action had been commenced that made that respectable practitioner, Mr. Nehemiah Wimpenny, who was present at the hearing of the motion, long that the floor of the Court would gape and swallow him to the bowels of the earth,--anywhere out of hearing of that calm, gentle voice dropping vitriol in honeyed accents. In proportion as Tom and Ben and the friends of Co-op Mill rejoiced, so did Mr. Tinker rage and storm. From the very filing of the Bill he had regretted that in his anger he had instituted proceedings that none knew better than himself were purely vexatious and vindictive. The monitor of the night watches had left him little peace. In vain he had tried to silence the still small voice by arguing to himself that to stop Co-op Mill would be to stop the irreligious services which more and more abundantly attracted men from the orthodox ministrations of Mr. Jones and the other chapels of the district. Mr. Tinker was no Jesuit. Again and again he more than half-resolved to bid Mr. Wimpenny stay his hand he would have been glad to be quit of the lawsuit, even if he had to pay the defendant's costs as well as his own. But now that he was smarting under a rebuff, and his enemy was exulting in a momentary triumph,--give way now! No! That was not the stuff Jabez Tinker was made of. To be bested by a boy, a nobody that owed all he was and all he had to him, a serpent whom he had warmed in his breast,--it could not, it should not be. And Nehemiah Wimpenny artfully fanned the flames of Mr. Tinker's wrath. He pooh-poohed the temporary check. "It wasn't an engagement, my dear sir; an interlocutory motion is a mere skirmish, a sort of reconnoitering expedition, a simple device to draw the enemy's fire. Now we know where they are. They have had to show their hand, sir. We know where their weak spots are." "That's all very fine," grumbled Tinker, gloomily. "We may have found _their_ weak spot; but it seems to me they've found one or two of ours--and one sore one, too, judging by the way you squirmed when my Lord rubbed it into you." "Oh! That's nothing," laughed Wimpenny. "I took his salt _cum grano_, and I don't doubt you'll attach the same importance to this little _contretemps_. The trial's the thing.'' "You must win this case, Wimpenny, if money can win it.'' "Money can do anything in this world," said Wimpenny, "at least that's my professional experience." Mr. Tinker left the lawyer's office in anything but a tranquil frame of mind. He felt like a conspirator in a sordid crime. The very paltriness of the issues and the insignificance of his opponent galled and fretted him. But how retreat now that all the world was saying that Tom Pinder was more than a match for Jabez Tinker? CHAPTER XIII. FROM this time onward for some months there is little to record. The parties to the great law suit awaited with what patience they might the final trial of the all-important issue. The failure of the attempt to stay the work at Co-op Mill pending the final decision secured for Tom Pinder and his colleagues a welcome breathing space. If it were possible all hands bent themselves to their respective tasks with increased energy. The check to the plaintiff gave them heart for the present and hope for the future. Every precaution was taken to guard against any fouling or minishing of the stream. The people of the Holme Valley are even to this day a litigious, disputatious race. They are law-loving in an inverted sense. An average native does not feel that he has lived his life unless he has at least once been prosecutor or plaintiff in a "law do." With the poet he may be supposed to sing-- "'Tis better to have sued and lost Than never sued at all." And the pros and cons of any _cause celebre_ are discussed wherever men foregather long before the fierce light of the Courts beat upon the matter. The "company" of the village public constitute themselves into an informal jury. Generally each side has its adherents. The witnesses, or such of them as frequent the houses of entertainment, tell and tell again the story they are to repeat in Court. The strong and the weak points of the evidence are discussed, criticized, cross-examined, as it were, with all the acumen of the native mind, and all the freedom of irresponsibility, and of the license that ignores the trammelling confines of the laws of evidence. The peculiar qualifications of the local lawyers engaged are discussed with a particularity that would very much surprise, and not always gratify the gentlemen whose merits and demerits are so freely appraised. Illustrations drawn from previous forensic contests are liberally drawn upon. There is generally in the company some man who has purchased by bitter experience the right to speak with authority, who airs his knowledge of the intricate mazes of legal proceedings. His conversation bristles with technical terms. He speaks glibly of writs, summonses, subpoenas, judgments, appeals, bills of costs and the taxation thereof. If by good fortune he possesses a copy of an ancient text-book and can produce text and verse in support of his assertions he is an opponent to be admired, but shunned. In public-house controversy the man who is most dogmatic, who can shout loudest and longest is usually adjudged the victor, especially if he is prepared to back his opinion and table the money; but even he must yield to the visible _dicta_ of the printed word. By the time the cause is ripe for hearing, bets have been made and taken; the adherents of the adversaries have ranged themselves; there are the village Montagues and Capulets, and the local attorney goes into Court the champion of a score of clients whose very existence he is unaware of. Now in Holmfirth Jabez Tinker's defeat had been celebrated at the _Cropper's Arms_ by a beast-heart supper. The landlord had provided the beast-heart in the due recognition of the policy of throwing a sprat to catch a mackerel. There had been some talk of inviting Edwin Sykes to preside at the supper, but even Holmfirth hardihood has its bounds. Tom Pinder, the landlord had shrewdly surmised, would prove a kill-joy, and as for Ben Garside, though every feeling of his heart said "yes" to the invitation, he was kept away partly by his own sense of propriety, but still more by the emphatic injunctions of his better half. "Tha'rt nooan bahn to shaat, Ben, afore tha'rt aat o' th' wood, an' when tha does shaat, tha mun do thi shaatin' i' decent company, an' not amang yon' beer-swillin' hogs at th' _Cropper's Arms_. What do they care whether yo' win or looise? There isn't one on 'em but 'ud sell yo' for a quart o' ale. Yo'r nooan bahn to lower yo'rsen bi mixin' amang that lot, it says i'th Book theer 'at i' vain the net is spread i' th' seet o' ony bird; but th' kind o' bird at th' net o' th' _Cropper's_ is set for mun be bats darkened wi' brewer's grain, an' that's all t' grain some on 'em feed on." It did not lessen Jabez Tinker's irritation and general sense of all things being awry that he was in many ways made conscious that the only public opinion that he really cared about--that of his own neighbourhood--was dead against him. Mr. Tinker affected to despise the sentiments of his neighbours, and he certainly could not be accused of stooping to court popularity. But no man is really indifferent to the good or ill-word of his own little world. And Jabez was aware that even his own household was not on his side. To be sure in the rare visits he paid to his ailing wife at Harrogate he was sure of one sympathetic listener as he unfolded in brief, terse sentences the story of his wrongs, in which he had almost persuaded himself to believe, and of the indignities which he concluded must be patent to everyone. But Dorothy he knew to be openly and avowedly in the camp of the enemy, and this was an ever rankling sore. Jabez had declared to himself that his niece was the illest of all birds fouling its own nest. She was a Tinker, his brother's daughter, and it was her bounden duty to take his side and fight his battle whether he were right or wrong. The mere stranger and passer-by, they might scan and scrutinize; but for the girl who slept under his roof and sat at his table to condemn her heart, was the blackest treason and gross ingratitude Jabez had never heard of Walpole's reply to the county member who promised his vote whenever he should think the member in the right. "I want men who'll back me right or wrong: through thick and thin." But Jabez had the same views as to the countenance he was entitled to expect from his niece. And Dorothy was made to feel that her uncle's feelings were very bitter towards her. The subject of the lawsuit was never referred to, but Jabez, never a demonstrative or genial relative, now became cold, repellent, caustic. If there was a death in the house, Betty declared, it could not be gloomier, and if it wasn't for leaving Miss Dorothy she wouldn't care how soon she changed her name and state. All this was, one may be sure, not conducive to Dorothy's serenity. She had, too, at times, a sense of treachery to her uncle. Was she justified in secretly aiding and abetting his enemy, even if that enemy were an enemy _malgré lui_? How was she to be certain that what most people said was true, that her uncle was merely persecuting a rival in trade to crush him? Could she, indeed, believe that of that stern, austere man, the pillar of Aenon Chapel, quoted and esteemed throughout the whole Baptist denomination who of all other men, she had thought, however unlovable was at least a just man. These considerations were of themselves sufficient to disquiet a young and sensitive mind. There was another. Was Dorothy honest with herself? It was Dorothy who asked the question. And when man or maid has come to the pass of asking so searching a question it is odds that conscience has a ready "No." Was it _par exemple_, quite the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, that it was only for her friend's sake, and for the triumph of abstract justice against an unholy conspiracy that Dorothy had so overleaped the bounds of maidenly reserve and perilled her fortune in the quicksands of the law. And when Dorothy, in the still watches of the night, thus put Dorothy's self into the witness box, and her fluttering heart gave its blunt reply, Dorothy was fain to draw the coverlet over a winsome face and hide the crimson blushes e'en from the sightless eyes of night, and toss and turn upon her uneasy couch courting and yet dreading the sleep that brought dreams that should not be for maids uncourted and unwon. And to nights thus harassed followed days embittered by her uncle's harsh, forbidding aloofness, and, to fill her cup to the brim, by the now unmistakable attentions of Nehemiah Wimpenny. That young ornament of the law had fully satisfied himself that Dorothy was worth the winning. He had even gone so far as to transfer his valued custom from the _Rose and Crown_, and Polly was left lamenting but sustaining her desertion with more philosophy than Ariadne or Dido. "Good riddance of bad rubbish," was all she said, and forthwith reserved her sweetest smiles and most languishing glances for the village surgeon, who had long sighed in vain, eclipsed by the greater attractions or,--may it be suggested?--by the deeper purse of the village attorney. Nehemiah was now a constant visitor at Wilberlee, and by Jabez Tinker was always welcomed with a warmth that increased when the manufacturer perceived that the attorney's visits were not purely professional. Jabez saw in his niece's marriage relief from a daily source of irritation. True, the day drew nigh when he must be prepared to produce and vouch his accounts as executor and trustee of his late brother. But Jabez flattered himself that if anyone could be counted on to keep Wilberlee out of Chancery it would be Nehemiah Wimpenny, if Nehemiah Wimpenny were also Dorothy's husband. "Lawyers are fond of law, but it must be at somebody else's expense," he argued. "Wimpenny won't be such a fool as to share my cake with others, when sooner or later he can have it all himself." But Nehemiah found the wooing of Dorothy up-hill work. The Holmfirth "Don Juan" was accustomed to the easy conquests of the bar-room and the side-wings of the Huddersfield Theatre. He found it difficult to teach his tongue the language to which it was a stranger, and after a painful hour or so spent in the parlour of Wilberlee in the attempt to interest or amuse the young heiress, his whole being cried out for the unrestrained freedom of Polly's conversation, and for the ready appreciation Polly had always vouchsafed to his jests and innuendos which even Nehemiah knew would ensure his prompt expulsion from Wilberlee, probably at the point of the owner's toe. But as yet, at all events, he felt himself securely in Mr. Tinker's goodwill. He had even gone so far as to drop a not obscure hint as to the aspirations he cherished in what he was pleased to call his heart. "Win this accursed law-suit for me," Jabez had said, "and we will talk about matters less important. Meanwhile, you had better make as sure of my niece's consent as you may of mine. Not that Dorothy would stay for that. I wish you joy of her, that's all. Women are kittle-cattle to shoe. I don't think you'll find my niece an exception to her sex." But Nehemiah, despite the guardian's favour, confessed to himself that if he progressed at all in Dorothy's good graces, his progress was crab-wise--backwards. What _could_ he talk about? He feigned an interest in the sermons of the Rev. David Jones. But Dorothy yawned at the very mention of the minister's name. Then he affected an interest in her Sunday School class, but Dorothy said Sunday School classes were generally a combination of scholars who didn't want to learn and teachers who didn't know how to teach, and as she felt herself to be one of the latter class, she was determined to give her class up. Then the desperate lover essayed his powers at the retailing of local gossip, telling with unction how young D-- was supposed to be casting sheep's eyes at Nancy N--; how the plain daughter of the vicar's warden was shamelessly setting her cap at the new curate, and how the hue of Mrs. J--'s nose-end was erroneously attributed to poverty of blood. In one topic only could he prevail on Dorothy to take an interest at all, and that was a topic on which Nehemiah was eloquent enough at first, but of which in time he became uncommonly shy,--the vexed question of water rights, with especial reference to the great case of "Pinder at the suit of Tinker." "So you've lost your application for an _interim_ injunction?" Dorothy said demurely one night after tea, when her uncle had hurried off to a deacon's meeting, promising speedy return, and hospitably pressing his guest to stay for the substantial supper of cold meats and pastry with which our hardier fathers braved the terrors of nightmare and dyspepsia. "Oh, that's nothing, Miss Dorothy," said Nehemiah jauntily, glad of a subject of conversation in which he flattered himself he could shine, "nothing at all, I can assure you." "Then you expected to lose?" "Well, not say expect, but fortune of war you know, fortune of war, glorious uncertainty, and all that, don'tcherknow." "But you are certain to win in the end, or is there a glorious uncertainty about that?" "Oh! yes, sure to win in the long run. Pinder can't stand the racket. Expected he'd have caved in long since. Can't understand it. Sykes must be risking more than I'd like to. Sticks like a leech at all points." "There's an old saying, Mr. Wimpenny, that Tear'em's a good dog, but Holdfast's a better. Perhaps Mr. Sykes is one of your Holdfast breed." "Ah! Ah! very good, indeed, Miss Tinker. Must remember that. But we shall shake him off yet, you bet." "Thank you, I don't bet." "Beg pardon, Miss Tinker, only a way of speaking, don'tcherknow. No offence," and Nehemiah told himself that Dorothy was a very difficult girl indeed. "So you think you'll wear Mr. Pinder out. Do you mean his patience or his means?" "Oh! patience is cheap enough. I dare say Pinder has plenty of that. It's the poor man's assets, don'tcherknow." "I'm afraid that's often too true, Mr. Wimpenny." "Well, I could have sworn it was about all the stock-in-trade Pinder had to break him in. But somebody's finding the money, or else Sykes is a bigger fool than I take him to be." "Money, money, money, you men seem to talk and think of nothing but money." "And they say, Miss Tinker, that women have a very pretty notion of spending what the men think and talk about." "Well, I for one would rather talk of something else. You're sure, now, uncle is going to win this case?" "Well, of course I _think_ so, or I shouldn't have advised the proceedings." "But I suppose you advised the application for a what-do-you call it injunction. But you failed in that? Now I want you to tell me all about uncle's grievances against Mr. Pinder. It is so delightful to find a lawyer who can make things so beautifully simple to a poor ignoramus of a girl like me. I can see now why you have so many cases in the Courts." "Oh! Dorothy, Dorothy." And forthwith the willing victim of woman's guile talked at large of water encroachment, of unlawful ochre-water diverted from its natural course so that it passed by the head-goit of Co-op Mill, and only entered the river as it sped on to Wilberlee, to Mr. Tinker's great damage and detriment. Never was Nehemiah more eloquent, never had he so wrapt and intent a listener. "She's just the woman for a lawyer's wife," thought Nehemiah, as he talked. "I'll practise my speeches on her." "But, after all, it's no use wearying you with all these details, Miss Tinker. We shall never reach a final trial. Your uncle isn't the man to take a beating, and if we're trounced in one Court we shall go to another. Pinder can't stand the racket. I call it downright dishonest of him taking the savings of those deluded Co-opers, as they call them, and spending it on Sykes. Of course it's all the better for me. But the whole thing'll fizzle out in the Bankruptcy Court, and I take it there'll be no necessity to wait for the Court of Chancery's decision. Want of shekels will decide the question before we're much older, mark my words." "How very charming!" quoth Dorothy. "Really, Mr. Wimpenny, I don't know how to thank you for making everything so clear to me. Now these water-foulings by Mr. Pinder, I suppose anyone can see them? You've interested me so much I've a good notion to turn myself into an amateur expert; if that isn't a contradiction in terms." "Not more anomalous than a woman with sense," reflected Nehemiah. But he said with something of an effort. "Well, the fact is Miss Tinker, there isn't very much to see. It's the eye of science, don'tcherknow, that we go by in these cases. The eye of science," he repeated, evidently pleased with that phrase. "Well, anyway, I'll try what the eye of a woman can see some fine day. Perhaps I may find out something that has escaped all you clever men, and then you'll have to take me up to London as a witness, I hope." It was, perhaps, in pursuance of this quite commendable resolve, that Dorothy one bright, cloudless day in August, clad in a close-fitting costume that permitted the graceful movement of her limbs without concealing the charming lines of her form came suddenly upon Tom Pinder in the neighbourhood of the Isle of Skye. Dorothy, who had, as far as the nature of the ground permitted, followed the course of the stream as it flowed from its source down the valley, was warm and flushed from the toilsome ascent, but the glow of health was on her cheek and its sparkle in her eye. Tom, on the contrary, was pale and careworn. Too sedulous devotion to his necessary work, too little rest of mind and body, but above all the constant anxiety and uncertainty for the future were telling their tale upon his robust, vigorous, elastic frame. But a glad light sprang to his eyes, and a happy smile to his lips as he met Dorothy's outstretched hand. "You are quite a stranger, Mr. Pinder; it is ages since I caught more than a glimpse of you. Betty is quite fretting that you never go to see her now. Vows she is wearing to skin and bone; but it must be by the eye of faith she attests the process." "No. I do not often get to Betty's kitchen now," said Tom, with something very like a sigh. "More's the pity; you see, I can't very well go openly, and you wouldn't have me go like a thief in the night." "No, I would not. It's all this wretched law business, of course. But which way were you going, uphill, or down?" "Bilberry! Well, there'll be a breeze from the water's face. But I think I ought to be turning homewards." "May I accompany you, Miss Tinker? You pass near my own mill, you know." "La! _my_ mill! how grand it sounds. I think I should like to say _my_ mill, and to feel that the hands were _my_ people. 'Tis a relic of feudalism, I suppose." Tom raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. He had not credited Dorothy with much historical knowledge. "Oh, you needn't look so superior, Mr. Wiseacre. I've read a book or two, though I don't teach classes on Sunday, like a naughty, defiant unbeliever, as some folk are. But there, you shan't accompany me homewards. That will perhaps teach you to veil your superiority." "I assure you, Miss Tinker," began Tom, but boggled at his disclaimer, for he was a poor liar, and Dorothy had; divined his thoughts shrewdly. "Instead," said Dorothy, enjoying his confusion, "instead I will go on with you to Bilberry Reservoir: I've as much right to the cool breeze from its surface as you have, and if you've no very great objection, Mr. Pinder, you may give me your arm up the hill." Tom flushed to the brow and, feeling weak as water, hoped that Dorothy's ears were not as quick, as her eyes, for sure she would have heard the beating of his heart. "Do you know, Miss Dorothy, I think it's the very first time I've been asked to give a lady my arm." "Been asked?" said Dorothy, and part withdrew her little hand. "Or given it, of course. I should never dream of giving it unasked." "Oh!" said Dorothy, and her hand stole back again. "What, not to Lucy?" "Oh, well, you know. Well, perhaps Lucy may have taken it sometimes when she felt overdone can't say for sure. One doesn't think of these things." "Oh! don't they?" queried Dorothy, and her hand again made for retreat. "Not with Lucy, I mean," added Tom. "Oh!" and the hand now was restful. They walked slowly towards the reservoir, leaving the highway, and treading on the soft close-cropped grass that fringed the moor. A grouse, occasionally, whirring low near the heather, cried its alarmed "Go-back, go-back," and the faint sound of the sportsman's gun was borne upon the wind. Silence fell upon the two, a silence that Tom knew not, nor cared to break. "And what about Miss Baxter's apprentice?" at last spoke Dorothy, very softly. Tom did not seem to hear. In truth he walked in a blissful trance. The question fell upon his ear, but the words, as words will when the mind is dreaming, tarried ere they reached his senses. It seemed to Dorothy as if there had been a long gap in their conversation when he spoke. "I beg your pardon, what did you say, Miss Dorothy?" "I said, what about Miss Baxter's apprentice?" and there was no mistaking the withdraw of the hand now. "Miss Baxter's apprentice!" said Tom, blankly. "Miss Baxter, the milliner, you mean." "Of course I mean her _and_ her apprentice." "Well, what about them?" asked Tom, "and how came we to be talking about them?" "What's her name? I hope it's a pretty one." "Why, Miss Baxter, to be sure." "Stupid! I mean her apprentice. The one that wears green gloves. She's one of the teachers in our Sunday school. Oh! You know very well, sir." "I suppose you mean Miss Pounder." "What a horrid name: but what could you expect from a girl that wears green gloves. You really must buy her a pair of another colour. But there's no great change from Pounder to Pinder. That will be one comfort for her. But I meant her Christian name." "Upon my word," said Tom, "I haven't an idea. It may be Jezebel for aught I know or care." "But I thought...." "Yes, you thought?" "Oh! nothing," said Dorothy, "and here, thank goodness, we're at the reservoir at last. Oh! isn't the view down the valley just lovely?" "It is," said Tom, but his eyes were on Dorothy's beaming face. They lingered for some moments on the embankment of the vast sheet of water, each wrapt in thought. It was Dorothy who spoke. "Wherever does all the water come from and how could they manage to trap it like this?" "Oh, this reservoir is almost made by Nature. Yonder is Hoobrook Hill and there is Lum Bank. It needed but to throw a bank across the intervening space, and behold, the reservoir was made. The water comes from Holme Moss and the hills running up to Saddleworth. You would scarce think that this huge dam contains nigh a hundred million gallons of water, and that there is a pressure of several hundred thousand ton weight on the bank on which we stand." "Oh! Tom! if it were to burst!" Pinder looked very grave. "I have often thought of that. It would be a calamity such as daunts the heart but to think of. I come here often of a moonlight night when I have made up my books for the day. It is sweet to be alone with God, and thoughts that come from God and turn to Him. But there seems some weird fascination that draws my steps hitherwards. Had I ever contemplated suicide...." Dorothy's hand sought his involuntarily "Never that Tom, never that." "I should have thought there was an unseen hand beckoning, me hither. This great expanse of water, so still, when the clouds brood over it, so sullen, so seeming peaceful confined, so terrible for infinite woe if it should I o'erleap its barrier, has cast its spell over me." "How gloomily you talk, Mr. Pinder!" "It was 'Tom' but a moment gone." "Well, Tom, then--as we are such old friends." "Yes, Miss Dorothy, my heart misgives me about this slumbering giant. I doubt the strength of his chains. See here"--and he led toward the centre of the embankment. "Where we stand the surface is nearly a yard lower than the mouth of the culvert." "What's the culvert for?" asked Dorothy. "It is the safety valve of the reservoir." "I'm afraid I'm rather stupid." "You see, when the reservoir gets over full the excess should go down the culvert. As things are it would begin to overflow just where we stand. Indeed, more than once when the wind has set this way, I've seen the water trickle over here. Let that trickle be but continuous and a rill would become a gap, the gap a yawning aperture and this huge burthen of Nature's most innocent fluid would hurl itself down the valley, and what or who could withstand it!" "But, Tom, whose duty is it to see to these things?" "The Commissioners. Your uncle is one of them." "Oh! I will speak to him, I promise you, and that right urgently. Would you, could you speak instead of me? Uncle is very wroth with me these days, and, oh! Tom, life is so dree at Wilberlee, I could find it in my heart at times to cry my very eyes out. And it's all your fault." "_My_ fault!" he repeated. "Yes, yours, Tom why couldn't you let uncle alone with your horrid law. You know he will have his own way, and, I think, your having been his apprentice makes it more galling." "And a workhouse brat at that," said Tom, bitterly. "Oh! never think of that, Tom. No one does. I don't, and I don't care if I do. It isn't that: but uncle cannot bear to be thwarted. Can't you let it drop?" "Faith, I'd only be too glad. But it is Mr. Tinker that attacked me, and there is only one way to stop the law that I know of. Your uncle must give the word. But he wont, and I can't." "Couldn't you just let him have his own way; it will please him, and it won't hurt you, nor your precious Co-op either." "I don't know what you call hurting me: it will just ruin me, and what's worse it will ruin a dozen others or so, poor Ben Garside among them." "But couldn't you go lower down the stream? Mr. Sy---, I mean somebody,... I mean" and here Dorothy lost herself altogether, and stood dumb-founded. But Tom's mind had seized upon the first suggestion of her words and he was unconscious of her embarrassment. "Yes, if some good fairy would transport Co-op Mill below Wilberlee, we might manage very well. Say we had that carpet we read of in the _Arabian Nights_. But what's the use of talking? I cannot stop the litigation, and your uncle wont." "Couldn't you allow him the name of a victory if he promised to let things go on just as they were, and you had nothing to pay those greedy lawyers? I'm sure he is not an unreasonable man, only you've crossed him, somehow, Tom." "I couldn't send him more water or power if I tried, I know that." "And do you think he doesn't know it? Will you just go to him and humble yourself to him. I'll engage he shall meet you half-way." "I'm shot if I do," said Tom stoutly, "he began it and he must end it." "I thought you preached the gospel, Tom." "Aye, aye, that's all very well; but there's nothing in the Bible about eating dirt, or letting a man make a door mat of you for him to wipe his feet on. Besides, there's others to think of, Miss Dorothy. There's Ben, for one, and all those whose money is in the concern. They'd never be willing." "You shan't hide behind Ben, nor yet the others. You know very well they'll say aye to anything you said. I know I should, Tom." Is there ought so subtle in this world as a woman's cozening tongue. "Do promise, Tom," and here Dorothy seemed parlously near letting flow the tears she had threatened a while back; "for Ben's sake, for Lucy's sake." "I cannot, Miss Dorothy, do not ask me. You do not know how hard it is for me to say you nay." "For _my_ sake, Tom; because _I_ ask you. Oh! I am so unhappy amid it all. I know not what I say, nor ask." "For your sake? Miss Dorothy, for your sake!" "For mine, Tom," whispered Dorothy, with down cast eyes and burning cheek. How Tom at that moment constrained himself, and withheld the words that leapt to his lips, he could never tell. "For your sake then, Dorothy," was all he said. She placed her hand within his arm, and in a silence that neither cared to break, they turned by mutual impulse to descend the hill homewards. CHAPTER XIV. Tom Pinder lost no time in waiting upon his solicitor and acquainting him with his desire that the proceedings should be stayed even if to stay them meant an ignominious surrender. Mr. Sykes did not conceal his surprise. "What about the plaintiff's costs?" he asked. Tom said he had reason to hope these would not be insisted on. "It is yours I'm much concerned about." "As to them, make your mind easy. I shall make out an account of my actual disbursements, and you must pay me off by such instalments as you find convenient." "But your labour?" protested Tom, "the days of manna are over long ago, and I suppose that if popular opinion were ought to go by lawyers would be the last body of men in the world for whom a special dispensation from the general rule would be made." "Ah well! popular opinion is sometimes wrong, let us hope, despite the saying, _Vox populi vox Dei_." "I thought you were a Radical, Mr. Sykes." "Yes, yes, but I am not so ardent a lover as to be blind to the faults of my mistress. But about this stay of proceedings. I must sound Wimpenny. I'm afraid he'll be for his pound of flesh and all the other blood he can squeeze out of you. He's very sore about that interim injunction and the judge's remarks at the time would scarcely be as balm of Gilead to him." "I suppose Mr. Wimpenny will take his orders from his client." "Oh! of course. Well, we shall see what we shall see. That's oracular, if it doesn't convey much information. What about your scheme of Co-operative production on advanced lines? Is that to die an untimely death? It seemed to me a most promising essay in social economics. So long as you were content to work like a slave and be a poor man, with no prospect of being anything but a poor man, the system seemed flawless." "Systems for the regulation of human affairs will never be flawless, Mr. Sykes, till the men and women who are the flesh and blood of all systems are also flawless. Now I am far from being that." "I presume not," said the lawyer, with something like a sigh. "I suppose you've got tired of this sacrificial altar and have secured a lucrative berth, and, like all the others, are going to worship the golden calf. _Sic transit gloria mundi_. I shed a tear to the memory of Co-op Mill and all the high resolves it enshrines. Who shall write its cold '_Hic jacet_.'" "Nay, Mr. Sykes, I am not a Latin scholar; but if you will change your goose quill for the graver's chisel, you shall inscribe on the corner stone of Co-op Mill a proud, a defiant _Resurgam_." "What! You intend to try again?" "Certainly, I am already looking for premises _below_ Mr. Tinker's Mill. Unless the Holme takes to flowing uphill, I shall be safe from my present adversary, at all events." Mr. Sykes rose and grasped his client's hand warmly. "That is good hearing, Mr. Pinder; you are a man. Ah! I don't wonder at Miss --"; but here the man of law checked himself. "Confound it. The murther was nearly out," he muttered. "I'll write to Wimpenny at once," he said, "but I mustn't seem too hot for a settlement or he'll hold out for all he knows. I shall begrudge him every penny that goes from your pocket to his. Well, good day. I wish I were a manufacturer, I'd turn world-mender too." "Oh! If you shew the world the example of one lawyer who has an idea beyond his bill of costs, you'll have done your share," laughed Tom. "Convert nine others and Huddersfield need not fear the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah." Pinder had more trouble with Ben Garside and his colleagues than he had encountered from his solicitor. Ben was for a fight to the finish. "Tinker's shewing th' blue feather," he opined. "What's come ovver thee, Tom? Tha'rt nooan bahn to duff when things are lookin' up a bit? Besides, th' best terms we can mak 'll be to pay us own 'torney an' gi' up Co-op Mill. We med as weel be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, and if we're to be ruined we med as well be ruined gradely as hauf ruined. Aw reckon th' bailies 'll be bun to leeave us a bed to lig on, an we'st scrat along some rooad till they put th' coffin lid ovver us. Aw say feight to th' deeath. Talk abaat bowin' th' knee to Baal?" "Baal!" quoth Hannah curtly. "Baal wer' a respectable sort compared wi Jabez Tinker; an' as for that Wimpenny, oh! If aw wer' a man, wouldn't aw just. That's all." What "just" the irate dame would have done, words failed her to express, but judging from Hannah's gestures it was something that would not have improved Nehemiah's personal appearance. But the negotiations with that gentleman which Mr. Sykes opened up did not promise to bear immediate fruit. It is possible that Mr. Wimpenny saw everything to be gained and nothing to be lost--by himself--in the sweetness long drawn out of proceedings in Chancery. The defendant's overtures were not met in a conciliatory spirit, and Sykes advised that nothing further should be attempted in that direction. Tom felt that he could do no more, and when he told Dorothy the steps he had taken to fulfil the promise she had wrung from him, Dorothy expressed herself content. "You can hold out till May 21st?" She only asked. "Oh, dear me, yes. From what I can judge when a lawyer in a Chancery suit contemplates a move in the proceedings, he takes a month to think it over, then he takes counsel's opinion, then he takes another month to think over counsel's opinion, then he rests for a month to recuperate his energies after their unwonted strain, then he writes to his London agent indicating the step he wishes to be taken, the agent takes a month to think over his principal's letter, and another month to reply to it, and at the end of all the country solicitor changes his mind, and the process circumbendibus begins _de novo_." "You ought to have been a lawyer, Tom," commented Lucy. "You have been thinking over a certain step to my knowledge for more than twelve months, and you haven't taken it yet." "And what's that, Lucy?" asked Dorothy. "Oh! you'll know soon enough when he takes it," was the most explicit answer that Dorothy could obtain, and with that she had to be content. "I wonder why Dorothy mentioned the twenty-first of May next?" asked Tom of Lucy, when they were alone together. "Why she comes of age then, stupid," said Lucy, as shortly as ever she was known to speak. But some months must elapse before that eventful day was due in the ordinary progress of the leaden-footed months. The Christmas of 1851 was for all in whose fortunes we are concerned, but a cheerless and anxious season. Work continued fairly good, and on that score there was nothing much to complain of. The winter months were open and depressing. The old adage that a green Yule makes a fat churchyard was amply verified. Low fevers were rife. The strains of the waits on Christmas Eve failed to arouse the sense of Christmas in the heart. Plum pudding and roast beef failed to stimulate to cheerfulness when all around was a damp, drizzly, clinging blanket of rain-charged atmosphere. For days together a pall of moisture settled over the Valley. The moors were soaked, and oozed like surcharged sponges. Every rill became a rivulet, every rivulet a river. The lower lands contiguous to the Holme were flooded. The dams were charged to the brinks, and in the mill-races the pressing waters strained the stoutest shuttles. From the hillsides the swollen streams brought rocky fragments rolling, tumbling, splashing. It was a man's work to watch the river immediately below the tail-goits of every mill, to prevent the goit being blocked by the flotsam of the stream, and the water-wheel thrown into back-water. It was an anxious time for Tom and Ben on more than one account. The apprehensions that had long possessed Tom as to the safety of Bilberry reservoir did not leave him. Rather he saw daily reasons for the more concern. The new year of 1852 saw little improvement in the weather, Almost daily Tom made his way to the banks of the great dam, surveying it with anxious eye. When he spoke his fears to old residents, they were pooh-poohed. It was the old cry of "Wolf." The people in most immediate danger had been told so often that something was wrong with Bilberry embankment, and for so long had the gloomy predictions of the local Cassandras come to nought, that Tom spoke to deaf ears. None heeded him. Even Ben accorded him only the attention of politeness. The people lower down the Valley based their indifference to his suggestions of possible peril upon the indifference of those nearer the reservoir. If the people who lived cheek by jowl as it were with the big dam could afford to laugh at Tom's dismal forebodings, why should they put themselves about. They recommended Tom to permit the Commissioners to know something about their business, and more than hinted that he had enough to do to look after his own particular concerns without worrying himself about what was after all a matter for the public authorities. It did not occur to them to reflect that if a man is drowned it does not matter much to him whether he has met his death through public or private defeasance. On Tuesday, the 4th of February Tom had been as usual to market. He had done his business early in the afternoon, but had been detained in town by the necessity of seeing Mr. Sykes in connection with the eternal lawsuit. Then he had to wait for a train so that it was long past the hour for the evening meal when he reached Ben Garside's house in Holmfirth. The tea-things had long been cleared away, but Hannah was soon bustling about preparing an appetising meal of broiled rashers, poached eggs, and tea and toasted teacake. The meal was grateful after the long wearying day. It had been a depressing day. The market had been slackly attended: the weather had something to do with that. It had rained pitilessly all day, a steady, persistent, dogged downpour, ceasing at times for the fragment of an hour, only to commence again, and so on, as if it never meant to stop. And as it was on the Tuesday, so it had been for three or four days before. At the "ordinary" at the Queen Hotel, kept by Mrs. Beevers, in the Market Street, the manufacturers from the valleys of the Colne and the Holme were full of talk of choked tail-goits water piled back into the wheel-race so that the wheel refused to turn upon its axis. The merchants shook their heads gloomily over the mild, open weather. They declared, as their grandchildren declare to-day, that when they were boys winter was winter; but now there was no depending on the weather, and the almanac was a snare and a delusion. Tom lingered over his meal, luxuriating in the warmth of the room, and the pleasing rest of mind and body. But about nine o'clock the rain abated. The moon glided high in the heavens, sailing in and out among the masses of the drifting clouds. It looked as if the weather might take up after all. It was time it did. But wet or fine Tom had work to do he had fixed to do that night, work which could only be done at the mill, and which were better done that night. That done, the morrow would be clear for the morrow's work. He would have an hour at his account books, he told Ben, and sleep at the mill, and Jack--you have not, reader, forgotten Work'us Jack--should bear him company. Hannah protested in vain that "Tom was killing himself with overwork. Flesh and blood couldn't stand it, and Tom would never make old banes if he went on at that noit. It was bad enough to kill one's self to keep one's self, but it was ten times worse to kill one's self building a house o' cards, only to be blown down by that Jabez Tinker." So Tom and Jack turned out into the night and set forth up the valley toward Hinchliffe Mill. Their road lay at times by the winding serpentine course of the river, and when the watery moon glanced downwards with bleared eye from among the clouds they could see the swollen waters. They met scarce a soul. It was late and a'ready the lights in the village and on the hillsides were being extinguished in the "house" or chamber. An occasional cur sadly bayed the moon. The swollen waters of the river rolled in their bed with sullen sob. It was a night of dread through which the growing wind wailed amid its tears. The gloom of the hour and scene fell upon the comrades. Scarce a word passed between them, as with bent heads and cloaks close drawn they made their way through the mire of the high-road and the sloughs of known bye-paths little trod. It was hard on ten of the night when the mill was reached. Jack kindled a fire in the office-grate and sat beside it for a time to dry his shoon. He made a brew of strong coffee for his master to cheer him through his task. Then Jack in stocking-feet sought the wool-hole where he had improvised a bed of unscoured pieces, greasy, but snug and warm, and anon his loud breathing might be heard above the beating of the storm without. Up to something near the weird midnight hour Tom bent over his invoices and books, fighting against the waywardness of thoughts that seemed intent on anything but accounts. At length he abandoned his task half done. He felt strangely wake and alert. At all times able to do with little sleep,--that is a feature of your mill-worker--to-night he felt that he should woo slumber in vain. Donning his pilot jacket that had been steaming and drying on a chair-back before the fire, and lighting a lanthorn and taking in his hand his stout gnarled shillelagh, bought from an Irish hay-maker last harvest-time, he set forth alone on his usual round of the mill-yard, leaving the outer door of the mill on the latch. His round finished, led by what impulse, moved by that presentment he did not stay to consider, he left the mill-yard and began to climb the hill towards Bilberry reservoir. He walked sharply, for the night air was biting shrewdly, and Tom was a noted walker. His long strides soon covered the distance that lay between the mill and the reservoir bank. Tom hummed an air to keep him company in that vast solitude. The sky was clearer now than an hour or two before, but the night was still dark enough to make the feeble glimmer of the lanthorn grateful. Tom moderated his pace as he neared the embankment. Was it worth while to climb its steep face or should he turn his steps downhill. He could hear the water above his head lapping against the copings of the bank. Still, as he had come so far he might, he thought, as well walk the round of the embankment. He was on the huge abutment that turned its breast towards the valley the long barricade that cooped up the vast pile of water, and slowly, the lanthorn dangling by his side and swaying in the wind, he began to tread the path on the embankment top, slowly for in the uncertain light, a slip might cost him a sousing, and it was no hour for a cold bath. But, as he walked, peering ahead to pierce the gloom, and watching carefully his steps by the lanthorn's pale glimmer, he came, midway in his course, upon a sight that checked him with sudden halt, and made his heart stand still. There, at his very feet the water was trickling over the bank, and down the outside. A thin flow, perhaps, a couple of feet in width, had worn the upper soil, and now a continuous stream, not a quarter of an inch in depth, was gently, silently ebbing over the embankment. Even as Tom gazed spell-bound, he was sensible that the opening widened, the water that overflowed was deeper, and its escape in quicker time. A great fear seized on Tom, a dreadful thought well-nigh crushed his brain. He felt powerless to move. Then, with a cry, he rushed heedless along the embankment to the culvert. Not a drop of water flowed over the culvert's lip. The pent giant had found an outlet for itself, and was making for it. Tom ran back to the gap he had but just left. Even by this faint light he saw the breach was wider, the furrow deeper. Sick at heart, scarce realising what he did, Tom with stick and hand tried to tear up stones, cobbles, or sods that might stem the growing current. He spent his time and in vain. Fast as he made his tiny barrier, the licking wavelets undermined it and washed it gently down the embankment side; and the stream that now, oh! so silently, so grimly wore away the surface layers, bit and gnawed into the vast barrier and the clinging earthwork. But to Tom, with action had come perception. Vivid as lightning's flash the whole sequence of the possible, nay, the seeming inevitable, was borne upon his mind. He sprang to his feet, dashed down the embankment side. Not two hundred yards below the reservoir some houses stood darkling in the night, their inmates locked in sleep. With fist and stick Tom hammered at the door, thrust his stick, his fist through the windows of the bottom room, where oft the turn-up bed was stretched. "Rouse ye, rouse ye!" he cried. "The reservoir! Flee for your lives!" Down to the Co-op Mill he dashed, racing as sure only as those do speed who know that Death follows hard upon their heels, and ever as he sped and passed some silent, lowly cot he paused a breathing space to rend the midnight silence with wild, yet wilder cry, "The flood! The flood! Haste ye, save yourselves." He reached the gates of his own mill, dashed to the corner where Jack still slept in dreamless sleep. He kicked his prostrate form, he shook him, dragged him to his feet. "Don yo'r breeches. Here's yo'r' clogs. Haste, man! Bilberry's brust. Damn yo' wakken. Ar't deead?" In that time of frenzied haste the language of his childhood came back to his lips. Then as Jack, half awake, bewildered, donned his nether garments with but one idea, that Co-op Mill was on fire, Tom rushed to the stable where their one horse was housed. He threw a halter over its head; there was no time, no need for saddle. Jack had followed, thrusting his arms into his coat sleeves as he came. Tom sprang to the horse's back. The gate still opened wide. "Clutch mi leg, Jack, an' stick to me an' yell wi' all thi might." Tom's first thought had not been of Ben or his household; but gratitude, duty alike, made them his first care. He must reach Ben at any cost. The horse, urged by Tom's prodding heels and by the sticks that beat upon its flanks, galloped down the hill. Jack could not keep pace; panting, gasping, clinging, he stumbled and fell. "Make for Ben Garside's," shouted Tom, and was swallowed up in the night, the horse's hoof beating the rain washed road with dull thuds, its heavy pants audible afar. It was one o'clock and after when Tom made Ben's cottage He thundered at the door, and in a marvellously short time that seemed eternity to Tom, the upper window was raised, and Ben's capped head thrust forth. "Th' pub's lower dahn, tha' druffen fooil," said Ben's voice drowsily. "Open, Ben, open for God's sake. Th' embankment's burst at Bilberry." But ere Ben had ceased to gape out of the lattice, Hannah, in her petticoat, had run down the slender, narrow stairs, and unbolted the door. "Quick, quick, where's Lucy? Wakken her! Don yo', Hannah. Ben, Ben, haste thee, man. Oh, here's Jack; that's reight lad, aw feart tha'd be longer." Lucy, pale, trembling, but calm, had come down, part dressed. "Ar't sure, Tom?" asked Ben. "It's giving bi inches, it cannot howd. What shall we do? Oh! What shall we do?" "Mak' for th' hills, for sure," gasped Jack, as he drew deep draughts of breath. Then Tom felt a quiet hand upon his own, and Lucy by his side drew him part aloof. "There's Dorothy lower down," she whispered, "and if flood come, oh! Woe is me for all at Wilberlee. Hark! the alarm is spread. Race to Wilberlee; and Tom! kiss me, it may be good-bye." Tom kissed the tremulous lips raised to his. "God keep you, Lucy, God keep us all. I cannot leave you." But Hannah, too, had thought of Wilberlee. "There's Dorothy. Yo' mun give th' alarm at Wilberlee." "And you?" asked Tom: but even as he asked he had turned to the door where the horse, all untethered, stood. "Ben an' me 'll manage," said jack. "Up wi' thee, Tom. By gosh! hark to 'em screechin' up the valley." Aye, aye, the warning cries had been heard and heeded, and as Tom wrung Ben's hand and vaulted to patient Bess's back the wind bore to his ears the startled cry, "The flood! The flood! It's come at last," and as the mare, spinning cobbles and pebbles behind its clattering feet, galloping as though the foul fiend pursued, dashed past farm and mill and house Tom cried loud and ever tender, "Oh, rouse yo', good folk, rouse yo'. Bilberry's on yo'. The bank's brust," and the small-paned windows were raised with quick grasp from within, and startled faces with widening eyes peered forth into the night, and still Tom raised the cry, now hoarse, now shrill, in voice that almost failed. "The flood, the flood!" And loud and louder still behind him grew the cries, deep toned of men, anguished shrill of women, wailing tones of children roused from cradle and from cot. The sleepy valley behind him slept no more. It had roused to panic, to the sudden apprehension of ravage, ruin, death. Whither flee? How save the little hoarded wealth; how bear the infirm mother, who by inglenook declined daily to her grave cheered by the babbling prattle of her daughter's bairns; how save the bairns themselves! And even as Tom rode the cries behind him swelled in volume till they fell upon his ears as a hoarse roar, broken by shrill and piercing shriek, and if his ears betrayed him not, above the din of human voice he heard the growl of gathered waters loosed. No use to look behind, the darkening skies veiled the sight. Thank God! Here is Wilberlee. Well Tom knew the entrance to the yard. Pray God the gate yielded to his thrust! It did. By there, through the yard, was the shortest cut to the house. He swung from the back of the beast, now blown and trembling. The panic had seized upon it. Grasping its mane Tom led it through the yard, round the mill gable. Here the noises from above were broken by the mill's flank and hushed. Not a light shone through the windows of the house. All was silent within, but at the garden foot the river roared, and Tom in the dim light saw that on its foaming breast it bore objects, strange, hideous, torn from the fields, floating stacks of hay, ponderous engines and machines, the dark outline of animals swept quickly by. "Oh! rouse yo'! rouse yo'!" shrieked Tom. He tore a boulder from a rockery by, and with it crashed at the stout outer door. It shook and groaned but yielded not. Tom remembered that the window of the sitting-room or drawing-room came to within a foot's step from the ground. It was a moment's work to dash the window open with his feet, and Tom amid the falling of the glass and the creaking crash of wood-work was within the dark room, his clothes rent, his face scratched, his hands bleeding. There were sounds above of awakening life. Tom sprung to the foot of the passage stairs, finding the inner door he knew not how. "Wake ye, wake ye," he cried hoarsely. Then a light glimmered above, on the landing. It was Jabez Tinker in his dressing gown. A candle was in his hand that he shaded from the upward current. "Thank God, yo're up," shouted Tom, bounding up the steps. "Dress yo', quick. Rouse the house. Bilberry's burst. Oh! hark yo'." Some building higher up the river had fallen with a groan into the stream and frantic cries rent the leaden skies mingling with the crash of stone and iron and stout timbers torn like mere sprigs. Suddenly from the well of darkness shone the gleam of a lanthorn. It was impossible to see who held it. Mr. Tinker cried out: "Who's that?" "It's me, Sergeant Ramsden," said a calm, stentorian voice. "Glad you're up, sir. Time to flit. Had to wade here. Where's Betty?" "I'm here, George; but yo' munnot think o' coming up till aw've med mysen some bit like." But the tramp of the sergeant was on the stairs already. His was a welcome presence. The hurry and agitation of the past hour had told on Tom. He felt sorely the need of help. Mr. Tinker seemed paralysed not so much from fear as the sudden waking from sleep to stand face to face with what perils none could tell. Betty clung to her constable, but he was probably used to being clung to for protection by the weaker sex. "Where's Peggy?" asked Tom. "Gone to Harrogate to fetch aunt home." It was Dorothy who spoke. She had partially dressed, but her long, curling, beautiful glossy hair fell like a veil upon her shoulders to her waist she was pale and anxious, but she retained a great measure of composure. She had drawn to her uncle's side but her eyes were on Tom. "Are we safe here?" asked Mr. Tinker. "Is there any chance of my being able to get across the yard to the office?" "Can't be done, sir," said the Sergeant, touching his high hat as well as he could with the hand that held the lanthorn. His other arm supported Betty. "The garden's three feet deep and more. Same in mill yard, no doubt, and rising every second; had to wade in. Glad to find window broken down." There was a sudden shriek from Betty. Through the door of the parlour that opened into the passage at the stair feet came a torrent of water nigh as high as the doorway itself. It flooded the passage, and, step by step, quicker than a man could mount them, scaled the staircase to the landing on which they stood. Small articles of furniture and ornaments were borne from the room, tossing and colliding as if in a grotesque dance. "Make for the attic," said Mr. Tinker, and led the way, followed by the women. Tom was hard upon them. The sergeant followed with an agile departure from his professional staidness, deliberation, and dignity of gait that only stress of circumstances constrained. If a withering glance could have arrested it the rapidly rising, gaining flood would have stayed its inroad. The attic was a low, barely furnished room, immediately under the roof. It was lighted from above by a thick sky-window. It held two low beds of plain deal--the chaste couches of Betty and Peggy. There were two chests of drawers, one doubtless sacred to each maid. There were two chairs, a washstand, a portrait of the sergeant, staff-in-hand, and the like of a soldier over which Peggy was supposed to weep out her heart in moments of despondency. "I doubt we're not out of it here," whispered the sergeant to Tom. He cast his light through the doorway. "See, the water mounts quickly. 'Twill be on us, and we mun drown like rats in a hole." "Can you swim?" asked Tom, under his breath. The sergeant nodded. "Doff your boots; keep your cloak and breeches nothing else. Get into that corner. Give me the light. Don't let them see you doff. They're fleyed enough." There was no time even for suspense. The water was already in the attic. Tom dragged a bed beneath the skylight and with a blow from his stick shivered the thick glass. "Yo' mun get through th' skylight, Ramsden," he bawled. The turmoil of the waters drowned all lower speech. "I'll pass t'others to you." Ramsden nodded. The habit of discipline is invaluable in the hour of emergency. Tom had taken the command even in his old master's house, and it seemed natural that he should order and others obey. With difficulty he twisted the portly constable through the aperture. It was a tight squeeze. "Tear up some of the slates. Widen th' hole," shouted Tom, as he dragged a trunk to the top of the bed to stand on. "Now Dorothy," he whispered, "you next." "No, uncle," she said, drawing back. This was no hour for ceremony. Tom almost lifted Mr. Tinker bodily on to the trunk, the sergeant from above seized his wrists, and Tom, with a mighty heave, hoisted him aloft. "Now you, Betty," said Dorothy. It was well for Betty the stone slabs had been wrenched with little difficulty from the sounding lines of the aperture. She was stout and heavy as seemeth a cook, and if there had not been strong braced thighs on the stack, and arms like iron beneath her, Betty would have slept that morn her last sleep on earth in the tiny attic she had known so long. "Now, Dorothy," said Tom. She was already on the chest. He pressed her hand tenderly as she turned her face towards the gap through which the Sergeant had passed. Tom lifted her through almost bodily. "Come you, now," she said as she left his arms. "Here, sergeant," bawled Tom, "take these blankets and things. It'll be cold up there." And Tom hastily passed blankets, sheets, and counterpanes through the window. Then those above heard him tearing at the bedsteads like one possessed. He rove them asunder by main force and passed the sections to the sergeant. Then springing on to the chest he thrust his arms to either side of the roof, and with a thrust of the feet that sent the box flying, forced and prised himself to the roof. They could see little even by the light which the constable still retained. They were sure only that Wilberlee House was all but submerged, and that the devouring waters as they swept by them crawled up the sloping roof. From the thick darkness came shouts and wails and cries, and the thundering crash of falling buildings. By the lanthorn's glare and the casual glimpsing of the moon they saw, as they strained their visions to pierce the black encircling pall, what looked like huge pieces of machinery that broke from the tomb of the night before their eyes and then were gone again. More than once, almost level with the house eaves, a face of a man or woman, a white, pallid, drawn face, with eyes distended in speechless horror, would flash above the waters and then be borne away like chaff in a mighty blast, or the long white trailing of a woman's dress would shoot beneath their feet, come and go ere they realised it was come. And ever and anon those awful, thrilling, sickening cries, whose dread import they but too surely guessed. The night was bitter cold. They clung together, crouching low, their absorbing thought--would the house stand the shock of those pounding waters, would the dinning flood go on for ever? Tom only had been engaged. Getting what hold he could by the low chimney of the house, he fastened together with the cording of the beds the disjointed laths, making a very passable raft. This he lowered to the verge of the roof. It might be needed, who might say? The very house seemed to shake under them as they crouched and waited in agonised suspense. Had it been less stoutly built it must ere this have been swept bodily away as rows upon rows of houses that night of doom were swept away by the devouring torrent--many bearing with them husband, wife and child, scarce roused from sleep ere the flood clasped them in the embrace of death. And still the surging water rose higher and higher, now creeping slowly up the thatch, now sweeping swiftly upwards and now falling as suddenly for a foot or two, giving a momentary hope the violence of the storm was over--but only to surge nearer and nearer to those who now clung to the ridge of the arched roof. Tom contrived to crawl cautiously to Mr. Tinker's side. With difficulty making the dazed man hear him above the roar of the waters and the dinn that stunned their sense, Tom made him understand that they must now trust to the frail raft he had improvised. "It's our only chance, sir. The bindings of the roof are giving. And look, look!" Tom pointed across the mill-yard. The moon was clear of the clouds, and for a few moments the scene of desolation and the waste of waters might be seen by the silver light. Mr. Tinker's gaze followed the direction of the outstretched arms. Across the yard towered the long mill chimney, and it was rocking and swaying like a drunken man. There was not a moment to be lost. The sergeant and Tom slipped the raft on to the bosom of the racing flood. It was all but torn from their grasp. "Get you on it with the women," cried Tom. Betty was with difficulty placed upon the frail support. Mr. Tinker followed her. The sergeant, obedient to Tom's gesture, sprang upon it. "Now, Dorothy, jump for your life"; but even as the words left his lips, the bark was torn from his grasp. There was a shriek of terror from those aboard, and Ramsden cried, "The chimney. Oh! God! It's falling!" Tom breathed a prayer. "It's you and me for it, Dorothy. Can you trust me?" He passed his arm around her; she pressed her lips to his, and Tom, with his almost unconscious charge, leaped far out into the centre of the headlong current. And even as he leaped the great chimney-stack, its base destroyed, swayed towards the house, and in one unbroken mass fell upon the roof that had been their refuge, and Tom and Dorothy were lost in the crested billows that leaped with angry roar to meet the very skies. CHAPTER XV. SOME ten days or so after the events recorded in the last chapter, a stout woman past the middle age sat by a large four-posted bed in a spacious and well-furnished bedroom. The eider-down coverlet of the bed, its damask hangings, the prie-dieu by its side, the rich covering of the walls, the silken curtaining of the windows, the full pile of the carpets, the costly paintings on the walls indicated the abode of wealth and refinement. The woman by the bedside, on whom fell the genial rays of a bright-burning fire, was plainly but neatly dressed. The anxious glances she cast upon the figure stretched upon the bed seemed to bespeak a greater, a tenderer concern than that of the ordinary professional nurse. There was no sound in the room save the ticking of the massive marble clock upon the mantel, and the regular breathing of the patient. The nurse turned the pages of a ponderous family Bible, but as her attention was confined to the highly coloured illustrations it is probable the printed page was a dead letter to her eyes. So absorbed was she in the contemplation of the ornate plate depicting the sale of Joseph by his brethren that she almost dropped the heavy book from her knees as a faint voice issued from between the curtain folds. "Has th' buzzer gone, Hannah?" "Sakes, alive! If he isn't wakken," the nurse exclaimed, drawing back the curtain. "Eh! Tom, lad, it's fain aw am to yer thi voice. But tha munnot talk nor fash thisen." "Has th' buzzer gone?" the invalid asked again. Then his eyes wandered slowly and somewhat vacantly about the room. "Where am I?" he asked. "Aye, tha may weel ax, lad. Thou'rt at Mester Willie Brooke's at Northgate House i' Honley, an' here tha's been awmost ivver sin they sammed thi up i'th churchyard all swoonded away; an' long it wer' afore they knowed reightly whether tha wer' wick or deead." "Have I been poorly?" asked Tom. "What am I doing here? Where's Ben? Is he at th' mill? There's those pieces for Skilbeck's want 'livering. Why isn't Lucy here?" "Poorly! Tha may weel say that, an' off thi yed for days together, an' of all th' stuff 'at ivver a man talked, all abaat 'junctions, an' love, an' ferrets, an' rabbits, an' then tryin' to swim, an' it took two on us to howd thi i' bed. But theer, it's time tha had thi physic, an' then thi mun go to sleep agen, an' th' cook 'll mak thi some arrowroot, an' thou'rt to have a glass o' port wine in it, th' doctor says, teetotal or no teetotal, which aw nivver did howd wi' i' time o' sickness, an' agen th' law o' natur' in a way o' speikin'." But Hannah's views on this grave question were lost upon the invalid. He had again sunk into deep and refreshing sleep, and as Hannah laid her hand gently upon his brow, the slight moisture told that the fever in which he had tossed and raved had succumbed to care and treatment. When Tom awoke Hannah's place had been taken by a tall, grey-haired man of spare form, broad shoulders and slightly bent, his forehead lined with the tracery of time and care. His eyes had been long fixed upon the features of the sleeping youth and seemed from their expression to seek for some flitting transient likeness they bore a moment but to lose the next. It was Jabez Tinker. From the face so often, so minutely scanned, the eyes of the watcher turned at times to a small gold locket he held in his palm. It bore in pearls the letters. A.J. It was the locket taken by Moll o' Stuarts from the slender neck of the way-worn woman the _Hanging Gate_ had received more than twenty years before, the locket confided to Tom by Mr. Black, and which, ever since, night and day, sleeping or waking, he had worn beneath his vest. Presently Mr. Tinker became aware by that subtle uneasy sense we all have felt, that Tom's eyes were fixed inquiringly on his face. He rose somewhat stiffly to his feet and bent over the bed. He took the hand that lay upon the coverlet. "Are you better, Tom?" he asked, very gently. "We have been very anxious about you." Tom looked upon the features, usually so stern, with puzzled interest. He seemed to be searching for some elusive memory of the past. "I dreamed you were dead, drowned," he said at length. "But I seem to remember so many strange things for an instant or two. Then it is all blank again. But mostly I seem to be fighting with some awful, pitiless enemy that tosses and whirls and throttles me till I choke. And then again all is dark and vague, and I remember nothing." "Well, you see, I am not dead yet, Tom, thanks be to God, and under God to you. 'Tis you, Tom, that have been nearer Jordan than I." "Jordan!" said Tom, musingly. "Jordan! I was right then. I knew there was a flood, somehow, but I thought it was Bilberry burst." Then, as if the very words brought a flash of crowding memory and peopled his mind with vivid visions, he cried aloud: "Dorothy! Dorothy! Where is Dorothy! Oh God, I've let her slip again," and a look of anguish, of hopeless despair was on his face, and with trembling hands he covered his face, and burying his head in the pillow, sobbed as though his whole being would dissolve in tears. Mr. Tinker beckoned to one who stood by the door. She had entered the room very quietly, fearing to wake the patient. It was Dorothy, looking frail and fragile, but not unhappy, for Hannah had told her that Tom was coming to his senses, and the long, weary waiting and fearing was at an end. As Dorothy with noiseless step approached the bed Mr. Tinker drew aside. Dorothy touched gently the hand bent upon the pillow, and stooped low, very low, so that her lips were very near, and her breath played upon his cheek. "No, Tom!" she whispered. "Not lost--won." And as Tom raised his face and gazed upon her as men upon the lineaments that are dearer to them than life, when life is sweetest, her eyes drooped beneath his ardent gaze, and the mantling colour suffused her cheek. She stole her hand into his, and for a while they were still. Jabez came and stood by his niece's side. "Leave us for a time, Dorothy," he said. It was the voice of Jabez; but not the voice she had so long been used to hear. It was almost caressing in its gentleness. Dorothy smiled her assent. "I'm to bring your arrowroot up, Tom, and I've made it myself. I know the port wine's nice. I tasted it. Don't let the food be spoiled, uncle, and, remember, Tom's not to be bothered or upset. If he is, won't Hannah give it you, that's all," and she tripped away with a glance at Tom that did him more good belike than arrowroot or wine. Mr. Tinker waited until the door had closed upon her, then he drew a chair to the bedside. "I mustn't agitate you, Tom," he spoke. "But, oh! If you could realise what my feelings have been since you have lain between life and death, my dread lest you might pass away and make no sign, the fears, the hopes alternate holding sway, the doubts, the prayers you would forgive much to an old and stricken man." He opened the hand in which he still held the locket. Involuntarily Tom raised his to feel for the trinket he had so long cherished. "Can you tell me the meaning of this locket? It was found upon your neck, they say, when you were picked up unconscious, scarce breathing, your heart but flickering, in the churchyard yonder, after the Flood had abated. You had saved Dorothy, how, she scarce seems to know. But she lay very near to you, her head upon your breast. They thought you both dead. But Dorothy was soon no worse. But this locket, speak, Tom, what does it mean?" "It was my mother's," said Tom. "And she?" "She died the night I was born." "But her name? Who was she? For heaven's sake, Tom, tell me all you know. You cannot divine how much hangs on your words. They mean perhaps as much to me as you." Then Tom told him the tale of the night on which this story opened. "And Fairbanks, the landlady, the midwife? They can tell me more, they can speak to this. Does this Moll o' Stute's still live?" "Oh, yes, Moll's safe enough. Did you know my mother, Mr. Tinker?" "Know her! Oh! my God, know her! But ask me no more now, Tom. Not a moment must be lost. Brook will lend me a horse. Mine went with the Flood. I'll see you to-morrow. Now have your arrowroot and sleep and get strong and well. Whether my hopes are well founded or not, you're my son from this day, Tom, for you saved my life, lad, and you saved Dorothy's. And I'm proud of you, lad, I'm proud of you--Tom Pinder, foundling, and there isn't a man in the valley that wouldn't like to call you son, nor a girl you couldn't win. Hannah and Dorothy'll look after you till tomorrow, then." It was the afternoon of the next day before Jabez Tinker returned from his quest. In the interval between his departure and return, Hannah had yielded to Tom's importunity, and sent for Ben. "Eh! Lad," was Ben's greeting, as he wrung the invalid's hand with a grip that made Tom wince, "aw could awmost find it i' mi heart to call it an answer to prayer. Yo' munnot let on to Hannah, but mony a time a day this last ten days an' more, aw've been dahn o' my marrow-bones a prayin' tha med be spared Th' laws o' natur's all vary weel, Tom, for th' intellec' but there's times, lad, when th' heart o' man turns to its Maker like a babby to its mother i' its pain. An' this has been sich a time, aw reckon. Eh! man! its fair heart-breakin' to gooa dahn th' valley. Near on eighty folks drahned, caantin' th' childer in, an' as for th' damage to property, a quarter million pund willn't cover it, folk sayn. Th' Co-op. Mill's gone, choose yah, an' Wilberlee House an' all. Yar bit o' a whomstid's safe, an' that's summat to be thankful for; but, eh, mon, aw dunnot know wheer we'st all ha' to turn for summat to do, there's thaasan's an' thaasan's o' folk aat o' wark, an' no prospec' o' ther getting onny, an' i' thick o' winter, too." "It's all a dreadful muddle to me, Ben, I can't seem to remember much about it. How did you escape, and how came I here?" "Well, aw nivver did!" exclaimed Ben. "Didn't yo' com' an' wakken me up, an' didn't Jack an' me awmost carry th' missus an' yar Lucy till we gate 'em on to th' 'ill-side. An' if we couldn't see mich on account o' th' dark we could hear enough. By God! aw thowt th' end o' th' world wer' come. An' th' skrikin'! Eh! lad, it wer' enough to freeze th' blood i' yo'r veins. But that didn't last long. It were short shrift for most on 'em. An' then wonderin' an' wonderin' what had come on yo'. Aw thowt Lucy'd go fair daft abaat yo'. That's a heart for feelin', if yo' like. Then Jack couldn't stand it no longer. He said he could swim down to Wilberlee if he could nobbut be sure of findin' th' road. He said 'at if tha wer' deead he'd as lief be deead, too, an' aat o' th' gate. An', by gosh, he off, an' 'atween runnin' an' wadin' an' swimmin' he gate theer, but theer wer nooa signs o' thee, or onybody else, for that matter, an' nowt but part o' th' mill truck to be seen. Th' chimbley wer' clean gone. But it wer' Jack that fun' thee all th' same up in Honley churchyard liggin' ovver a gravestooan. An' Miss Dorothy. Gow! lad, ha tha mun ha' hugged her. It's a mercy tha didn't squeeze th' life aat on her. Aw've nooan seen 'em missen, 't isn't likely," and, Ben winked; "but yar Hannah says oo's black an blue wheer thi arm held her. But oo'll think none th' worse of thee for that." "Get on with your story, Ben, and don't be frivolous. Where's Jack?" "Oh, Jack's all reight, barrin' 'at he says he's supped soa mich watter o' late that nowt but owd ale an' plenty on it 'll tak' th' taste aat of his maath." "But you mustn't let Jack get into evil courses Ben." "Oh! Jack 'll be reight enough when he's getten summat to do. But it's the owd tale. 'Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.' Yo' see ther's a seet o' folk come fro' all th' parts o' Yorkshire an' Lancashire to see th' course o' th' flood and th' deborah, as th' newspapper ca'd th' muck an' th' rubbish 'at's left. Holmfirth's more like a fair nor owt else. It's as bad as Honley Feeast time. An' all th' seet-seers 'at can get howd o' Jack mun treeat him. If he does get a bit fuddled afore bed-time it's little wonder. Aw've often noticed 'at folk 'll pay for a pint o' ale for a chap 'at wouldn't gi' him a penny-teea-cake if he wer clammin'. Dun they let yo' smoke i' this fine room, Tom? Aw'm fair dyin' for a reek o' baccy." But now Dorothy entered with a tray covered with a napkin snowy-white and on it a basin of arrowroot, and Ben slipped his clay and flat tin box into his pocket. "Aw rekkon aw'll be gooin', Tom, or Hannah 'll be flytin' me. Nivver yo' get wed, Tom, if yo' want to ca' yo'r soul yo'r own. It's just awful' th' way a felly's put on after he's once getten th' noose raand 'is neck. Tak a frien's advice Tom an' be warned i' time." And with a wink that meant volumes, Ben conveyed himself away, walking on tip-toe, as if afraid of waking a sleeper to whom sleep might mean life or death. "Now, Tom, you've got to eat this just now," said Dorothy, "wait till I see if it's cool enough," and she touched the lip of the spoon with hers and affected to taste the odorous compound with the air of a connoisseur. "It's just nice, sir, and if that doesn't cure you, nothing will." "I could drink a bucketful," protested Tom. Couldn't I have a chop or a steak? I'm as hungry as a hunter.'' "Chop, indeed! I should think not. Later on you shall have a cup of chicken-broth and the weest slice of toast. You've no idea how ill you are." Dorothy spoke lightly, but suddenly the woman gushed into her eyes, and it was a poor, faltering voice that said, "But you're better now, thank God. Oh! Tom, if you had died!" "Would you have cared very much, Dorothy?" asked Tom. "Is that what you call eating arrowroot, sir? Listen, that's uncle. How soon he's back." Dorothy had gone to the window and drawn aside the curtains. "The horse is covered with foam, and uncle looks ten years younger and as glad as a bridegroom." A quick step was heard on the stairs, and Jabez Tinker stood at the door of the sick-room. "Is he awake, Dorothy?" whispered Mr. Tinker. "Awake, yes, and likely to be, as far as I can see, what with one and another. Call this a sick-room. Better call it a show and charge for admission. It takes one maid's time to attend to the door. If Mr. Brooke doesn't send in a bill for a new knocker and fresh paint, he's a saint." "There, there, chatterbox," exclaimed Jabez, gaily. "Out you go, Dorothy, and don't come up again till I ring. Then you may come, no one else." Mr. Tinker looked radiant, and, as Dorothy had said, younger by ten good years. In his impatience he almost pushed his niece from the room. Then he strode to the bed and held out both his hands to Tom. "It's true, Tom, it's true, every word of it. Oh! that ever I should live to see this day. I've dreamed of it, I've prayed for it, and now it has come to me, this my great joy, out of the deep waters. Truly God moves in a mysterious way." Tom had risen to a sitting posture. Jabez flung a loose shawl--it was Dorothy's--over his shoulders. "You mustn't risk taking cold," he said, very gently. "Are you quite sure you feel strong enough to hear a rather long story, Tom, or would you rather wait?" "I would rather hear it now, sir." "Then hear me to the finish and don't judge me too harshly. God knows I've suffered enough without your condemnation. But it might have been worse, it might have been worse." Mr. Tinker was silent for a time, as if to arrange his thoughts or choose his words. Then very gravely he spoke: "My father, Tom, was a very strict, stern man" ("I'm not surprised to hear that," thought his listener) "and with an overweening sense of family pride. He was very proud that he was a Tinker, and, indeed, Tom, we are as old a family as there is in the valley. Never forget that. And we have an unsullied name. My father had another failing, if failing it be called. He was inordinately fond of money. He expected, he took it for granted, that both Dick and myself would marry not for money, of course, but where money was. "But both his sons disregarded their father's wishes. I, secretly, while he yet lived; Richard, as you know, after his death. It was my fate, at the house of a customer in Liverpool, to meet sweet Annie Lisle, the family governess. She was an orphan, alone and unfriended, in the world. What else she was, how sweet, how winsome, how patient, how true and how trustful I cannot bear to think of, still less speak. I won her love. I dared not speak of my passionate devotion at home. My father with the burden of age had become each year more exacting, less tolerant of opposition to his will. I feared to anger him. It was in his power to disinherit me by his will. I was absolutely dependent on him. The homestead was his, the mill, the business, were his. I was not man enough to face poverty, expulsion from my home, loss of social status--not even for my loved one's sake. Call me a poltroon, Tom, a coward, a cur, if you like. I have used bitterer words than those to myself. I knew it would be hopeless to ask my father's consent. He would have had one word--'Go!' Then I began, with a satisfaction I strove in vain to banish, to observe, nay, to gauge, the sign of my father's failing health. I persuaded myself he was not long for this world, and in my heart of hearts I was glad. But my passion ill brooked delay. I urged Annie to a secret wedding. Reluctantly she consented. She procured a week's holiday from her employer, and we were married by special license at the parish church of Seaford, on the south coast, a small fishing hamlet little frequented by the tourist or holiday-maker. It was a week of Paradise. Then my wife returned to her employment, I was to find a favourable opportunity of breaking the news to my father. Meantime anything might happen. I conjured my wife to keep our secret. I kept the certificate of our marriage, so afraid was I lest it should fall into another's hand. My wife was not even to write to me lest my father's suspicions should be aroused. I continued to call on my Liverpool customer as usual, and when he asked me as usual to dine or sup at his house, I treated my own wife with the distant courtesy one shows to a governess. One day, early in the winter of 1830, I called at the house of Mr.----, I was determined to take my wife away. My father had softened much during the past few months. He had agreed to pay me a fixed salary, instead of doling out a pound or two for pocket money. I had resolved to place Annie in some small cottage not far from Holmfirth I had thought of Greenfield. I could see her there each week. And there was another reason why another home should be found for her. Judge of my consternation when Mrs.--, in answer to the inquiry which I made with assumed indifference as to the health of the children and their governess, told me that Miss Lisle had been dismissed her service, dismissed ignominiously, without a character. I controlled myself as well as I could. Mrs. ---- said enough to convince me that my darling had been dismissed under the darkest suspicion that can rest upon a pure, unsullied woman. But even then I did not disclose the truth. My wife had vanished and left no trace behind her. She had been true to her promise to me, even when a word would have cleared her name and confounded the angry jealous woman who spurned her from her home. Almost penniless she turned into the world. She never wrote to me or sent me word. Judge how I searched in all places likely and unlikely for her. Secretly, with what scant means I could procure. I instituted inquiries on every side; but my wife had disappeared as effectively as though she had never been. She had never worn her wedding ring; she had borne my name only during all that too brief week of wedded bliss at Seaford. Time went by; I knew my wife, if she still lived, must be a mother. I feared, then at last I persuaded myself, that in her shame and grief she had destroyed herself. I called upon my head the curse of the Almighty, but God seemed heedless of my blasphemous ravings. From that time life for me had lost its savour. I lived only for work, for business success. They were my distraction. Then, as you know, I married. But of that I need not speak. My wife bore me no children, and when I took Dorothy as my ward I almost hated the child because I could not love her as my own." There was a long silence. Tom feared to speak. He guessed the rest too surely. "One present only had I given to my sweetheart. It was a locket with our initials intertwined, and a love-knot of our hair inside. It was a whim of Annie's. Tom, my boy, my son, you have worn that locket about your neck. Can you forget the wrong I did your mother, and forgive the father who can never forgive himself?" "Nay, Mr. Tinker, nay, father, if indeed I am your son," faltered Tom. "I've seen Moll o' Stute's. I've seen Mrs. Schofield. They remembered the features of your mother as though she died but yesterday. Besides--but there can be no question of it." "Well, father," said Tom, very solemnly, "I thank God that I am indeed your son. It is not for me to judge or to forgive. I will try to be to you all your son should be." Jabez bent over the bed and kissed Tom's brow, and the tears streamed down the face of the elder man, his pride humbled, his cold reserve broken down, the man of iron melted to a gentleness he had never known before. "Do you know, Tom," he half laughed, half sobbed, "you're not unlike what I was at your age. You're a Tinker, whether you like it or not." "And a Lisle," added Tom, and lay back upon his pillow in great comfort. Then he added: "So Dorothy's my cousin." Jabez nodded. "Can I come in?" spoke Dorothy's voice outside. "Open the door, uncle, I've both hands full." "I'll leave you together, Tom. I know more than you think I know," whispered the old man, and quitted the room. "Of all the born conspirators commend me to Jabez Tinker, Esq., J.P., of Wilberlee Mill, that was, and to Mr. Tom Pinder, of Co-op. Mill, also that was. Here's your chicken-broth, sir, and you're to drink a glass of champagne--doctor's orders." "Put it on the table, Dorothy, for a moment. I want to speak to you. Come, stand here, please." Dorothy pouted, but obliged, "Behold, thine handmaiden," she said, "what wills my lord?" "Dorothy, be serious for a moment. Your uncle has told me a strange story. I cannot repeat it all. Can you credit it? I am your cousin!" "Oh! poor fellow, he's raving again. I knew how it would be, all this talking. I'm sorry to hear it, Tom--I do so hate cousins. I've dozens of 'em, and not one nice one in the lot." "And I'm not Tom Pinder, either." "And who may you please to be?" "Only Tom Tinker, son of Jabez Tinker, of Wilberlee Mill that was and is to be." Dorothy part withdrew from the bedside and looked long and fixedly on Tom. "And is that all you have to tell me, Mr. Tom Tinker?" "No, Dorothy, I have another secret to tell you. But you must come closer, closer still. Dorothy, I love you. I have loved you for years. Will you be my wife?" Dorothy made answer none. But when Tom drew her face to his she suffered him. "My darling, oh, my darling! I love you more than life," murmured Tom in her ear. "And is that what you call telling me a secret? You silly boy, I've known it ever so long." "And you, Dorothy, how long have you loved me?" "Ah! that's my secret." The story I set about to tell is told. Another house stands by Wilberlee Mill; another mill stands upon the ruins of Wilberlee, and Tom Tinker is master of the mill, and nominal master of the house. There is a Young Jabez plays about an old man's knee, and a sweet fair-haired Lucy prattles and babbles on its godmother's knee. Lucy Garside was bridesmaid at Dorothy's wedding, and was sponsor for her daughter at the font. She remained unmarried through her life, and she, too, had a secret; it was one that was never told. Wilberlee Mill prospered. The hands were paid on the same principles as Tom and Ben had introduced at Co-op. Mill, and prospered with the mill. If Tom was never rich as this world counts riches, he was rich in a wealth above a miser's dream. "What about the action 'Pinder at the suit of Tinker,'" asked Nehemiah Wimpenny of his client. "Judgment for the defendant with costs," was the curt reply. "Happy to draw the marriage settlements," ventured the unabashed attorney. "Thank you, Edwin Sykes will do that," was the reply. Wimpenny returned to his siege of the facile heart of the lively Polly, and in time wedded her. But their marriage was not a happy one. Nehemiah's attachment to the bar of the _Rose and Crown_ survived Polly's translation to a loftier sphere of life. He became a confirmed tippler, and his clients left him one after the other. He became in time that most pitiable of objects--a pot-house lawyer, and only escaped the last disgrace of a lawyer's life because no one would trust him with their money. Ben Garside took to Methodism in his old age, and wore glossy black-cloth o' Sundays. But he always averred that he had fallen from his best ideals, and suffered the fear for his own soul to deaden his concern for the souls of others. He and Jack smoked many a pipe together in the calm summer months of peaceful and prosperous years, seated on the crumbling walls of Co-op. Mill, and mourning over a vanished dream. The last sage dictum of Ben to be recorded in this narrative suggested its title. It was uttered on the eve of his friend's wedding. "Aw reckon, Tom, as ha' tha'll be goin' to Aenon Chapel after tha'rt wed?" "Why so?" asked Tom "Cost tha'rt one o' th' elect." "I don't take you, Ben." "Why, mon, doesn't elect mean chossen." "I suppose so, Ben." "Why, doesn't ta see, tha'rt Dorothy's choice?" THE END. THE HOLMFIRTH FLOOD. As many of the readers of "Dorothy's Choice" may not be conversant with the facts upon which that story is based, and as those who are may wish to have in concise form a historical narrative of that great catastrophe the following account, taken from the author's "History of Huddersfield and Its Vicinity," is appended:-- "The Bilberry Reservoir is situated at the head of a narrow gorge or glen, leading from the Holme Valley, at Holme Bridge, to a high bluff of land called Good Bent, and was supplied by two streams flowing through the cloughs running to the north-east and south-east of Good Bent, and draining the Moors of Holme Moss on the one side and the hills running up to Saddleworth on the other, including some thousands of acres of moorland. The confluence of the streams takes place between two large hills, called Hoobrook Hill and Lum Bank, and which run parallel to each other for a distance of about one hundred and fifty yards, when they open out and form an extensive oval basin of not less than three hundred yards diameter. The reservoir formed by blocking up the valley below the basin enclosing some twelve acres of surface. It was defective in its original construction, and was for a long time known to be in a most dangerous condition. At the time when the embankment gave way the quantity of water in the reservoir would not be less than eighty-six million two hundred and forty-eight thousand gallons or the enormous and fearful amount of three hundred thousand tons in weight. It burst a little before one o'clock in the morning of February 5th, 1852. The moon shone bright over the varied and romantic landscape; the streamlets swollen by recent heavy rains, filled the river to its banks; the industrious population were recruiting their wasted energies by sleep, when all at once, in a moment, the ponderous embankment was carried away by the force and weight of the pent-up waters, and desolation, ruin, and death overspread the rich and fertile valley for miles around. Trees were torn up by the roots and hurried onwards by the rush of waters, roaring with renewed fury as they swept each successive obstruction. The death-shrieks of scores were hushed as the flood passed forwards to new scenes of destruction and death, leaving in its track ponderous pieces of rock weighing many tons; the dead carcases of horses, cows, goats, and other cattle; here and there broken machinery, bags of wool, carding machines, dye pans, steam engine boilers, timber, spars, looms, furniture, and every variety of wreck. It would seem as if the whole body of accumulated waters had tumbled down the valley together, sweeping all before them, throwing a four-storey mill down like a thing of nought, tossing steam engine boilers about like feathers, and carrying death and destruction in their progress. In consequence of the narrowness between the mountain bluffs on either side, a vast volume of water was kept together, which spent its force upon Holmfirth, where the mass of houses, shops, mills, warehouses, and other buildings was expected to present a formidable barrier to its further progress. The check, however, was but momentary for the flood, with the mass of floating wreck which it carried in its bosom, shot through buildings, gutted some, and tumbled others down, until it found a further outlet and passed on, doing more or less damage lower down the valley at Thongs Bridge, Honley, and Armitage Bridge. After passing the last place mentioned the flood got more into the open country spreading itself out in the fields, and swelling the river down below Huddersfield. Much might be written on the details and incidents connected with the catastrophe. A few of the most striking may be mentioned. A few hundred yards below the reservoir stood a small building two storeys high called Bilberry Mill, the occupation of Joseph Broadhead, and used as a scribbling and dressing mill. The end of the mill was caught by the sudden swell, and about ten feet in length and its gable were washed down the valley. A little further down the valley, and on the same side as Bilberry Mill, stood Digley Upper Mill, lately occupied by Mr. John Furniss, woollen manufacturer. The building was a block of stone work, consisting of a factory, a large house, farm buildings, and outhouses. The end of the mill was washed away, a quantity of machinery, and a large amount of property in the shape of pieces, warps, etc., destroyed, and the gable end of the house, which was comparatively new, and the farm buildings swept away. In the latter were twelve tons of hay, three cows, a horse, and several head of poultry, which were all carried down the stream. A short distance below stood Digley Mill property, which consisted of a large building sixty yards square, four storeys high, built of stone; a weaving shed, containing thirty-four looms and other machinery; two dwelling-houses, seven cottages, farm, and other outbuildings, making altogether a small town. Adjacent to it in the valley and on the hill side were several fields of rich and fertile land; the whole forming a secluded but compact estate, valued at from twelve to fifteen thousand pounds. In one of the houses built on the river side, resided Mrs. Hirst, widow of the late George Hirst; and in the other resided Henry Beardsall, her son-in-law. The cottages were occupied by work people. The buildings formed a mass of solid stone work; but the torrent swept it away like a straw, carrying its ponderous machinery down the valley, and tossing its boilers about with the greatest ease. The engine was carried from its place, and became embedded in the mud lower down in the valley. The house built on the hill-side remained, but the cottages and all the other buildings were carried away, except a tall engine chimney. With the buildings were swept away four cows and a valuable horse. Bank End Mill was the next building in the valley. Its gable end and one window from the top to the bottom of the building were washed away. It was completely gutted in the lower rooms and the machinery in the upper storeys was thrown together in heaps. The dye house and stove, about twenty yards long, were completely cleared away, leaving nothing of them standing above the ground. The property belonged to Joe Roebuck whose loss was estimated at from two to three thousand pounds. The valley here widens until it reaches Holme Bridge, a small village composed of a few hundred inhabitants. The stream here is crossed by a bridge of one arch, about forty yards on one side of which stands Holme Church, in the centre of a graveyard; and about the same distance on the other side stood a toll gate and a number of dwellings. The bridge was swept away to its foundations. The wall surrounding the church was ravished by the speeding torrent, and the few trees planted in the yard were uprooted and carried down the stream. The interior of the church and the graveyard, as seen a day or two after the flood, presented a melancholy spectacle. Inside the church the water had risen about five feet. The floor was torn up--the pews had been floating, and the floor was covered with sand and mud several inches thick. In the centre of the aisle was laid the body of a goat which had been washed from Upper Digley Mill, and within a few feet of it, resting on the seat of one of the pews, lay the coffin and remains of a full grown man. Both these relics, with others not found, had been washed up from their graves by the whirlpools formed by the current, as it passed over the churchyard. The roads and fields from the reservoir downwards to this point were almost covered with huge masses of stone and other loose substances, of which the bank of the reservoir had been formed. Down to this point no human life appears to have been lost; but a little lower down, at the village of Hinchliffe Mill, the loss of life was very great. This village was on the left bank of the river, and consisted principally of cottage houses. The factory, which gave its name to the village, was a large building five storeys high, built on the opposite side of the river, and which remained, though the water had passed its first and second floor, and done great damage to the machinery. The mill was for some time blocked up to the windows in the second storey with huge pieces of timber, broken machinery, and wreck of various descriptions, which the torrent brought down from the mills above. On the village side of the river, six dwellings which formed "Water Street," were swept down and hurled forward with the flood, and thirty-five of the inmates perished. The following is the list of the occupants of the houses that were swept down. The first house was occupied by Miss Marsden and three others; the second by Joseph Todd, his wife and children; the third by J. Crosland and seven others; the fourth by James Metternick, and nine others; the fifth by Joshua Earnshaw, his little girl, and two sons; and the sixth by John Charlesworth, and nine others. The houses in this neighbourhood not washed down, were in some cases flooded into the chambers; and in one of them--the endmost left standing--were sixteen individuals, who saved their lives by getting on an adjoining roof. In the adjoining houses, five persons perished. Of the five persons who were overcome by the waters in the houses above Hinchliffe, three were drowned in one house, viz.--James Booth, his wife, and a lodger. In the same pile of buildings, the wife of Joseph Brook (who was endeavouring to save herself and child) was drowned with her infant in her arms. The country grows wilder below the last-mentioned place; and in the centre of a wide valley stood Bottom's Mill. From the open country here offered to the stream, the factory, which was a very large one, sustained comparatively little damage. After leaving the mill, the torrent assailed the machine shops and works of Messrs. Pogson and Co.; proceeding thence to Harpin's Victoria woollen mill, doing great damage. Machinery was broken, cottages carried away, and much property destroyed. At the time of the calamity twenty persons were in these cottages, and were only rescued by a communication being opened up through the walls with the end house which was rather higher up away from the flood. Here in one chamber, the poor creatures were huddled together expecting momentary death, when at last the water abated sufficiently to allow of their being removed which was scarcely effected before the house fell in. Within a short distance of Victoria Mill stood Dyson's Mill, which was occupied by Mr. Sandford in the yard of which Mr. Sandford resided. His house was swept away, and with it himself, his two children, and servant. The factory sustained very serious damage, both in its walls and machinery. Mr. Sandford was a person of considerable property, and is said to have had three or four thousand pounds in the house at the time. However this may be, it is known that he had just before been in treaty for the purchase of a considerable estate at Penistone, and that he had only that very week given instructions to a share broker at Huddersfield to buy for him a large amount of London and North Western Railway Stock. His life was also insured for a large sum. The bodies of Mr. Sandford's two daughters and his housekeeper were found a few days after the flood; but the body of Mr. Sandford was not found till February 20th. His friends wished to find the body in order to prove his death, without which they would not have been entitled to receive the amount secured by his policy of insurance. A reward of ten pounds was therefore offered in the first instance for the recovery of his body, which sum was increased to one hundred pounds. Procklington or Farrars' Upper Mill stood next, the large dyehouse of which was completely destroyed. The damage was estimated at two, or three thousand pounds; and one of the boilers, weighing six tons, was carried by the water to Berry Brow, a distance of three miles. These were the property of Mr. J. Farrar. The factory known as the Tower Mill, situate a little below, was built across the stream; but the torrent rushed onward and carried the greater portion of the mill along with it, leaving the two ends standing. The mill was filled with valuable machinery and woollen material, and was the property of Mr. Hodson Farrar. In the factory yard two children were drowned, and a little further down a third child was found dead. At the _George_ Inn, near this place, nine bodies, principally recovered from the stream, were laid. At Holmfirth, hundreds of dwellings were inundated, some of them were filled to the top storey, compelling the inmates to escape through and get upon the roof for safety; indeed, the houses were thoroughly gutted. Happily no lives were lost; but the most heart-rending scenes occurred to the inhabitants of some of the houses on the opposite side of the street. On the left hand side of what the day previous was a narrow street stood the toll-bar house, kept by S. Greenwood, who, with his wife and child, were swept away. He was seen to come out of the house with a lighted candle in his hand return into the house, close the door after him, and in a moment or two not a vestige of the house was to be seen. Lower down, on the same side of the street, was an extensive warehouse occupied by Messrs. Crawshaw, carriers, which was swept away. To the left were some extensive blue dye works; the destruction of these premises was most complete. A little above the mill and between that building and a stable, stood two small cottages, one occupied by S. Hartley and his family, the other by R. Shackleton and family. All the members save three of these families, were swept away with the cottages. Victoria Bridge was dismantled. On the right hand side, over the bridge, was a new row of shops, built in the modern style, every one of which was flooded. The loss sustained by the various occupants was great. At Smithy Place (a hamlet about two miles north-east of Holmfirth) the water rose to a fearful height, and but for the alarm which had been given, the loss of life must have been great. Whole families had to leave their beds and betake themselves out of the way of the flood with no other covering than what they slept in some quite naked; and the shrieks and cries of children for their parents, and parents for their children, were heartbreaking. The damage done in this place was very great. From Honley to Armitage Bridge the wreck was fearful, the front and back walls of St. Paul's Church, at the latter place, being completely destroyed. Two children were found dead above the "Golden Fleece" Inn, one of them on the water side, the other washed into a tree; they were conveyed to the inn. A young woman, about eighteen years of age, was found dead and naked in a field near Armitage Fold. Beyond this part there was some slight damage done. From a statement published soon after the occurrence, it appears, that so far as could be ascertained, 77 lives had been lost, 38 of them being adults, and 39 children; 26 were married, 12 unmarried, and 12 children were left destitute. The estimated damage and summary of property, in addition to the loss from devastated land under tillage was as follows :--Buildings destroyed: 4 mills, 10 dyehouses, 3 stoves, 27 cottages, 7 tradesmen's houses, 7 shops, 7 bridges, 10 warehouses, 8 barns and stables. Buildings seriously injured: 5 dyehouses, 17 mills, 3 stoves, 129 cottages, 7 tradesmen's houses, 44 large shops, 11 public-houses 5 bridges, 1 county bridge, 4 warehouses, 13 barns, 3 places of worship, and 2 iron foundries. Hands thrown out of work: Adults, 4,896; children, 2,142 total, 7,038. The total loss of property was estimated at £250,000. The coroner's jury, who viewed the bodies of the persons drowned by the flood, in addition to the usual verdict of "Found drowned," made a statement to the effect that the Holme Reservoir Commissioners had been guilty of great and culpable negligence in allowing the reservoir to remain for several years in a dangerous state, with a full knowledge thereof, and that had they been in the position of a private individual or firm they would certainly have subject themselves to a verdict of "Manslaughter." Generous subscriptions were raised for the sufferers in various parts of the country, amounting altogether to £68,000. A large surplus of the fund was left after relieving the sufferers, which was devoted towards the erection of five almshouses, the first stone being laid in 1856. A brass plate bears the following inscription:-- "The foundation stone of the Holmfirth Monumental Alms Houses, erected to commemorate the great flood caused by the bursting of the Bilberry Reservoir, on the 5th of February, 1852 (by which upwards of eighty lives were lost), and also the munificent liberality of the British public, was laid by the Provincial Grand Lodge of Freemasons of West Yorkshire, on Monday, the 24th of April, 1856, 5856." 
23292	----	Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Dialect spellings, contractions and discrepancies have been retained. TED AND THE TELEPHONE By Sara Ware Bassett _The Invention Series_ PAUL AND THE PRINTING PRESS STEVE AND THE STEAM ENGINE TED AND THE TELEPHONE [Illustration: "Would you like to go to college if you could?" persisted the elder man. FRONTISPIECE. _See page_ 178.] The Invention Series TED AND THE TELEPHONE By SARA WARE BASSETT WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WILLIAM F. STECHER BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1922 _Copyright, 1922_, BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. _All rights reserved_ Published April, 1922 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA TO THE MEMORY OF EDWIN T. HOLMES WHO PLAYED A PART IN THE WONDERFUL TELEPHONE STORY, THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. S. W. B. It gives me much pleasure to acknowledge the generosity of Mr. Thomas Augustus Watson, the associate of and co-worker with Mr. Alexander Graham Bell, who has placed at my disposal his "Birth and Babyhood of the Telephone." Also the courtesy of Mrs. Edwin T. Holmes who has kindly allowed me to make use of her husband's book: "A Wonderful Fifty Years." THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I AN UNHERALDED CHAMPION 1 II TED RENEWS OLD TIMES 11 III GOING TO HOUSEKEEPING 21 IV THE FIRST NIGHT IN THE SHACK 35 V A VISITOR 49 VI MORE GUESTS 60 VII MR. LAURIE 76 VIII DIPLOMACY AND ITS RESULTS 94 IX THE STORY OF THE FIRST TELEPHONE 106 X WHAT CAME AFTERWARD 122 XI THE REST OF THE STORY 141 XII CONSPIRATORS 152 XIII WHAT TED HEARD 163 XIV THE FERNALDS WIN THEIR POINT 173 XV WHAT CAME OF THE PLOT 189 XVI ANOTHER CALAMITY 199 XVII SURPRISES 213 ILLUSTRATIONS "Would you like to go to college if you could?" persisted the elder man _Frontispiece_ "You can't be spreadin' wires an' jars an' things round my room!" protested Mr. Turner Page 9 Soon he came within sight of the shack which stood at the water's edge " 27 He heard an answering shout and a second later saw Ted Turner dash through the pines " 88 TED AND THE TELEPHONE CHAPTER I AN UNHERALDED CHAMPION Ted Turner lived at Freeman's Falls, a sleepy little town on the bank of a small New Hampshire river. There were cotton mills in the town; in fact, had there not been probably no town would have existed. The mills had not been attracted to the town; the town had arisen because of the mills. The river was responsible for the whole thing, for its swift current and foaming cascades had brought the mills, and the mills in turn had brought the village. Ted's father was a shipping clerk in one of the factories and his two older sisters were employed there also. Some day Ted himself expected to enter the great brick buildings, as the boys of the town usually did, and work his way up. Perhaps in time he might become a superintendent or even one of the firm. Who could tell? Such miracles did happen. Not that Ted Turner preferred a life in the cotton mills to any other career. Not at all. Deep down in his soul he detested the humming, panting, noisy place with its clatter of wheels, its monotonous piecework, and its limited horizon. But what choice had he? The mills were there and the only alternative before him. It was the mills or nothing for people seldom came to live at Freeman's Falls if they did not intend to enter the factories of Fernald and Company. It was Fernald and Company that had led his father to sell the tumble-down farm in Vermont and move with his family to New Hampshire. "There is no money in farming," announced he, after the death of Ted's mother. "Suppose we pull up stakes and go to some mill town where we can all find work." And therefore, without consideration for personal preferences, they had looked up mill towns and eventually settled on Freeman's Falls, not because they particularly liked its location but because labor was needed there. A very sad decision it was for Ted who had passionately loved the old farm on which he had been born, the half-blind gray horse, the few hens, and the lean Jersey cattle that his father asserted ate more than they were worth. To be cooped up in a manufacturing center after having had acres of open country to roam over was not an altogether joyous prospect. Would there be any chestnut, walnut, or apple trees at Freeman's Falls, he wondered. Alas, the question was soon answered. Within the village there were almost no trees at all except a few sickly elms and maples whose foliage was pale for want of sunshine and grimy with smoke. In fact, there was not much of anything in the town save the long dingy factories that bordered the river; the group of cheap and gaudy shops on the main street; and rows upon rows of wooden houses, all identical in design, walling in the highway. It was not a spot where green things flourished. There was not room for anything to grow and if there had been the soot from the towering chimneys would soon have settled upon any venturesome leaf or flower and quickly shrivelled it beneath a cloak of cinders. Even the river was coated with a scum of oil and refuse that poured from the waste pipes of the factories into the stream and washed up along the shores which might otherwise have been fair and verdant. Of course, if one could get far enough away there was beauty in plenty for in the outlying country stretched vistas of splendid pines, fields lush with ferns and flowers, and the unsullied span of the river, where in all its mountain-born purity it rushed gaily down toward the village. Here, well distant from the manufacturing atmosphere, were the homes of the Fernalds who owned the mills, the great estates of Mr. Lawrence Fernald and Mr. Clarence Fernald who every day rolled to their offices in giant limousines. Everybody in Freeman's Falls knew them by sight,--the big boss, as he was called, and his married son; and everybody thought how lucky they were to own the mills and take the money instead of doing the work. At least, that was what gossip said they did. Unquestionably it was much nicer to live at Aldercliffe, the stately colonial mansion of Mr. Lawrence Fernald; or at Pine Lea, the home of Mr. Clarence Fernald, where sweeping lawns, bright awnings, gardens, conservatories, and flashing fountains made a wonderland of the place. Troupes of laughing guests seemed always to be going and coming at both houses and there were horses and motor-cars, tennis courts, a golf course, and canoes and launches moored at the edge of the river. Freeman's Falls was a very stupid spot when contrasted with all this jollity. It must be far pleasanter, too, when winter came to hurry off to New York for the holidays or to Florida or California, as Mr. Clarence Fernald frequently did. With money enough to do whatever one pleased, how could a person help being happy? And yet there were those who declared that both Mr. Lawrence and Mr. Clarence Fernald would have bartered their fortunes to have had the crippled heir to the Fernald millions strong like other boys. Occasionally Ted had caught a glimpse of this Laurie Fernald, a fourteen-year-old lad with thin, colorless face and eyes that were haunting with sadness. In the village he passed as "the poor little chap" or as "poor Master Laurie" and the employees always doffed their caps to him because they pitied him. Whether one liked Mr. Fernald or Mr. Clarence or did not, every one united in being sorry for Mr. Laurie. Perhaps the invalid realized this; at any rate, he never failed to return the greetings accorded him with a smile so gentle and sweet that it became a pleasure in the day of whomsoever received it. It was said at the factories that the reason the Fernalds went to New York and Florida and California was because of Mr. Laurie; that was the reason, too, why so many celebrated doctors kept coming to Pine Lea, and why both Mr. Fernald and Mr. Clarence were often so sharp and unreasonable. In fact, almost everything the Fernalds did or did not do, said or did not say, could be traced back to Mr. Laurie. From the moment the boy was born--nay, long before--both Mr. Lawrence Fernald for whom he was named, and his father, Mr. Clarence Fernald, had planned how he should inherit the great mills and carry on the business they had founded. For years they had talked and talked of what should happen when Mr. Laurie grew up. And then had come the sudden and terrible illness, and after weeks of anxiety everybody realized that if Mr. Laurie lived he would be fortunate, and that he would never be able to carry on any business at all. In what hushed tones the townspeople talked of the tragedy and how they speculated on what the Fernalds would do _now_. And how surprised the superintendent of one of the mills (who, by the way, had six husky boys of his own) had been to have Mr. Lawrence Fernald bridle with rage when he said he was sorry for him. A proud old man was Mr. Fernald, senior. He did not fancy being pitied, as his employees soon found out. Possibly Mr. Clarence Fernald did not like it any better but whether he did or not he at least had the courtesy not to show his feelings. Thus the years had passed and Mr. Laurie had grown from childhood to boyhood. He could now ride about in a motor-car if lifted into it; but he could still walk very little, although specialists had not given up hope that perhaps in time he might be able to do so. There was a rumor that he was strapped into a steel jacket which he was forced to wear continually, and the mill hands commented on its probable discomfort and wondered how the boy could always keep so even-tempered. For it was unavoidable that the large force of servants from Aldercliffe and Pine Lea should neighbor back and forth with the townsfolk and in this way many a tale of Mr. Laurie's rare disposition reached the village. And even had not these stories been rife, anybody could easily have guessed the patience and sweetness of Mr. Laurie's nature from his smile. Among the employees of Fernald and Company he was popularly known as the Little Master and between him and them there existed a friendliness which neither his father nor his grandfather had ever been able to call out. The difference was that for Mr. Lawrence Fernald the men did only what they were paid to do; for Mr. Clarence they did fully what they were paid to do; and for Mr. Laurie they would gladly have done what they were paid to do and a great deal more. "The poor lad!" they murmured one to another. "The poor little chap!" Of course it followed that no one envied Mr. Laurie his wealth. How could they? One might perhaps envy Mr. Fernald, senior, or Mr. Clarence; but never Mr. Laurie even though the Fernald fortune and all the houses and gardens, with their miles of acreage, as well as the vast cotton mills would one day be his. Even Ted Turner, poor as he was, and having only the prospect of the factories ahead of him, never thought of wishing to exchange his lot in life for that of Mr. Laurie. He would rather toil for Fernald and Company to his dying day than be this weak, dependent creature who was compelled to be carried about by those stronger than himself. Nevertheless, in spite of this, there were intervals when Ted did wish he might exchange houses with Mr. Laurie. Not that Ted Turner coveted the big colonial mansion, or its fountains, its pergolas, its wide lawns; but he did love gardens, flowers, trees, and sky, and of these he had very little. He was, to be sure, fortunate in living on the outskirts of the village where he had more green and blue than did most of the mill workers. Still, it was not like Vermont and the unfenced miles of country to which he had been accustomed. A small tenement in Freeman's Falls, even though it had steam heat and running water, was in his opinion a poor substitute for all that had been left behind. But Ted's father liked the new home better, far better, and so did Ruth and Nancy, his sisters. Many a time the boy heard his father congratulating himself that he was clear of the farm and no longer had to get up in the cold of the early morning to feed and water the stock and do the milking. And Ruth and Nancy echoed these felicitations and rejoiced that now there was neither butter to churn nor hens to care for. Even Ted was forced to confess that Freeman's Falls had its advantages. Certainly the school was better, and as his father had resolved to keep him in it at least a part of the high-school term, Ted felt himself to be a lucky boy. He liked to study. He did not like all studies, of course. For example, he detested Latin, French, and history; but he revelled in shop-work, mathematics, and the sciences. There was nothing more to his taste than putting things together, especially electrical things; and already he had tried at home several crude experiments with improvised telegraphs, telephones, and wireless contrivances. Doubtless he would have had many more such playthings had not materials cost so much, money been so scarce, and Ruth and Nancy so timid. They did not like mysterious sparks and buzzings in the pantry and about the kitchen and told him so in no uncertain terms. "The next thing you know you'll be setting the house afire!" Ruth had asserted. "Besides, we've no room for wires and truck around here. You'll have to take your clutter somewhere else." And so Ted had obediently bundled his precious possessions into the room where he slept with his father only to be as promptly ejected from that refuge also. "You can't be spreadin' wires an' jars an' things round my room!" protested Mr. Turner with annoyance. [Illustration: "You can't be spreadin' wires an' jars an' things round my room!" protested Mr. Turner. _Page_ 9.] It did not seem to occur to him that it was Ted's room as well,--the only room the boy had. Altogether, his treasures found no welcome anywhere in the tiny apartment, and at length convinced of this, Ted took everything down and stowed it away in a box beneath the bed, henceforth confining his scientific adventures to the school laboratories where they might possibly have remained forever but for Mr. Wharton, the manager of the farms at Aldercliffe and Pine Lea. CHAPTER II TED RENEWS OLD TIMES Mr. Wharton was about the last person on earth one would have connected with boxes of strings and wires hidden away beneath beds. He was a graduate of a Massachusetts agricultural college; a keen-eyed, quick, impatient creature toward whom people in general stood somewhat in awe. He had the reputation of being a top-notch farmer and those who knew him declared with zest that there was nothing he did not know about soils, fertilizers, and crops. There was no nonsense when Mr. Wharton appeared on the scene. The men who worked for him soon found that out. You didn't lean on your hoe, light your pipe, and hazard the guess that there would be rain to-morrow; you just hoed as hard as you could and did not stop to guess anything. Now it happened that it was haying time both at Aldercliffe and Pine Lea and the rumor got abroad that the crop was an unusually heavy one; that Mr. Wharton was short of help and ready to hire at a good wage extra men from the adjoining village. Mr. Turner brought the tidings home from the mill one June night when he returned from work. "Why don't you try for a job up at Aldercliffe, my lad?" concluded he, after stating the case. "Ever since you were knee-high to a grasshopper you had a knack for pitching hay. Besides, you'd make a fine bit of money and the work would be no heavier than handling freight down at the mills. You've got to work somewhere through your summer vacation." He made the latter statement as a matter of course for a matter of course it had long since become. Ted always worked when he was not studying. Vacations, holidays, Saturdays, he was always busy earning money for if he had not been, there would have been no chance of his going to school the rest of the time. Sometimes he did errands for one of the dry-goods stores; sometimes, if there were a vacancy, he helped in Fernald and Company's shipping rooms; sometimes he worked at the town market or rode about on the grocer's wagon, delivering orders. By one means or another he had usually contrived, since he was quite a small boy, to pick up odd sums that went toward his clothes and "keep." As he grew older, these sums had increased until now they had become a recognized part of the family income. For it was understood that Ted would turn in toward the household expenses all that he earned. His father had never believed in a boy having money to spend and even if he had every cent which the Turners could scrape together was needed at home. Ted knew well how much sugar and butter cost and therefore without demur he cheerfully placed in the hands of his sister Ruth, who ran the house, every farthing that was given him. From childhood this sense of responsibility had always been in his background. He had known what it was to go hungry that he might have shoes and go without shoes that he might have underwear. Money had been very scarce on the Vermont farm, and although there was now more of it than there ever had been in the past, nevertheless it was not plentiful. Therefore, as vacation was approaching and he must get a job anyway, he decided to present himself before Mr. Wharton and ask for a chance to help in harvesting the hay crops at Aldercliffe and Pine Lea. "You are younger than the men I am hiring," Mr. Wharton said, after he had scanned the lad critically. "How old are you?" "Fourteen." "I thought as much. What I want is men." "But I have farmed all my life," protested Ted with spirit. "Indeed!" the manager exclaimed not unkindly. "Where?" "In Vermont." "You don't say so! I was born in the Green Mountains," was the quick retort. "Where did you live?" "Newfane." Instantly the man's face lighted. "I know that place well. And you came from Newfane here? How did you happen to do that?" "My father could not make the farm pay and we needed money." "Humph! Were you sorry to give up farming?" "Yes, sir. I didn't want to come to Freeman's Falls. But," added the boy brightening, "I like the school here." The manager paused, studying the sharp, eager face, the spare figure, and the fine carriage of the lad before him. "Do you like haying?" asked he presently. "Not particularly," Ted owned with honesty. Mr. Wharton laughed. "I see you are a human boy," he said. "If you don't like it, why are you so anxious to do it now?" "I've got to earn some money or give up going to school in the fall." "Oh, so that's it! And what are you working at in school that is so alluring?" demanded the man with a quizzical glance. "Electricity." "Electricity!" "Wireless, telegraphs, telephones, and things like that," put in Ted. For comment Mr. Wharton tipped back in his chair and once more let his eye wander over the boy's face; then he wheeled abruptly around to his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a yellow card across which he scrawled a line with his fountain pen. "You may begin work to-morrow morning," he remarked curtly. "If it is pleasant, Stevens will be cutting the further meadow with a gang of men. Come promptly at eight o'clock, prepared to stay all day, and bring this card with you." He waved the bit of pasteboard to and fro in the air an instant to be certain that the ink on it was dry and afterward handed it to Ted. Instinctively the boy's gaze dropped to the message written upon it and before he realized it he had read the brief words: "Ted Turner. He says he has farmed in Vermont. If he shows any evidence of it keep him. If not turn him off. Wharton." The man in the chair watched him as he read. "Well?" said he. "I beg your pardon, sir. I did not mean to read it," Ted replied with a start. "I'm very much obliged to you for giving me the job." "I don't see that you've got it yet." "But I shall have," asserted the lad confidently. "All I asked was a chance." "That's all the world gives any of us," responded the manager gruffly, as he drew forth a sheet of paper and began to write. "Nobody can develop our brains, train our muscles, or save our souls but ourselves." With this terse observation he turned his back on the boy, and after loitering a moment to make sure that he had nothing more to say, the lad slipped away, triumphantly bearing with him the coveted morsel of yellow pasteboard. That its import was noncommittal and even contained a tang of skepticism troubled him not a whit. The chief thing was that he had wrested from the manager an opportunity, no matter how grudgingly accorded, to show what he was worth. He could farm and he knew it and he had no doubt that he could demonstrate the fact to any boss he might encounter. Therefore with high courage he was promptly on hand the next morning and even before the time assigned he approached Stevens, the superintendent. "What do you want, youngster?" demanded the man sharply. He was in a hurry and it was obvious that something had nettled him and that he was in no humor to be delayed. "I came to help with the haying." "We don't want any boys as young as you," Stevens returned, moving away. "I've a card from Mr. Wharton." "A card, eh? Why didn't you say so in the first place? Shell it out." Shyly Ted produced his magic fragment of paper which the overseer read with disapproval in his glance. "Well, since Wharton wants you tried out, you can pitch in with the crowd," grumbled he. "But I still think you're too young. I've had boys your age before and never found them any earthly use. However, you won't be here long if you're not--that's one thing. You'll find a pitchfork in the barn. Follow along behind the men who are mowing and spread the grass out." "I know." "Oh, you do, do you! Trust people your size for knowing everything." To the final remark the lad vouchsafed no reply. Instead he moved away and soon returned, fork in hand. What a flood of old memories came surging back with the touch of the implement! Again he was in Vermont in the stretch of mowings that fronted the old white house where he was born. The scent of the hay in his nostrils stirred him like an elixir, and with a thrill of pleasure he set to work. He had not anticipated toiling out there in the hot sunshine at a task which he had always disliked; but to-day, by a strange miracle, it did not seem to be a task so much as a privilege. How familiar the scene was! As he approached the group of older men it took him only a second to see where he was needed and he thrust his pitchfork into the swath at his feet with a swing of easy grace. "Guess you've done this job before," called a man behind him after he had worked for an interval. "Yes, I have." "You show it," was the brief observation. They moved on in silence up the field. "Where'd you learn to handle that fork, sonny?" another voice shouted, as they neared the farther wall. "In Vermont," laughed Ted. "I judged as much," grunted the speaker. "They don't train up farmers of your size in this part of the world." Ted flushed with pleasure and for the first time he stopped work and mopped the perspiration from his forehead. He was hot and thirsty but he found himself strangely exhilarated by the exercise and the sweet morning air and sunshine. Again he took up his fork and tossed the newly cut grass up into the light, spreading it on the ground with a methodical sweep of his young arm. The sun had risen higher now and its dazzling brilliance poured all about him. Up and down the meadow he went and presently he was surprised to find himself alone near the point from which he had started. His fellow-laborers were no longer in sight. The field was very still and because it was, Ted began to whistle softly to himself. He was startled to hear a quiet laugh at his elbow. "Don't you ever eat anything, kid?" Mr. Wharton was standing beside him, a flicker of amusement in his gray eyes. "I didn't know it was noon," gasped Ted. "We'll have to tie an alarm clock on you," chuckled the manager. "The gang stopped work a quarter of an hour ago." "I didn't notice they had." The boy flushed. He felt very foolish to have been discovered working there all by himself in this ridiculous fashion. "I wanted to finish this side of the field and I forgot about the time," he stammered apologetically. "Have you done it to your satisfaction?" "Yes, I'm just through." For the life of him Ted could not tell whether the manager was laughing at him or not. He kicked the turf sheepishly. "Aren't you tired?" inquired Mr. Wharton at length. "No--at least--well, I haven't thought about it. Perhaps I am a little." "And well you may be. You've put in a stiff morning's work. You'd better go and wash up now and eat your lunch. Take your full hour of rest. No matter if the others do get back here before you. Stevens says you are worth any two of them, anyway." "It's just that I'm used to it," was the modest reply. "We'll let it go at that," Mr. Wharton returned ambiguously. "And one thing more before you go. You needn't worry about staying on. We can use you one way or another all summer. There'll always be work for a boy who knows how to do a job well." CHAPTER III GOING TO HOUSEKEEPING Thus it came about that Ted Turner began the long, golden days of his summer vacation at the great estates of the Fernalds, and soon he had made himself such an indispensable part of the farming staff that both Mr. Wharton and Mr. Stevens came to rely on him for many services outside of those usually turned over to the men. "Just step over to the south lot at Pine Lea, Ted, and see if those fellows are thinning the beets properly," Mr. Wharton would say. "I gave them their orders but they may not have taken them in. You know how the thing should be done. Sing out to them if they are not doing the job right." Or: "Mr. Stevens and I shall be busy this morning checking up the pay roll. Suppose you have an eye on the hilling up of the potatoes, Ted. Show the men how you want it done and start them at it. I'll be over later to see how it's going." Frequently, instead of working, the boy was called in to give an opinion on some agricultural matter with which he had had experience. "We are finding white grubs in the corner of the Pine Lea garden. They are gnawing off the roots of the plants and making no end of trouble. What did you do to get rid of them when you were up in Vermont?" "Salt and wood ashes worked better than anything else," Ted would reply modestly. "It might not be any good here but we had luck with it at home." "We can try it, at least. You tell Mr. Stevens what the proportions are and how you applied it." And because the advice was followed by a successful extermination of the plague, the lad's prestige increased and he was summoned to future conclaves when troublesome conditions arose. Now and then there was a morning when Mr. Stevens would remark to Mr. Wharton: "I've got to go to the Falls to-day to see about some freight. Ted Turner will be round here, though, and I guess things will be all right. The men can ask him if they want anything." And so it went. First Ted filled one corner, then another. He did errands for Mr. Wharton, very special errands, that required thought and care, and which the manager would not have entrusted to every one. Sometimes he ventured valuable suggestions which Mr. Stevens, who really had had far less farming experience than he, was only too grateful to follow. If the boy felt at all puffed up by the dependence placed upon him, he certainly failed to show it. On the contrary he did his part enthusiastically, faithfully, generously, and without a thought of praise or reward. Although he was young to direct others, when he did give orders to the men he was tactful and retiring enough to issue his commands in the form of wishes and immediately they were heeded without protest. He never shirked the hard work he asked others to perform but was always ready to roll up the sleeves of his blue jeans and pitch with vigor into any task, no matter how menial it was. Had he been arrogant and made an overbearing use of his authority, the men would quickly have rated him as a conceited little popinjay, the pet of the boss, and made his life miserable; but as he remained quite unspoiled by the preference shown him and exhibited toward every one he encountered a kindly sympathy and consideration, the workmen soon accepted him as a matter of course and even began to turn to him whenever a dilemma confronted them. Perhaps Ted was too genuinely interested in what he was doing to think much about himself or realize that the place he held was an unusual one. At home he and his father had threshed out many a problem together and each given to it the best his brain had to offer, without thought of the difference in their ages. Sometimes Ted's way proved the better, sometimes Mr. Turner's. Whichever plan promised to bring the more successful results was followed without regard for the years of him who had sponsored it. They were working together and for the same goal and what did it matter which of them had proposed the scheme they finally followed? To get the work completed and lay low the obstacles in their path were the only issues of importance. So it was now. Things at Aldercliffe and Pine Lea must be done and done well, and only what furthered that end counted. Nevertheless, Ted would not have been a human boy had he not been pleased when some idea of his was adopted and found to be of use; this triumph, however, was less because the programme followed was his own than because it put forward the enterprise in hand. There was a satisfaction in finding the key to a balking problem and see it cease to be a problem. It was fun, for example, to think about the potatoes and then say to Mr. Wharton: "Do you know, Mr. Wharton, I believe if we tried a different spray on that crop that isn't doing well it might help matters." And when the new concoction was tried and it did help matters, what a glow of happiness came with the success! What wonder that as the days passed, the niche awarded the lad grew bigger and bigger! "There is no way you could come up here and live, is there, Ted?" Mr. Wharton inquired one day. "I'd give a good deal to have you here on the spot. Sometimes I want to talk with you outside working hours and I can't for the life of me lay hands on you. It's the deuce of a way to Freeman's Falls and you have no telephone. If you were here----" He paused meditatively, then continued, "There's a little shack down by the river which isn't in use. You may remember seeing it. It was started years ago as a boathouse for Mr. Laurie's canoes and then--well, it was never finished. It came to me the other day that we might clean it up, get some furnishings, and let you have it. How would the notion strike you?" Ted's eyes sparkled. "I'd like it of all things, sir!" returned he instantly. "You wouldn't be timid about sleeping off there by yourself?" "No, indeed!" "Well, well! I had no idea you would listen to such a plan, much less like it. Suppose you go down there to-day and overhaul the place. Find out what would be required to make you comfortable and we will see what we can do about it. I should want you fixed up so you would be all right, you know. While we could not afford to go into luxuries, there would be no need for you to put up with makeshifts." "But I am quite used to roughing it," protested Ted. "I've often camped out." "Camping is all very well for a while but after a time it ceases to be a joke. No, if you move up here to accommodate us, you must have decent quarters. Both Mr. Fernald and Mr. Clarence would insist on that, I am certain. So make sure that the cabin is tight and write down what you think it would be necessary for you to have. Then we'll see about getting the things for you." "You are mighty good, sir." "Nonsense! It is for our own convenience," Mr. Wharton replied gruffly. "Shall I--do you mean that I am to go over there after work to-night?" "No. Go now. Cut along right away." "But I was to help Mr. Stevens with the----" "Stevens will have to get on without you. Tell him so from me. You can say I've set you at another job." With springing step Ted hurried away. He was not sorry to exchange the tedious task of hoeing corn for the delightful one of furnishing a domicile for himself. What sport it would be to have at last a place which he could call his own! He could bring his books from home, his box of electrical things--all his treasures--and settle down in his kingdom like a young lord. He did not care at all if he had only a hammock to sleep in. The great satisfaction would be to be his own master and monarch of his own realm, no matter how tiny it was. Like lightning his imagination sped from one dream to another. If only Mr. Wharton would let him run some wires from the barn to the shack, what electrical contrivances he could rig up! He could then light the room and heat it, too; he could even cook by electricity. Probably, however, Mr. Wharton would consider such a notion out of the question and much too ambitious. Even though the Fernalds had an electrical plant of their own, such a luxury was not to be thought of. A candle would do for lighting, of course. [Illustration: Soon he came within sight of the shack which stood at the water's edge. _Page_ 27.] Busy with these thoughts and others like them he sped across the meadow and through the woods toward the river. He was not content to walk the distance but like a child leaped and ran with an impatience not to be curbed. Soon he came within sight of the shack which stood at the water's edge, mid-way between Aldercliffe and Pine Lea, and was sheltered from view by a grove of thick pines. Its bare, boarded walls had silvered from exposure to the weather until it was scarcely noticeable against the gray tree trunks. Nevertheless, its crude, rough sides, its staring windows, and its tarred roof looked cheerless and deserted enough. But for Ted Turner it possessed none of these forbidding qualities. Instead of being a hermitage it seemed a paradise, a fairy kingdom, the castle of a knight's tale! Thrusting the key which Mr. Wharton had given him into the padlock, he rolled open the sliding door and intermingled odors of cedar, tar, and paint greeted him. The room was of good size and was neatly sheathed as an evident preparation for receiving a finish of stain which, however, had never been put on. There were four large windows closed in by lights of glass, a rough board floor, and a fireplace of field stone. Everywhere was dirt, cobwebs, sawdust, and shavings; and scattered about so closely there was scarcely space to step was a litter of nails, fragments of boards, and a conglomeration of tin cans of various sizes. Almost any one who beheld the chaos would have turned away discouraged. But not so Ted! The disorder was of no consequence in his eyes. Through all its dinginess and confusion he saw that the roof was tight, the windows whole, and the interior quite capable of being swept out, scrubbed and put in order. That was all he wanted to know. Why, the place could be made into a little heaven! Already he could see it transformed into a dwelling of the utmost comfort. He had remodelled many a worse spot,--the barn loft in Vermont, for example, and made it habitable. One had only to secure a table, a chair or two, build a bunk and get a mattress, and the trick was turned. How proud he should be to have such a dwelling for his own! He could hardly restrain himself from rolling up his sleeves and going to work then and there. Fearing, however, that Mr. Wharton might be awaiting his report, he reluctantly closed the door again, turned the key in it, and hurried back to the manager's office. "Well," inquired the elder man, spinning around in his desk chair as the boy entered and noting the glow in the youthful face, "how did you find things at the shack? Any hope in the place?" "Hope!" repeated Ted. "Why, sir, the house is corking! Of course, it is dirty now but I could clean it up and put it in bully shape. All I'd need would be to build a bunk, get a few pieces of furniture, and the place would be cosy as anything. If you'll say the word, I'll start right in to-night after work and----" "Why wait until to-night?" came drily from the manager. "Why--er--I thought perhaps--you see there is the corn----" "Never mind the corn," Mr. Wharton interrupted. "You mean I could go right ahead now?" asked Ted eagerly. "Certainly. You are doing this for our accommodation, not for your own, and there is no earthly reason why you should perform the work outside your regular hours." "But it is for my accommodation, too," put in the lad with characteristic candor. "I am very glad if it happens to be," nodded Mr. Wharton. "So much the better. But at any rate, you are not going to take your recreation time for the job. Now before you go, tell me your ideas as to furnishings. You will need some things, of course." "Not much," Ted answered quickly. "As I said, I can knock together a bunk and rough table myself. If I could just have a couple of chairs----" Mr. Wharton smiled at the modesty of the request. "Suppose we leave the furnishing until later," said he, turning back to his desk with a gesture of dismissal. "I may drop round there some time to-day while you're working. We can then decide more fully upon what is necessary. You'll find brooms, mops, rags, and water in the barn, you know. Now be off. I'm busy." Away went Ted, only too eager to obey. In no time he was laden with all the paraphernalia he desired. He stopped at Stevens' cottage only long enough to add to his equipment a pail of steaming water and then, staggering under the weight of his burden of implements, made his way to the shack. Once there he threw off his coat, removed his collar and tie, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work. First he cleared the bulk of rubbish from the room and set it outside; then he swept up the floor and mopped it with hot suds; afterwards he washed the windows and rubbed them until they shone. Often he had watched his mother and sisters, who were well trained New England housekeepers, perform similar offices and therefore he knew exactly how such things should be done. It took him a solid morning to render the interior spotless and just as he was pausing to view his handiwork with weary satisfaction Mr. Wharton came striding in at the door. "Mercy on us!" gasped the newcomer with amazement. "You have been busy! Why, I had no idea there were such possibilities in this place. The room is actually a pretty one, isn't it? We shall be able to fix you up snug as a bug in a rug here." He ran his eye quickly about. "If you put your bunk between the windows, you will get plenty of air. You'll need window shades, some comfortable chairs, a bureau, a table----" "I think I can make a table myself," Ted put in timidly. "That is, if I can have some boards." "No, no, no! There are boards enough. But you don't want a makeshift thing like that. If you are going to have books and perhaps read or study, you must have something that will stand solidly on four legs. I may be able to root a table out of some corner. Then there will be bedding----" "I can bring that from home." "All right. We'll count on you to supply that if you are sure you have it to spare. I'll be responsible for the rest." He stopped an instant to glance into the boy's face then added kindly, "So you think you are going to like your new quarters, eh?" "You bet I am!" "That's good! And by the by, I have arranged for you to have your meals with Stevens and his wife. They like you and were glad to take you in. Only you must be prompt and not make them wait for you. Should you prove yourself a bother they might turn you out." "I'll be on hand, sir." "See that you are. They have breakfast at seven, dinner at twelve, and supper at six. Whenever you decide to spend Sunday with your family, or take any meals elsewhere, you must, of course, be thoughtful enough to announce beforehand that you are to be away." "Yes, sir." Ted waited a few moments and then, as Mr. Wharton appeared to be on the point of leaving, he asked with hesitancy: "How--how--much will my meals cost?" An intonation of anxiety rang in the question. "Your meals are our hunt," Mr. Wharton replied instantly. "We shall see to those." "But--but----" "You'll be worth your board to the Fernald estates, never fear, my lad; so put it all out of your mind and don't think of it any more. All is, should we ask of you some little extra service now and then, I am sure you will willingly perform it, won't you?" "Sure!" came with emphatic heartiness. "Then I don't see but everything is settled," the manager declared, as he started back through the grove of pines. "I gave orders up at the toolhouse that you were to have whatever boards, nails, and tools you wanted, so don't hesitate to sail in and hunt up anything you need." "You are mighty kind, sir." "Pooh, pooh. Nonsense! Aren't you improving the Fernald property, I'd like to know?" Mr. Wharton laughed. "This boathouse has been an eyesore for years. We shall be glad enough to have it fixed up and used for something." CHAPTER IV THE FIRST NIGHT IN THE SHACK Throughout the long summer afternoon Ted worked on, fitting up his new quarters. Not only did he make a comfortable bunk for himself such as he had frequently constructed when at logging or sugaring-off camps in Vermont, but having several boards left he built along the racks originally intended for canoes some shelves for the books he meant to bring from home. By late afternoon he had finished all it was possible for him to do and he decided to go to Freeman's Falls and join his own family at supper, and while there collect the possessions he wished to transfer to the shack. Accordingly he washed up and started out. It was a little late when he reached the house and already his father and sisters were at table. "Mercy on us, Ted, what under the sun have you been doing until this time of night?" demanded Mr. Turner. "I should call from seven in the morning until seven at night a pretty long day." "Oh, I haven't been working all this time," laughed the boy. "Or at least, if I have, I have been having the time of my life doing it." Eagerly, and with youthful enthusiasm, he poured out the tale of the day's happenings while the others listened. "So you are starting out housekeeping, are you?" chuckled Mr. Turner, when the narrative was finished. "It certainly ain't a bad idea. Not that we're glad to get rid of you--although I will admit we ain't got the room here that I wish we had. It is the amount of time you'll save and the strength, too, that I'm thinking of. It must be a good three miles up to Aldercliffe and Pine Lea is at least two miles farther. Being on the spot is going to make a lot of difference. But how are you going to get along? What will you do for food? I ain't going to have you eating stuff out of tin cans." "Oh, you needn't worry about me, Dad. Mr. Wharton has arranged for me to take my meals with Mr. and Mrs. Stevens who have a cottage on the place. Stevens is the head farmer, you know." "A pretty penny that will cost you! What does the man think you are--a millionaire?" "Mr. Wharton told me the Fernalds would see to the bill." "Oh! That's another matter," ejaculated Mr. Turner, entirely mollified. "I will say it's pretty decent of Mr. Wharton. Seems to me he is doing a good deal for you." "Yes, he is." "Well, all is you must do your full share in return so he won't lose anything by it." The elder man paused thoughtfully. "Ain't there anything we could do to help out? Perhaps we could donate something toward your furnishings." "Mr. Wharton said if I could supply my own bedding----" "We certainly can do that," put in Ruth quickly. "There is a trunkful of extra comforters and blankets in the back room that I should be thankful enough to ship off somewhere else. And wouldn't you like some curtains? Seems to me they'd make it cosy and homelike. I've a piece of old chintz we've never used. Why not make it into curtains and do away with buying window shades?" "That would be great!" "It would be lots more cheerful," remarked Nancy. "What kind of a bed have you got?" "I've built a wooden bunk-two bunks, in fact--one over the other like the berths in a ship. I thought perhaps sometime Dad might want to come up and visit me; and while I was at it, it was no more work to make two beds than one." Mr. Turner smiled in friendly fashion into his son's eyes. The two were great pals and it pleased him that the lad should have included him in his plans. "Beds like that will do all very well for a night or two; but for a steady thing they will be darned uncomfortable. Cover 'em with pine boughs after a long tramp through the woods and they seem like heaven; but try 'em day after day and they cease to be a joke. Wasn't there a wire spring round here somewhere, Ruth? Seems to me I remember it standing up against something. Why wouldn't that be the very thing? You could fasten it in place and have a bed good as you have at home." "That's a corking idea, Dad!" "I wish we could go up and see the place," Ruth suggested. "I am crazy to know what it looks like. Besides, I want to measure the windows." "Maybe we could run up there to-night," her father replied rising. "It is not late and the Maguires said they would take us out for a little spin in their Ford before dark. They might enjoy riding up to Aldercliffe and be quite willing we should take along the spring bed. Mat is a kind soul and I haven't a doubt he'd be glad to do us a favor. Run down and ask him, Ted; or wait--I'll go myself." The Maguires had the apartment just below the Turner's and Mat, a thrifty and good-humored Irishman, was one of the night watchmen at the Fernald mills. He had a plump little wife, but as there were no children he had been able to save more money than had some of his neighbors, and in consequence had purchased a small car which it was his delight to use for the benefit of his friends. In fact, he often called it the Maguire jitney, and the joke never became threadbare to his simple mind, for every time he made it he laughed as heartily as if he had never heard it before, and so did everybody else. Therefore no sooner had Mr. Turner proposed his plan than Mat was all eagerness to further the project. "Sure I'll take you--as many of you as can pile in, and the spring bed, too! If you don't mind the inconvenience of the luggage, I don't. And tell Ted to bring along anything else he'd like to carry. We can pack you all in and the stuff on top of you. 'Twill be easy enough. Just make ready as soon as you can, so the dark won't catch us." You may be sure the Turners needed no second bidding. Ruth and Nancy scrambled the supper dishes out of the way while Ted and his father hauled the wire spring out, brushed it, and dragged it downstairs. Afterward Ted collected his box of electrical treasures, his books, and clothing. What he would do with all these things he did not stop to inquire. The chance to transfer them was at hand and he seized it with avidity. His belongings might as well be stored in the shack as anywhere else,--better, far better, for the space they left behind would be very welcome to the Turner household. Therefore with many a laugh, the party crowded into the waiting car and set out for Aldercliffe; and when at length they arrived at the house in the pines and Ted unlocked the sliding doors and pushed them wide open, ushering in his guests, what a landholder he felt! "My, but this is a tidy little place!" Maguire ejaculated. "And it's not so little, either. Why, it's a regular palace! Look at the fireplace and the four windows! My eye! And the tier of bunks is neat as a ship's cabin. Bear a hand here with the spring. I'm all of a quaver to see if it fits," cried the man. "I made the bunks regulation size, so I guess there won't be any trouble about that," Ted answered. "The head on the lad!" the Irishman cried. "Ain't he the brainy one, though? You don't catch him wool-gathering! Not he!" Nevertheless he was not content until the spring had been hoisted into place and he saw with his own eyes that it was exactly the proper size. "Could anything be cuter!" observed he with satisfaction. "Now with a good mattress atop of that you will have a bed fit for a king. You'll be comfortable as if you were in a solid gold bedstead, laddie!" "I'm afraid I may be too comfortable," laughed Ted. "What if I should oversleep and not get to breakfast, or to work, on time!" "That would never do," Mr. Turner said promptly. "You must have an alarm clock. 'Twould be but a poor return for Mr. Wharton's kindness were you to come dawdling to work." "I guess you can trust Ted to be on time," put in Ruth soothingly. "He is seldom late--especially to _meals_. Even if he were to be late at other places, I should always be sure he would show up when there was anything to eat." "You bet I would," announced the boy, with a good-humored grin. "I shall have enough chintz for curtains for all your windows," interrupted Nancy, who had been busy taking careful measurements during the conversation. "We'll get some brass rods and make the hangings so they will slip back and forth easily; they will be much nicer than window shades." "Ain't there nothin' I can donate?" inquired Mat Maguire anxiously. "A rag rug, now--why wouldn't that be a good thing? The missus makes 'em by the dozen and our house is full of 'em. We're breakin' our necks mornin', noon, and night on 'em. A couple to lay down here wouldn't be so bad, I'm thinking. You could put one beside your bed and another before the door to wipe your feet on. They'd cheer the room up as well as help keep you warm. Just say the word, sonny, and you shall have 'em." "I'd like them tremendously." The kind-hearted Irishman beamed with pleasure. "Sure, they'll be better out of our house than in it," remarked he, trying to conceal his gratification. "You can try stumbling over 'em a spell instead of me. 'Twill be interesting to see which of us breaks his neck first." It was amazing to see how furniture came pouring in at Ted's bachelor quarters during the next few days. The chintz curtains were finished and hung; the Maguire rugs made their appearance; Mr. Turner produced a shiny alarm clock; and Nancy a roll of colored prints which she had cut from the magazines. "You'll be wanting some pictures," said she. "Tack these up somewhere. They'll brighten up the room and cover the bare walls." Thus it was that day by day the wee shack in the woods became more cheery and homelike. "I've managed to hunt up a few trap's for you," called Mr. Wharton one morning, as he met the boy going to work. "If you want to run over to the cabin now and unlock the door, I'll send a man over with them." Want to! Ted was off in a second, impatient to see what new treasures he was to receive. He had not long to wait, for soon one of the farm trucks came into sight, and the driver began to deposit its contents on the wooden platform which sloped from the door down to the river. As Ted helped the man unload, his eyes shone with delight. Could any gifts be rarer? To be sure the furniture was not new. In fact, some of it was old and even shabby with wear. But the things were all whole, and although they were simple they were serviceable and perhaps looked more in harmony with the old-fashioned curtains and the quaint rugs than if they had come fresh from the shop. There was a chest of drawers; a rocking chair, a leather armchair, and a straight wooden chair; a mirror with frame of faded gilt; a good-sized wooden table; and, best of all, a much scarred, flat-topped desk. Ted had never owned a desk in all his life. Often he had dreamed of sitting behind one when he grew to be a man. But to have it now--here! To have it for his own! How it thrilled him! After the furniture was in place and the teamster had gone, he arranged his few papers and pencils in the desk drawers a score of times, trying them first in one spot and then in another. It was marvelous how much room there was in such an article of furniture. What did men use to fill up such a mighty receptacle, anyway? Stretch his possessions as he would, they only made a scattered showing at the bottom of three of the drawers. He laughed to see them lying there and hear them rattle about when he brought the drawers to with a click. However, it was very splendid to have a desk, whether one had anything to put in it or not, and perhaps in time he would be able to collect more pencils, rulers and blocks of paper. The contrast between not having any room at all for his things and then so much that he did not know what to do with it was amusing. Now at last he was fully equipped to take up residence in his new abode and every instant he could snatch from his duties that day he employed in settling his furniture, making up his bed, filling his water pitcher from the river and completing his final preparations for residence at the boathouse. That night he moved in. Nothing had been omitted that would contribute to his comfort. Mr. Wharton had given him screens for the windows and across the broad door he had tacked a curtain of netting that could be dropped or pushed aside at will. The candlelight glowing from a pair of old brass candlesticks on the shelf above the fireplace contributed rather than took away from the effect and to his surprise the room assumed under the mellow radiance a quality actually æsthetic and beautiful. "I don't believe Aldercliffe or Pine Lea have anything better than this to offer," the boy murmured aloud, as he looked about him with pride. "I'd give anything to have Mr. Wharton see it now that it's done!" Strangely enough, the opportunity to exhibit his kingdom followed on the very heels of his desire, for while he was arranging the last few books he had brought from home on the shelf above his desk he heard a tap at the door. "Are you in bed, son?" called the manager. "I saw your light and just dropped round to see if you had everything you wanted." Rushing to the door, Ted threw it open. "I haven't begun to go to bed yet," returned he. "I've been too excited. How kind of you to come!" "Curiosity! Curiosity!" responded the man hastily. Although Ted knew well that the comment was a libel, he laughed as Mr. Wharton came in, drawing the door together behind him. "By Jove!" burst out the manager, glancing about the room. "You like it?" "Why--what in goodness have you done to the place? I--I--mercy on us!" "You do like it then?" the boy insisted eagerly. "Like it! Why, you've made it into a regular little palace. I'd no idea such a thing was possible. Where did you get your candlesticks and your andirons?" "From home. We have radiators in the apartment and so my sisters had stored them away and were only too glad to have me take them." "Humph! And your curtains came from home, too?" "Yes, sir." "Well, you've missed your calling, is all I can say. You belong in the interior decorating business," asserted Mr. Wharton. "Wait until Mr. Clarence sees this place." Again the elder man looked critically round the interior. "I wouldn't mind living here myself--hanged if I would. The only thing I don't like is those candles. There is a good deal of a draught here and you are too near the pines to risk a fire. Electricity would be safer." Whistling softly to himself, he began to walk thoughtfully about. "I suppose," he presently went on, "it would be a simple enough matter to run wires over here from the barn." "Wouldn't that be bully!" "You'd like it?" "Yes, siree!" The manager took up his hat. "Well, we'll see what can be done," he answered, moving toward the door. But on the threshold he stopped once more and looked about. "I'm going to bring some of the Fernalds over here to see the place," observed he. "For some time Mr. Clarence has been complaining that this shack was a blot on the estate and threatening to pull it down. He'd better have a peep at it now. You may find he'll be taking it away from you." He saw a startled look leap into the boy's eyes. "No, no, sonny! Have no fears. I was only joking," he added. "Nevertheless, the house will certainly be a surprise to anybody who saw it a week ago. I wouldn't have believed such a transformation was possible." Then as he disappeared with his flash-light through the windings of the pine woods he called: "We'll see about that electric wiring. I imagine it won't be much of a job, and I should breathe easier to eliminate those candles, pretty as they are. Until something is done, just be careful not to set yourself and us afire!" With that he was gone. Ted dropped the screen and loitered a moment in the doorway, looking out into the night. Before him stretched the river; so near was it that he could hear the musical lappings of its waters among the tall grasses that bordered the stream. From the ground, matted thickly with pine needles, rose a warm, sun-scorched fragrance heavy with sleep. The boy stretched his arms and yawned. Then he rolled the doors together and began to undress. Suddenly he paused with one shoe in his hand. A thought had come to him. If Mr. Wharton ran the electric wires over to the shack, what was to prevent him from utilizing the current for some of his own contrivances? Why, he could, perhaps, put his wireless instruments into operation and rig up a telephone in his little dwelling. What fun it would be to unearth his treasures from the big wooden box in which they had been so long packed away and set them up here where they would interfere with no one but himself! He hoped with all his heart the manager would continue to be nervous about those candles. CHAPTER V A VISITOR Fervent as this wish was, it was several days before Ted saw Mr. Wharton again and in the meantime the boy began to adapt himself to his new mode of living with a will. His alarm clock got him up in the morning in time for a plunge in the river and after a brisk rub-down he was off to breakfast with the Stevens's, whose cottage was one of a tiny colony of bungalows where lived the chauffeurs, head gardener, electricians, and others who held important positions on the two estates. It did not take many days for Ted to become thoroughly at home in the pretty cement house where he discovered many slight services he could perform for Mrs. Stevens during the scraps of leisure left him after meals. His farm training had rendered him very handy with tools and he was quick to see little things which needed to be done. Moreover, the willingness to help, which from the moment of his advent to Aldercliffe and Pine Lea had made him a favorite with Mr. Wharton and the men, speedily won for him a place with the kindly farmer's wife. Had Ted known it, she had been none too well pleased at the prospect of adopting into her home a ravenous young lad who might, nay, probably would be untidy and troublesome; but she did not dare oppose Mr. Wharton when the plan was suggested. Nevertheless, although she consented, she grumbled not a little to her husband about the inconvenience of the scheme. The money offered her by the manager had been the only redeeming factor in the case. Quite ignorant of these conditions, Ted had made his advent into the house and she soon found to her amazement that the daily coming of her cheery boarder became an event which she anticipated with motherly interest. "He is such a well-spoken boy and so nice to have round," asserted she to Mr. Wharton. "Not a mite of trouble, either. In fact, he's a hundred times handier than my own man, who although he can make a garden thrive can't drive a nail straight to save his life. And there's never any fussing about his food. He eats everything and enjoys it. I believe Stevens and I were getting dreadful pokey all alone here by ourselves. The lad has brightened us up no end. We wouldn't part with him now for anything." Thus it was that Ted Turner made his way. His password was usefulness. He never measured the hours he worked by the clock, never was too busy or too tired to fill in a gap; and although he was popular with everybody, and a favorite with those in authority, he never took advantage of his position to escape toil or obtain privileges. In fact, he worked harder if anything than did the other men, and as soon as his associates saw that the indulgence granted him did not transform him into a pig, they ceased any jealousy they cherished and accorded him their cordial goodwill. For Ted was always modestly respectful toward older persons; and if he knew more about farming and some other things than did a good many of the laborers on the place, he did not push himself forward or boast of his superiority. Consequently when he ventured to say, "I wonder if somebody would help me with this harrow?" he would receive a dozen eager responses, the men never suspecting that Mr. Wharton had given this little chap authority to order them to aid with the harrowing of the field. Instead each workman thought his cooperation a free-will offering and enjoyed giving it. Thus a fortnight passed and no one could have been happier than was Ted Turner on a certain clear June evening. He had finished his Saturday night supper of baked beans and brown bread and after it was over had lingered to feed the Stevens's hens, in order to let Mr. Stevens go early to Freeman's Falls to purchase the Sunday dinner. As a result, it was later than usual when he started out for his camp on the river's brink. The long, busy day was over; he was tired and the prospect of his comfortable bed was very alluring. It was some distance to the shack, and before he was halfway through the pine woods that separated Aldercliffe from Pine Lea darkness had fallen, and he was compelled to move cautiously along the narrow, curving trail. How black the night was! A storm must be brewing, thought he, as he glanced up into the starless heavens. Stumbling over the rough and slippery ground on he went. Then suddenly he rounded a turn in the path and stood arrested with terror. Not more than a rod away, half concealed in the denseness of the sweeping branches rose his little shack, a blaze of light! A wave of consternation turned him cold and two solutions of the mystery immediately flashed into his mind--fire and marauders. Either something had ignited in the interior of the house; or, since it was isolated and had long been known to be vacant, strolling mischief-makers had broken in and were ransacking it. He remembered now that he had left a window open when he had gone off in the morning. Doubtless thieves were at this moment busy appropriating his possessions. Of course it could not be any of the Fernald workmen. They were too friendly and honorable to commit such a dastardly deed. No, it was some one from outside. Was it not possible men had come down the river in a boat from Melton, the village above, and spying the house had made a landing and encamped there for the night? Well, live or die, he must know who his unwelcome guests were. It would be cowardly to leave them in possession of the place and make no attempt to discover their identity. For that invaders were inside the shack he was now certain. It was not a fire. There was neither smoke nor flame. Softly he crept nearer, the thick matting of pine needles muffling his footsteps. But how his heart beat! Suppose a twig should crack beneath his feet and warn the vandals of his approach? And suppose they rushed out, caught him, and--for a moment he halted with fear; then, summoning every particle of courage he possessed, he tiptoed on and contrived to reach one of the windows. There he halted, staring, his knees weak from surging reaction. Instead of the company of bandits his mind had pictured, there in the rocker sat Mr. Wharton and opposite him, in the great leather armchair, was Mr. Clarence Fernald. The latter fact would have been astounding enough. But the marvel did not cease there. The light suffusing the small room came from no flickering candles but glowed steadily from two strong, unblinking electric lights, one of which had been connected with a low lamp on his desk, and the other with a fixture in the ceiling. Ted could scarcely believe his eyes. All day, during his absence, electricians must have been busy. How carefully they had guarded their secret. Why, he had talked with Tim Toyer that very morning on his way to work and Tim had breathed no word, although he was the head electrician and had charge of the dynamo which generated the current both for Aldercliffe and Pine Lea. The Fernalds had never depended on Freeman's Falls for their electricity; on the contrary, they maintained a small plant of their own and used the power for a score of purposes on the two estates. Evidently either Mr. Wharton or Mr. Clarence Fernald himself must have given the order which had with such Aladdin-like magic been so promptly and mysteriously fulfilled. It certainly was kind of them to do this and Ted determined they should not find him wanting in gratitude. Pocketing his shyness, he opened the door and stepped into the room. "Well, youngster, I thought it was about time the host made his appearance," exclaimed Mr. Wharton. "We could not have waited much longer. Mr. Fernald, this is Ted Turner, the lad I have been telling you about." Ted waited. The mill-owner nodded, let his eye travel over the boy's flushed face, and then, as if satisfied by what he saw there, he put out his hand. "I have been hearing very excellent reports of you, Turner," said he, "and I wished to investigate for myself the quarters they have given you to live in. You've made a mighty shipshape little den of this place." "It didn't need very much done to it," protested Ted, blushing under the fixed gaze of the great man. "I just cleaned it up and arranged the furniture. Mr. Wharton was kind enough to give me most of it." "I can't claim any thanks," laughed the manager. "The traps I gave you were all cast-offs and not in use. It is what you have done with them that is the marvel." "You certainly have turned your donations to good purpose," Mr. Fernald observed. "I've been noticing your books in your absence and see that most of them are textbooks on electricity. I judge you are interested in that sort of thing." "Yes, sir, I am." "Humph!" The financier drummed reflectively on the arm of his chair. "How did you happen to go into that?" he asked presently. "I have been studying it at school. My father is letting me go through the high school--at least he hopes to let me finish my course there. I have been two years already. That is why I am working during the summer." "I see. And so you have been taking up electricity at school, eh?" "Yes, sir. I really am taking a business course. The science work in the laboratory is an extra that I just run in because I like it. My father wanted me to fit myself for business. He thought it would be better for me," explained Ted. "But you prefer the science?" "I am afraid I do, sir," smiled Ted, with ingratiating honesty. "But I don't mean to let it interfere with my regular work. I try to remember it is only a side issue." Mr. Clarence Fernald did not answer and during his interval of silence Ted fell to speculating on what he was thinking. Probably the magnate was disapproving of his still going to school and was saying to himself how much better it would have been had he been put into the mill and trained up there instead of having his head stuffed with stenography and electrical knowledge. "What did you do in electricity?" the elder man asked at length. "Oh, I fussed around some with telephones, wireless, and telegraph instruments." Mr. Fernald smiled. "Did you get where you could take messages?" inquired he with real interest. "By telegraph?" The financier nodded. "I did a little at it," replied Ted. "Of course I was slow." "And what about wireless?" "I got on better with that. I rigged up a small receiving station at home but when the war came I had to take it down." "So that outfit was yours, was it?" commented Mr. Fernald. "I noticed it one day when I was in the village. What luck did you have with it?" "Oh, I contrived to pick up messages within a short radius. My outfit wasn't very powerful." "I suppose not. And the telephone?" They saw an eager light leap into the lad's eyes. "I've worked more at that than anything else," replied he. "You see one of the instruments at the school gave out and they set me to tinkering at it. In that way I got tremendously interested in it. Afterward some of us fellows did some experimenting and managed to concoct a crude one in the laboratory. It wasn't much of a telephone but we finally got it to work." "They tell me you are a good farmer as well as an electrician," Mr. Fernald said. "Oh, I was brought up on a farm, sir." The great man rose. "Well, mind you don't let your electricity make you forget your farming," cautioned he, not unkindly. "We need you right where you are. Still I will own electricity is a pleasant pastime. You will have a current to work with now whenever you want to play with it. Just be sure you don't get a short circuit and blow out my dynamo." "Do--do--you really mean I may use the current for experiments?" demanded Ted. Whether Mr. Fernald had made his remarks in jest or expected them to be taken seriously was not apparent; and if he were surprised at having the boy catch him up and hold him to account, he at least displayed not a trace of being taken unawares. For only an instant was he thoughtful, and that was while he paused and studied the countenance of the lad before him. "Why, I don't know that I see any harm in your using the current for reasonable purposes," he answered slowly, after an interval of meditation. "You understand the dangers of running too many volts through your body and of crossing wires, don't you?" "Oh, yes, sir," laughed Ted. "I must confess I should not trust every boy with such a plaything," continued the magnate, "but you seem to have a good head on your shoulders and I guess we can take a chance on you." He moved silently across the room but on the threshold he turned and added with self-conscious hesitancy, "By the way my--my--son, Mr. Laurie, chances to be interested in electricity, too. Perhaps some day he might drop in here and have a talk about this sort of thing." "I wish he would." With a quiet glance the father seemed to thank the lad for his simple and natural reply. Both of them knew but too well that such an event could never be a casual happening, and that if poor Mr. Laurie ever _dropped in_ at the shack it would be only when he was brought there, either in his wheel-chair or in the arms of some of the servants from Pine Lea. Nevertheless it was obvious that Mr. Fernald appreciated the manner in which Ted ignored these facts and suppressed his surprise at the unusual suggestion. Had Mr. Laurie's dropping in been an ordinary occurrence no one could have treated it with less ceremony than did Ted. An echo of the gratitude the capitalist felt lingered in his voice when he said good night. It was both gentle and husky with emotion and the lad fell asleep marvelling that the men employed at the mills should assert that the Fernalds were frigid and snobby. CHAPTER VI MORE GUESTS When with shining eyes Ted told his father about Mr. Fernald's visit to the shack, Mr. Turner simply shrugged his shoulders and smiled indulgently. "Likely Mr. Clarence's curiosity got the better of him," said he, "and he wanted to look your place over and see that it warn't too good; or mebbe he just happened to be going by. He never would have taken the trouble to go that far out of his way if he hadn't had something up his sleeve. When men like him are too pleasant, I'm afraid of 'em. And as for Mr. Laurie _dropping in_--why, his father and grandfather would no more let him associate with folks like us than they'd let him jump headfirst into the river. We ain't good enough for the Fernalds. Probably almost nobody on earth is. And when it comes to Mr. Laurie, why, in their opinion the boy doesn't live who is fit to sit in the same room with him." Ted's bright face clouded with disappointment. "I never thought of Mr. Laurie feeling like that," answered he. "Oh, I ain't saying Mr. Laurie himself is so high and mighty. He ain't. The poor chap has nothing to be high and mighty about and he knows it. Anybody who is as dependent on others as he is can't afford to tilt his nose up in the air and put on lugs. For all I know to the contrary he may be simple as a baby. It's his folks that think he's the king-pin and keep him in cotton wool." Mr. Turner paused, his lip curling with scorn. "You'll never see Mr. Laurie at your shack, mark my words. His people would not let him come even if he wanted to." The light of eagerness in his son's countenance died entirely. "I suppose you're right," admitted he slowly and with evident reluctance. Although he would not have confessed it, he had been anticipating, far more than he would have been willing to own, the coming of Mr. Laurie. Over and over again he had lived in imagination his meeting with this fairy prince whose grave, wistful face and pleasant smile had so strongly attracted him. He had speculated to himself as to what the other boy was like and had coveted the chance to speak to him, never realizing that they were not on an equal plane. Mr. Fernald's suggestion of Laurie visiting the shack seemed the most natural thing in the world, and immediately after it had been made Ted's fancy had run riot, and he had leaped beyond the first formal preliminaries to a time when he and Laurie Fernald would really know one another, even come to be genuine friends, perhaps. What sport two lads, interested in the same things, could have together! Ted had few companions who followed the bent of thought that he did. The fellows he knew either at school or in the town were ready enough to play football and baseball but almost none of them, for example, wanted to sacrifice a pleasant Saturday to constructing a wireless outfit. One or two of them, it is true, had begun the job but they soon tired of it and either sat down to watch him work or had deserted him altogether. The only congenial companion he had been able to count on had been the young assistant in the laboratory at school who, although he was not at all aged, was nevertheless years older than Ted. But with the mention of Mr. Laurie myriad dreams had flashed into his mind. Here was no prim old scholar but a lad like himself, who probably did not know much more about electrical matters than he. You wouldn't feel ashamed to admit your ignorance before such a person, or own that you either did not know, or did not understand. You could blunder along with such a companion to your heart's content. Such had been his belief until now, with a dozen words, Ted saw his father shatter the illusion. No, of course Mr. Laurie would never come to the shack. It had been absurd to think it for a moment. And even if he did, it would only be as a lofty and unapproachable spectator. Mr. Fernald's words were a subtly designed flattery intended to put him in good humor because he wanted something of him. What could it be? Perhaps he meant to oust him out of the boathouse and rebuild it, or possibly tear it down; or maybe he had taken a fancy to use it as it was and desired to be rid of Ted in some sort of pleasant fashion. Unquestionably the building belonged to Mr. Fernald and if he chose to reclaim it he had a perfect right to do so. Poor Ted! With a crash his air castles tumbled about his ears and the ecstasy of his mood gave way to apprehension and unhappiness. Each day he waited, expecting to hear through Mr. Wharton that Mr. Clarence Fernald had decided to use the shack for other purposes. Time slipped along, however, and no such tidings came. In the meanwhile Mr. Wharton made no further mention of the Fernalds and gradually Ted's fears calmed down sufficiently for him to gain confidence enough to unpack his boxes of wire, his tools, and instruments. Nevertheless, in spite of this, his first enthusiasm had seeped away and he did not attempt to go farther than to take the things out and look at them. Before his father had withered his ambitions by his pessimism, a score of ideas had danced through his brain. He had thought of running a buzzer over to the Stevens's bungalow in order that Mrs. Stevens might ring for him when she wanted him; and he had thought of connecting Mr. Wharton's office with the shack by telephone. He felt sure he could do both these things and would have liked nothing better than try them. But now what was the use? If a little later on Mr. Fernald intended to take the shack away from him, it would be foolish to waste toil and material for nothing. For the present, at least, he much better hold off and see what happened. Yet notwithstanding this resolve, he did continue to improve the appearance of the boathouse. Just why, he could not have told. Perhaps it was a vent for his disquietude. At any rate, having some scraps of board left and hearing the gardener say there were more geraniums in the greenhouse than he knew what to do with, Ted made some windowboxes for the Stevens's and himself, painted them green, and filled them with flowering plants. They really were very pretty and added a surprising touch of beauty to the dull, weather-stained little dwelling in the woods. Mr. Wharton was delighted and said so frankly. "Your camp looks as attractive as a teahouse," said he. "You have no idea how gay the red flowers look among these dark pine trees. How came you to think of window-boxes?" "Oh, I don't know," was Ted's reply. "The bits of board suggested it, I guess. Then Collins said the greenhouses were overstocked, and he seemed only too glad to get rid of his plants." "I'll bet he was," responded Mr. Wharton. "If there is anything he hates, it is to raise plants and not have them used. He always has to start more slips than he needs in case some of them do not root; when they do, he is swamped. Evidently you have helped him solve his problem for no sooner did the owners of the other bungalows see Stevens's boxes than everybody wanted them. They all are pestering the carpenter for boards. It made old Mr. Fernald chuckle, for he likes flowers and is delighted to have the cottages on the place made attractive. He asked who started the notion; and when I told him it was you he said he had heard about you and wanted to see you some time." This time Ted was less thrilled by the remark than he would have been a few days before. A faint degree of his father's scepticism had crept into him and the only reply he vouchsafed was a polite smile. It was absurd to fancy for an instant that the senior member of the Fernald company, the head of the firm, the owner of Aldercliffe, the great and rich Mr. Lawrence Fernald, would ever trouble himself to hunt up a boy who worked on the place. Ridiculous! Yet it was on the very day that he made these positive and scornful assertions to himself that he found this same mighty Mr. Lawrence Fernald on his doorstep. It was early Saturday afternoon, a time Ted always had for a holiday. He had not been to see his family for some time and he had made up his mind to start out directly after luncheon and go to Freeman's Falls, where he would, perhaps, remain overnight. Therefore he came swinging through the trees, latchkey in hand, and hurriedly rounding the corner of the shack, he almost jostled into the river Mr. Lawrence Fernald who was loitering on the platform before the door. "I beg your pardon, sir!" he gasped. "I did not know any one was here." "Nor did I, young man," replied the ruffled millionaire. "You came like a thief in the night." "It is the pine needles, sir," explained the boy simply. "Unless you happen to step on a twig that cracks you don't hear a sound." The directness of the lad evidently pleased the elder man for he answered more kindly: "It is quiet here, isn't it? I did not know there was a spot within a radius of five miles that was so still. I was almost imagining myself in the heart of the Maine woods before you came." "I never was in the Maine woods," ventured Ted timidly, "but if it is finer than this I'd like to see it." "You like your quarters then?" "Indeed I do, sir." "And you're not afraid to stay way off here by yourself?" "Oh, no!" Mr. Fernald peered over the top of his glasses at the boy before him. "Would you--would you care to come inside the shack?" Ted inquired after an interval of silence, during which Mr. Fernald had not taken his eyes from his face. "It is very cosy indoors--at least I think so." "Since I am here I suppose I might just glance into the house," was the capitalist's rather magnificent retort. "I don't often get around to this part of the estate. To-day I followed the river and came farther away from Aldercliffe than I intended. When I got to this point the sun was so pleasant here on the float that I lingered." Nodding, Ted fitted the key into the padlock, turned it, and rolled the doors apart, allowing Mr. Fernald to pass within. The mill owner was a large man and as he stalked about, peering at the fireplace with its andirons of wrought metal, examining the chintz hangings, and casting his eye over the books on the shelf, he seemed to fill the entire room. Then suddenly, having completed his circuit of the interior, he failed to bow himself out as Ted expected and instead dropped into the big leather armchair and proceeded to draw out a cigar. "I suppose you don't mind if I smoke," said he, at the same instant lighting a match. "Oh, no. Dad always smokes," replied the boy. "Your father is in our shipping room, they tell me." "Yes, sir." "Where did you live before you came here?" "Vermont." "Vermont, eh?" commented the older man with interest. "I was born in Vermont." "Were you?" Ted ejaculated. "I didn't know that." "Yes, I was born in Vermont," mused Mr. Fernald slowly. "Born on a farm, as you no doubt were, and helped with the haying, milking, and other chores." "There were plenty of them," put in the boy, forgetting for the moment whom he was addressing. "That's right!" was the instant and hearty response. "There was precious little time left afterward for playing marbles or flying kites." The lad standing opposite chuckled understandingly and the capitalist continued to puff at his cigar. "Spring was the best time," observed he after a moment, "to steal off after the plowing and planting were done and wade up some brook----" "Where the water foamed over the rocks," interrupted the boy, with sparkling eyes. "We had a brook behind our house. There were great flat rocks in it and further up in the woods some fine, deep trout holes. All you had to do was to toss a line in there and the next you knew----" "Something would jump for it," cried the millionaire, breaking in turn into the conversation and rubbing his hands. "I remember hauling a two-pounder out of just such a spot. Jove, but he was a fighter! I can see him now, thrashing about in the water. I wasn't equipped with a rod of split bamboo, a reel, and scores of flies in those days. A hook, a worm, and a stick you'd cut yourself was your outfit. Nevertheless I managed to land my fish for all that." Lured by the subject Ted came nearer. "Any pickerel holes where you lived?" inquired Mr. Fernald boyishly. "You bet there were!" replied the lad. "We had a black, scraggy pond two miles away, dotted with stumps and rotting tree trunks. About sundown we fellows would steal a leaky old punt anchored there and pole along the water's edge until we reached a place where the water was deep, and then we'd toss a line in among the roots. It wasn't long before there would be something doing," concluded he, with a merry laugh. "How gamey those fish are!" observed Mr. Fernald reminiscently. "And bass are sporty, too." "I'd rather fish for bass than anything else!" asserted Ted. "Ever tried landlocked salmon?" "N--o. We didn't get those." "That's what you get in Maine and New Brunswick," explained Mr. Fernald. "I don't know, though, that they are any more fun to land than a good, spirited bass. I often think that all these fashionable camps with their guides, and canoes, and fishing tackles of the latest variety can't touch a Vermont brook just after the ice has thawed. I'd give all I own to live one of those days of my boyhood over again!" "So would I!" echoed Ted. "Pooh, nonsense!" objected Mr. Fernald. "You are young and will probably scramble over the rocks for years to come. But I'm an old chap, too stiff in the joints now to wade a brook. Still it is a pleasure to go back to it in your mind." His face became grave, then lighted with a quick smile. "I'll wager the material for those curtains of yours never was bought round here. Didn't that come from Vermont? And the andirons, too?" "Yes, sir." "Ah, I knew it! We had some of that old shiny chintz at home for curtains round my mother's four-poster bed." He rose and began to pace the room thoughtfully. "Some day my son is going to bring his boy over here," he remarked. "He is interested in electricity and knows quite a bit about it. I was always attracted to science when I was a youngster. I----" He got no further for there was a stir outside, a sound of voices, and a snapping of dry twigs; and as Ted glanced through the broad frame of the doorway he saw to his amazement Mr. Clarence Fernald wheel up the incline just outside a rubber-tired chair in which sat Laurie. "I declare if here isn't my grandson now!" exclaimed Mr. Fernald, bustling toward the entrance of the shack. Ah, it needed no great perception on Ted's part to interpret the pride, affection, and eagerness of the words; in the tones of the elder man's voice rang echoes of adoration, hope, fear, and disappointment. The millowner, however, speedily put them all to rout by crying heartily: "Well, well! This seems to be a Fernald reunion!" "Grandfather! Are you here?" cried the boy in the chair, extending his thin hand with the vivid smile Ted so well remembered. "Indeed I am! Young Turner and I were just speaking of you. I told him you were coming to see him some day." Laurie glanced toward Ted. "It is nice of you to let me come and visit you," he said, with easy friendliness. "What a pretty place you have and how gay the flowers are! And the river is beautiful! Our view of it from Pine Lea is not half so lovely as this." "Perhaps you might like to sit here on the platform for a while," suggested Ted, coming forward rather shyly and smiling down into the lad's eyes. Laurie returned the smile with delightful candor. "You're Ted Turner, aren't you?" inquired he. "They've told me about you and how many things you can do. I could not rest until I had seen the shack. Besides, Dad says you have some books on electricity; I want to see them. And I've brought you some of mine. They're in a package somewhere under my feet." "That was mighty kind of you," answered Ted, as he stooped to secure the volumes. "Not a bit. My tutor, Mr. Hazen, got them for me and some of them are corking--not at all dry and stupid as books often are. If you haven't seen them already, I know you'll like them." How easily and naturally it all came about! Before they knew it, Mr. Fernald was talking, Mr. Clarence Fernald was talking, Laurie was talking, and Ted himself was talking. Sitting there so idly in the sunshine they joked, told stories, and watched the river as it crept lazily along, reflecting on its smooth surface the gold and azure of the June day. During the pauses they listened to the whispering music of the pines and drank in their sleepy fragrance. More than once Ted pinched himself to make certain that he was really awake. It all seemed so unbelievable; and yet, withal, there was something so simple and suitable about it. By and by Mr. Clarence rose, stretched his arms, and began boyishly to skip stones across the stream; then Ted tried his skill; and presently, not to be outdone by the others, Grandfather Fernald cast aside his dignity and peeling off his coat joined in the sport. How Laurie laughed, and how he clapped his hands when one of his grandfather's pebbles skimmed the surface of the water six times before it disappeared amid a series of widening ripples. After this they all were simply boys together, calling, shouting, and jesting with one another in good-humored rivalry. What use was it then ever again to attempt to be austere and unapproachable Fernalds? No use in the world! Although Mr. Fernald, senior, mopped his brow and slipped back into his coat with a shadow of surprise when he came to and realized what he had been doing, he did not seem to mind greatly having lapsed from seventy years to seven. The fact that he had furnished Laurie with amusement was worth a certain loss of dignity. Ah, it would have taken an outsider days, weeks, months, perhaps years to have broken through the conventionalities and beheld the Fernalds as Ted saw them that day. It was the magic of the sunshine, the sparkle of the creeping river, the mysterious spell of the pines that had wrought the enchantment. Perhaps, too, the memory of his Vermont boyhood had risen freshly to Grandfather Fernald's mind. When the shadows lengthened and the glint of gold faded from the river, they went indoors and Mr. Laurie was wheeled about that he might inspect every corner of the little house of which he had heard so much. This he did with the keenest delight and it was only after both his father and his grandfather had promised to bring him again that he could be persuaded to be carried back to Pine Lea. As he disappeared among the windings of the trees, he waved his hand to Ted and called: "I'll see you some day next week, Ted. Mr. Hazen, my tutor, shall bring me round here some afternoon when you have finished work. I suppose you don't get through much before five, do you?" "No, I don't." "Oh, any time you want to see Ted I guess he can be let off early," cried both Mr. Fernald and Mr. Clarence in one breath. Then as Mr. Clarence pushed the wheel-chair farther into the dusk of the pines, Mr. Fernald turned toward Ted and added in an undertone: "It's done the lad good to come. I haven't seen him in such high spirits for days. We'll fix things up with Wharton so that whenever he fancies to come here you can be on hand. The poor boy hasn't many pleasures and he sees few persons of his own age." CHAPTER VII MR. LAURIE The visits of Laurie during the following two weeks became very frequent; and such pleasure did they afford him that orders were issued for Ted Turner to knock off work each day at four o'clock and return to the shack, where almost invariably he found his new acquaintance awaiting him. It was long since Laurie Fernald had had a person of his own age to talk with. In fact, he had never before seen a lad whose friendship he desired. Most boys were so well and strong that they had no conception of what it meant not to be so, and their very robustness and vitality overwhelmed a personality as sensitively attuned as was that of Laurie Fernald. He shrank from their pity, their blundering sympathy, their patronage. But in Ted Turner he immediately felt he had nothing to dread. He might have been a Marathon athlete, so far as any hint to the contrary went. Ted appeared never to notice his disability or to be conscious of any difference in their physical equipment; and when, as sometimes happened, he stooped to arrange a pillow, or lift the wheel-chair over the threshold, he did it so gently and yet in such a matter-of-fact manner that one scarcely noticed it. They were simply eager, alert, bubbling, interested boys together, and as the effect of the friendship showed itself in Laurie's shining eyes, all the Fernalds encouraged it. "Why, that young Turner is doing Laurie more good than a dozen doctors!" asserted Grandfather Fernald. "If he did no work on the farm at all, Ted would be worth his wages. Money can't pay for what he has done already. I'm afraid Laurie has been missing young friends more than we realized. He never complains and perhaps we did not suspect how lonely he was." Mr. Clarence nodded. "Older people are pretty stupid about children sometimes, I guess," said he sadly. "Well, he has Ted Turner now and certainly he is a splendid boy for him to be with. Laurie's tutor, Mr. Hazen, likes him tremendously. What a blessing it is that Wharton stumbled on him and brought him up here. Had we searched the countryside I doubt if we could have found any one Laurie would have liked so much. He doesn't care especially for strangers." With the Fernald's sanction behind the friendship, and both Laurie's tutor and his doctor urging it on, you may be sure it thrived vigorously. The boys were naturally companionable and now, with every barrier out of the way, and every fostering influence provided, the two soon found themselves on terms of genuine affection. If Laurie went for a motor ride Saturday afternoon, Ted must go, too; if he had a new book, Ted must share it, and when he was not as well as usual, or it was too stormy for him to be carried to the shack, nothing would do but Ted Turner must be summoned to Pine Lea to brighten the dreariness of the day. Soon the servants came to know the newcomer and understand that he was a privileged person in the household. Laurie's mother, a pretty Southern woman, welcomed him kindly and it was not long before the two were united in a deep and affectionate conspiracy which placed them on terms of the greatest intimacy. "Laurie isn't quite so well this afternoon, Ted," Mrs. Fernald would say. "Don't let him get too excited or talk too much." Or sometimes it was, "Laurie had a bad night last night and is dreadfully discouraged to-day. Do try and cheer him up." Not infrequently Mr. Hazen would voice an appeal: "I haven't been able to coax Laurie to touch his French lesson this morning. Don't you want to see if you can't get him started on it? He'll do anything for you." And when Ted did succeed in getting the lesson learned, and not only that but actually made an amusing game out of it, how grateful Mr. Hazen was! For with all his sweetness Laurie Fernald had a stubborn streak in his nature which the volume of attention he had received had only served to accentuate. He was not really spoiled but there were times when he would do as he pleased, whether or no; and when such a mood came to the surface, no one but Ted Turner seemed to have any power against it. Therefore, when it occasionally chanced that Laurie refused to see the doctor, or would not take his medicine, or insisted on getting up when told to lie in bed, Ted was made an ally and urged to promote the thing that made for the invalid's health and well-being. After being admitted into the family circle on such confidential terms, it followed that absolute equality was accorded Ted and he came and went freely, both at Aldercliffe and Pine Lea. He read with Laurie, lunched with him, followed his lessons; and listened to his plans, his pleasures, and his disappointments. Perhaps, too, Laurie Fernald liked and respected him the more that he had duties to perform and therefore was not always free to come at his beck and call as did everybody else. "I shan't be able to get round to see you to-day, old chap," Ted would explain over the telephone. "There is a second crop of peas to plant in the further lot and as Mr. Stevens is short of men, I'm going to duff in and help, even if it isn't my job. Of course I want to do my bit when they are in a pinch. I'll see you to-morrow." And although Laurie grumbled a good deal, he recognized the present need, and becoming interested in the matter in spite of himself, wished to hear the following day all about the planting. That he should inquire greatly delighted both his father and his grandfather who had always been anxious that he should come into touch with the management of the estates. Often they had tried to talk to him of crops and gardens, plowing and planting, but to the subject the heir had lent merely a deaf ear. Now with Ted Turner's advent had come a new influence, the testimony of one who was practically interested in agricultural problems and thought farming anything but dull. The boy was genuinely eager that the work of the men should be a success and therefore when he hoped for fair weather for the haying and it seemed to make a real difference to him whether it was pleasant or not, how could Laurie help being eager that it should not rain until the fields were mowed and the crop garnered into the great barns? Or when Ted was worrying about the pests that invaded the garden, one wouldn't have been a true friend not to ask how the warfare was progressing. Before Laurie knew it, he had learned much about the affairs of the estates and had become awake to the obstacles good farmers encounter in their strife with soil and weather conditions. As a result his outlook broadened, he became less introspective and more alive to the concerns of those about him; and he gained a new respect for his father's and grandfather's employees. One had much less time to be depressed and discouraged when one had so many things to think of. Sometimes Ted brought in seeds and showed them; and afterward a slender plant that had sprouted; and then Mr. Hazen would join in and tell the two boys of other plants,--strange ones that grew in novel ways. Or perhaps the talk led to the chemicals the gardeners were mixing with the soil and wandered off into science. Every topic seemed to reach so far and led into such fascinating mazes of knowledge! What a surprising place the world was! Of course, had the Fernalds so desired they could have relieved Ted of all his farming duties, and indeed they were sorely tempted at times to do so; but when they saw how much better it was to keep the boy's visits a novelty instead of making of them a commonplace event, and sensed how much knowledge he was bringing into the invalid's room, they decided to let matters progress as they were going. They did, however, arrange occasional holidays for the lad and many a jolly outing did Ted have in consequence. Had they displayed less wisdom they might have wrecked the friendship altogether. As it was they strengthened it daily and the little shack among the pines became to both Ted and to Laurie the most loved spot in the world. Frequently the servants from Pine Lea surprised the boys by bringing them their luncheon there; and sometimes Mrs. Fernald herself came hither with her tea-basket, and the entire family sat about before the great stone fireplace and enjoyed a picnic supper. It was after one of these camping teas that Mr. Clarence Fernald bought for Laurie a comfortable Adirondack canoe luxuriously fitted up with cushions. The stream before the boathouse was broad and contained little or no current except down toward Pine Lea, where it narrowed into rapids that swept over the dam at Freeman's Falls. Therefore if one kept along the edges of the upper part of the river, there was no danger and the canoe afforded a delightful recreation. Both the elder Fernalds and Mr. Hazen rowed well and Ted pulled an exceptionally strong oar for a boy of his years. Hence they took turns at propelling the boat and soon Laurie was as much at home on the pillows in the stern as he was in his wheel-chair. He greatly enjoyed the smooth, jarless motion of the craft; and often, even when it was anchored at the float, he liked to be lifted into it and lie there rocking with the wash of the river. It made a change which he declared rested him, and it was through this simple and apparently harmless pleasure that a terrible catastrophe took place. On a fine warm afternoon Mr. Hazen and Laurie went over to the shack to meet Ted who usually returned from work shortly after four o'clock. The door of the little camp was wide open when they arrived but their host was nowhere to be seen. This circumstance did not trouble them, however, for on the days when Laurie was expected Ted always left the boathouse unlocked. What did disconcert them and make Laurie impatient was to discover that through some error in reckoning they were almost an hour too early. "Our clocks must have been ahead of time," fretted the boy. "We shall have to hang round here the deuce of a while." "Wouldn't you like me to wheel you back through the grove?" questioned the tutor. "Oh, there's no use in that. Suppose you get out the pillows and help me into the boat. I'll lie there a while and rest." "All right." With a ready smile Mr. Hazen plunged into the shack and soon returned laden with the crimson cushions, which he arranged in the stern of the canoe with greatest care. Afterward he picked Laurie up in his arms as if he had been a feather and carried him to the boat. "How's that?" he asked, when the invalid was settled. "Fine! Great, thanks! You're a wonder with pillows, Mr. Hazen; you always get them just right," replied the lad. "Now if I only had my book----" "I could go and get it." "Oh, no. Don't bother. Ted will be here before long, won't he? What time is it?" "About half-past three." "Only half-past three! Great Scott! I thought it must be nearly four by this time. Then I have quite a while to wait, don't I? I don't see why you got me over here so early." "I don't either," returned Mr. Hazen pleasantly. "I'm afraid my watch must have been wrong." Laurie moved restlessly on the pillows. He had passed a wretched night and was worn and nervous in consequence. "I guess perhaps you'd better run back to the house for my book," remarked he presently. "I shall be having a fit of the blues if I have to hang round here so long with nothing to do." "I'm perfectly willing to go back," Mr. Hazen said. "But are you sure----" "Oh, I'm all right," cut in the boy sharply. "I guess I can sit in a boat by myself for a little while." "Still, I'm not certain that I ought to----" "Leave me? Nonsense! What do you think I am, Hazen? A baby? What on earth is going to happen to me, I'd like to know?" "Nevertheless I don't like to----" "Oh, do stop arguing. It makes me tired. Cut along and get the book, can't you? Why waste all this time fussing?" burst out the invalid fretfully. "How am I ever going to get well, or think I am well, if you keep reminding me every minute that I am a helpless wreck? It is enough to discourage anybody. Why can't you treat me like other people? If you chose to sit in a boat alone for half an hour nobody'd throw a fit. Why can't I?" "I suppose you can," retorted the tutor unwillingly. "Only you know we never do----" "Leave me? Don't I know it? The way people tag at my heels drives me almost crazy sometimes. You wouldn't like to have some one dogging your footsteps from morning until night, would you?" "I'm afraid I shouldn't," admitted Mr. Hazen. For an interval Laurie was silent; then he glanced up with one of his swift, appealing smiles. "There, there, Mr. Hazen!" he said with winning sincerity. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to be cross. I do get so fiendishly impatient sometimes. How you can keep on being so kind to me I don't see. Do please go and get the book, like a good chap. It's on the chair in my room or else on the library table. You'll find it somewhere. 'Treasure Island,' you know. I had to leave it in the middle of a most exciting chapter and I am crazy to know how it came out." Reluctantly Mr. Hazen moved away. It was very hard to resist Laurie Fernald when he was in his present mood; besides, the young tutor was genuinely fond of his charge and would far rather gratify his wishes than refuse him anything. Therefore he hurried off through the grove, resolving to return as fast as ever he could. In the meantime Laurie threw his head back on the pillows and looked up at the sky. How blue it was and how lazily the clouds drifted by! Was any spot on earth so still as this? Why, you could not hear a sound! He yawned and closed his eyes, the fatigue of his sleepless night overcoming him. Soon he was lost in dreams. * * * * * He never could tell just what it was that aroused him; perhaps it was a premonition of danger, perhaps the rocking of the boat. At any rate he was suddenly broad awake to find himself drifting out into the middle of the stream. In some way the boat must have become unfastened and the rising breeze carried it away from shore. Not that it mattered very much now. The thing that was of consequence was that he was helplessly drifting down the river with no means of staying his progress. Soon he would be caught in the swirl of the current and then there would be no help for him. What was he to do? Must he lie there and be borne along until he was at last carried over the dam at his father's mills? He saw no escape from such a fate! There was not a soul in sight. The banks of the river were entirely deserted, for the workmen were far away, toiling in the fields and gardens, and they could not hear him even were he to shout his loudest. As for Mr. Hazen, he was probably still at Pine Lea searching for the book and wouldn't be back for some time. The boy's heart sank and he quivered with fear. Must he be drowned there all alone? Was there no one to aid him? Thoroughly terrified, he began to scream. But his screams only reëchoed from the silent river banks. No one heard and no one came. He was in the current of the stream now and moving rapidly along. Faster and faster he went. Yes, he was going to be swept on to Freeman's Falls, going to be carried over the dam and submerged beneath that hideous roar of water that foamed down on the jagged rocks in a boiling torrent of noise and spray. Nobody would know his plight until the catastrophe was over; and even should any of the mill hands catch sight of his frail craft as it sped past it would be too late for them to help him. Before a boat could be launched and rescuers summoned he would be over the falls. Yes, he was going to die, _to die_! Again he screamed, this time less with a thought of calling for help than as a protest against the fate awaiting him. To his surprise he heard an answering shout and a second later saw Ted Turner dash through the pines, pause on the shore, and scan the stream. Another instant and the boy had thrown off his coat and shoes and was in the water, swimming toward the boat with quick, overhand strokes. [Illustration: He heard an answering shout and a second later saw Ted Turner dash through the pines. _Page_ 88.] "Keep perfectly still, Laurie!" he panted. "You're all right. Just don't get fussed." Yet cheering as were the words, they could not conceal the fact that Ted was frightened, terribly frightened. The canoe gained headway with the increasing current. It seemed now to leap along. And in just the proportion that its progress was accelerated, the speed of the pursuer lessened. It seemed as if Ted would never overtake his prize. How they raced one another, the bobbing craft and the breathless boy! Ted Turner was a strong swimmer but the canoe with its solitary occupant was so light that it shot over the surface of the water like a feather. Was the contest to be a losing one, after all? Laurie, looking back at the wake of the boat, saw Ted's arm move slower and slower and suddenly a wave of realization of the other's danger came upon him. They might both be drowned,--two of them instead of one! "Give it up, old man!" he called bravely. "Don't try any more. You may go down yourself and I should have to die with that misery on my soul. You've done your best. It's all right. Just let me go! I'm not afraid." There was no answer from the swimmer but he did not stop. On the contrary, he kept stubbornly on, plowing with mechanical persistence through the water. Then at length he, too, was in the current and was gaining surely and speedily. Presently he was only a length away from the boat--he was nearer--nearer! His arm touched the stern and Laurie Fernald caught his hand in a firm grip. There he hung, breathing heavily. "I've simply got to stop a second or two and get my wind," said he. "Then we'll start back." "Ted!" "There are no oars, of course, but I can tie the rope around my body or perhaps catch it between my teeth. The canoe isn't heavy, you know. After we get out of the current and into quiet water, we shall have no trouble. We can cut straight across the stream and the distance to shore won't be great. I can do it all right." And do it he did, just how neither of the lads could have told. Nevertheless he did contrive to bring the boat and Laurie with it to a place of safety. Shoulder-deep in the water stood the frenzied Mr. Hazen who had plunged in to meet them and drag them to land. They had come so far down the river that when the canoe was finally beached they found themselves opposite the sweeping lawns of Pine Lea. Ted and the tutor were chilled and exhausted and Laurie was weak from fright and excitement. It did not take long, you may be sure, to summon help and bundle the three into a motor car which carried them to Pine Lea. Once there the invalid was put to bed and Mr. Hazen and Ted equipped with dry garments. "I shall get the deuce from the Fernalds for this!" commented the young tutor gloomily to Ted. "If it had not been for you, that boy would certainly have been drowned. Ugh! It makes me shudder to think of it! Had anything happened to him, I believe his father and grandfather would have lynched me." "Oh, Laurie is going to take all the blame," replied Ted, making an attempt to comfort the dejected young man. "He told me so himself." "That's all very well," rejoined Mr. Hazen, "but it won't help much. I shouldn't have left him. I had no right to do it, no matter what he said. I suppose the boat wasn't securely tied. It couldn't have been. Then the breeze came up. Goodness knows how the thing actually happened. I can't understand it now. But the point is, it did. Jove! I'm weak as a rag! I guess there can't be much left of you, Ted." "Oh, I'm all right now," protested Ted. "What got me was the fright of it. I didn't mind the swimming, for I've often crossed the river and back during my morning plunge. My work keeps me in pretty good training. But to-day I got panicky and my breath gave out. I was so afraid I wouldn't overtake the boat before----" "I know!" interrupted the tutor with a shiver. "Well, it is all over now, thank God! You were a genuine hero and I shall tell the Fernalds so." "Stuff! Don't tell them at all. What's the use of harrowing their feelings all up now that the thing is past and done with?" "But Laurie--he is all done up and they will be at a loss to account for it," objected Mr. Hazen. "Besides, the servants saw us come ashore and have probably already spread the story all over the place. And anyhow, I believe in being perfectly aboveboard. You do yourself, you know that. So I shall tell them the whole thing precisely as it happened. Afterward they'll probably fire me." "No, they won't! Cheer up!" "I deserve to be fired, too," went on the young tutor without heeding the interruption. "I ought not to have left Laurie an instant." "Perhaps not. But you won't do it again." "You bet I won't!" cried Mr. Hazen boyishly. It subsequently proved that Mr. Hazen knew far more of his employers than did Ted, for after the story was told only the pleas of the young rescuer availed to soften the sentence imposed. "He's almighty sorry, Mr. Fernald," asserted Ted Turner. "Don't tip him out. Give him a second try. He won't ever do it again." "W--e--ll, for your sake I will," Mr. Clarence said, yielding reluctantly to the pleading of the lad who sat opposite. "It would be hard for me to deny you anything after what you've done. You've saved our boy's life. We never shall forget it, never. But Hazen can thank you for his job--not me." And so, as a result of Ted's intercession, Mr. Hazen stayed on. In fact, as Mr. Clarence said, they could deny the lad nothing. It seemed as if the Fernalds never could do enough for him. Grandfather Fernald gave him a new watch with an illuminated face; and quite unknown to any one, Laurie's father opened a bank account to his credit, depositing a substantial sum as a "starter." But the best of the whole thing was that Laurie turned to Ted with a deeper and more earnest affection and the foundation was laid for a strong and enduring friendship. CHAPTER VIII DIPLOMACY AND ITS RESULTS Laurie, Ted, and Mr. Hazen were in the shack on a Saturday afternoon not long after the adventure on the river. A hard shower had driven them ashore and forced them to scramble into the shelter of the camp at the water's edge. How the rain pelted down on the low roof! It seemed as if an army were bombarding the little hut! Within doors, however, all was tight, warm, and cosy and on the hearth before a roaring fire the damp coats were drying. In the meantime the two boys and the young tutor had dragged out some coils of wire and a pair of amateur telephone transmitters which Ted had concocted while in school and for amusement were trying to run from one end of the room to the other a miniature telephone. Thus far their attempts had not been successful and Ted was becoming impatient. "We got quite a fair result at the laboratory after the things were adjusted," commented he. "I don't see why we can't work the same stunt here." "I'm afraid we haven't put time enough into it yet," replied Mr. Hazen. "Don't you remember how long Alexander Graham Bell, the inventor of the telephone, experimented before he got results?" Laurie, who was busy shortening a bit of wire, glanced up with interest. "I can't for the life of me understand how he knew what he wanted to do, can you?" he mused. "Think of starting out to make something perfectly new--a machine for which you had no pattern! I can imagine working out improvements on something already on the market. But to produce something nobody had ever seen before--that beats me! How did he ever get the idea in the first place?" The tutor smiled. "Mr. Bell did not set out to make a telephone, Laurie," he answered. "What he was aiming to do was to perfect a harmonic telegraph, a scheme to which he had been devoting a good deal of his time. He and his father had studied carefully the miracle of speech--how the sounds of the human voice were produced and carried to others--and as a result of this training Mr. Bell had become an expert teacher of the deaf. He was also professor of Vocal Physiology at Boston University where he had courses in lip reading, or a system of visible speech, which his father had evolved. This work kept him busy through the day so whatever experimenting he did with sounds and their vibrations had to be done at night." "So he stole time for electrical work, too, did he?" observed Ted. "I'm afraid that his interest in sound vibration caused him a sorry loss of sleep," said the tutor. "But certainly his later results were worth the amount of rest he sacrificed. One of the first agencies he employed to work upon was a piano. Have you ever tried singing a note into this instrument when the sustaining pedal is depressed? Do it some time and notice what happens. You will find that the string tuned to the pitch of your voice will start vibrating while all the others remain quiet. You can even go farther and try the experiment of uttering several different pitches, if you want to, and the corresponding strings will give back your notes, each one singling out its own particular vibration from the air. Now the results reached in these experiments with the piano strings meant a great deal more to Alexander Graham Bell than they would have meant to you or to me. In the first place, his training had given him a very acute ear; and in the next place, he was able to see in the facts presented a significance which an unskilled listener would not have detected. He found that this law of sympathetic vibration could be repeated electrically and, if desired, from a distance by means of electromagnets placed under a group of piano strings; and if afterward a circuit was made by connecting the magnets with an electric battery, you immediately had the same singing of the keys and a similar searching of each for its own pitch." "I'd like to try that trick some time," exclaimed Ted, leaning forward eagerly. "So should I!" echoed Laurie. "I think we could quite easily make the experiment if Laurie's mother would not object to our rigging up an attachment to her piano," Mr. Hazen responded. "Oh, Mater wouldn't mind," answered Laurie confidently. "She never minds anything I want to do." "I know she is a very long-suffering person," smiled the tutor. "Do you recall the white mice you had once, Laurie, and how they got loose and ran all over the house?" "And the chameleons! And the baby alligator!" chuckled Laurie. "Mother did get her back up over that alligator. She didn't like meeting him in the hall unexpectedly. But she wouldn't mind a thing that wasn't alive." "You call an electric wire dead then," said Ted with irony. "Well, no--not precisely," grinned Laurie. "Still I'm certain Mater would be less scared of it than she would of a mouse, even if the wire could kill her and the mouse couldn't." "Let's return to Mr. Bell and his piano strings," Ted remarked, after the laughter had subsided. Mr. Hazen's brow contracted thoughtfully and in his leisurely fashion he presently replied: "You can see, can't you, that if an interrupter caused the electric current to be made and broken at intervals, the number of times it interrupted per second would, for example, correspond to the rate of vibration in one of the strings? In other words, that would be the only string that would answer. Now if you sang into the piano, you would have the rhythmic impulse that set the piano strings vibrating coming directly through the air, while with the battery the impulse would come through the wire and the electromagnets instead. In each case, however, the principle involved would be the same." "I can see that," said Ted quickly. "Can't you, Laurie?" His chum nodded. "Now," continued Mr. Hazen, "just as it was possible to start two or more different notes of the piano echoing varying pitches, so it is possible to have several sets of these _make-and-break_ or intermittent currents start their corresponding strings to answering. In this way one could send several messages at once, each message being toned to a different pitch. All that would be necessary would be to have differently keyed interrupters. This was the principle of the harmonic telegraph at which Mr. Bell was toiling outside the hours of his regular work and through which he hoped to make himself rich and famous. His intention was to break up the various sounds into the dots and dashes of the Morse code and make one wire do what it had previously taken several wires to perform." "It seems simple enough," speculated Laurie. "It was not so simple to carry out," declared Mr. Hazen. "Of course, as I told you, Mr. Bell could not give his entire time to it. He had his teaching both at Boston University and elsewhere to do. Nor was he wholly free at the Saunders's, with whom he boarded at Salem, for he was helping the Saunders's nephew, who was deaf, to study." "And in return poor Mrs. Saunders had to offer up her piano for experiments, I suppose," Ted observed. "Well, perhaps at first--but not for long," was Mr. Hazen's reply. "Mr. Bell soon abandoned piano strings and in their place resorted to flat strips of springy steel, keying them to different pitches by varying their length. One end of these strips he fastened to a pole of an electromagnet and the other he extended over the other pole and left free." "And the current interrupters?" queried Ted. "Those current interrupters are the things which have since become known as transmitters," explained Mr. Hazen. "Those Mr. Bell made all alike except that in each one of them were springs kept in constant vibration by a magnet or point of metal placed above each spring so that the spring would touch it at every vibration, thus making and breaking the electric current the same number of times per second that corresponded to the pitch of the piece of steel. By tuning the springs of the receivers to the same pitch with the transmitters and running a wire between them equipped with signalling keys and a battery, Bell reasoned he could send as many messages at one time as there were pitches." "Did he get it to work?" Laurie asked. "Mr. Bell didn't, no," replied the tutor. "What sounded logical enough on paper was not so easy to put into practise. The idea has been carried out successfully, however, since then. But Mr. Bell unfortunately had no end of troubles with his scheme, and we all may thank these difficulties for the telephone, for had his harmonic telegraph gone smoothly we might not and probably would not have had Bell's other and far more important invention." "The discovery of the telephone was a 'happen,' then," Ted ventured. "More or less of a happen," was the reply. "Of course, the intelligent recognition of the law behind it was not a happen; nor was the patient and persistent toil that went into the perfecting of the instrument a matter of chance. Alexander Graham Bell had the genius to recognize the value and significance of the truth on which he stumbled and turn it to practical purposes. Many another might perhaps have heard the self-same sounds that came to him over that reach of wire and, detecting nothing unusual in the whining vibrations, have passed them by. But to Mr. Bell they were magic music, the sesame to a new country. Strangely enough, too, it was the good luck of a boy not much older than Ted to share with the discoverer the wonderful secret." "How?" demanded both Laurie and Ted in a breath. "I can't tell you that story to-day," Mr. Hazen expostulated. "It would take much too long. We must give over talking and put our minds on this telephone of our own which does not seem to be making any great progress. I begin to be afraid we haven't the proper outfit." As he spoke, a shadow crossed the window and in another instant Mr. Clarence Fernald poked his head in at the door. "What are you three conspirators up to?" inquired he. "You look as if you were making bombs or some other deadly thing." "We are making a telephone, Dad, and it won't work," was Laurie's answer. Mr. Fernald smiled with amusement. "You seem to have plenty of wire," he said. "In fact, if I were permitted to offer a criticism, I should say you had more wire than anything else. How lengthy a circuit do you expect to cover?" "Oh, we're not ambitious," Laurie replied. "If we can cross the room we shall be satisfied, although now that you mention it, perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing if it could run from my room at home over here." He eyed his father furtively. "Then when I happened to have to stay in bed I could talk to Ted and he could cheer me up." "So he could!" echoed Mr. Fernald in noncommittal fashion. "It would be rather nice, too, for Mr. Wharton," went on the diplomat with his sidelong glance still fixed on his father. "He must sometimes wish he could reach Ted without bothering to send a man way over here. And then there are the Turners! Of course a telephone to the shack would give them no end of pleasure. They must miss Ted and often want to speak with him." He waited but there was no response from Mr. Fernald. "Ted might be sick, too; or have an accident and wish to get help and----" At last the speaker was rewarded by having the elder man turn quickly upon him. "In other words, you young scoundrel, you want me to install a telephone in this shack for the joy and delight of you two electricians who can't seem to do it for yourselves," said Mr. Fernald gruffly. "Now however do you suppose he guessed it?" exclaimed Laurie delightedly, as he turned with mock gravity to Ted. "Isn't he the mind reader?" It was evident that Laurie Fernald thoroughly understood his father and that the two were on terms of the greatest affection. "Did I say I wanted a telephone?" he went on meekly. "You said everything else," was the grim retort. "Did I? Well, well!" commented the boy mischievously. "I needn't have taken so much trouble after all, need I? But every one isn't such a Sherlock Holmes as you are, Dad." Mr. Fernald's scowl vanished and he laughed. "What a young wheedler you are!" observed he, playfully rumpling up his son's fair hair. "You could coax every cent I have away from me if I did not lock my money up in the bank. I really think, though, that a telephone here in the hut would be an excellent idea. But what I don't see is why you don't do the job yourselves." "Oh, we could do the work all right if there wasn't danger of our infringing the patent of the telephone company," was Laurie's impish reply. "If we should get into a lawsuit there would be no end of trouble, you know. I guess we'd much better have the thing installed in the regular way." "I guess so too!" came from his father. "You'll really have it put in, Dad?" cried Laurie. "Sure!" "That will be bully, corking!" Laurie declared. "You're mighty good, Dad." "Pooh! Nonsense!" his father protested, as he shot a quick glance of tenderness toward the boy. "A telephone over here will be a useful thing for us all. I may want to call Ted up myself sometimes. We never can tell when an emergency may arise." Within the following week the telephone was in place and although Ted had not minded his seclusion, or thought he had not, he suddenly found that the instrument gave him a very comfortable sense of nearness to his family and to the household at Pine Lea. He and Laurie chattered like magpies over the wire and were far worse, Mrs. Fernald asserted, than any two gossipy boarding-school girls. Moreover, Ted was now able to speak each day with his father at the Fernald shipping rooms and by this means keep in closer touch with his family. As for Mr. Wharton, he marvelled that a telephone to the shack had not been put in at the outset. "It is not a luxury," he insisted. "It's a necessity! An indispensable part of the farm equipment!" Certainly in the days to come it proved its worth! CHAPTER IX THE STORY OF THE FIRST TELEPHONE "I am going down to Freeman's Falls this afternoon to get some rubber tape," Ted remarked to Laurie, as the two boys and the tutor were eating a picnic lunch in Ted's cabin one Saturday. "Oh, make somebody else do your errand and stay here," Laurie begged. "Anybody can buy that stuff. Some of the men must be going to the Falls. Ask Wharton to make them do your shopping." "Perhaps Ted had other things to attend to," ventured Mr. Hazen. "No, I hadn't," was the prompt reply. "In that case I am sure any of the men would be glad to get whatever you please," the tutor declared. "Save your energy, old man," put in Laurie. "Electrical supplies are easy enough to buy when you know what you want." "They are now," Mr. Hazen remarked, with a quiet smile, "but they have not always been. In fact, it was not so very long ago that it was almost impossible to purchase either books on electricity or electrical stuff of any sort. People's knowledge of such matters was so scanty that little was written about them; and as for shops of this type--why, they were practically unknown." "Where did persons get what they wanted?" asked Ted with surprise. "Nobody wanted electrical materials," laughed Mr. Hazen. "There was no call for them. Even had the shops supplied them, nobody would have known what to do with them." "But there must have been some who would," the boy persisted. "Where, for example, did Mr. Bell get his things?" "Practically all Mr. Bell's work was done at a little shop on Court Street, Boston," answered Mr. Hazen. "This shop, however, was nothing like the electrical supply shops we have now. Had Alexander Graham Bell entered its doors and asked, for instance, for a telephone transmitter, he would have found no such thing in stock. On the contrary, the shop consisted of a number of benches where men or boys experimented or made crude electrical contrivances that had previously been ordered by customers. The shop was owned by Charles Williams, a clever mechanical man, who was deeply interested in electrical problems of all sorts. In a tiny showcase in the front part of the store were displayed what few textbooks on electricity he had been able to gather together and these he allowed the men in his employ to read at lunch time and to use freely in connection with their work. He was a person greatly beloved by those associated with him and he had the rare wisdom to leave every man he employed unhampered, thereby making individual initiative the law of his business." The tutor paused, then noticing that both the boys were listening intently, he continued: "If a man had an idea that had been carefully thought out, he was given free rein to execute it. Tom Watson, one of the boys at the shop, constructed a miniature electric engine, and although the feat took both time and material, there was no quarrel because of that. The place was literally a workshop, and so long as there were no drones in it and the men toiled intelligently, Mr. Williams had no fault to find. You can imagine what valuable training such a practical environment furnished. Nobody nagged at the men, nobody drove them on. Each of the thirty or forty employees pegged away at his particular task, either doing work for a specific customer or trying to perfect some notion of his own. If you were a person of ideas, it was an ideal conservatory in which to foster them." "Gee! I'd have liked the chance to work in a place like that!" Ted sighed. "It would not have been a bad starter, I assure you," agreed Mr. Hazen. "At that time there were, as I told you, few such shops in the country; and this one, simple and crude as it was, was one of the largest. There was another in Chicago which was bigger and perhaps more perfectly organized; but Williams's shop was about as good as any and certainly gave its men an excellent all-round education in electrical matters. Many of them went out later and became leaders in the rapidly growing world of science and these few historic little shops thus became the ancestors of our vast electrical plants." "It seems funny to think it all started from such small beginnings, doesn't it," mused Laurie thoughtfully. "It certainly is interesting," Mr. Hazen replied. "And if it interests us in this far-away time, think what it must have meant to the pioneers to witness the marvels half a century brought forth and look back over the trail they had blazed. For it was a golden era of discovery, that period when the new-born power of electricity made its appearance; and because Williams's shop was known to be a nursery for ideas, into it flocked every variety of dreamer. There were those who dreamed epoch-making dreams and eventually made them come true; and there were those who merely saw visions too impractical ever to become realities. To work amid this mecca of minds must have been not only an education in science but in human nature as well. Every sort of crank who had gathered a wild notion out of the blue meandered into Williams's shop in the hope that somebody could be found there who would provide either the money or the labor to further his particular scheme. "Now in this shop," went on Mr. Hazen, "there was, as I told you, a young neophyte by the name of Thomas Watson. Tom had not found his niche in life. He had tried being a clerk, a bookkeeper, and a carpenter and none of these several occupations had seemed to fit him. Then one fortunate day he happened in at Williams's shop and immediately he knew this was the place where he belonged. He was a boy of mechanical tastes who had a real genius for tools and machinery. He was given a chance to turn castings by hand at five dollars a week and he took the job eagerly." "Think how a boy would howl at working for that now," Laurie exclaimed. "No doubt there were boys who would have howled then," answered Mr. Hazen, "although in those days young fellows expected to work hard and receive little pay until they had learned their trade. Perhaps the youthful Mr. Watson had the common sense to cherish this creed; at any rate, there was not a lazy bone in his body, and as there were no such things to be had as automatic screw machines, he went vigorously to work making the castings by hand, trying as he did so not to blind his eyes with the flying splinters of metal." "Then what happened?" demanded Laurie. "Well, Watson stuck at his job and in the meantime gleaned right and left such scraps of practical knowledge as a boy would pick up in such a place. By the end of his second year he had had his finger in many pies and had worked on about every sort of electrical contrivance then known: call bells, annunciators, galvanometers; telegraph keys, sounders, relays, registers, and printing telegraph instruments. Think what a rich experience his two years of apprenticeship had given him!" "You bet!" ejaculated Ted appreciatively. "Now as Tom Watson was not only clever but was willing to take infinite pains with whatever he set his hand to, never stinting nor measuring his time or strength, he became a great favorite with those who came to the shop to have different kinds of experimental apparatus made. Many of the ideas brought to him to be worked out came from visionaries who had succeeded in capturing the financial backing of an unwary believer and convinced themselves and him that here was an idea that was to stir the universe. But too many of these schemes, alas, proved worthless and as their common fate was the rubbish heap, it is strange that the indefatigable Thomas Watson did not have his faith in pioneer work entirely destroyed. But youth is buoyed up by perpetual hope; and paradoxical as it may seem, his enthusiasm never lagged. Each time he felt, with the inventor, that they might be standing on the brink of gigantic unfoldings and he toiled with energy to bring something practical out of the chaos. And when at length it became evident beyond all question that the idea was never to unfold into anything practical, he would, with the same zealous spirit, attack another seer's problem." "Didn't he ever meet any successful inventors?" questioned Ted. "Yes, indeed," the tutor answered. "Scattered among the cranks and castle builders were several brilliant, solid-headed men. There was Moses G. Farmer, for example, one of the foremost electricians of that time, who had many an excellent and workable idea and who taught young Watson no end of valuable lessons. Then one day into the workshop came Alexander Graham Bell. In his hand he carried a mechanical contrivance Watson had previously made for him and on espying Tom in the distance he made a direct line for the workman's bench. After explaining that the device did not do the thing he was desirous it should, he told Watson that it was the receiver and transmitter of his Harmonic Telegraph." "And that was the beginning of Mr. Watson's work with Mr. Bell?" asked Ted breathlessly. "Yes, that was the real beginning." "Think of working with a man like that!" the boy cried with sparkling eyes. "It must have been tremendously interesting." "It was interesting," responded Mr. Hazen, "but nevertheless much of the time it must have been inexpressibly tedious work. A young man less patient and persistent than Watson would probably have tired of the task. Just why he did not lose his courage through the six years of struggle that followed I do not understand. For how was he to know but that this idea would eventually prove as hopeless and unprofitable as had so many others to which he had devoted his energy? Beyond Mr. Bell's own magnetic personality there was only slender foundation for his faith for in spite of the efforts of both men the harmonic telegraph failed to take form. Instead, like a tantalizing sprite, it danced before them, always beckoning, never materializing. In theory it was perfectly consistent but in practise it could not be coaxed into behaving as it logically should. Had it but been possible for those working on it to realize that beyond their temporary failure lay a success glorious past all belief, think what the knowledge would have meant. But to always be following the gleam and never overtaking it, ah, that might well have discouraged prophets of stouter heart!" "Were these transmitters and receivers made from electromagnets and strips of flat steel, as you told us the other day?" asked Ted. "Yes, their essential parts comprised just those elements--an electromagnet and a scrap of flattened clock spring which, as I have explained, was clamped by one end to the pole of the magnet and left free at the other to vibrate over the opposite pole. In addition the transmitter had make-and-break points such as an ordinary telephone bell has, and when these came in contact with the current, the springs inside continually gave out a sort of wail keyed to correspond with the pitch of the spring. As Mr. Bell had six of these instruments tuned to as many different pitches--and six receivers to answer them--you may picture to yourself the hideousness of the sounds amid which the experimenters labored." "I suppose when each transmitter sent out its particular whine its own similarly tuned receiver spring would wriggle in response," Laurie said. "Exactly so." "There must have been lovely music when all six of them began to sing!" laughed Ted. "Mr. Watson wrote once that it was as if all the miseries of the world were concentrated in that workroom, and I can imagine it being true," answered the tutor. "Well, young Watson certainly did all he could to make the harmonic telegraph a reality. He made the receivers and transmitters exactly as Mr. Bell requested; but on testing them out, great was the surprise of the inventor to find that his idea, so feasible in theory, refused to work. Nevertheless, his faith was not shaken. He insisted on trying to discover the flaw in his logic and correct it, and as Watson had now completed some work that he had been doing for Moses Farmer, the two began a series of experiments that lasted all winter." "Jove!" ejaculated Laurie. "Marvels of science are not born in a moment," answered Mr. Hazen. "Yet I do not wonder that you gasp, for think of what it must have meant to toil for weeks and months at those wailing instruments! It is a miracle the men did not go mad. They were not always able to work together for Mr. Bell had his living to earn and therefore was compelled to devote a good measure of his time to his college classes and his deaf pupils. In consequence, he did a portion of his experimental work at Salem while Watson carried on his at the shop, fitting it in with other odd jobs that came his way. Frequently Mr. Bell remained in Boston in the evening and the two worked at the Williams's shop until late into the night." "Wasn't it lucky there were no labor unions in those days?" put in Ted mischievously. "Indeed it was!" responded Mr. Hazen. "The shop would then have been barred and bolted at five o'clock, I suppose, and Alexander Graham Bell might have had a million bright ideas for all the good they would have done him. But at that golden period of our history, if an ambitious fellow like Watson wished to put in extra hours of work, the more slothful ones had no authority to stand over him with a club and say he shouldn't. Therefore the young apprentice toiled on with Mr. Bell, unmolested; and Charles Williams, the proprietor of the shop, was perfectly willing he should. One evening, when the two were alone, Mr. Bell remarked, 'If I could make a current of electricity vary in intensity precisely as the air varies in density during the production of sound, I should be able to transmit speech telegraphically.' This was his first allusion to the telephone but that the idea of such an instrument had been for some time in his mind was evident by the fact that he sketched in for Watson the kind of apparatus he thought necessary for such a device and they speculated concerning its construction. The project never went any farther, however, because Mr. Thomas Saunders and Mr. Gardiner Hubbard, who were financing Mr. Bell's experiments, felt the chances of this contrivance working satisfactorily were too uncertain. Already much time and money had been spent on the harmonic telegraph and they argued this scheme should be completed before a new venture was tried." "I suppose that point of view was quite justifiable," mused Ted. "But wasn't it a pity?" "Yes, it was," agreed Mr. Hazen. "Yet here again we realize how man moves inch by inch, never knowing what is just around the turn of the road. He can only go it blindly and do the best he knows at the time. Naturally neither Mr. Hubbard nor Mr. Saunders wanted to swamp any more money until they had received results for what they had spent already; and those results, alas, were not forthcoming. Over and over again poor Watson blamed himself lest some imperceptible defect in his part of the work was responsible for Mr. Bell's lack of success. The spring of 1875 came and still no light glimmered on the horizon. The harmonic telegraph seemed as far away from completion as ever. Patiently the men plodded on. Then on a June day, a day that began even less auspiciously than had other days, the heavens suddenly opened and Alexander Graham Bell had his vision!" "What was it?" "Tell us about it!" cried both boys in a breath. "It was a warm, close afternoon in the loft over the Williams's shop and the transmitters and receivers were whining there more dolefully than usual. Several of them, sensitive to the weather, were out of tune, and as Mr. Bell had trained his ear to sounds until it was abnormally acute, he was tuning the springs of the receivers to the pitch of the transmitters, a service he always preferred to perform himself. To do this he placed the receiver against his ear and called to Watson, who was in the adjoining room, to start the current through the electromagnet of the corresponding transmitter. When this was done, Mr. Bell was able to turn a screw and adjust the instrument to the pitch desired. Watson admits in a book he has himself written that he was out of spirits that day and feeling irritable and impatient. The whiners had got on his nerves, I fancy. One of the springs that he was trying to start appeared to stick and in order to force it to vibrate he gave it a quick snap with his finger. Still it would not go and he snapped it sharply several times. Immediately there was a cry from Mr. Bell who rushed into the hall, exclaiming, 'What did you do then? Don't change anything. Let me see.' "Watson was alarmed. Had he knocked out the entire circuit or what had he done in his fit of temper? Well, there was no escape from confession now; no pretending he had not vented his nervousness on the mechanism before him. With honesty he told the truth and even illustrated his hasty action. The thing was simple enough. In some way the make-and-break points of the transmitter spring had become welded together so that even when Watson snapped the instrument the circuit had remained unbroken, while by means of the piece of magnetized steel vibrating over the pole of the magnet an electric current was generated, the type of current that did exactly what Mr. Bell had dreamed of a current doing--a current of electricity that varied in intensity precisely as the air within the radius of that particular spring was varying in density. And not only did that undulatory current pass through the wire to the receiver Mr. Bell was holding, but as good luck would have it the mechanism was such that it transformed that current back into a faint but unmistakable echo of the sound issuing from the vibrating spring that generated it. But a fact more fortunate than all this was that the one man to whom the incident carried significance had the instrument at his ear at that particular moment. That was pure chance--a Heaven-sent, miraculous coincidence! But that Mr. Bell recognized the value and importance of that whispered echo that reached him over the wire and knew, when he heard it, that it was the embodiment of the idea that had been haunting him--that was not chance; it was genius!" The room had been tensely still and now both boys drew a sigh of relief. "How strange!" murmured Ted in an awed tone. "Yes, it was like magic, was it not?" replied the tutor. "For the speaking telephone was born at that moment. Whatever practical work was necessary to make the invention perfect (and there were many, many details to be solved) was done afterward. But on June 2, 1875, the telephone as Bell had dreamed it came into the world. That single demonstration on that hot morning in Williams's shop proved myriad facts to the inventor. One was that if a mechanism could transmit the many complex vibrations of one sound it could do the same for any sound, even human speech. He saw now that the intricate paraphernalia he had supposed necessary to achieve his long-imagined result was not to be needed, for did not the simple contrivance in his hand do the trick? The two men in the stuffy little loft could scarcely contain their delight. For hours they went on repeating the experiment in order to make sure they were really awake. They verified their discovery beyond all shadow of doubt. One spring and then another was tried and always the same great law acted with invariable precision. Heat, fatigue, even the dingy garret itself was forgotten in the flight of those busy, exultant hours. Before they separated that night, Alexander Graham Bell had given to Thomas Watson directions for making the first electric speaking telephone in the world!" CHAPTER X WHAT CAME AFTERWARD "Was that first telephone like ours?" inquired Ted later as, their lunch finished, they sat idly looking out at the river. "Not wholly. Time has improved the first crude instrument," Mr. Hazen replied. "The initial principle of the telephone, however, has never varied from Mr. Bell's primary idea. Before young Watson tumbled into bed on that epoch-making night, he had finished the instrument Bell had asked him to have ready, every part of it being made by the eager assistant who probably only faintly realized the mammoth importance of his task. Yet whether he realized it or not, he had caught a sufficient degree of the inventor's excitement to urge him forward. Over one of the receivers, as Mr. Bell directed, he mounted a small drumhead of goldbeater's skin, joined the center of it to the free end of the receiver spring, and arranged a mouthpiece to talk into. The plan was to force the steel spring to answer the vibrations of the voice and at the same time generate a current of electricity that should vary in intensity just as the air varies in density during the utterance of speech sounds. Not only did Watson make this instrument as specified, but in his interest he went even farther, and as the rooms in the loft seemed too near together, the tireless young man ran a special wire from the attic down the two flights of stairs to the ground floor of the shop and ended it near his workbench at the rear of the building, thus constructing the first telephone line in history. "Then the next day Mr. Bell came to test out his invention and, as you can imagine, there was great excitement." "I hope it worked," put in Laurie. "It worked all right although at this early stage of the game it was hardly to be expected that the instrument produced was perfect. Nevertheless, the demonstration proved that the principle behind it was sound and that was all Mr. Bell really wanted to make sure of. Watson, as it chanced, got far more out of this initial performance than did Mr. Bell himself for because of the inventor's practical work in phonics the vibrations of his voice carried more successfully than did those of the assistant. Yet the youthful Watson was not without his compensations. Nature had blessed him with unusually acute hearing and as a result he could catch Bell's tones perfectly as they came over the wire and could almost distinguish his words; but shout as he would, poor Mr. Bell could not hear _him_. This dilemma nevertheless discouraged neither of them for Watson had plenty of energy and was quite willing to leap up the two flights of stairs and repeat what he had heard; and this report greatly reassured Mr. Bell, who outlined a list of other improvements for another telephone that should be ready on the following day." "I suppose they kept remodelling the telephones all the time after that, didn't they?" inquired Ted. "You may be sure they did," was Mr. Hazen's response. "The harmonic telegraph was entirely sidetracked and the interest of both men turned into this newer channel. Mr. Bell, in the meantime, was giving less and less energy to his teaching and more and more to his inventing. Before many days the two could talk back and forth and hear one another's voices without difficulty, although ten full months of hard work was necessary before they were able to understand what was said. It was not until after this long stretch of patient toil that Watson unmistakably heard Mr. Bell say one day, '_Mr. Watson, please come here, I want you._' The message was a very ordinary, untheatrical one for a moment so significant but neither of the enthusiasts heeded that. The thrilling fact was that the words had come clear-cut over the wire." "Gee!" broke in Laurie. "It certainly must have been a dramatic moment," Mr. Hazen agreed. "Mr. Bell, now convinced beyond all doubt of the value of his idea, hired two rooms at a cheap boarding-house situated at Number 5 Exeter Place, Boston. In one of these he slept and in the other he equipped a laboratory. Watson connected these rooms by a wire and afterward all Mr. Bell's experimenting was done here instead of at the Williams's shop. It was at the Exeter Place rooms that this first wonderful message came to Watson's ears. From this period on the telephone took rapid strides forward. By the summer of 1876, it had been improved until a simple sentence was understandable if carefully repeated three or four times." "Repeated three or four times!" gasped Laurie in dismay. The tutor smiled at the boy's incredulousness. "You forget we are not dealing with a finished product," said he gently. "I am a little afraid you would have been less patient with the imperfections of an infant invention than were Bell and Watson." "I know I should," was the honest retort. "The telephone was a very delicate instrument to perfect," explained Mr. Hazen. "Always remember that. An inventor must not only be a man who has unshaken faith in his idea but he must also have the courage to cling stubbornly to his belief through every sort of mechanical vicissitude. This Mr. Bell did. June of 1876 was the year of the great Centennial at Philadelphia, the year that marked the first century of our country's progress. As the exhibition was to be one symbolic of our national development in every line, Mr. Bell decided to show his telephone there; to this end he set Watson, who was still at the Williams's shop, to making exhibition telephones of the two varieties they had thus far worked out." "I'll bet Watson was almighty proud of his job," Ted interrupted. "I fancy he was and certainly he had a right to be," answered Mr. Hazen. "I have always been glad, too, that it fell to his lot to have this honor; for he had worked long and faithfully, and if there were glory to be had, he should share it. To his unflagging zeal and intelligence Mr. Bell owed a great deal. Few men could so whole-heartedly have effaced their own personality and thrown themselves with such zest into the success of another as did Thomas Watson." The tutor paused. "Up to this time," he presently went on, "the telephones used by Bell and Watson in their experiments had been very crude affairs; but those designed for the Centennial were glorified objects. Watson says that you could see your face in them. The Williams's shop outdid itself and more splendid instruments never went forth from its doors. You can therefore imagine Watson's chagrin when, after highly commending Mr. Bell's invention, Sir William Thompson added, '_This, perhaps, greatest marvel hitherto achieved by electric telegraph has been obtained by appliances of quite a homespun and rudimentary character._'" Both Ted and Laurie joined in the laughter of the tutor. "And now the telephone was actually launched?" Ted asked. "Well, it was not really in clear waters," Mr. Hazen replied, with a dubious shrug of his shoulders, "but at least there was no further question as to which of his schemes Mr. Bell should perfect. Both Mr. Hubbard and Mr. Saunders, who were assisting him financially, agreed that for the present it must be the telephone; and recognizing the value of Watson's services, they offered him an interest in Mr. Bell's patents if he would give up his work at Williams's shop and put in all his time on this device. Nevertheless they did not entirely abandon the harmonic telegraph for Bell's success with the other invention had only served to strengthen their confidence in his ability and genius. It was also decided that Mr. Bell should move from Salem to Boston, take an additional room at the Exeter Place house (which would give him the entire floor where his laboratory was), and unhampered by further teaching plunge into the inventive career for which heaven had so richly endowed him and which he loved with all his heart. You can picture to yourselves the joy these decisions gave him and the eagerness with which he and Watson took up their labors together. "They made telephones of every imaginable size in their attempts to find out whether there was anything that would work more satisfactorily than the type they now had. But in spite of their many experiments they came back to the kind of instrument with which they had started, discovering nothing that was superior to their original plan. Except that they compelled the transmitter to do double duty and act also as a receiver, the telephone that emerged from these many tests was practically similar in principle to the one of to-day." "Had they made any long-distance trials up to this time?" questioned Laurie. "No," Mr. Hazen admitted. "They had lacked opportunity to make such tests since no great span of wires was accessible to them. But on October 9, 1876, the Walworth Manufacturing Company gave them permission to try out their device on the Company's private telegraph line that ran from Boston to Cambridge. The distance to be sure was only two miles but it might as well have been two thousand so far as the excitement of the two workers went. Their baby had never been out of doors. Now at last it was to take the air! Fancy how thrilling the prospect was! As the wire over which they were to make the experiment was in use during the day, they were forced to wait until the plant was closed for the night. Then Watson, with his tools and his telephone under his arm, went to the Cambridge office where he impatiently listened for Mr. Bell's signal to come over the Morse sounder. When he had heard this and thereby made certain that Bell was at the other end of the line, he cut out the sounder, connected the telephone he had brought with him, and put his ear to the transmitter." The hut was so still one could almost hear the breathing of the lads, who were listening intently. "Go on!" Laurie said quickly. "Tell us what happened." "_Nothing happened!_" answered the tutor. "Watson listened but there was not a sound." "Great Scott!" "The poor assistant was aghast," went on Mr. Hazen. "He was at a complete loss to understand what was the matter. Could it be that the contrivance which worked so promisingly in the Boston rooms would not work under these other conditions? Perhaps an electric current was too delicate a thing to carry sound very far. Or was it that the force of the vibration filtered off at each insulator along the line until it became too feeble to be heard? All these possibilities flashed into Watson's mind while at his post two miles away from Mr. Bell he struggled to readjust the instrument. Then suddenly an inspiration came to his alert brain. Might there not be another Morse sounder somewhere about? If there were, that would account for the whole difficulty. Springing up, he began to search the room and after following the wires, sure enough, he traced them to a relay with a high resistance coil in the circuit. Feverishly he cut this out and rushed back to his telephone. Plainly over the wire came Bell's voice, '_Ahoy! Ahoy!_' For a few seconds both of them were too delighted to say much of anything else. Then they sobered down and began this first long-distance conversation. Now one of the objections Mr. Bell had constantly been forced to meet from the skeptical public was that while the telegraph delivered messages that were of unchallenged accuracy telephone conversations were liable to errors of misunderstanding. One could not therefore rely so completely on the trustworthiness of the latter as on that of the former. To refute this charge Mr. Bell had insisted that both he and Watson carefully write out whatever they heard that the two records might afterward be compared and verified. '_That is_,' Mr. Bell had added with the flicker of a smile, '_if we succeed in talking at all_!' Well, they did succeed, as you have heard. At first they held only a stilted dialogue and conscientiously jotted it down; but afterward their exuberance got the better of them and in sheer joy they chattered away like magpies until long past midnight. Then, loath to destroy the connection, Watson detached his telephone, replaced the Company's wires, and set out for Boston. In the meantime Mr. Bell, who had previously made an arrangement with the _Boston Advertiser_ to publish on the following morning an account of the experiment, together with the recorded conversations, had gone to the newspaper office to carry his material to the press. Hence he was not at the Exeter Place rooms when the jubilant Watson arrived. But the early morning hour did not daunt the young electrician; and when, after some delay, Mr. Bell came in, the two men rushed toward one another and regardless of everything else executed what Mr. Watson has since characterized as a _war dance_. Certainly they were quite justified in their rejoicings and perhaps if their landlady had understood the cause of their exultations she might have joined in the dance herself. Unluckily she had only a scant sympathy with inventive genius and since the victory celebration not only aroused her, but also wakened most of her boarders from their slumbers, her ire was great and the next morning she informed the two men that if they could not be more quiet at night they would have to leave her house." An appreciative chuckle came from the listeners. "If she had known what she was sheltering, I suppose she would have been proud as a peacock and promptly told all her neighbors," grinned Ted. "Undoubtedly! But she did not know, poor soul!" returned Mr. Hazen. "After this Mr. Bell and Mr. Watson must have shot ahead by leaps and bounds," commented Laurie. "There is no denying that that two-mile test did give them both courage and assurance," responded the tutor. "They got chances to try out the invention on longer telegraph wires; and in spite of the fact that no such thing as hard-drawn copper wire was in existence they managed to get results even over rusty wires with their unsoldered joinings. Through such experiments an increasingly wider circle of outside persons heard of the telephone and the marvel began to attract greater attention. Mr. Bell's modest little laboratory became the mecca of scientists and visitors of every imaginable type. Moses G. Farmer, well known in the electrical world, came to view the wonder and confessed to Mr. Bell that more than once he had lingered on the threshold of the same mighty discovery but had never been able to step across it into success. It amused both Mr. Bell and Mr. Watson to see how embarrassed persons were when allowed to talk over the wire. Standing up and speaking into a box has long since become too much a matter of course with us to appear ridiculous; but those experiencing the novelty for the first time were so overwhelmed by self-consciousness that they could think of nothing to say. One day when Mr. Watson called from his end of the line, 'How do you do?' a dignified lawyer who was trying the instrument answered with a foolish giggle, 'Rig-a-jig-jig and away we go!' The psychological reaction was too much for many a well-poised individual and I do not wonder it was, do you?" "It must have been almost as good as a vaudeville show to watch the people," commented Ted. "Better! Lots better!" echoed Laurie. "In April, 1877, the first out-of-door telephone line running on its own private wires was installed in the shop of Charles Williams at Number 109 Court Street and carried from there out to his house at Somerville. Quite a little ceremony marked the event. Both Mr. Bell and Mr. Watson attended the christening and the papers chronicled the circumstance in bold headlines the following day. Immediately patrons who wanted telephones began to pop up right and left like so many mushrooms. But alas, where was the money to come from that should enable Mr. Bell and his associates to branch out and grasp the opportunities that now beckoned them? The inventor's own resources were at a low ebb; Watson, like many another young man, had more brains than fortune; and neither Mr. Hubbard nor Mr. Saunders felt they could provide the necessary capital. Already the Western Union had refused Mr. Hubbard's offer to sell all Mr. Bell's patents for one hundred thousand dollars, the Company feeling that the price asked was much too high. Two years later, however, they would willingly have paid twenty-five million dollars for the privilege they had so summarily scorned. What was to be done? Money must be secured for without it all further progress was at a standstill. Was success to be sacrificed now that the goal was well within sight? And must the telephone be shut away from the public and never take its place of service in the great world? Why, if a thing was not to be used it might almost as well never have been invented! The spirits of the telephone pioneers sank lower and lower. The only way to raise money seemed to be to sell the telephone instruments outright and this Mr. Bell, who desired simply to lease them, was unwilling to do. Then an avenue of escape from this dilemma presented itself to him." "What was it?" asked Laurie. "He would give lectures, accompanying them with practical demonstrations of the telephone. This would bring in money and banish for a time, at least, the possibility of having to sell instead of rent telephones. The plan succeeded admirably. The first lecture was given at Salem where, because of Mr. Bell's previous residence and many friends, a large audience packed the hall. Then Boston desired to know more of the invention and an appeal for a lecture signed by Longfellow, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and other distinguished citizens was forwarded to Mr. Bell. The Boston lectures were followed by others in New York, Providence, and the principal cities throughout New England." "It seems a shame Mr. Bell should have had to take his time to do that, doesn't it?" mused Ted. "How did they manage the lectures?" "The lectures had a checkered existence," smiled Mr. Hazen. "Many very amusing incidents centered about them. Were I to talk until doomsday I could not begin to tell you the multitudinous adventures Mr. Bell and Mr. Watson had during their platform career; for although Mr. Watson was never really before the footlights as Mr. Bell was, he was an indispensable part of the show,--the power behind the scenes, the man at the other end of the wire, who furnished the lecture hall with such stunts as would not only convince an audience but also entertain them. It was a dull, thankless position, perhaps, to be so far removed from the excitement and glamor, to be always playing or singing into a little wooden box and never catching a glimpse of the fun that was going on at the other end of the line; but since Mr. Watson was a rather shy person it is possible he was quite as well pleased. After all, it was Mr. Bell whom everybody wanted to see and of course Mr. Watson understood this. Therefore he was quite content to act his modest rôle and not only gather together at his end of the wire cornet soloists, electric organs, brass bands, or whatever startling novelties the occasion demanded, but talk or sing himself. The shyest of men can sometimes out-Herod Herod if not obliged to face their listeners in person. As Watson had spoken so much over the telephone, he was thoroughly accustomed to it and played the parts assigned him far better than more gifted but less practically trained soloists did. It always amused him intensely after he had bellowed _Pull for the Shore_, _Hold the Fort_ or _Yankee Doodle_ into the transmitter to hear the applause that followed his efforts. Probably singing before a large company was about the last thing Tom Watson expected his electrical career would lead him into. Had he been told that such a fate awaited him, he would doubtless have jeered at the prophecy. But here he was, singing away with all his lung power, before a great hall full of people and not minding it in the least; nay, I rather think he may have enjoyed it. Once, desiring to give a finer touch than usual to the entertainment, Mr. Bell hired a professional singer; but this soloist had never used a telephone and although he possessed the art of singing he was not able to get it across the wire. No one in the lecture hall could hear him. Mr. Bell promptly summoned Watson (who was doubtless congratulating himself on being off duty) to render _Hold the Fort_ in his customary lusty fashion. After this Mr. Watson became the star soloist and no more singers were engaged." A ripple of amusement passed over the faces of the lads listening. "Ironically enough, as Mr. Watson's work kept him always in the background furnishing the features of these entertainments, he never himself heard Mr. Bell lecture. He says, however, that the great inventor was a very polished, magnetic speaker who never failed to secure and hold the attention of his hearers. Of course, every venture has its trials and these lecture tours were no exception to the general rule. Once, for example, the Northern Lights were responsible for demoralizing the current and spoiling a telephone demonstration at Lawrence; and although both Watson and a cornetist strained their lungs to bursting, neither of them could be heard at the hall. Then the sparks began to play over the wires and the show had to be called off. Nevertheless such disasters occurred seldom, and for the most part the performances went smoothly, the people were delighted, and Mr. Bell increased not only his fame but his fortune." Mr. Hazen stopped a moment. "You must not for an instant suppose," he resumed presently, "that the telephone was a perfected product. Transmitters of sufficient delicacy to do away with shouting and screaming had not yet made their appearance and in consequence when one telephoned all the world knew it; it was not until the Blake transmitter came into use that a telephone conversation could be to any extent confidential. In its present state, the longer the range the more lung power was demanded; and probably had not this been the condition, people would have shouted anyway, simply from instinct. Even with our own delicately adjusted instruments we are prone to forget and commit this folly. But in the early days one was forced to uplift his voice at the telephone and if he had no voice to uplift woe betide his telephoning. And apropos of this matter, I recall reading that once, when Mr. Bell was to lecture in New York, he thought what a drawing card it would be if he could have his music and other features of entertainment come from Boston. Therefore he arranged to use the wires of the Atlantic and Pacific Telegraph Company and to this end he and Watson planned a dress rehearsal at midnight in order to try out the inspiration. Now it chanced that the same inflexible landlady ruled at Number 5 Exeter Place, and remembering his former experience, Mr. Watson felt something must be done to stifle the shouting he foresaw he would be compelled to do at that nocturnal hour. So he gathered together all the blankets and rolled them into a sort of cone and to the small end of this he tied his telephone. Then he crept into this stuffy, breathless shelter, the ancestor of our sound-proof telephone booth, and for nearly three hours shouted to Mr. Bell in New York--or tried to. But the experiment was not a success. He could be heard, it is true, but not distinctly enough to risk such an unsatisfactory demonstration before an uninitiated audience. Hence the scheme was abandoned and Mr. Watson scrambled his things together and betook himself to a point nearer the center of action." "It must all have been great fun, mustn't it?" said Laurie thoughtfully. "Great fun, no doubt, but very hard work," was the tutor's answer. "Many a long, discouraging hour was yet to follow before the telephone became a factor in the everyday world. Yet each step of the climb to success had its sunlight as well as its shadow, its humor as well as its pathos; and it was fortunate both men appreciated this fact for it floated them over many a rough sea. Man can spare almost any other attribute better than his sense of humor. Without this touchstone he is ill equipped to battle with life," concluded Mr. Hazen whimsically. CHAPTER XI THE REST OF THE STORY "I should think," commented Laurie one day, when Ted and Mr. Hazen were sitting in his room, "that Mr. Bell's landlady would have fussed no end to have his telephone ringing all the time." "My dear boy, you do not for an instant suppose that the telephones of that period had bells, do you?" replied Mr. Hazen with amusement. "No, indeed! There was no method for signaling. Unless two persons agreed to talk at a specified hour of the day or night and timed their conversation by the clock, or else had recourse to the Morse code, there was no satisfactory way they could call one another. This did not greatly matter when you recollect how few telephones there were in existence. Mr. Williams used to summon a listener by tapping on the metal diaphragm of the instrument with his pencil, a practice none too beneficial to the transmitter; nor was the resulting sound powerful enough to reach any one who was not close at hand. Furthermore, persons could not stand and hold their telephones and wait until they could arouse the party at the other end of the line for a telephone weighed almost ten pounds and----" "Ten pounds!" repeated Ted in consternation. Mr. Hazen nodded. "Yes," answered he, "the early telephones were heavy, cumbersome objects and not at all like the trim, compact instruments we have to-day. In fact, they were quite similar to the top of a sewing-machine box, only, perhaps, they were a trifle smaller. You can understand that one would not care to carry on a very long conversation if he must in the meantime stand and hold in his arms a ten-pound object about ten inches long, six inches wide, and six inches high." "I should say not!" Laurie returned. "It must have acted as a fine check, though, on people who just wanted to gabble." Both Ted and the tutor laughed. "Of course telephone owners could not go on that way," Ted said, after the merriment had subsided. "What did Mr. Bell do about it?" "The initial step for betterment was not taken by Mr. Bell but by Mr. Watson," Mr. Hazen responded. "He rigged a little hammer inside the box and afterwards put a button on the outside. This _thumper_ was the first calling device ever in use. Later on, however, the assistant felt he could improve on this method and he adapted the buzzer of the harmonic telegraph to the telephone; this proved to be a distinct advance over the more primitive _thumper_ but nevertheless he was not satisfied with it as a signaling apparatus. So he searched farther still, and with the aid of one of the shabby little books on electricity that he had purchased for a quarter from Williams's tiny showcase, he evolved the magneto-electric call bell such as we use to-day. This answered every purpose and nothing has ever been found that has supplanted it. It is something of a pity that Watson did not think to affix his name to this invention; but he was too deeply interested in what he was doing and probably too busy to consider its value. His one idea was to help Mr. Bell to improve the telephone in every way possible and measuring what he was going to get out of it was apparently very far from his thought. Of course, the first of these call bells were not perfect, any more than were the first telephones; by and by, however, their defects were remedied until they became entirely satisfactory." "So they now had telephones, transmitters, and call bells," reflected Ted. "I should say they were pretty well ready for business." "You forget the switchboard," was Mr. Hazen's retort. "A one-party line was a luxury and a thing practically beyond the reach of the public. At best there were very few of them. No, some method for connecting parties who wished to speak to one another had to be found and it is at this juncture of the telephone's career that a new contributor to the invention's success comes upon the scene. "Doing business at Number 342 Washington Street was a young New Yorker by the name of Edwin T. Holmes, who had charge of his father's burglar-alarm office. As all the electrical equipment he used was made at Williams's shop, he used frequently to go there and one day, when he entered, he came upon Charles Williams, the proprietor of the store, standing before a little box that rested on a shelf and shouting into it. Hearing Mr. Holmes's step, he glanced over his shoulder, met his visitor's astonished gaze, and laughed. "'For Heaven's sake, Williams, what have you got in that box?' demanded Mr. Holmes. "'Oh, this is what that fellow out there by Watson's bench, Mr. Bell, calls a telephone,' replied Mr. Williams. "'So that's the thing I have seen squibs in the paper about!' observed the burglar-alarm man with curiosity. "'Yes, he and Watson have been working at it for some time.' "Now Mr. Holmes knew Tom Watson well for the young electrician had done a great deal of work for him in the past; moreover, the New York man was a person who kept well abreast of the times and was always alert for novel ideas. Therefore quite naturally he became interested in the embryo enterprise and dropped into Williams's shop almost every day to see how the infant invention was progressing. In this way he met both Mr. Gardiner Hubbard and Mr. Thomas Saunders, who were Mr. Bell's financial sponsors. After Mr. Holmes had been a spectator of the telephone for some time, he remarked to Mr. Hubbard: "'If you succeed in getting two or three of those things to work and will lend them to me, I will show them to Boston.' "'Show them to Boston,' repeated Mr. Hubbard. 'How will you do that?' "'Well,' said Mr. Holmes, 'I have a Central Office down at Number 342 Washington Street from which I have individual wires running to most of the banks, many jeweler's shops, and other stores. I can ring a bell in a bank from my office and the bank can ring one to me in return. By using switches and giving a prearranged signal to the Exchange Bank, both of us could throw a switch which would put the telephones in circuit and we could talk together.' "After looking at Mr. Holmes for a moment with great surprise, Mr. Hubbard slapped him on the back and said, 'I will do it! Get your switches and other things ready.' "Of course Mr. Holmes was greatly elated to be the first one to show on his wires this wonderful new instrument and connect two or more parties through a Central Office. He immediately had a switchboard made (its actual size was five by thirty-six inches) through which he ran a few of his burglar-alarm circuits and by means of plugs he arranged so that he could throw the circuit from the burglar-alarm instruments to the telephone. He also had a shelf made to rest the telephones on and had others like it built at the Exchange National and the Hide and Leather banks. In a few days the telephones, numbered 6, 7, and 8, arrived and were quickly installed, and the marvellous exhibition opened. Soon two more instruments were added, one of which was placed in the banking house of Brewster, Bassett and Company and the other in the Shoe and Leather Bank. When the Williams shop was connected, it gave Mr. Holmes a working exchange of five connections, the first telephone exchange in history." "I'll bet they had some queer times with it," asserted Ted. "They did, indeed!" smiled Mr. Hazen. "The papers announced the event, although in very retiring type, and persons of every walk in life flocked to the Holmes office to see the wonder with their own eyes. So many came that Mr. Holmes had a long bench made so that visitors could sit down and watch the show. One day a cornetist played from the Holmes building so that the members of the Boston Stock Exchange, assembled at the office of Brewster, Bassett and Company, could hear the performance. Considering the innovation a great boon, the New York man secured another instrument and after meditating some time on whom he would bestow it he decided to install it in the Revere Bank, thinking the bank people would be delighted to be recipients of the favor. His burglar-alarm department had pass-keys to all the banks and therefore, when banking hours were over, he and one of his men obtained entrance and put the telephone in place. The following morning he had word that the president of the bank wished to see him and expecting to receive thanks for the happy little surprise he had given the official, he hurried to the bank. Instead of expressing gratitude, however, the president of the institution said in an injured tone: "'Mr. Holmes, what is that play toy you have taken the liberty of putting up out there in the banking room?' "'Why, that is what they are going to call a telephone,' explained Mr. Holmes. "'A telephone! What's a telephone?' inquired the president. "With enthusiasm the New Yorker carefully sketched in the new invention and told what could be done with it. "After he had finished he was greatly astonished to have the head of the bank reply with scorn: "'Mr. Holmes, you take that plaything out of my bank and don't ever take such liberties again.' "You may be sure the _plaything_ was quickly removed and the Revere Bank went on record as having the first telephone disconnection in the country. "Having exhibited the telephones for a couple of weeks, Mr. Holmes went to Mr. Hubbard and suggested that he would like to continue to carry on the exchange but he should like it put on a business basis. "'Have you any money?' asked Mr. Hubbard. "'Mighty little,' was the frank answer. "'Well, that's more than we have got,' Mr. Hubbard responded. 'However, if you have got enough money to do the business and build the exchange, we will rent you the telephones.' "By August, 1877, when Bell's patent was sixteen months' old, Casson's History tells us there were seven hundred and seventy-eight telephones in use and the Bell Telephone Association was formed. The organization was held together by an extremely simple agreement which gave Bell, Hubbard, and Saunders a three-tenths' interest apiece in the patents and Watson one-tenth. The business possessed no capital, as there was none to be had; and these four men at that time had an absolute monopoly of the telephone business,--and everybody else was quite willing they should have. "In addition to these four associates was Charles Williams, who had from the first been a believer in the venture, and Mr. Holmes who built the first telephone exchange with his own money, and had about seven hundred of the seven hundred and seventy-eight instruments on his wires. Mr. Robert W. Devonshire joined the others in August, 1877, as bookkeeper and general secretary and has since become an official in the American Telephone and Telegraph Company. "Mr. Holmes rented the telephones for ten dollars a year and through his exchange was the first practical man who had the temerity to offer telephone service for sale. It was the arrival of a new idea in the business world. "Now the business world is not a tranquil place and as soon as the new invention began to prosper, every sort of difficulty beset its path. "There were those who denied that Mr. Bell had been first in the field with the telephone idea, and they began to contest his right to the patents. Other telephone companies sprang up and began to compete with the rugged-hearted pioneers who had launched the industry. Lawsuits followed and for years Mr. Bell's days were one continual fight to maintain his claims and keep others from wresting his hard-earned prosperity from him. But in time smoother waters were reached and now Alexander Graham Bell has been universally conceded to be the inventor of this marvel without which we of the present should scarcely know how to get on." "I don't believe we could live without telephones now, do you?" remarked Laurie thoughtfully. "Oh, I suppose we could keep alive," laughed Mr. Hazen, "but I am afraid our present order of civilization would have to be changed a good deal. We scarcely realize what a part the telephone plays in almost everything we attempt to do. Certainly the invention helps to speed up our existence; and, convenient as it is, I sometimes am ungrateful enough to wonder whether we should not be a less highly strung and nervous nation without it. However that may be, the telephone is here, and here to stay, and you now have a pretty clear idea of its early history. How from these slender beginnings the industry spread until it spanned continents and circled the globe, you can easily read elsewhere. Yet mighty as this factor has become in the business world, it is not from this angle of its greatness that I like best to view it. I would rather think of the lives it has saved; the good news it has often borne; the misunderstandings it has prevented; the better unity it has promoted among all peoples. Just as the railroad was a gigantic agent in bringing North, South, East, and West closer together, so the telephone has helped to make our vast country, with its many diverse elements, 'one nation, indivisible.'" CHAPTER XII CONSPIRATORS With September a tint of scarlet crept into the foliage bordering the little creeks that stole from the river into the Aldercliffe meadows; tangles of goldenrod and purple asters breathed of autumn, and the mornings were now too chilly for a swim. Had it not been for the great fireplace the shack would not have been livable. For the first time both Ted and Laurie realized that the summer they had each enjoyed so heartily was at an end and they were face to face with a different phase of life. The harvest, with its horde of vegetables and fruit, had been gathered into the yawning barns and cellars and the earth that had given so patiently of its increase had earned the right to lay fallow until the planting of another spring. Ted's work was done. He had helped deposit the last barrel of ruddy apples, the last golden pumpkins within doors, and now he had nothing more to do but to pack up his possessions preparatory to returning to Freeman's Falls, there to rejoin his family and continue his studies. Once the thought that the drudgery of summer was over would have been a delightful one. Why, he could remember the exultation with which he had burned the last cornstalks at the end of the season when at home in Vermont. The ceremony had been a rite of hilarious rejoicing. But this year, strange to say, a dull sadness stole over him whenever he looked upon the devastated gardens and the reaches of bare brown earth. There was nothing to keep him longer either at Aldercliffe or Pine Lea. His work henceforth lay at school. It was strange that a little sigh accompanied the thought for had he not always looked forward to this very prospect? What was the matter now? Was not studying the thing he had longed to be free to do? Why this regret and depression? And why was his own vague sadness reflected in Laurie's eyes and in those of Mr. Hazen? Summer could not last forever; it was childish to ask that it should. They all had known from the beginning that these days of companionship must slip away and come to an end. And yet the end had come so quickly. Why, it had scarcely been midsummer before the twilight had deepened and the days mellowed into autumn. Well, they had held many happy, happy hours for Ted, at least. Never had he dreamed of such pleasures. He had enjoyed his work, constant though it had been, and had come to cherish as much pride in the gardens of Aldercliffe and Pine Lea, in the vast crops of hay that bulged from the barn lofts, as if they had been his own. And when working hours were over there was Laurie Fernald and the new and pleasant friendship that existed between them. As Ted began to drag out from beneath his bunk the empty wooden boxes he purposed to pack his books in, his heart sank. Soon the cosy house in which he had passed so many perfect hours would be quite denuded. Frosts would nip the flowers nodding in a final glory of color outside the windows; the telephone would be disconnected; his belongings would once more be crowded into the stuffy little flat at home; and the door of the camp on the river's edge would be tightly locked on a deserted paradise. Of course, everything had to come to an end some time and often when he had been weeding long, and what seemed interminable rows of seedlings and had been making only feeble progress at the task, the thought that termination of his task was an ultimate certainty had been a consolation mighty and sustaining. Such an uninteresting undertaking could not last forever, he told himself over and over again; nothing ever did. And now with ironic conformity to law, his philosophy had turned on him, demonstrating beyond cavil that not only did the things one longed to be free of come to a sure finality but so did those one pined to have linger. Although night was approaching, too intent had he been on his reveries to notice that the room was in darkness. How still everything was! That was the way the little hut would be after he was gone,--cold, dark, and silent. He wondered as he sat there whether he should ever come back. Would the Fernalds want him next season and again offer him the boathouse for a home? They had said nothing about it but if he thought he was to return another summer it would not be so hard to go now. It was leaving forever that saddened him. He must have remained immovable there in the twilight for a much longer time than he realized; and perhaps he would have sat there even longer had not a sound startled him into breathless attention. It was the rhythmic stroke of a canoe paddle and as it came nearer it was intermingled with the whispers of muffled voices. Possibly he might have thought nothing of the happening had there not been a note of tense caution in the words that came to his ear. Who could be navigating the river at this hour of the night? Surely not pleasure-seekers, for it was very cold and an approaching storm had clouded in the sky until it had become a dome of velvet blackness. Whoever was venturing out upon the river must either know the stream very well or be reckless of his own safety. Ted did not move but listened intently. "Let's take a chance and land," he heard a thick voice murmur. "The boy has evidently either gone to bed or he isn't here. Whichever the case, he can do us no harm and I'm not for risking the river any farther. It's black as midnight. We might get into the current and have trouble." "What's the sense of running our heads into a noose by landing?" objected a second speaker. "We can't talk here--that's nonsense." "I tell you the boy isn't in the hut," retorted his comrade. "I remember now that I heard he was going back to the Falls to school. Likely he has gone already. In any case we can try the door and examine the windows; if the place is locked, we shall be sure he is not here. And should it prove to be inhabited, we can easy hatch up some excuse for coming. He'll be none the wiser. Even if he should be here," added the man after a pause, "he is probably asleep. After a hard day's work a boy his age sleeps like a log. There'll be no waking him, so don't fret. Come! Let's steer for the float." "But I----" "Great Heavens, Cronin! We've got to take some chances. You're not getting cold feet so soon, are you?" burst out the other scornfully. "N--o! Of course not," his companion declared with forced bravado. "But I don't like taking needless risks. The boy might be awake and hear us." "What if he does? Haven't I told you I will invent some yarn to put him off the scent? He wouldn't be suspecting mischief, anyhow. I tell you I'm not going drifting round this river in the dark any longer. Next thing we know we may hit a snag and upset." "But you insisted on coming." "I know I did," snapped the sharp voice. "What chance had we to talk in a crowded boarding-house whose very walls had ears? Or on the village streets? I knew the river would have no listeners and you see I was right; it hasn't. But I did expect there would be a trifle more light. It is like ink, isn't it? You can't see your hand before your face." "I don't believe we could find the float even if we tried for it," piped his friend with malicious satisfaction. "Find it? Of course we can. I've traveled this river too many times to get lost on it. I know every inch of the stream." "But aren't there boats at the landing?" "Oh, they've been hauled in for the season long ago. I know that to be a fact." "Then I guess young Turner must have gone." "That's what I've been trying to tell you for the last half-hour," asserted the other voice with high-pitched irritation. "Why waste all this time? Let's land, talk things over, lay our plans, and be getting back to Freeman's Falls. We mustn't be seen returning to the town together too late for it might arouse suspicion." "You're right there." "Then go ahead and paddle for the landing. I'll steer. Just have your hand out so we won't bump." The lapping of the paddles came nearer and nearer. Then there was a crash as the nose of the canoe struck the float. "You darned idiot, Cronin! Why didn't you fend her off as I told you to?" "I couldn't see. I----" "Hush!" A moment of breathless silence followed and then there was a derisive laugh. "I told you the boy wasn't here," one of the men declared aloud. "If he had been he would have had his head out the window by now. We've made noise enough to wake the dead." "But he may be here for all that," cautioned the other speaker. "Don't talk so loud." "Nonsense!" his comrade retorted without lowering his tone. "I tell you the boy has gone back home and the hut is as empty as a last year's bird's nest. I'll stake my oath on it. The place is shut and locked tight as a drum. You'll see I'm right presently." Instantly Ted's brain was alert. The door was locked, that he knew, for when he came in he had bolted it for the night. One window, however, was open and he dared not attempt to close it lest he make some betraying sound; and even were he able to shut it noiselessly he reflected that the procedure would be an unwise one since it would cut him off from hearing the conversation. No, he must keep perfectly still and trust that his nocturnal visitors would not make too thorough an investigation of the premises. To judge from the scuffling of feet outside, both of them had now alighted from the canoe and were approaching the door. Soon he heard a hand fumbling with the latch and afterward came a heavy knock. Slipping breathlessly from his chair he crouched upon the floor, great beads of perspiration starting out on his forehead. "The door is locked, as I told you," he heard some one mutter. "He may be asleep." "We can soon make sure. Ah, there! Turner! Turner!" Once more a series of blows descended upon the wooden panel. "Does that convince you, Cronin?" "Y--e--s," owned Cronin reluctantly. "I guess he's gone." "Of course he's gone! Come, brace up, can't you?" urged his companion. "Where's your backbone?" "I'm not afraid." "Tell that to the marines! You're timid and jumpy as a girl. How are we ever to put this thing over if you don't pull yourself together? I might as well have a baby to help me," sneered the gruff voice. "Don't be so hard on me, Alf," whined his comrade. "I ain't done nothin'. Ain't I right here and ready?" "You're here, all right," snarled the first speaker, "but whether you're ready or not is another matter. Now I'm going to give you a last chance to pull out. Do you want to go ahead or don't you? It's no good for us to be laying plans if you are going to be weak-kneed at the end and balk at carrying them out. Do you mean to stand by me and see this thing to a finish or don't you?" "I--sure I do!" "Cross your heart?" "Cross my heart!" This time the words echoed with more positiveness. "You're not going to back out or squeal?" his pal persisted. "Why, Alf, how can you----" "Because I've got to be sure before I stir another inch." "But ain't I told you over and over again that I----" "I don't trust you." "What makes you so hard on a feller, Alf?" whimpered Cronin. "I haven't been mixed up in as many of these jobs as you have and is it surprising that I'm a mite nervous? It's no sign that I'm crawling." "You're ready to stick it out, then?" "Sure!" There was another pause. "Well, let me just tell you this, Jim Cronin. If you swear to stand by me and don't do it, your miserable life won't be worth a farthing--understand? I'll wring your neck, wring it good and thorough. I'm not afraid to do it and I will. You know that, don't you?" "Yes." The terror-stricken monosyllable made it perfectly apparent that Cronin did know. "Then suppose we get down to hard tacks," asserted his companion, the note of fierceness suddenly dying out of his tone. "Come and sit down and we'll plan the thing from start to finish. We may as well be comfortable while we talk. There's no extra charge for sitting." As Ted bent to put his ear to the crack of the door, the thud of a heavy body jarred the shack. "Jove!" he heard Cronin cry. "The ground is some way down, ain't it?" "And it's none to soft at that," came grimly from his comrade, as a second person slumped upon the planks outside. Somebody drew a long breath and while the men were making themselves more comfortable on the float Ted waited expectantly in the darkness. CHAPTER XIII WHAT TED HEARD "Now the question is which way are we going to get the biggest results," Alf began, when they were both comfortably settled with their backs to the door. "That must be the thing that governs us--that, and the sacrifice of as few lives as possible. Not _their_ lives, of course. I don't care a curse for the Fernalds; the more of them that go sky-high the better, in my estimation. It's the men I mean, our own people. Some of them will have to die, I know that. It's unavoidable, since the factories are never empty. Even when no night shifts are working, there are always watchmen and engineers on the job. But fortunately just now, owing to the dull season, there are no night gangs on duty. If we decide on the mills it can be done at night; if on the Fernalds themselves, why we can set the bombs when we are sure that they are in their houses." Ted bit his lips to suppress the sudden exclamation of horror that rose to them. He must not cry out, he told himself. Terrible as were the words he heard, unbelievable as they seemed, if he were to be of any help at all he must know the entire plot. Therefore he listened dumbly, struggling to still the beating of his heart. For a moment there was no response from Cronin. "Come, Jim, don't sit there like a graven image!" the leader of the proposed expedition exclaimed impatiently. "Haven't you a tongue in your head? What's your idea? Out with it. I'm not going to shoulder all the job." The man called Cronin cleared his throat. "As I see it, we gain nothing by blowing up the Fernald houses," answered he deliberately. "So long as the mills remain, their income is sure. After they're gone, the young one will just rebuild and go on wringing money out of the people as his father and grandfather are doing." "But we mean to get him, too." A murmured protest came from Cronin. "I'm not for injuring that poor, unlucky lad," asserted he. "He's nothing but a cripple who can't help himself. It would be like killing a baby." "Nonsense! What a sentimental milksop you are, Jim!" Alf cut in. "You can't go letting your feelings run away with you like that, old man. I'm sorry for the young chap, too. He's the most decent one of the lot. But that isn't the point. He's a Fernald and because he is----" "But he isn't to blame for that, is he?" "You make me tired, Cronin, with all this cry-baby stuff!" Alf ejaculated. "You've simply got to cut it out--shut your ears to it--if we are ever to accomplish anything. You can't let your sympathies run away with you like this." "I ain't letting my sympathies run away with me," objected Cronin, in a surly tone. "And I'm no milksop, either. But I won't be a party to harming that unfortunate Mr. Laurie and you may as well understand that at the outset. I'm willing to do my share in blowing the Fernald mills higher than a kite, and the two Fernalds with 'em; or I'll blow the two Fernalds to glory in their beds. I could do it without turning a hair. But to injure that helpless boy of theirs I can't and won't. That would be too low-down a deed for me, bad as I am. He hasn't the show the others have. They can fend for themselves." "You make me sick!" replied Alf scornfully. "Why, you might as well throw up the whole job as to only half do it. What use will it be to take the old men of the family if the young one still lives on?" "I ain't going to argue with you, Alf," responded Cronin stubbornly. "If I were to talk all night you likely would never see my point. But there I stand and you can take it or leave it. If you want to go on on these terms, well and good; if not, I wash my hands of the whole affair and you can find somebody else to help you." "Of course I can't find somebody else," was the exasperated retort. "You know that well enough. Do you suppose I would go on with a scheme like this and leave you wandering round to blab broadcast whatever you thought fit?" "I shouldn't blab, Alf," declared Cronin. "You could trust me to hold my tongue and not peach on a pal. I should just pull out, that's all. I warn you, though, that if our ways parted and you went yours, I should do what I could to keep Mr. Laurie out of your path." "You'd try the patience of Job, Cronin." "I'm sorry." "No, you're not," snarled Alf. "You're just doing this whole thing to be cussed. You know you've got me where I can't stir hand or foot. I was a fool ever to have got mixed up with such a white-livered, puling baby. I might have known you hadn't an ounce of sand." "Take care, Sullivan," cautioned Cronin in a low, tense voice. "But hang it all--why do you want to balk and torment me so?" "I ain't balking and tormenting you." "Yes, you are. You're just pulling the other way from sheer contrariness. Why can't you be decent and come across?" "Haven't I been decent?" Cronin answered. "Haven't I fallen in with every idea you've suggested? You've had your way fully and freely. I haven't stood out for a single thing but this, have I?" "N--o. But----" "Well, why not give in and let me have this one thing as I want it? It don't amount to much, one way or the other. The boy is sickly and isn't likely to live long at best." "But I can't for the life of me see why you should be so keen on sparing him. What is he to you?" Cronin hesitated; then in a very low voice he said: "Once, two years ago, my little kid got out of the yard and unbeknown to his mother wandered down by the river. We hunted high and low for him and were well-nigh crazy, for he's all the child we have, you know. It seems Mr. Laurie was riding along the shore in his automobile and he spied the baby creeping out on the thin ice. He stopped his car and called to the little one and coaxed him back until the chauffeur could get to him and lift him aboard the car. Then they fetched the child to the village, hunted up where he lived, and brought him home to his mother. I--I've never forgotten it and I shan't." "That was mighty decent of Mr. Laurie--mighty decent," Sullivan admitted slowly. "I've got a kid at home myself." For a few moments neither man spoke; then Sullivan continued in quick, brisk fashion, as if he were trying to banish some reverie that plagued him: "Well, have your way. We'll leave Mr. Laurie out of this altogether." "Thank you, Alf." Sullivan paid no heed to the interruption. "Now let's can all this twaddle and get down to work," he said sharply. "We've wasted too much time squabbling over that miserable cripple. Let's brace up and make our plans. You are for destroying the mills, eh?" "It's the only thing that will be any use, it seems to me," Cronin replied. "If the mills are blown up, it will not only serve as a warning to the Fernalds but it will mean the loss of a big lot of money. They will rebuild, of course, but it will take time, and in the interval everything will be at a standstill." "It will throw several hundred men out of work," Sullivan objected. "That can't be helped," retorted Cronin. "They will get out at least with their lives and will be almighty thankful for that. They can get other jobs, I guess. But even if they are out of work, I figure some of them won't be so sorry to see the Fernalds get what's coming to them," chuckled Cronin. "You're right there, Jim!" "I'll bet I am!" cried Cronin. "Then your notion would be to plant time bombs at the factories so they will go off in the night?" "Yes," confessed Cronin, a shadow of regret in his tone. "That will carry off only a few watchmen and engineers. Mighty tough luck for them." "It can't be helped," Sullivan said ruthlessly. "You can't expect to carry through a thing of this sort without some sacrifice. All we can do is to believe that the end justifies the means. It's a case of the greatest good to the greatest number." "I--suppose--so." "Well, then, why hesitate?" "I ain't hesitating," announced Cronin quickly. "I just happened to remember Maguire. He's one of the night watchmen at the upper mill and a friend of mine." "But we can't remember him, Cronin," Sullivan burst out. "It is unlucky that he chances to be on duty, of course; but that is his misfortune. We'd spare him if we could." "I know, I know," Cronin said. "It's a pitiless business." Then, as if his last feeble compunction vanished with the words, he added, "It's to be the mills, then." "Yes. We seem to be agreed on that," Sullivan replied eagerly. "I have everything ready and I don't see why we can't go right ahead to-night and plant the machines with their fuses timed for early morning. I guess we can sneak into the factories all right--you to the upper mill and I to the lower. If you get caught you can say you are hunting for Maguire; and if I do--well, I must trust to my wits to invent a story. But they won't catch me. I've never been caught yet, and I have handled a number of bigger jobs than this one," concluded he with pride. "Anything more you want to say to me?" asked Cronin. "No, I guess not. I don't believe I need to hand you any advice. Just stiffen up, that's all. Anything you want to say to me?" "No. I shan't worry my head about you, you old fox. You're too much of a master hand," Cronin returned, with an inflection that sounded like a grin. "I imagine you can hold up your end." "I rather imagine I can," drawled Sullivan. "Then if there's nothing more to be said, I move we start back to town. It must be late," Cronin asserted. "It's black enough to be midnight," grumbled Sullivan. "We'd best go directly to our houses--I to mine and you to yours. The explosives and bombs I'll pack into two grips. Yours I'll hide in your back yard underneath that boat. How'll that be?" "O. K." "You've got it straight in your head what you are to do?" "Yes." "And I can count on you?" "Sure!" "Then let's be off." There was a splash as the canoe slipped into the water and afterward Ted heard the regular dip of the paddles as the craft moved away. He listened until the sound became imperceptible and when he was certain that the conspirators were well out of earshot he sped to the telephone and called up the police station at Freeman's Falls. It did not take long for him to hurriedly repeat to an officer what he had heard. Afterward, in order to make caution doubly sure, he called up the mills and got his old friend Maguire at the other end of the line. It was not until all this had been done and he could do no more that he sank limply down on the couch and stared into the darkness. Now that everything was over he found that he was shaking like a leaf. His hands were icy cold and he quivered in every muscle of his body. It was useless for him to try to sleep; he was far too excited and worried for that. Therefore he lay rigidly on his bunk, thinking and waiting for--he knew not what. It might have been an hour later that he was aroused from a doze by the sharp reverberation of the telephone bell. Dizzily he sprang to his feet and stood stupid and inert in the middle of the floor. Again the signal rang and this time he was broad awake. He rushed forward to grasp the receiver. "Turner? Ted Turner?" "Yes, sir." "This is the police station at Freeman's Falls. We have your men--both of them--and the goods on them. They are safe and sound under lock and key. I just thought you might like to know it. We shall want to see you in the morning. You've done a good night's work, young one. The State Police have been after these fellows for two years. Sullivan has a record for deeds of this sort. Mighty lucky we got a line on him this time before he did any mischief." "It was." "That's all, thanks to you, kid. I advise you to go to bed now and to sleep. I'll hunt you up to-morrow. I'll bet the Fernalds will, too. They owe you something." CHAPTER XIV THE FERNALDS WIN THEIR POINT The trial of Alf Sullivan and Jim Cronin was one of the most spectacular and thrilling events Freeman's Falls had ever witnessed. That two such notorious criminals should have been captured through the efforts of a young boy was almost inconceivable to the police, especially to the State detectives whom they had continually outwitted. And yet here they were in the dock and the town officers made not the slightest pretense that any part of the glory of their apprehension belonged to them. To Ted Turner's prompt action, and to that alone, the triumph was due. In consequence the boy became the hero of the village. He had always been a favorite with both young and old, for every one liked his father, and it followed that they liked his father's son. Now, however, they had greater cause to admire that son for his own sake and cherish toward him the warmest gratitude. Many a man and woman reflected that it was this slender boy who had stood between them and a calamity almost too horrible to be believed; and as a result their gratitude was tremendous. And if the townsfolk were sensible of this great obligation how much more keenly alive to it were the Fernalds whose property had been thus menaced. "You have topped one service with another, Ted," Mr. Lawrence Fernald declared. "We do not see how we are ever to thank you. Come, there must be something that you would like--some wish you would be happy to have gratified. Tell us what it is and perhaps we can act as magicians and make it come true." "Yes," pleaded Mr. Clarence Fernald, "speak out, Ted. Do not hesitate. Remember you have done us a favor the magnitude of which can never be measured and which we can never repay." "But I do not want to be paid, sir," the lad answered. "I am quite as thankful as you that the wretches who purposed harm were caught before they had had opportunity to destroy either life or property. Certainly that is reward enough." "It _is_ a reward in its way," the elder Mr. Fernald asserted. "The thought that it was you who were the savior of an entire community will bring you happiness as long as you live. Nevertheless we should like to give you something more tangible than pleasant thoughts. We want you to have something by which to remember this marvelous escape from tragedy. Deep down in your heart there must be some wish you cherish. If you knew the satisfaction it would give us to gratify it, I am sure you would not be so reluctant to express it." Ted colored, and after hesitating an instant, shyly replied: "Since you are both so kind and really seem to wish to know, there is something I should like." "Name it!" the Fernalds cried in unison. "I should like to feel I can return to the shack next summer," the boy remarked timidly. "You see, I have become very fond of Aldercliffe and Pine Lea, fond of Laurie, of Mr. Hazen, and of the little hut. I have felt far more sorry than perhaps you realize to go away from here." His voice quivered. "You poor youngster!" Mr. Clarence exclaimed. "Why in the name of goodness didn't you say so? There is no more need of your leaving this place than there is of my going, or Laurie. We ought to have sensed your feeling and seen to it that other plans were made long ago. Indeed, you shall come back to your little riverside abode next summer--never fear! And as for Aldercliffe, Pine Lea, Laurie and all the rest of it, you shall not be parted from any of them." "But I must go back to school now, sir." "What's the matter with your staying on at Pine Lea and having your lessons with Laurie and Mr. Hazen instead?" "Oh--why----" "Should you like to?" "Oh, Mr. Fernald, it would be----" Laurie's father laughed. "I guess we do not need an answer to that question," Grandfather Fernald remarked, smiling. "His face tells the tale." "Then the thing is as good as done," Mr. Clarence announced. "Hazen will be as set up as an old hen to have two chicks. He likes you, Ted." "And well he may," growled Grandfather Fernald. "But for Ted's prayers and pleas he would not now be here." "Yes, Hazen will be much pleased," reiterated Mr. Clarence Fernald, ignoring his father's comment. "As for Laurie--I wonder we never thought of all this before. It is no more work to teach two boys than one, and in the meantime each will act as a stimulus for the other. The spur of rivalry will be a splendid incentive for Laurie, to say nothing of the joy he will take in your companionship. He needs young people about him. It is a great scheme, a great scheme!" mused Mr. Fernald, rubbing his hands with increasing satisfaction as one advantage of the arrangement after another rotated through his mind. "If only my father does not object," murmured Ted. "Object! Object!" blustered Grandfather Fernald. "And why, pray, should he object?" That a man of Mr. Turner's station in life should view the plan with anything but pride and complacency was evidently a new thought to the financier. "Why, sir, my father and sisters are very fond of me and may not wish to have me remain longer away from home. They have missed me a lot this summer, I know that. You see I am the youngest one, the only boy." "Humph!" interpolated the elder Mr. Fernald. "In spite of the fact that we are crowded at home and too busy to see much of one another, Father likes to feel I'm around," continued Ted. "I--suppose--so," came slowly from the old gentleman. "I am sure I can fix all that," asserted Mr. Clarence Fernald briskly. "I will see your father and sisters myself, and I feel sure they will not stand in the way of your getting a fine education when it is offered you--that is, if they care as much for you as you say they do. On the contrary, they will be the first persons to realize that such a plan is greatly to your advantage." "It is going to be almightily to your advantage," Mr. Lawrence Fernald added. "Who can tell where it all may lead? If you do well at your studies, perhaps it may mean college some day, and a big, well-paid job afterward." Ted's eyes shone. "Would you like to go to college if you could?" persisted the elder man. "You bet I would--I mean yes, sir." The old gentleman chuckled at the fervor of the reply. "Well, well," said he, "time must decide all that. First lay a good foundation. You cannot build anything worth building without something to build upon. You get your cellar dug and we will then see what we will put on top of it." With this parting remark he and his son moved away. When the project was laid before Laurie, his delight knew no bounds. To have Ted come and live at Pine Lea for the winter, what a lark! Think of having some one to read and study with every day! Nothing could be jollier! And Mr. Hazen was every whit as pleased. "It is the very thing!" he exclaimed to Laurie's father. "Ted will not be the least trouble. He is a fine student and it will be a satisfaction to work with him. Besides, unless I greatly miss my guess, he will cheer Laurie on to much larger accomplishments. Ted's influence has never been anything but good." And what said Laurie's mother? "It is splendid, Clarence, splendid! We can refurnish that extra room that adjoins Laurie's suite and let Mr. Hazen and the boys have that entire wing of the house. Nothing could be simpler. I shall be glad to have Ted here. Not only is he a fine boy but he has proved himself a good friend to us all. If we can do anything for him, we certainly should do it. The lad has had none too easy a time in this world." Yes, all went well with the plan so far as the Fernalds were concerned; but the Turners--ah, there was the stumbling block! "It's no doubt a fine thing you're offering to do for my son," Ted's father replied to Mr. Clarence Fernald, "and I assure you I am not unmindful of your kindness; but you see he is our only boy and when he isn't here whistling round the house we miss him. 'Tain't as if we had him at home during his vacation. If he goes up to your place to work summers and stays there winters as well, we shall scarcely see him at all. All we have had of him this last year was an occasional teatime visit. Folks don't like having their children go out from the family roof so young." "But, Father," put in Nancy, "think what such a chance as this will mean to Ted. You yourself have said over and over again that there was nothing like having an education." "I know it," mused the man. "There's nothing can equal knowing something. I never did and look where I've landed. I'll never go ahead none. But I want it to be different with my boy. He's going to have some stock in trade in the way of training for life. It will be a kind of capital nothing can sweep away. As I figure it, it will be a sure investment--that is, if the boy has any stuff in him." "An education is a pretty solid investment," agreed the elder Mr. Fernald, "and you are wise to recognize its value, Mr. Turner. To plunge into life without such a weapon is like entering battle without a sword. I know, for I have tried it." "Have you indeed, sir?" Grandfather Fernald nodded. "I was brought up on a Vermont farm when I was a boy." "You don't say so! Well, well!" "Yes, I never had much schooling," went on the old man. "Of course I picked up a lot of practical knowledge, as a boy will; and in some ways it has not been so bad. But it was a pretty mixed-up lot of stuff and I have been all my life sorting it out and putting it in order. I sometimes wonder when I think things over that I got ahead at all; it was more happen than anything else, I guess." "The Vermonters have good heads on their shoulders," Mr. Turner remarked. "Oh, you can't beat the Green Mountain State," laughed the senior Mr. Fernald, unbending into cordiality in the face of a common interest. "Still, when it came to bringing up my boy I felt as you do. I wasn't satisfied to have him get nothing more than I had. So I sent him to college and gave him all the education I never got myself. It has stood him in good stead, too, and I've lived to be proud of what he's done with it." "And well you may be, sir," Mr. Turner observed. Mr. Clarence Fernald flushed in the face of these plaudits and cut the conversation short by saying: "It is that kind of an education that we want to give your boy, Mr. Turner. We like the youngster and believe he has promise of something fine. We should like to prepare him for college or some technical school and send him through it. He has quite a pronounced bent for science and given the proper opportunities he might develop into something beyond the ordinary rank and file." "Do you think so, sir?" asked Mr. Turner, glowing with pleasure. "Well, I don't know but that he has a sort of knack with wire, nails, and queer machinery. He has tinkered with such things since he was a little lad. Of late he has been fussing round with electricity and scaring us all to death here at home. His sisters were always expecting he'd meet his end or blow up the house with some claptraption he'd put together." Nancy blushed; then added, with a shy glance toward the Fernalds: "They say down at the school that Ted is quite handy with telephones and such things." "Mr. Hazen, my son's tutor, thinks your brother has a knowledge of electricity far beyond his years," replied Mr. Clarence Fernald. "That is why it seems a pity his talents in that direction should not be cultivated. Who knows but he may be an embryo genius? You never can tell what may be inside a child." "You're right there, sir," Mr. Turner assented cordially. Then after a moment of thought, he continued, "Likely an education such as you are figuring on would cost a mint of money." The Fernalds, both father and son, smiled at the naïve comment. "Well--yes," confessed Mr. Clarence slowly. "It would cost something." "A whole lot?" "If you wanted the best." Mr. Turner scratched his head. "I'm afraid I couldn't swing it," declared he, regret in his tone. "But we are offering to do this for you," put in Grandfather Fernald. "I know you are, sir; I know you are and I'm grateful," Ted's father answered. "But if I could manage it myself, I'd----" "Come, Mr. Turner, I beg you won't say that," interrupted the elder Mr. Fernald. "Think what we owe to your son. Why, we never in all the world can repay what he has done for us. This is no favor. We are simply paying our debts. You like to pay your bills, don't you?" "Indeed I do, sir!" was the hearty reply. "There's no happier moment than the one when I take my pay envelope and go to square up what I owe. True, I don't run up many bills; still, there is not always money enough on hand to make both ends meet without depending some on credit." "How much do you get in the shipping room?" "Eighty dollars a month, sir." "And your daughters are working?" "They are in the spinning mills." Mr. Fernald glanced about over the little room. Although scrupulously neat, it was quite apparent that the apartment was far too crowded for comfort. The furnishings also bespoke frugality in the extreme. It was not necessary to be told that the Turners' life was a close arithmetical problem. "Your family stand by us loyally," observed the financier. "We have your mills to thank for our daily bread, sir," Mr. Turner answered. "And your boy--if he does not go on with his studies shall you have him enter the factories?" Mr. Turner squared his shoulders with a swift gesture of protest. "No, sir--not if I can help it!" he burst out. Then as if he suddenly sensed his discourtesy, he added, "I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I wasn't thinking who I was talking to. It isn't that I do not like the mills. It's only that there is so little chance for the lad to get ahead there. I wouldn't want the boy to spend his life grubbing away as I have." "And yet you are denying him the chance to better himself." "I am kinder going round in a circle, ain't I?" returned Mr. Turner gently. "Like as not it is hard for you to understand how I feel. It's only that you hate to let somebody else do for your children. It seems like charity." "Charity! Charity--when we owe the life of our boy, the lives of many of our workmen, the safety of our mills to your son?" ejaculated Mr. Clarence Fernald with unmistakable sincerity. "When you pile it up that way it does sound like a pretty big debt, doesn't it?" mused Mr. Turner. "Of course it's a big debt--it is a tremendous one. Now try, Mr. Turner, and see our point of view. We want to take our envelope in our hands and although we have not fortune enough in the world to wipe out all we owe, we wish to pay part of it, at least. No matter how much we may be able to do for Ted in the future, we shall never be paying in full all that he has done for us. Much of his service we must accept as an obligation and give in return for it nothing but gratitude and affection. But if you will grant us the privilege of doing this little, it will give us the greatest pleasure." If any one had told the stately Mr. Lawrence Fernald weeks before that he would be in the home of one of his workmen, pleading for a favor, he would probably have shrugged his shoulders and laughed; and even Mr. Clarence Fernald, who was less of an aristocrat than his father, would doubtless have questioned a prediction of his being obliged actually to implore one of the men in his employ to accept a benefaction from him. Yet here they both were, almost upon their knees, theoretically, before this self-respecting artisan. In the face of such entreaty who could have remained obdurate? Certainly not Mr. Turner who in spite of his pride was the kindest-hearted creature alive. "Well, you shall have your way, gentlemen," he at length replied, "Ted shall stay on at Pine Lea, since you wish it, and you shall plan his education as you think best. I know little of such matters and feel sure the problem is better in your hands than mine. I know you will work for the boy's good. And I beg you won't think me ungrateful because I have hesitated to accept your offer. We all have our scruples and I have mine. But now that I have put them in the background, I shall take whole-heartedly what you give and be most thankful for it." Thus did the Fernalds win their point. Nevertheless they came away from the Turner's humble home with a consciousness that instead of bestowing a favor, as they had expected to do, they had really received one. Perhaps they did not respect Ted's father the less because of his reluctance to take the splendid gift they had put within his reach. They themselves were proud men and they had a sympathy for the pride of others. There could be no question that the interview had furnished both of them with food for thought for as they drove home in their great touring car they did not speak immediately. By and by, however, Grandfather Fernald observed: "Don't you think, Clarence, Turner's pay should be increased? Eighty dollars isn't much to keep a roof over one's head and feed a family of three persons." "I have been thinking that, too," returned his son. "They tell me he is a very faithful workman and he has been here long enough to have earned a substantial increase in wages. I don't see why I never got round to doing something for him before. The fellow was probably too proud to ask for more money and unless some kick comes to me those things slip my mind. I'll see right away what can be done." There was a pause and then the senior Mr. Fernald spoke again: "Do you ever feel that we ought to do something about furnishing better quarters for the men?" he asked. "I have had the matter on my conscience for months. Look at that tenement of the Turners! It is old, out of date, crowded and stuffy. There isn't a ray of sunshine in it. It's a disgrace to herd a family into such a place. And I suppose there are ever so many others like it in Freeman's Falls." "I'm afraid there are, Father." "I don't like the idea of it," growled old Mr. Fernald. "The houses all look well enough until one goes inside. But they're terrible, terrible! Why, they are actually depressing. I haven't shaken off the gloom of that room yet. We own land enough on the other side of the river. Why couldn't we build a handsome bridge and then develop that unused area by putting up some decent houses for our people? It would increase the value of the property and at the same time improve the living conditions of our employees. What do you say to the notion?" "I am ready to go in on any such scheme!" cried Mr. Clarence Fernald heartily. "I'd like nothing better. I have always wanted to take up the matter with you; but I fancied from something you said once when I suggested it that you----" "I didn't realize what those houses down along the water front were like," interrupted Grandfather Fernald. "Ugh! At least sunshine does not cost money. We must see that our people get more of it." CHAPTER XV WHAT CAME OF THE PLOT The Fernalds were as good as their word. All winter long father, son, and grandson worked at the scheme for the new cottages and by New Year, with the assistance of an architect, they had on paper plans for a model village to be built on the opposite side of the river as soon as the weather permitted. The houses were gems of careful thought, no two of them being alike. Nevertheless, although each tiny domain was individual in design, a general uniformity of construction existed between them which resulted in a delightfully harmonious ensemble. The entire Fernald family was enthusiastic over the project. It was the chief topic of conversation both at Aldercliffe and at Pine Lea. Rolls of blue prints littered office and library table and cluttered the bureaus, chairs, and even the pockets of the elder men of each household. "We are going to make a little Normandy on the other shore of the river before we have done with it," asserted Grandfather Fernald to Laurie. "It will be as pretty a settlement as one would wish to see. I mean, too, to build coöperative stores, a clubhouse, and a theater; perhaps I may even go farther and put up a chapel. I have gone clean daft over the notion of a model village and since I am started I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. I do not believe we shall be sinking our money, either, for in addition to bettering the living conditions of our men I feel we shall also draw to the locality a finer class of working people. This will boom our section of the country and should make property here more valuable. But even if it doesn't work out that way, I shall take pride in the proposed village. I have always insisted that our mills be spotless and up to date and the fact that they have been has been a source of great gratification. Now I shall carry that idea farther and see that the new settlement comes up to our standards. I have gone over and over the plans to see if in any way they can be bettered; suppose you and I look at them together once more. Some new inspiration may come to us--something that will be an improvement." Patiently and for the twentieth time Laurie examined the blue prints while his grandfather volubly explained just where each building of the many was to stand. "This little park, with a fountain in the middle and a bandstand near by, will slope down toward the river. As there are many fine trees along the shore it will be a cool and pleasant place to sit in summer. The stone bridge I am to put up will cross just above and serve as a sort of entrance to the park. We intend that everything shall be laid out with a view to making the river front attractive. As for the village itself--the streets are to be wide so that each dwelling shall have plenty of fresh air and sunshine. No more of those dingy flats such as the Turners live in! Each family is also to have land enough for a small garden, and each house will have a piazza and the best of plumbing; and because many of the women live in their kitchens more than in any other part of their abode, I am insisting that that room be as comfortable and airy as it can be made." "It is all bully, Grandfather," Laurie answered. "But isn't it going to cost a fortune to do the thing as you want it done?" "It is going to cost money," nodded the elder man. "I am not deceiving myself as to that. But I have the money and if I chose to spend it on this _fad_ (as one of my friends called it) I don't see why I shouldn't do it. Since your grandmother died I have not felt the same interest in Aldercliffe that I used to. When she was alive that was my hobby. I shall simply be putting out the money in a different direction, that is all. Perhaps it will be a less selfish direction, too." "It certainly is a bully fine fad, Grandfather," Laurie exclaimed. "Somehow I believe it is, laddie," the old gentleman answered thoughtfully. "Your father thinks so. Time only can tell whether I have chucked my fortune in a hole or really invested it wisely. I have been doing a good deal of serious thinking lately, thanks to those chaps who tried to blow up the mills. As I have turned matters over in my mind since the trial, and struggled to get their point of view, I have about come to the conclusion that they had a fair measure of right on their side. Not that I approve of their methods," continued he hastily, raising a protesting hand, when Laurie offered an angry interruption. "Do not misunderstand me. The means they took was cowardly and criminal and I do not for a moment uphold it. But the thing that led them to act as they planned to act was that they honestly believed we had not given them and their comrades a square deal. As I have pondered over this conviction of theirs, I am not so sure but they were right in that belief." He paused to light a fresh cigar which he silently puffed for a few moments. "This village plan of mine has grown to some extent out of the thinking to which this tragedy has stimulated me. There can be no question that our fortunes have come to us as a result of the hard labor of our employees. I know that. And I also know that we have rolled up a far larger proportion of the profits than they have. In fact, I am not sure we have not accepted a larger slice than was our due; and I am not surprised that some of them are also of that opinion. I would not go so far as to say we have been actually dishonest but I am afraid we have not been generous. The matter never came to me before in precisely this light and I confess frankly I am sorry that I have blundered. Nevertheless, as I tell your father, it is never too late to mend. If we have made mistakes we at least do not need to continue to make them. So I have resolved to pay up some of my past obligations by building this village and afterward your dad and I plan to raise the wages of the workers--raise them voluntarily without their asking. I figure we shall have enough to keep the wolf from the door, even then," he added, smiling, "and if we should find we had not why we should simply have to come back on you and Ted Turner to support us, that's all." Laurie broke into a ringing laugh. "I would much rather you and Dad spent the money this way than to have you leave it all to me," he said presently. "One person does not need so much money. It is more than his share of the world's profits--especially if he has earned none of it. Besides, when a fortune is handed over to you, it spoils all the fun of making one for yourself." The boy's eyes clouded wistfully. "I suppose anyhow I never shall be able to work as hard as you and Father have; still I----" "Pooh! Pooh! Nonsense!" his grandfather interrupted huskily. "I believe I shall be able to earn enough to take care of myself," continued Laurie steadily. "In any case I mean to try." "Of course you will!" cried the elder man heartily. "Why, aren't you expecting to be an engineer or something?" "I--I--hope--to," replied the boy. "Certainly! Certainly!" fidgeted Grandfather Fernald nervously. "You are going to be a great man some day, Laurie--a consulting engineer, maybe; or a famous electrician, or something of the sort." "I wish I might," the lad repeated. "You see, Grandfather, it is working out your own career that is the fun, making something all yourself. That is why I hate the idea of ever stepping into your shoes and having to manage the mills. All the interesting part is done already. You and Dad had the pleasure----" "The damned hard work, you mean," cut in his grandfather. "Well, the hard work, then," chuckled Laurie, "of building the business up." "That is true, my boy," replied Mr. Fernald. "It was a great game, too. Why, you know when I came here and we staked out the site for the mills, there wasn't a house in sight. There was nothing but that river. To one little wooden factory and that rushing torrent of water I pinned my faith. Every cent I possessed in the world was in the venture. I must make good or go under. Nobody will ever know how I slaved in those early days. For years I worked day and night, never giving myself time to realize that I was tired. But I was young and eager and although I got fagged sometimes a few hours of sleep sent me forth each morning with faith that I could slay whatever dragons I might encounter. As I look back on those years, hard though they were, they will always stand out as the happiest ones of my life. It was the fight that was the sport. Now I am an old man and I have won the thing I was after--success. Of course, it is a satisfaction to have done what you set out to do. But I tell you, laddie, that after your money is made, the zest of the game is gone. Your fortune rolls up then without you and all you have to do is to sit back and watch it grow of itself. It doesn't seem to be a part of you any more. You feel old, and unnecessary, and out of it. You are on the shelf." "That is why I want to begin at the beginning and earn my own money, Grandfather," Laurie put in. "Think what you would have missed if some one had deprived you of all your fun when you were young. You wouldn't have liked it." "You bet I wouldn't!" cried the old gentleman. "I don't want to lose my fun either," persisted Laurie. "I want to win my way just as you and Dad have done--just as Ted Turner is going to do. I want to find out what is in me and what I can do with it." Grandfather Fernald rubbed his hands. "Bully for you, Laurie! Bully for you!" he ejaculated. "That's the true Fernald spirit. It was that stuff that took me away from my father's farm in Vermont and started me out in the world with only six dollars in my pocket. I was bound I would try my muscle and I did. I got some pretty hard knocks, too, while I was doing it. Still, they were all in the day's work and I never have regretted them. But I didn't mean to have your father go through all I did and so I saw that he got an education and started different. He knew what he was fighting and was armed with the proper weapons instead of going blind into the scrimmage. That is what we are trying to do for you and what we mean to do for Ted Turner. We do not intend to take either of you out of the fray but we are going to put into your hands the things you need to win the battle. Then the making good will depend solely on you." "I mean to try to do my part." "I know you do, laddie; and you'll do it, too." "I just wish I was stronger--as well as Ted is," murmured the boy. "I wish you were," his grandfather responded gently, touching his grandson's shoulder affectionately with his strong hand. "If money could give you health you should have every farthing I possess. But there are things that money cannot do, Laurie. I used to think it was all-powerful and that if I had it there was nothing I could not make mine. But I realize now that many of the best gifts of life are beyond its reach. We grow wiser as we grow older," he concluded, with a sad shake of his head. "Sometimes I think we should have been granted two lives, one to experiment with and the other to live." He rose, a weary shadow clouding his eyes. "Well, to live and learn is all we can do; and thank goodness it is never too late to profit by our errors. I have learned many things from Ted Turner; I have learned some more from his father; and I have added to all these certain things that those unlucky wretches, Sullivan and Cronin, have demonstrated to me. Who knows but I may make Freeman's Falls a better place in consequence? We shall see." With these parting reflections the old gentleman slowly left the room. CHAPTER XVI ANOTHER CALAMITY The winter was a long and tedious one with much cold weather and ice. Great drifts leveled the fields about Aldercliffe and Pine Lea, shrouding the vast expanse of fields along the river in a glistening cloak of ermine spangled with gold. The stream itself was buried so deep beneath the snow that it was difficult not to believe it had disappeared altogether. Freeman's Falls had never known a more severe season and among the mill employees there was much illness and depression. Prices were high, business slack, and the work ran light. Nevertheless, the Fernalds refused to shorten the hours. There were no night shifts on duty, to be sure, but the hum of the machinery that ceased at twilight resumed its buzzing every morning and by its music gladdened many a home where anxiety might otherwise have reigned. That the factories were being operated at a loss rather than throw the men out of employment Ted Turner could not help knowing for since he had become a member of the Fernald household he had been included so intimately in the family circle that it was unavoidable he should be cognizant of much that went on there. As a result, an entirely new aspect of manufacture came before him. Up to this time he had seen but one side of the picture, that with which the working man was familiar. But now the capitalist's side was turned toward him and on confronting its many intricate phases he gained a very different conception of the mill-owner's conundrums. He learned now for the first time who it was that tided over business in its seasons of stress and advanced the money that kept bread in the mouths of the workers. He sensed, too, as he might never have done otherwise, who shouldered the burden of care not alone during working hours but outside of them; he glimpsed something of the struggles of competition; the problems of securing raw material; the work concerning credits. A very novel viewpoint it was to the boy, and as he regarded the complicated web, he found himself wondering how much of all this tangle was known to the men, and whether they were always fair to their employer. He had frequently overheard conversations at his father's when they had proclaimed how easy and care-free a life the rich led, and while they had envied and criticized and slandered the Fernalds and asserted that they did nothing but enjoy themselves, he had listened. Ah, how far from the truth this estimate had been! He speculated, as he reviewed the facts and vaguely rehearsed the capitalist's enigmas whether, if shown the actual conditions, the townsfolk would have been willing to exchange places with either of these men whose fortunes they so greedily coveted. For in very truth the Fernalds seemed to Ted persons to be pitied far more than envied. Stripped of illusions, what was Mr. Lawrence Fernald but an old man who had devoted himself to money-making until he had rolled up a fortune so large that its management left him no leisure to enjoy it? Eager to accumulate more and ever more wealth, he toiled and worried quite as hard as he would have done had he had no money at all; he often passed sleepless nights and could never be persuaded to take a day away from his office. He slaved harder than any of those he paid to work for him and he had none of their respite from care. Mr. Clarence Fernald, being of a younger generation, had perhaps learned greater wisdom. At any rate, he went away twice a year for extended pleasure trips. Possibly the fact that his father had degenerated into a mere money-making machine was ever before him, serving as a warning against a similar fate. However that may have been, he did break resolutely away from business at intervals, or tried to. Nevertheless, he never could contrive to be wholly free. Telegrams pursued him wherever he went; his secretary often went in search of him; and many a time, like a defeated runaway whose escape is cut short, he was compelled to abandon his holiday and return to the mills, there to straighten out some unlooked-for complication. Day and night the responsibilities of his position, the welfare of the hundreds of persons dependent on him, weighed down his shoulders. And even when he was at home in the bosom of his family, there was Laurie, his son, his idol, who could probably never be well! What man in all Freeman's Falls could have envied him if acquainted with all the conditions of his life? This and many another such reflection engrossed Ted, causing him to wonder whether there was not in the divine plan a certain element of equalization. In the meantime, his lessons with Laurie and Mr. Hazen went steadily and delightfully on. How much more could be accomplished with a tutor who devoted all his time simply to two pupils! And how much greater pleasure one derived from studying under these intimate circumstances! In every way the arrangement was ideal. Thus the winter passed with its balancing factors of work and play. The friendship between the two boys strengthened daily and in a similar proportion Ted's affection for the entire Fernald family increased. It was when the first thaw made its appearance late in March that trouble came. Laurie was stricken with measles, and because of the contagion, Ted's little shack near the river was hastily equipped for occupancy, and the lad was transferred there. "I can't have two boys sick," declared Mr. Clarence Fernald, "and as you have not been exposed to the disease there is no sense in our thrusting you into its midst. Plenty of wood will keep your fireplace blazing and as the weather is comparatively mild I fancy you can contrive to be comfortable. We will connect the telephone so you won't be lonely and so you can talk with Laurie every day. The doctor says he will soon be well again and after the house has been fumigated you can come back to Pine Lea." Accordingly, Ted was once more ensconced in the little hut and how good it seemed to be again in that familiar haunt only he realized. Before the first day was over, he felt as if he had never been away. Pine Lea might boast its conservatories, its sun parlors, its tiled baths, its luxuries of every sort; they all faded into nothingness beside the freedom and peace of the tiny shack at the river's margin. Meanwhile, with the gradual approach of spring, the sun mounted higher and the great snow drifts settled and began to disappear. Already the ice in the stream was breaking up and the turbid yellow waters went rushing along, carrying with them whirling blocks of snow. As the torrent swept past, it flooded the meadows and piled up against the dam opposite the factories great frozen, jagged masses of ice which ground and crashed against one another, so that the sounds could be distinctly heard within the mills. At some points these miniature icebergs blocked the falls and held the waters in check until, instead of cascading over the dam, they spread inland, inundating the shores. The float before Ted's door was covered and at night, when all was still and his windows open, he could hear the roaring of the stream, and the impact of the bumping ice as it sped along. Daily, as the snows on the far distant hillsides near the river's source melted, the flood increased and poured down in an ever rising tide its seething waters. Yet notwithstanding the fact that each day saw the stream higher, no one experienced any actual anxiety from the conditions, although everybody granted they were abnormal. Of course, there was more ice in the river than there had been for many years. Even Grandfather Fernald, who had lived in the vicinity for close on to half a century, could not recall ever having witnessed such a spring freshet; nor did he deny that the weight of ice and water against the dam must be tremendous. However, the structure was strong and there was no question of its ability to hold, even though this chaos of grinding ice-cakes boomed against it with defiant reverberation. In spite of the conditions, Ted felt no nervousness about remaining by himself in the shack and perhaps every premonition of evil might have escaped him had he not been awakened one morning very early by a ripple of lapping water that seemed near at hand. Sleepily he opened his eyes and looked about him. The floor of the hut was wet and through the crack beneath the door a thread of muddy water was steadily seeping. In an instant he was on his feet and as he stood looking about him in bewilderment he heard the roar of the river and detected in the sound a threatening intonation that had not been there on the previous day. He hurried to the window and stared out into the grayness of the dawn. The scene that confronted him chilled his blood. The river had risen unbelievably during the night. Not only were the little bushes along the shore entirely submerged but many of the pines standing upon higher ground were also under water. As he threw on his clothes, he tried to decide whether there was anything he ought to do. Would it be well to call up the Fernalds, or telephone to the mills, or to the village, and give warning of the conditions? It was barely four o'clock and the first streaks of light were but just appearing. Nevertheless, there must be persons who were awake and as alert as he to the transformation the darkness had wrought. Moreover, perhaps there was no actual danger, and should this prove to be the case, how absurd he would feel to arouse people at daybreak for a mere nothing. It was while he paused there indecisively that a sight met his eye which spurred hesitancy to immediate action. Around the bend far up the stream came sweeping a tangle of wreckage--trees, and brush, and floating timber--and swirling along in its wake was a small lean-to which he recognized as one that had stood on the bank of the river at Melton, the village located five miles above Freeman's Falls. If the water were high enough to carry away this building, it must indeed have risen to a menacing height and there was not a moment to be lost. He rushed to the telephone and called up Mr. Clarence Fernald who replied to his summons in irritable, half-dazed fashion. "Is there any way of lifting the water gates at the mills?" asked Ted breathlessly. "The river has risen so high that it is sweeping away trees and even some of the smaller houses from the Melton shore. If the debris piles up against the dam, the pressure may be more than the thing can stand. Besides, the water will spread and flood both Aldercliffe and Pine Lea. I thought I'd better tell you." Mr. Fernald was not dazed now; he was broad awake. "Where are you?" inquired he sharply. "At the shack, sir. The water is ankle deep." "Don't stay there another moment. It is not safe. At any instant the whole hut may be carried away. Gather your traps together and call Wharton or Stevens--or both of them--to come and help you take them up to Aldercliffe. I'll attend to notifying the mills. You've done us a good turn, my boy." During the next hour Ted himself was too busy to appreciate the hectic rush of events that he had set moving, or realize the feverish energy with which the Fernalds and their employees worked to avert a tragedy which, but for his warning, might have been a very terrible one. The mills were reached by wire and the sluices at the sides of the central dam immediately lifted to make way for the torrent of snow, ice, wreckage, and water. In what a fierce and maddened chaos it surged over the falls and dashed into the chasm beneath! All day the mighty current boiled and seethed, overflowing the outlying fields with its yellow flood. Nevertheless, the great brick factories that bordered the stream stood firm and so did the residences at Aldercliffe and Pine Lea, both of which were fortunately situated on high ground. Ted had not made his escape from his little camp a moment too soon, for while he stood looking out on the freshet from one of the attic windows at Pine Lea, he shivered to behold his little hut bob past him amid the rushing waters and drift into an eddy on the opposite shore along with a mass of uprooted pines. A sob burst from him. "It's gone, Mr. Hazen--our little house!" he murmured brokenly to the young tutor who was standing beside him. "We never shall see it again." "You mustn't take it so to heart, Ted," the teacher answered, laying his hand sympathetically on the lad's shoulder. "Suppose you had been in it and borne away to almost certain death. That would have been a calamity indeed. What is an empty boathouse when we consider how many people are to suffer actual financial loss and perhaps forfeit everything they have, as a result of this tragedy. The villagers who live along the river will lose practically everything they own--boats, poultry, barns; and many of them both houses and furniture. We all loved the shack; but it is not as if its destruction left you with no other roof above your head. You can stay at Aldercliffe, Pine Lea, or join your family at Freeman's Falls. Three shelters are open to you. But these poor souls in the town----" "I had not thought about the villagers," blushed Ted. "The Fernalds have been in the settlement since dawn and along with every man they could summon have been working to save life and property. If I had not had to stay here with Laurie, I should have gone to help, too." Ted hung his head. "I'm ashamed to have been so selfish," said he. "Instead of thinking only of myself, I ought to have been lending a hand to aid somebody else. It was rotten of me. Why can't I go down to the village now? There must be things I can do. Certainly I'm no use here." "No, there is nothing to be done here," the tutor agreed. "If you could stay with Laurie and calm him down there would be some sense in your remaining; but as it is, I don't see why you shouldn't go along to the town and fill in wherever you can. I fancy there will be plenty to do. The Fernalds, Wharton, Stevens, and the rest of the men are moving the families who lived along the water front out of their houses and into others. All our trucks and cars are busy at the job." "I know I could help," cried Ted eagerly, his foot on the top step of the staircase. "I am sure you can," Mr. Hazen replied. "Already by your timely warning you have helped more than you will ever know. I tremble to think what might have happened if you had not awakened Mr. Clarence just when you did. Had the dam at the mills gone down, the whole town would have been devastated. Mr. Fernald told me so himself." "I'm mighty glad if I----" "So you see you have been far from selfish," continued the tutor, in a cheery tone. "As for the shack, it can be rebuilt, so I should not mourn about that." "I guess Mr. Fernald is glad now that he has his plans ready for his model village." "Yes, he is. He said right away that it was providential. The snow will disappear after this thaw and as soon as the earth dries up enough to admit of building, the workmen will begin to break ground for the new settlement. The prospect of other and better houses than the old ones will encourage many of the mill people who have had their dwellings ruined to-day and in consequence been forced to move into temporary quarters where they are crowded and uncomfortable. We can all endure inconvenience when we know it is not to last indefinitely. Mr. Fernald told me over the telephone that the promise of new houses by summer or fall at the latest was buoying up the courage of all those who had suffered from this terrible disaster. He is going to grant special privileges to every family that has met with loss. They are to be given the first houses that are finished." "I do hope another freshet like this one won't sweep away the new village," reflected Ted. "Oh, we shall probably never again be treated to an excitement similar to this one," smiled Mr. Hazen reassuringly. "Didn't you hear them say that it was the bursting of the Melton reservoir which was largely responsible for this catastrophe? Mr. Fernald declared all along that this was no ordinary freshet. He has seen the river every spring for nearly forty years and watched it through all its annual thaws; and although it has often been high, it has never been a danger to the community. He told me over the telephone about the reservoir bursting. He had just got the news. It seems the reservoir above Melton was an old one which the authorities have realized for some time must be rebuilt. They let it go one year too long. With the weight of water, snow, and ice, it could not bear the pressure put upon it and collapsed. I'm afraid it has been a severe lesson to the officials of the place for the chance they took has caused terrible damage." "Were people killed?" asked Ted in an awed whisper. "We have heard so--two or three who were trapped asleep in their houses. As for the town, practically all the buildings that fronted the river were destroyed. Of course, as yet we have not been able to get very satisfactory details, for most of the wires were down and communication was pretty well cut off. I suppose that is why they did not notify us of our peril. People were probably too busy with their own affairs, too intent on saving their own lives and possessions to think of anything else. Then, too, the thing came suddenly. If there hadn't been somebody awake here, I don't know where we should have been. I don't see how you happened to be astir so early." "Nor I," returned Ted modestly. "I think it must have been the sound of the water coming in that woke me. I just happened to hear it." "Well, it was an almighty fortunate happen--that is all I can say," asserted Mr. Hazen, as the boy sped down the stairs. CHAPTER XVII SURPRISES During the next few days tidings of the Melton disaster proved the truth of Mr. Hazen's charitable suppositions, for it was definitely learned that the calamity which befell the village came entirely without warning, and as the main part of the town was wiped out almost completely and the river front destroyed, all communication between the unfortunate settlement and the outside world had been cut off so that to send warnings to the communities below had been impossible. Considering the enormity of the catastrophe, it was miraculous that there had not been greater loss of life and wider spread devastation. A week of demoralization all along the river followed the tragedy; but after the bulk of wreckage was cleared away and the stream had dropped to normal, the Fernalds actually began to congratulate themselves on the direful event. "Well, the thing has not been all to the bad, by any means," commented Grandfather Fernald. "We have at least got rid of those unsightly tenements bordering the water which were such a blot on Freeman's Falls; and once gone, I do not mean to allow them ever to be put back again. I have bought up the land and shall use it as the site of the new granite bridge I intend to build across the stream. And in case I have more land than is needed for this purpose, the extra area can be used for a park which will be an ornament to the spot rather than an eyesore. Therefore, take it altogether, I consider that freshet a capital thing." He glanced at Ted who chanced to be standing near by. "I suppose you, my lad, do not entirely agree with me," added he, a twinkle gleaming beneath his shaggy brows. "You are thinking of that playhouse of yours and Laurie's that was carried off by the deluge." "I am afraid I was, sir." "Pooh! Nonsense!" blustered the old gentleman. "What's a thing like that? Besides, Laurie's father proposes to rebuild it for you. Hasn't he told you?" questioned the man, noticing the surprise in the boy's face. "Oh, yes, indeed! He is going to put up another house for you; and judging from his plans, you will find yourself far better off than you were in the first place for this time he is to give you a real cottage, not simply a made-over boathouse. Yes, there is to be running water; a bedroom, study, and kitchenette; to say nothing of a bath and steam heat. He plans to connect it by piping with the central heating plant. So you see you will have a regular housekeeping bungalow instead of a camp." Ted gasped. "But--but--I can't let Mr. Fernald do all this for me," he protested. "It's--it's--too much." "I shouldn't worry about him, if I were you," smiled the elder man. "It won't scrimp him, I imagine. Furthermore, it will be an excellent investment, for should the time ever come when you did not need the house it could be rented to one of our tenants. He is to put a foundation under it this time and build it more solidly; and possibly he may decide to set it a trifle farther back from the water. In any case, he will see that it is right; you can trust him for that. It will not be carried away a second time." "I certainly hope not," Ted agreed. "What a pity it was they did not have some way of notifying us from Melton! If they had only had a wireless apparatus----" he broke off thoughtfully. "I doubt if all the wireless in the world could have saved your little hut," answered Mr. Fernald kindly. "It was nothing but a pasteboard house and wireless or no wireless it would have gone anyway. I often speculate as to how ships ever dared to go to sea before they had the protection of wireless communication. Ignorance was bliss, I suppose. They knew nothing about it and therefore did not miss it. When we can boast no better way we are satisfied with the old. But think of the shipwrecks and accidents that might have been averted! You will be studying about all this some day when you go to Technology or college." Ted's face lighted at the words. "You have all been so kind to me, Mr. Fernald," he murmured. "When I think of your sending me to college it almost bowls me over." "You must never look upon it as an obligation, my boy," the old gentleman declared. "If there is any obligation at all (and there is a very real one) it is ours. The only obligation you have will be to do well at your studies and make us proud of you, and that you are doing all the time. Mr. Hazen tells me you are showing splendid progress. I hope by another week Laurie will be out of the woods, Pine Lea will be fumigated, and you can resume your former way of living there without further interruptions from floods and illness. Still, I shall be sorry to have your little visit at Aldercliffe come to an end. You seem to have grown into the ways of the whole family and to fit in wherever you find yourself." Mr. Fernald smiled affectionately at the lad. "There is something that has been on my tongue's end to whisper to you for some time," he went on, after a brief interval of hesitancy. "I know you can keep a secret and so I mean to tell you one. In the spring we are going to take Laurie over to New York to see a very celebrated surgeon who is coming from Vienna to this country. We hear he has had great success with cases such as Laurie's and we hope he may be able to do something for the boy. Of course, no one knows this as yet, not even Laurie himself." "Oh, Mr. Fernald! Do you mean there would be a chance that Laurie could walk sometime?" Ted cried. The old man looked into the young and shining face and nervously brushed the back of his hand across his eyes. "Perhaps; perhaps!" responded he gruffly. "Who can tell? This doctor has certainly performed some marvelous cures. Who knows but the lad may some day not only walk about, but leap and run as you do!" "Oh, sir--!" "But we must not be too sure or allow ourselves to be swept away by hope," cautioned Grandfather Fernald. "No one knows what can be done yet and we might be disappointed--sadly disappointed. Still, there is no denying that there is a fighting chance. But keep this to yourself, Ted. I must trust you to do that. If Laurie were to know anything about it, it would be very unfortunate, for the ordeal will mean both pain and suffering for him and he must not be worried about it in advance. He will need all his nerve and courage when the time for action comes. Moreover, we feel it would be cruel for him to glimpse such a vision and then find it only a mirage. So we have told him nothing. But I have told you because you are fond of him and I wanted you to share the secret." "It shall remain a secret, Mr. Fernald." "I feel sure of that," the man replied. "You are a good boy, Ted. It was a lucky day that brought you to Pine Lea." "A lucky one for me, sir!" "For all of us, son! For all of us!" reiterated the old gentleman. "The year of your coming here will be one we never shall forget. It has been very eventful." Certainly the final comment was no idle one. Not only had the year been a red-letter one but it was destined to prove even more conspicuously memorable. With the spring the plans for the new village went rapidly forward and soon pretty little concrete houses with roofs of scarlet and trimmings of green dotted the slopes on the opposite side of the river. The laying out and building of this community became Grandfather Fernald's recreation and delight. Morning, noon, and evening he could be seen either perusing curling sheets of blue prints, consorting with his architects, or rolling off in his car to inspect the progress of the venture. Sometimes he took Ted with him, sometimes his son, and when Laurie was strong enough, the entire family frequently made the pilgrimage to the new settlement. It was very attractive, there was no denying that; and it seemed as if nothing that could give pleasure to its future residents had been omitted. The tiny library had been Laurie's pet scheme, and not only had his grandfather eagerly carried out the boy's own plans but he had proudly ordered the lad's name to be chiselled across the front of the building. Ted's plea had been for a playground and this request had also been granted, since it appeared to be a wise one. It was a wonderful playground, bordering on the river and having swings and sand boxes for the children; seats for tired mothers; and a large ball-field with bleachers for the men and boys. The inhabitants of Freeman's Falls had never dreamed of such an ideal realm in which to live, and as tidings of the paradise went forth, strangers began to flock into town in the hope of securing work in the mills and homes in the new settlement. The Fernalds, however, soon made it plain that the preference was to be given to their old employees who had served them well and faithfully for so many years. Therefore, as fast as the houses were completed, they were assigned to those who had been longest in the company's employ and soon the streets of the new village were no longer silent but teemed with life and the laughter of a happy people. And among those for whom a charming little abode was reserved were the Turners, Ted's family. Then came the tearing down of the temporary bridge of wood and the opening of the beautiful stone structure that arched the stream. Ah, what a holiday that was! The mills were closed, there was a band concert in the little park, dedication exercises, and fireworks in the evening. And great was Ted's surprise when he spied cut in the stone the words "Turner's Bridge!" Near the entrance was a modest bronze tablet stating that the memorial had been constructed in honor of Theodore Turner who, by his forethought in giving warning of the freshet of 1912 had saved the village of Freeman's Falls from inestimable calamity. How the boy blushed when Mr. Lawrence Fernald mentioned him by name in the dedication speech! And yet he was pleased, too. And how the people cheered; and how proud his father and sisters were! Perhaps, however, the most delighted person of all was Laurie who had been in the secret all along and who now smiled radiantly to see his friend so honored. "The townspeople may not go to my library," he laughed, "but every one of them will use your bridge. They will have to; they can't help it!" The thought seemed to amuse him vastly and he always referred to the exquisite granite structure with its triple arch and richly carved piers of stone as _Ted's Bridge_. Thus did the year with its varied experiences slip by and when June came the Fernalds carried Laurie to New York to consult the much heralded Viennese surgeon. Ah, those were feverish, anxious days, not only for the Fernald family but for Ted and Mr. Hazen as well. The boy and the tutor had remained at Pine Lea there to continue their studies and await the tidings Laurie's father had promised to send them; and when the ominous yellow telegrams with their momentous messages began to arrive, they hardly knew whether to greet them with sorrow or rejoicing. They need not, however, have dreaded the news for after careful examination the eminent specialist had decided to take a single desperate chance and operate with the hope of success. Laurie, they were told, was a monument of courage and had the spirit of a Spartan. Unquestionably he merited the good luck that followed for fortune did reward his heroism,--smiling fortune. Of course, the miracle of health could not come all in a moment; months of convalescence must follow which would be unavoidably tedious with suffering. But beyond this arid stretch of pain lay the goal of recovery. No lips could tell what this knowledge meant to those who loved the boy. In time he was to be as strong as any one! It was unbelievable. Nevertheless, the roseate promise was no dream. Laurie was brought home to Pine Lea and immediately the mending process began. Already one could read in the patient face the transformation hope had wrought. There was some day to be college, not alone for Ted but for Laurie himself,--college, and sports, and a career. In the fullness of time these long-anticipated joys began to arrive. Health made its appearance and at its heels trouped success and happiness; and to balance them came gratitude, humility, and service. In the meantime, with every lengthening year, the friendship between Laurie and Ted toughened in fiber and became a closer bond. And it was not engineering or electricity that ultimately claimed the constructive interest of the two comrades but instead the Fernald mills, which upon Grandfather Fernald's retirement called for younger men at their helm. So after going forth into the great world and whetting the weapons of their intellect they found the dragon they had planned to slay waiting for them at home in Freeman's Falls. Yet notwithstanding its familiar environment, it was a very real dragon and resolutely the two young men attacked it, putting into their management of the extensive industry all the spirit of brotherhood that burned in their hearts and all the desire for service which they cherished. With the aim of bringing about a kindlier coöperation and fuller sympathy between capital and labor they toiled, and the world to which they gave their efforts was the better for it. Nevertheless, they did not entirely abandon their scientific interests for on the border of the river stood a tiny shack equipped with a powerful wireless apparatus. Here on a leisure afternoon Ted Turner and his comrade could often be found capturing from the atmosphere those magic sounds that spelled the intercourse of peoples, and the thought of nations; and often they spoke of Alexander Graham Bell and those patient pioneers who, together with him, had made it possible for the speech of man to traverse continents and circle a universe. FINIS 
41271	----	Transcriber's Notes Any corrections made are catalogued in a note at the end of this text. Italics are rendered using the '_' character as _italics_. Text printed in a bold font is rendered using the '=' character as =bold=. All small capital letters are printed as uppercase. The abbreviations "A.M." and "P.M." appear in normal uppercase as well as in small capitals. They are also variably printed with intervening spaces (e.g., "A. M."). They are rendered here as uppercase with the spacing as found in the text. The text contained illustrations, which could not be included in this version. They are indicated using [Illustration: <caption>]. Their position in the text may have changed in order to re-join paragraphs and/or to avoid interrupting the text. The page numbers in the list of illustrations are, therefore, approximate. Please use the html version from Project Gutenberg to view the illustrations. [Illustration: MAP OF THE DELUGED CONEMAUGH DISTRICT.] HISTORY OF THE JOHNSTOWN FLOOD. INCLUDING ALL THE FEARFUL RECORD; THE BREAKING OF THE SOUTH FORK DAM; THE SWEEPING OUT OF THE CONEMAUGH VALLEY; THE OVER-THROW OF JOHNSTOWN; THE MASSING OF THE WRECK AT THE RAILROAD BRIDGE; ESCAPES, RESCUES, SEARCHES FOR SURVIVORS AND THE DEAD; RELIEF ORGANIZATIONS, STUPENDOUS CHARITIES, ETC., ETC. WITH FULL ACCOUNTS ALSO OF THE DESTRUCTION ON THE SUSQUEHANNA AND JUNIATA RIVERS, AND THE BALD EAGLE CREEK. BY WILLIS FLETCHER JOHNSON. _ILLUSTRATED._ EDGEWOOD PUBLISHING CO., 1889. Copyright, 1889, by WILLIS FLETCHER JOHNSON. PREFACE. The summer of 1889 will ever be memorable for its appalling disasters by flood and flame. In that period fell the heaviest blow of the nineteenth century--a blow scarcely paralleled in the histories of civilized lands. Central Pennsylvania, a centre of industry, thrift and comfort, was desolated by floods unprecedented in the records of the great waters. On both sides of the Alleghenies these ravages were felt in terrific power, but on the western slope their terrors were infinitely multiplied by the bursting of the South Fork Reservoir, letting out millions of tons of water, which, rushing madly down the rapid descent of the Conemaugh Valley, washed out all its busy villages and hurled itself in a deadly torrent on the happy borough of Johnstown. The frightful aggravations which followed the coming of this torrent have waked the deepest sympathies of this nation and of the world, and the history is demanded in permanent form, for those of the present day, and for the generation to come. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. The Conemaugh Valley in Springtime--Johnstown and its Suburbs--Founded a Hundred Years ago--The Cambria Iron Works--History of a Famous Industry--American Manufacturing Enterprise Exemplified--Making Bessemer Steel--Social and Educational Features--The Busiest City of its Size in the State, 15 CHAPTER II. Conemaugh Lake--Remains of an Old-time Canal System--Used for the Pleasure of Sportsmen--The Hunting and Fishing Club--Popular Distrust Growing into Indifference--The Old Cry of "Wolf!"--Building a Dam of Straw and Mud--Neglect Ripening into Fitness for a Catastrophe, 31 CHAPTER III. Dawning of the Fatal Day--Darkness and Rain--Rumors of Evil--The Warning Voice Unheeded--A Whirlwind of Watery Death--Fate of a Faithful Telegrapher--What an Eye-Witness Saw--A Solid Wall of Water Rushing Down the Valley, 42 CHAPTER IV. The Pathway of the Torrent--Human Beings Swept away like Chaff--The Twilight of Terror--The Wreck of East Conemaugh--Annihilation of Woodvale--Locomotives Tossed about like Cockle-shells by the mighty Maelstrom, 51 CHAPTER V. "Johnstown is Annihilated"--Appearance of the Wreck--An Awful Sabbath Spectacle--A Sea of Mud and Corpses--The City in a Gigantic Whirlpool--Strange Tokens of the Fury of the Flood--Scene from the Bridge--Sixty Acres of Débris--A Carnival of Slaughter, 66 CHAPTER VI. Pictures of the Flood Drawn by Eye-witnesses--A Score of Locomotives Swallowed up--Railroad Cars Swept away--Engineers who would not Abandon their Posts--Awful Scenes from a Car Window--A Race for Life--Victims of the Flood, 81 CHAPTER VII. Some Heroes of the Flood--The Ride of Collins Graves at Williamsburg Recalled--John G. Parke's Heroic Warning--Gallant Self-Sacrifice of Daniel Peyton--Mrs. Ogle, the Intrepid Telegraph Operator--Wholesale Life Saving by Miss Nina Speck, 97 CHAPTER VIII. Stories of Suffering--A Family Swept away at a Stroke--Beside a Sister's Corpse--A Bride Driven Mad--The Unidentified Dead--Courage in the Face of Death--Thanking God his Child had not Suffered--One Saved out of a Household of Thirteen--Five Saved out of Fifty-Five, 108 CHAPTER IX. Stories of Railroad Men and Travelers who were in the Midst of the Catastrophe--A Train's Race with the Wave--Houses Crushed like Eggshells--Relics of the Dead in the Tree tops--A Night of Horrors--Fire and Flood Commingled--Lives Lost for the Sake of a Pair of Shoes, 119 CHAPTER X. Scenes in a House of Refuge--Stealing from the Dead--A Thousand Bodies seen Passing over the Bridge--"Kill us or Rescue us!"--Thrilling Escapes and Agonizing Losses--Children Born amid the Flood--A Night in Alma Hall--Saved through Fear, 137 CHAPTER XI. The Flight to the Mountains--Saving a Mother and her Babe--The Hillsides Black with Refugees--An Engineer's Story--How the Dam gave away--Great Trees Snapped off like Pipe-stems by the Torrent, 147 CHAPTER XII. A Desperate Voyage--Scenes like those after a Great Battle--Mother and Babe Dead together--Praying as they Drifted to Destruction--Children Telling the Story of Death--Significant Greetings between Friends--Prepared for any News, 154 CHAPTER XIII. Salutations in the City of the Dead--Crowds at the Morgues--Endless Trains of Wagons with Ghastly Freight--Registering the Survivors--Minds Unsettled by the Tragedy--Horrible Fragments of Humanity Scattered through Piles of Rubbish, 161 CHAPTER XIV. Recognizing the Dead--Food and Clothing for Destitute Survivors--Looking for the Lost--The Bereaved Burying their Dead--Drowned Close by a Place of Safety--A Heroic Editor--One who would not be Comforted, 171 CHAPTER XV. A Bird'seye View of the Ruined City--Conspicuous Features of the Disaster--The Railroad Lines--Stones and Iron Tossed about like Driftwood--An Army Officer's Valuable Services in Restoring and Maintaining Order, 179 CHAPTER XVI. Clearing a Road up the Creek--Fantastic Forms of Ruin--An Abandoned Locomotive with no Rail to Run on--Iron Beams Bent like Willow Twigs--Night in the Valley--Scenes and Sounds of an Inferno, 188 CHAPTER XVII. Sights that Greeted Visitors--Wreckage Along the Valley--Ruins of the Cambria Iron Works--A Carnival of Drink--Violence and Robbery--Camping on the Hillsides--Rich and Poor alike Benefit, 198 CHAPTER XVIII. The First Train Load of Anxious Seekers--Hoping against Hope--Many Instances of Heroism--Victims Seen Drifting down beyond the Reach of Help--Unavailing Efforts to Rescue the Prey of the Flood, 207 CHAPTER XIX. Newspaper Correspondents Making their Way in--The Railroads Helpless--Hiring a Special Train--Making Desperate Speed--First faces of the Flood--Through to Johnstown at Last, 216 CHAPTER XX. The Work of the Reporters--Strange Chronicles of Heroism and of Woe--Deadly Work of the Telegraph Wires--A Baby's Strange Voyage--Prayer wonderfully Answered--Steam against Torrent, 228 CHAPTER XXI. Human Ghouls and Vampires on the Scene--A Short Shrift for Marauders--Vigilance Committees Enforcing Order--Plunderers of the Dead Relentlessly Dispatched--Outbursts of Righteous Indignation, 238 CHAPTER XXII The Cry for Help and the Nation's Answer--President Harrison's Eloquent and Effective Appeal--Governor Beaver's Message--A Proclamation by the Governor of New York--Action of the Commissioner of Pensions--Help from over the Sea, 249 CHAPTER XXIII. The American Heart and Purse Opened Wide--A Flood of Gold against the Flood of Water--Contributions from every Part of the Country, in Sums Large and Small, 265 CHAPTER XXIV. Benefactions of Philadelphia--Organization of Charity--Train loads of Food and Clothing--Generous spirit of Convicts in the Penitentiary--Contributions from over the Sea--Queen Victoria's sympathy--Letter from Florence Nightingale, 281 CHAPTER XXV. Raising a Great Relief Fund in New York--Where the Money came from--Churches, Theatres and Prisons join in the good work--More than One Hundred Thousand Dollars a Day--A few Names from the Great Roll of Honor, 292 CHAPTER XXVI. Breaking up the Ruins and Burying the Dead--Innumerable Funerals--The Use of Dynamite--The Holocaust at the Bridge--The Cambria Iron Works--Pulling out Trees with Locomotives, 299 CHAPTER XXVII. Caring for the Sufferers--Noble Work of Miss Clara Barton and the Red Cross Society--A Peep into a Hospital--Finding Homes for the Orphans--Johnstown Generous in its Woe--A Benevolent Eating House, 309 CHAPTER XXVIII. Recovering from the Blow--The Voice of the Locomotive Heard again--Scenes Day by Day amid the Ruins and at the Morgue--Strange Salvage from the Flood--A Family of Little Children, 319 CHAPTER XXIX. The City Filled with Life Again--Work and Bustle on Every Hand--Railroad Trains Coming In--Pathetic Meetings of Friends--Persistent Use of Dynamite to Break Up the Masses of Wreckage--The Daily Record of Work Amid the Dead, 341 CHAPTER XXX. Scenes at the Relief Stations--The Grand Army of the Republic in Command--Imposing Scenes at the Railroad Station--Cars Loaded with Goods for the Relief of the Destitute, 353 CHAPTER XXXI. General Hastings' Headquarters--Duties of the Military Staff--A Flood of Telegrams of Inquiry Pouring In--Getting the Post-office to Work Again--Wholesale Embalming--The Morgue in the Presbyterian Church--The Record of the Unknown Dead--A Commemorative Newspaper Club, 358 CHAPTER XXXII. A Cross between a Military and a Mining Camp--Work of the Army Engineers--Equipping Constables--Pressure on the Telegraph Lines--Photographers not Encouraged--Sight-seers Turned Away--Strange Uses for Coffins, 370 CHAPTER XXXIII. Sunday Amid the Ruins--Services in One Church and in the Open Air--The Miracle at the Church of the Immaculate Conception--Few Women and Children Seen--Disastrous Work of Dynamite--A Happy Family in the Wreck, 378 CHAPTER XXXIV. Plans for the Future of Johnstown--The City to be Rebuilt on a Finer Scale than Ever Before--A Real Estate Boom Looked For--Enlarging the Conemaugh--Views of Capitalists, 387 CHAPTER XXXV. Well-known People who Narrowly Escaped the Flood--Mrs. Halford's Experience--Mrs. Childs Storm bound--Tales Related by Travelers--A Theatrical Company's Plight, 393 CHAPTER XXXVI. The Ubiquitous Reporter Getting There--Desperate Traveling through a Storm-swept Country--Special Trains and Special Teams--Climbing Across the Mountains--Rest for the Weary in a Hay Mow, 402 CHAPTER XXXVII. The Reporter's Life at Johnstown--Nothing to Eat, but Much to Do--Kindly Remembrances of a Kindly Friend--Driven from Bed by Rats--Three Hours of Sleep in Seventy-two--A Picturesque Group, 410 CHAPTER XXXVIII. Williamsport's Great Losses--Flooded with Thirty-four Feet of Water--Hundreds of Millions of Feet of Lumber Swept Away--Loss of Life--Incidents of Rescue and of Death--The Story of Garret Crouse and his Gray Horse, 421 CHAPTER XXXIX. The Juniata Valley Ravaged by the Storm--Losses at Tyrone, Huntingdon and Lewistown--Destruction at Lock Haven--A Baby's Voyage Down Stream--Romantic Story of a Wedding, 435 CHAPTER XL. The Floods along the Potomac--The National Capital Submerged--A Terrible Record in Maryland--Gettysburg a Sufferer--Tidings of Devastation from Many Points in Several States, 444 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE MAP OF THE DELUGED CONEMAUGH DISTRICT, 1 JOHNSTOWN AS LEFT BY THE FLOOD, 19 RUINS OF JOHNSTOWN VIEWED FROM PROSPECT HILL, 37 GENERAL VIEW OF THE RUINS, LOOKING UP STONY CREEK, 55 RUINS, SHOWING THE PATH OF THE FLOOD, 73 TYPICAL SCENE IN JOHNSTOWN, 91 JOHNSTOWN--VIEW CORNER OF MAIN AND CLINTON STREETS, 109 VIEW ON CLINTON STREET, JOHNSTOWN, 127 MAIN AND CLINTON STREETS, LOOKING SOUTHWEST, 145 RUINS, CORNER OF CLINTON AND MAIN STREETS, 163 RUINS, FROM SITE OF THE HULBURT HOUSE, 181 THE DÉBRIS ABOVE THE PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD BRIDGE, 199 RUINS OF THE CAMBRIA IRON WORKS, 217 RUINS OF THE CAMBRIA IRON COMPANY'S STORE, 235 THIRD STREET, WILLIAMSPORT, PA., DURING THE FLOOD, 253 WRECK OF THE IRON BRIDGE AT WILLIAMSPORT, PA., 271 WRECK OF THE LUMBER YARDS AT WILLIAMSPORT, PA., 289 250,000,000 FEET OF LOGS AFLOAT IN THE SUSQUEHANNA, 307 LAST TRAINS IN AND OUT OF HARRISBURG, 325 COLUMBIA, PA., UNDER THE FLOOD, 343 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE AT SIXTH STREET, WASHINGTON, D. C., 361 SEVENTH STREET, WASHINGTON, D. C., IN THE FLOOD, 379 FOURTEENTH STREET, WASHINGTON, D. C., IN THE FLOOD, 397 THE FLOOD IN WASHINGTON, D. C., OPPOSITE HARRIS'S THEATRE, 415 CHAPTER I. Springtime in the mountains. Graceful slopes and frowning precipices robed in darkest green of hemlock and spruce. Open fields here and there verdant with young grass and springing grain, or moist and brown beneath the plow for the planting time. Hedgerow and underwood fragrant with honeysuckle and wild blackberry bloom; violets and geraniums purpling the forest floor. Conemaugh creek and Stony creek dash and plunge and foam along their rocky channels to where they unite their waters and form the Conemaugh river, hastening down to the Ohio, to the Mississippi, to the Mexican Gulf. Trout and pickerel and bass flash their bronze and silver armor in the sparkling shallows of the streams and in the sombre and placid depths of the lake up yonder behind the old mud dam. Along the valley of the Conemaugh are ranged villages, towns, cities: Conemaugh, Johnstown, Cambria, Sang Hollow, Nineveh, and others, happy and prosperous. Conemaugh nestles at the very foot of the Alleghenies; all railroad trains eastward bound stop there to catch their breath before beginning the long climb up to Altoona. Sang Hollow nestles by the river amid almost tropical luxuriance of vegetation; yon little wooded islet in mid-stream a favorite haunt of fishermen. Nineveh is rich in bog iron and coal, and the whirr of the mill-wheel is heard. Johnstown, between the two creeks at their junction, is the queen city of the valley. On either side the creek, and beyond, the steep mountain sides; behind, the narrow valley reaching twenty miles back to the lake; before, the Conemaugh river just beginning its romantic course. Broken hillsides streaked with torrents encompass it. Just a century ago was Johnstown founded by one Joseph Johns, a German settler. Before then its beauteous site was occupied by an Indian village, Kickenapawling. Below this was the head of navigation on the Conemaugh. Hither came the wagoners of the Alleghenies, with huge wains piled high with merchandise from seaboard cities, and placed it on flat-bottomed boats and started it down the river-way to the western markets. The merchandise came up from Philadelphia and Baltimore by river, too; up the Susquehanna and Juniata, to the eastern foot-hills, and there was a great portage from the Juniata to the Conemaugh; the Kittanning Trail, then the Frankstown Turnpike. Later came the great trunk railroad whose express trains now go roaring down the valley. Johnstown is--nay, Johnstown was!--a busy and industrious place. The people of the town were the employees of the Cambria Iron and Steel Company, their families, and small storekeepers. There was not one rich man in the town. Three-quarters of the 28,000 people lived in small frame tenement houses on the flats by the river around the works of the Cambria Company. The Cambria Company owns almost all the land, and the business and professional men and the superintendents of the company live on the hills away up from the creeks. The creeks become the Conemaugh river right at the end of the town, near where the big stone Pennsylvania Railroad bridge crosses the river. The borough of Johnstown was on the south bank of Conemaugh creek, and the east bank of Stony creek, right in the fork. It had only about a third of the population of the place. It had never been incorporated with the surrounding villages, as the Cambria Company, which owned most of the villages and only part of Johnstown, did not wish to have them consolidated into one city. Conemaugh was the largest village on the creek between the lake and Johnstown. It is often spoken of as part of Johnstown, though its railroad station is two or three miles up the creek from the Johnstown station. The streets of the two towns run into each other, and the space between the two stations is well built up along the creek. Part of the Cambria Iron and Steel Company's works are at Conemaugh, and five or six thousand of the workingmen and their families lived there. The business was done in Johnstown borough, where almost all the stores of Johnstown city were. The works of the Cambria Company were strung along from here down into Johnstown proper. They were slightly isolated to prevent a fire in one spreading to the others, and because there was not much flat land to build on. The Pennsylvania road runs along the river, and the works were built beside it. [Illustration: JOHNSTOWN AS LEFT BY THE FLOOD.] Between Conemaugh and Johnstown borough was a string of tenements along the river which was called Woodvale. Possibly 3000 workmen lived in them. They were slightly built of wood, many of them without cellars or stone foundations. There were some substantially built houses in the borough at the fork. Here the flats widen out somewhat, and they had been still further increased in extent by the Cambria Company, which filled up part of the creek beds with refuse and the ashes from their works. This narrowed the beds of the creeks. The made land was not far above the water at ordinary times. Even during the ordinary spring floods the waters rose so high that it flowed into the cellars of the tenements, and at times into the works. The natural land was occupied by the business part of the town, where the stores were and the storekeepers had their residences. The borough had a population of about 9000. On the north bank of the river were a third as many more people living in tenements built and owned by the Cambria Company. Further down, below the junction of the two creeks, along both banks of the Conemaugh river, were about 4000 employees of the Cambria Company and their families. The place where they lived was called Cambria or Cambria City. All these villages and boroughs made up what is known as the city of Johnstown. The Cambria Company employed about 4000 men in its works and mines. Besides these were some railroad shops, planing mills, flour mills, several banks and newspapers. Only the men employed by the Cambria Company and their families lived on the flats and made ground. The Cambria Company owned all this land, and made it a rule not to sell it, but to lease it. The company put rows of two-story frame tenements close together, on their land close to the works, the cheaper class of tenements in solid blocks, to cheapen their construction. The better tenements were separate buildings, with two families to the house. The tenements rented for from $5 to $15 a month, and cost possibly, on the average, $500 to build. They were all of wood, many of them without cellars, and were built as cheaply as possible. The timbers were mostly pine, light and inflammable. It was not an uncommon thing for a fire to break out and to burn one or two rows of tenements. But the different rows were not closely bunched, but were sprinkled around in patches near the separate works, and it was cheaper for the company to rebuild occasionally than to put up brick houses. Besides owning the flats, the Cambria Company owned the surrounding hills. In one of the hills is limestone, in another coal, and there is iron ore not far away. The company has narrow-gauge roads running from its mines down to the works. The city was at the foot of these three hills, which meet in a double V shape. Conemaugh creek flowing down one and Stony creek flowing down the other. The hills are not so far distant that a man with a rifle on any one could not shoot to either of the others. They are several hundred feet high and so steep that roads run up them by a series of zigzag grades. Few people live on these hills except on a small rise of ground across the river from Johnstown. In some places the company has leased the land for dwelling houses, but it retains the ownership of the land and of the coal, iron and limestone in it. The flats having all been occupied, the company in recent years had put up some tenements of a better class on the north bank of the river, higher up than the flood reached. The business part of the town also was higher up than the works and the tenements of the company. In normal times the river is but a few hundred feet wide. The bottom is stony. The current is so fast that there is little deposit along the bank. It is navigable at no time, though in the spring a good canoeist might go down it if he could steer clear of the rocks. In the summer the volume of water diminishes so much that a boy with a pair of rubber boots on can wade across without getting his feet wet, and there have been times when a good jumper could cross the river on the dry stones. Below Johnstown, after Stony creek has joined the Conemaugh creek, the volume of water increases, but the Conemaugh throughout its whole length is nothing but a mountain stream, dry in the summer and roaring in the spring. It runs down into the Kiskiminitas river and into the Allegheny river, and then on to Pittsburgh. It is over 100 miles from Johnstown to Pittsburgh following the windings of the river, twice as far as the straight line. Johnstown was one of the busiest towns of its size in the State. Its tonnage over the Pennsylvania and Baltimore and Ohio roads was larger than the tonnage of many cities three times its size. The Iron and Steel Company is one of the largest iron and steel corporations in the world. It had its main rolling mills, Bessemer steel works, and wire works at Johnstown, though it also has works in other places, and owns ore and coal mines and leases in the South, in Michigan, and in Spain, besides its Pennsylvania works. It had in Johnstown and the surrounding villages 4000 or 5000 men usually at work. In flush times it has employed more than 6000. So important was the town from a railroad point of view that the Baltimore and Ohio ran a branch from Rockwood, on its main line to Pittsburgh, up to Johnstown, forty-five miles. It was one of the main freight stations on the Pennsylvania road, though the passenger business was so small in proportion that some express trains do not stop there. The Pennsylvania road recently put up a large brick station, which was one of the few brick buildings on the flats. Some of the Cambria Company's offices were also of brick, and there was a brick lodging house for young men in the employ of the company. The Pennsylvania road had repair shops there, which employed a few hundred men, and the Baltimore and Ohio branch had some smaller shops. Johnstown had several Catholic and Presbyterian, Methodist, Baptist, and Lutheran churches. It had several daily and weekly papers. The chief were the _Tribune_, the _Democrat_, and the _Freie Presse_. The Cambria Iron Works, the great industry of Johnstown, originated in a few widely separated charcoal furnaces built by pioneer iron workers in the early years of the century. As early as 1803 General Arthur St. Clair engaged in the iron business, and erected the Hermitage furnace about sixteen miles from the present site of Johnstown. In 1809 the working of ores was begun near Johnstown. These were primitive furnaces, where charcoal was the only fuel employed, and the raw material and product were transported entirely on wagons, but they marked the beginning of the manufacture of iron in this country. The Cambria Iron Company was chartered under the general law in 1852, for the operation of four old-fashioned charcoal furnaces in and near Johnstown, which was then a village of 1300 inhabitants, to which the Pennsylvania railroad had just been extended. In 1853 the construction of four coke furnaces was begun, but it was two years before the first was finished. England was then shipping rails into this country under a low duty, and the iron industry here was struggling for existence. The company at Johnstown was aided by a number of Philadelphia merchants, but was unable to continue in business, and suspended in 1854. At a meeting of the creditors in Philadelphia soon afterward a committee was appointed, with Daniel J. Morrell as Chairman, to visit the works at Johnstown and recommend the best means, if any, to save themselves from loss. In his report, Mr. Morrell strongly urged the Philadelphia creditors to invest more money and continue the business. They did so, and Matthew Newkirk was made President of the company. The company again failed in 1855, and Mr. Morrell then associated a number of gentlemen with him, and formed the firm of Wood, Morrell & Co., leasing the works for seven years. The year 1856 was one of great financial depression, and 1857 was worse, and, as a further discouragement, the large furnace was destroyed by fire in June, 1857. In one week, however, the works were in operation again, and a brick building was soon constructed. When the war came, and with it the Morrill tariff of 1861, a broader field was opened up, and in 1862 the present company was formed. The years following the close of the war brought about an unprecedented revival in railroad building. In 1864 there were but 33,908 miles of railroad in the United States, while in 1874 there were 72,741 miles, or more than double. There was a great demand for English steel rails, which advanced to $170 per ton. Congress imposed a duty of $28 a ton on foreign rails, and encouraged American manufacturers to go into the business. The Cambria Company began the erection of Bessemer steel works in 1869, and sold the first steel rails in 1871, at $104 a ton. The company had 700 dwelling-houses, rented to employees. The works and rolling mills of the company were situated upon what was originally a river flat, where the valley of the Conemaugh expanded somewhat, just below Johnstown, and now part of Millville. The Johnstown furnaces, Nos. 1, 2, 3 and 4, formed one complete plant, with stacks 75 feet high and 16 feet in diameter at the base. Steam was generated in forty boilers fired by furnace gas, for eight vertical, direct-acting blowing engines. Nos. 5 and 6 blast furnaces formed together a second plant, with stacks 75 feet high and 19 feet in diameter. The Bessemer plant was the sixth started in the United States (July, 1871). The main building was 102 feet in width by 165 feet in length. The cupolas were six in number. Blast was supplied from eight Baker rotary pressure blowers, driven by engines 16 x 24 inches at 110 revolutions per minute. The Bessemer works were supplied with steam by a battery of twenty-one tubular boilers. The best average, although not the very highest work done in the Bessemer department, was 103 heats of 8-1/2 tons each for each twenty-four hours. The best weekly record reached 4847 tons of ingots, and the best monthly record 20,304 tons. The best daily output was 900 tons of ingots. All grades of steel were made in the converters, from the softest wire and bridge stock to spring stock. The open-hearth building, 120 x 155 feet, containing three Pernot revolving hearth furnaces of fifteen tons capacity each, supplied with natural gas. The rolling mill was 100 feet in width by 1900 feet in length, and contained a 24-inch train of two stands of three-high rolls, and a ten-ton traveling crane for changing rolls. The product of the mill was 80,000 pounds per turn. The bolt and nut works produced 1000 kegs of finished track bolts per month, besides machine bolts. The capacity of the axle shop was 100 finished steel axles per day. The "Gautier steel department" consisted of a brick building 200 x 50 feet, where the wire was annealed, drawn and finished; a brick warehouse 373 x 43 feet, many shops, offices, etc.; the barb-wire mill, 50 x 250 feet, where the celebrated Cambria link barb wire was made, and the main merchant mill, 725 x 250 feet. These mills produced wire, shafting, springs, plough-shares, rake and harrow teeth, and other kinds of agricultural implement steel. In 1887 they produced 50,000 tons of this material, which was marketed mainly in the Western States. Grouped with the principal mills thus described were the foundries, pattern and other shops, draughting offices and time offices, etc., all structures of a firm and substantial character. The company operated about thirty-five miles of railroad tracks, employing in this service twenty-four locomotives, and owned 1500 cars. To the large bodies of mountain land connected with the old charcoal furnaces additions have been made of ores and coking coals, and the company now owns in fee simple 54,423 acres of mineral lands. It has 600 beehive coke ovens in the Connellsville district, and the coal producing capacity of the mines in Pennsylvania owned by the company is 815,000 tons per year. In continuation of the policy of Daniel J. Morrell, the Cambria Iron Company has done a great deal for its employees. The Cambria Library was erected by the Iron Company and presented to the town. The building was 43 x 68-1/2 feet, and contained a library of 6914 volumes. It contained a large and valuable collection of reports of the United States and the State, and it is feared that they have been greatly damaged. The Cambria Mutual Benefit Association is composed of employees of the company, and is supported by it. The employees receive benefits when sick or injured, and in case of death their families are provided for. The Board of Directors of this association also controls the Cambria Hospital, which was erected by the Iron Company in 1866, on Prospect Hill, in the northern part of the town. The company also maintained a club house, and a store which was patronized by others, as well as by its employees. CHAPTER II. Twenty miles up Conemaugh creek, beyond the workingmen's villages of South Fork and Mineral Point, was Conemaugh lake. It was a part of the old and long disused Pennsylvania Canal system. At the head of Conemaugh creek, back among the hills, three hundred feet or more above the level of Johnstown streets, was a small, natural lake. When the canal was building, the engineers took this lake to supply the western division of the canal which ran from there to Pittsburgh. The Eastern division ended at Hollidaysburgh east of the summit of the Alleghanies, where there was a similar reservoir. Between the two was the old Portage road, one of the first railroads constructed in the State. The canal was abandoned some years ago, as the Pennsylvania road destroyed its traffic. The Pennsylvania Company got a grant of the canal from the State. Some years after the canal was abandoned the Hollidaysburgh reservoir was torn down, the water gradually escaping into the Frankstown branch of the Juniata river. The people of the neighborhood objected to the existence of the reservoir after the canal was abandoned, as little attention was paid to the structure, and the farmers in the valley below feared that the dam would break and drown them. The water was all let out of that reservoir about three years ago. The dam above Johnstown greatly increased the small natural lake there. It was a pleasant drive from Johnstown to the reservoir. Boating and fishing parties often went out there. Near the reservoir is Cresson, a summer resort owned by the Pennsylvania road. Excursion parties are made up in the summer time by the Pennsylvania Company, and special trains are run for them from various points to Cresson. A club called the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club was organized some years ago, and got the use of the lake from the Pennsylvania Company. Most of the members of the club live in Pittsburgh, and are prominent iron and coal men. Besides them there are some of the officials of the Pennsylvania road among the members. They increased the size of the dam until it was not far from a hundred feet in height, and its entire length, from side to side at the top, was not far from nine hundred feet. This increased the size of the lake to three miles in length and a mile and a quarter in width. It was an irregular oval in shape. The volume of water in it depended on the time of the year. Some of the people of Johnstown had thought for years that the dam might break, but they did not think that its breaking would do more than flood the flats and damage the works of the Cambria Company. When the Hunting and Fishing Club bought the site of the old reservoir a section of 150 feet had been washed out of the middle. This was rebuilt at an expense of $17,000 and the work was thought to be very strong. At the base it was 380 feet thick and gradually tapered until at the top it was about 35 feet thick. It was considered amply secure, and such faith had the members of the club in its stability that the top of the dam was utilized as a driveway. It took two years to complete the work, men being engaged from '79 to '81. While it was under process of construction the residents of Johnstown expressed some fears as to the solidity of the work, and requested that it be examined by experts. An engineer of the Cambria Iron Works, secured through Mr. Morrell, of that institution, one provided by Mr. Pitcairn, of the Pennsylvania Railroad, and Nathan McDowell, chosen by the club itself, made a thorough examination. They pronounced the structure perfectly safe, but suggested some precautionary measures as to the stopping of leaks, that were faithfully carried out. The members of the club themselves discovered that the sewer that carried away the surplus or overflow from the lake was not large enough in times of storm. So five feet of solid rock were cut away in order to increase the mouth of the lake. Usually the surface of the water was 15 feet below the top of the dam, and never in recent years did it rise to more than eight feet. In 1881, when work was going on, a sudden rise occurred, and then the water threatened to do what it did on this occasion. The workmen hastened to the scene and piled débris of all sorts on the top and thus prevented a washout. For more than a year there had been fears of a disaster. The foundations of the dam at South Fork were considered shaky early in 1888, and many increasing leakages were reported from time to time. "We were afraid of that lake," said a gentleman who had lived in Johnstown for years; "We were afraid of that lake seven years ago. No one could see the immense height to which that artificial dam had been built without fearing the tremendous power of the water behind it. The dam must have had a sheer height of 100 feet, thus forcing the water that high above its natural bed, and making a lake at least three miles long and a mile wide, out of what could scarcely be called a pond. I doubt if there is a man or woman in Johnstown who at some time or other had not feared and spoken of the terrible disaster that has now come. "People wondered, and asked why the dam was not strengthened, as it certainly had become weak; but nothing was done, and by and by they talked less and less about it, as nothing happened, though now and then some would shake their heads as if conscious the fearful day would come some time when their worst fears would be transcended by the horror of the actual occurrence." There is not a shadow of doubt but that the citizens of Cambria County frequently complained, and that at the time the dam was constructed a vigorous effort was made to put a stop to the work. It is true that the leader in this movement was not a citizen of Johnstown, but he was and is a large mine owner in Cambria County. His mine adjoins the reservoir property. He was frequently on the spot, and his own engineer inspected the work. He says the embankment was principally of shale and clay, and that straw was used to stop the leaking of water while the work was going on. He called on the sheriff of Cambria County and told him it was his duty to apply to the court for an injunction. The sheriff promised to give the matter his attention, but, instead of going before court, went to the Cambria Company for consultation. An employee was sent up to make an inspection, and as his report was favorable to the reservoir work the sheriff went no further. But the gentleman referred to said that he had not failed to make public his protest at the time and to renew it frequently. This recommendation for an injunction and protest were spoken of by citizens of Altoona as a hackneyed subject. Confirmation has certainly been had at South Fork, Conemaugh, Millvale and Johnstown. The rumor of an expected break was prevalent at these places, but citizens remarked that the rumor was a familiar incident of the annual freshets. It was the old classic story of "Wolf, wolf." They gave up the first floors to the water and retired upstairs to wait until the river should recede, as they had done often before, scouting the oft-told story of the breaking of the reservoir. [Illustration: RUINS OF JOHNSTOWN, VIEWED FROM PROSPECT HILL.] An interesting story, involving the construction and history of the Conemaugh lake dam, was related by J. B. Montgomery, who formerly lived in Western Pennsylvania, and is now well known in the West as a railroad contractor. "The dam," said he, "was built about thirty-five years ago by the State of Pennsylvania, as a feeder for the western division of the Pennsylvania Canal. The plans and specifications for the dam were furnished by the Chief Engineer of the State. I am not sure, but it is my impression, that Colonel William Milnor Roberts held the office at the time. Colonel Roberts was one of the most famous engineers in the country. He died several years ago in Chili. The contractors for the construction of the dam were General J. K. Moorhead and Judge H. B. Packer, of Williamsport, a brother of Governor Packer. General Moorhead had built many dams before this on the rivers of Pennsylvania, and his work was always known to be of the very best. In this case, however, all that he had to do was to build the dam according to the specifications furnished by the State. The dam was built of stone and wood throughout, and was of particularly solid construction. There is no significance in the discovery of straw and dirt among the ruins of the dam. Both are freely used when dams are being built, to stop the numerous leaks. "The dam had three waste-gates at the bottom, so arranged that they could be raised when there was too much water in the lake, and permit the escape of the surplus. These gates were in big stone arches, through which the water passed to the canal when the lake was used as a feeder. "In 1859 the Pennsylvania Railroad Company purchased the canal from the State, and the dam and lake went into the possession of that company. Shortly afterward the Pennsylvania Company abandoned the western division of the canal, and the dam became useless as a feeder. For twenty-five years the lake was used only as a fish-pond, and the dam and the gates were forgotten. Five years ago the lake was leased to a number of Pittsburgh men, who stocked it with bass, trout, and other game fish. I have heard it said that the waste-gates had not been opened for a great many years. If this is so, no wonder the dam broke. Naturally the fishermen did not want to open the gates after the lake was stocked, for the fish would have run out. A sluiceway should have been built on the side of the dam, so that when the water reached a certain height the surplus could escape. The dam was not built with the intention that the water should flow over the top of it under any circumstances, and if allowed to escape in that way the water was bound to undermine it in a short time. With a dam the height of this the pressure of a quantity of water great enough to overflow it must be something tremendous. "If it is true that the waste-gates were never opened after the Pittsburgh men had leased the lake, the explanation of the bursting of the dam is to be found right there. It may be that the dam had not been looked after and strengthened of late years, and it was undoubtedly weakened in the period of twenty-five years during which the lake was not used. After the construction of the dam the lake was called the Western Reservoir. The south fork of the Conemaugh, which fed the lake, is a little stream not over ten feet wide, but even when there were no unusual storms it carried enough water to fill the lake full within a year, showing how important it was that the gates should be opened occasionally to run off the surplus." Mr. Montgomery was one of a party of engineers who inspected the dam when it was leased by the Pennsylvania Company, five years ago. It then needed repairs, but was in a perfectly safe condition if the water was not allowed to flow over it. CHAPTER III. Friday, May 31st, 1889. The day before had been a solemn holiday. In every village veterans of the War for the Union had gathered; in every cemetery flowers had been strewn upon the grave-mounds of the heroic dead. Now the people were resuming the every-day toil. The weather was rainy. It had been wet for some days. Stony Creek and Conemaugh were turbid and noisy. The little South Fork, which ran into the upper end of the lake, was swollen into a raging torrent. The lake was higher than usual; higher than ever. But the valley below lay in fancied security, and all the varied activities of life pursued their wonted round. Friday, May 31st, 1889. Record that awful date in characters of funereal hue. It was a dark and stormy day, and amid the darkness and the storm the angel of death spread his wings over the fated valley, unseen, unknown. Midday comes. Disquieting rumors rush down the valley. There is a roar of an approaching storm--approaching doom! The water swiftly rises. A horseman thunders down the valley: "To the hills, for God's sake! To the hills, for your lives!" They stare at him as at a madman, and their hesitating feet linger in the valley of the shadow of death, and the shadow swiftly darkens, and the everlasting hills veil their faces with rain and mist before the scene that greets them. This is what happened:-- The heavy rainfall raised the lake until its water began to pour over the top of the dam. The dam itself--wretchedly built of mud and boulders--saturated through and through, began to leak copiously here and there. Each watery sapper and miner burrowed on, followers swiftly enlarging the murderous tunnels. The whole mass became honeycombed. And still the rain poured down, and still the South Fork and a hundred minor streams sent in their swelling floods, until, with a roar like that of the opening gates of the Inferno belching forth the legions of the damned, the wall gave way, and with the rush of a famished tiger into a sheepfold, the whirlwind of water swept down the valley on its errand of destruction-- "And like a horse unbroken, When first he feels the rein, The furious river struggled hard, And tossed his tawny mane, And burst the curb, and bounded, Rejoicing to be free, And, whirling down in mad career, Battlement and plank and pier, Rushed headlong to the sea!" According to the statements of people who lived in Johnstown and other towns on the line of the river, ample time was given to the inhabitants of Johnstown by the railroad officials and by other gentlemen of standing and reputation. In hundreds of cases this warning was utterly disregarded, and those who heeded it early in the day were looked upon as cowards, and many jeers were uttered by lips that now are cold. The people of Johnstown also had a special warning in the fact that the dam in Stony Creek, just above the town, broke about noon, and thousands of feet of lumber passed down the river. Yet they hesitated, and even when the wall of water, almost forty feet high, was at their doors, one man is said by a survivor to have told his family that the stream would not rise very high. How sudden the calamity is illustrated by an incident which Mr. Bender, the night chief operator of the Western Union in Pittsburgh, relates: "At 3 o'clock that Friday afternoon," said he, "the girl operator at Johnstown was cheerfully ticking away that she had to abandon the office on the first floor, because the water was three feet deep there. She said she was telegraphing from the second story and the water was gaining steadily. She was frightened, and said many houses were flooded. This was evidently before the dam broke, for our man here said something encouraging to her, and she was talking back as only a cheerful girl operator can, when the receiver's skilled ear caught a sound on the wire made by no human hand, which told him that the wires had grounded, or that the house had been swept away in the flood from the lake, no one knows which now. At 3 o'clock the girl was there, and at 3.07 we might as well have asked the grave to answer us." The water passed over the dam about a foot above its top, beginning at about half-past 2. Whatever happened in the way of a cloud-burst took place in the night. There had been little rain up to dark. When the workmen woke in the morning the lake was full, and rising at the rate of a foot an hour. It kept on rising until 2 P. M., when it began breaking over the dam and undermining it. Men were sent three or four times during the day to warn people below of their danger. When the final break came at 3 o'clock, there was a sound like tremendous and continued peals of thunder. Trees, rocks and earth shot up into mid-air in great columns and then started down the ravine. A farmer who escaped said that the water did not come down like a wave, but jumped on his house and beat it to fragments in an instant. He was safe on the hillside, but his wife and two children were killed. Herbert Webber, who was employed by the Sportsmen's Club at the lake, tells that for three days previous to the final outburst, the water of the lake forced itself out through the interstices of the masonry, so that the front of the dam resembled a large watering pot. The force of the water was so great that one of these jets squirted full thirty feet horizontally from the stone wall. All this time, too, the feeders of the lake, particularly three of them, more nearly resembled torrents than mountain streams, and were supplying the dammed up body of water with quite 3,000,000 gallons of water hourly. At 11 o'clock that Friday morning, Webber says he was attending to a camp about a mile back from the dam, when he noticed that the surface of the lake seemed to be lowering. He doubted his eyes, and made a mark on the shore, and then found that his suspicions were undoubtedly well founded. He ran across the country to the dam, and there saw, he declares, the water of the lake welling out from beneath the foundation stones of the dam. Absolutely helpless, he was compelled to stand there and watch the gradual development of what was to be the most disastrous flood of this continent. According to his reckoning it was 2.45 when the stones in the centre of the dam began to sink because of the undermining, and within eight minutes a gap of twenty feet was made in the lower half of the wall face, through which the water poured as though forced by machinery of stupendous power. By 3 o'clock the toppling masonry, which before had partaken somewhat of the form of an arch, fell in, and then the remainder of the wall opened outward like twin gates, and the great storage lake was foaming and thundering down the valley of the Conemaugh. Webber became so awestruck at the catastrophe that he declares he was unable to leave the spot until the lake had fallen so low that it showed bottom fifty feet below him. How long a time elapsed he says he does not know before he recovered sufficient power of observation to notice this, but he does not think that more than five minutes passed. Webber says that had the dam been repaired after the spring freshet of 1888 the disaster would not have occurred. Had it been given ordinary attention in the spring of 1887 the probabilities are that thousands of lives would have been saved. Imagine, if you can, a solid piece of ground, thirty-five feet wide and over one hundred feet high, and then, again, that a space of two hundred feet is cut out of it, through which is rushing over seven hundred acres of water, and you can have only a faint conception of the terrible force of the blow that came upon the people of this vicinity like a clap of thunder out of a clear sky. It was irresistible in its power and carried everything before it. After seeing the lake and the opening through the dam it can be readily understood how that out-break came to be so destructive in its character. The lake had been leaking, and a couple of Italians were at work just over the point where the break occurred, and in an instant, without warning, it gave way and they went down in the whirling mass of water, and were swept into eternity. Mr. Crouse, proprietor of the South Fork Fishing Club Hotel, says: "When the dam of Conemaugh lake broke the water seemed to leap, scarcely touching the ground. It bounded down the valley, crashing and roaring, carrying everything before it. For a mile its front seemed like a solid wall twenty feet high." The only warning given to Johnstown was sent from South Fork village by Freight Agent Dechert. _When the great wall that held the body of water began to crumble at the top he sent a message begging the people of Johnstown for God's sake to take to the hills._ He reports no serious accidents at South Fork. Richard Davis ran to Prospect Hill when the water raised. As to Mr. Dechert's message, he says just such have been sent down at each flood since the lake was made. _The warning so often proved useless that little attention was paid to it this time._ "I cannot describe the mad rush," he said. "At first it looked like dust. That must have been the spray. I could see houses going down before it like a child's play blocks set on edge in a row. As it came nearer I could see houses totter for a moment, then rise and the next moment be crushed like egg shells, against each other." Mr. John G. Parke, of Philadelphia, a civil engineer, was at the dam superintending some improvements in the drainage system at the lake. He did all he could with the help of a gang of laborers to avert the catastrophe and to warn those in danger. His story of the calamity is this:-- "For several days prior to the breaking of the dam, storm after storm swept over the mountains and flooded every creek and rivulet. The waters from these varied sources flowed into the lake, which finally was not able to stand the pressure forced upon it. Friday morning I realized the danger that was threatened, and although from that time until three o'clock every human effort was made to prevent a flood, they were of no avail. When I at last found that the dam was bound to go, I started out to tell the people, and by twelve o'clock everybody in the Conemaugh region did or should have known of their danger. Three hours later my gravest fears were more than realized. It is an erroneous idea, however, that the dam burst. It simply moved away. The water gradually ate into the embankment until there was nothing left but a frail bulwark of wood. This finally split asunder and sent the waters howling down the mountains." CHAPTER IV. The course of the torrent from the broken dam at the foot of the lake to Johnstown is almost eighteen miles, and with the exception of one point, the water passed through a narrow V-shaped valley. Four miles below the dam lay the town of South Fork, where the South Fork itself empties into the Conemaugh river. The town contained about 2000 inhabitants. About four-fifths of it has been swept away. Four miles further down on the Conemaugh river, which runs parallel with the main line of the Pennsylvania Railroad, was the town of Mineral Point. It had 800 inhabitants, 90 per cent. of the houses being on a flat and close to the river. Terrible as it may seem, very few of them have escaped. Six miles further down was the town of Conemaugh, and here alone there was a topographical possibility--the spreading of the flood and the breaking of its force. It contained 2500 inhabitants, and has been almost wholly devastated. Woodvale, with 2000 people, lay a mile below Conemaugh in the flat, and one mile further down were Johnstown and its suburbs--Cambria City and Conemaugh borough, with a population of 30,000. On made ground, and stretched along right at the river's verge, were the immense iron works of the Cambria Iron and Steel Company, who have $5,000,000 invested in their plant. Besides this there are many other large industrial establishments on the bank of the river. The stream of human beings that was swept before the angry floods was something most pitiful to behold. Men, women and children were carried along frantically shrieking for help, but their cries availed them nothing. Rescue was impossible. Husbands were swept past their wives, and children were borne along, at a terrible speed, to certain death, before the eyes of their terrorized and frantic parents. Houses, out-buildings, trees and barns were carried on the angry flood of waters as so much chaff. Cattle standing in the fields were overwhelmed, and their carcasses strewed the tide. The railroad tracks converging on the town were washed out, and wires in all directions were prostrated. Down through the Packsaddle came the rushing waters. Clinging to improvised rafts, constructed in the death battle from floating boards and timbers, were agonized men, women and children, their heart-rending shrieks for help striking horror to the breasts of the onlookers. Their cries were of no avail. Carried along at a railway speed on the breast of this rushing torrent, no human ingenuity could devise a means of rescue. It is impossible to describe briefly the suddenness with which the disaster came. A warning sound was heard at Conemaugh a few minutes before the rush of water came, but it was attributed to some meteorological disturbance, and no trouble was borrowed because of the thing unseen. As the low, rumbling noise increased in volume, however, and came nearer, a suspicion of danger began to force itself even upon the bravest, which was increased to a certainty a few minutes later, when, with a rush, the mighty stream spread out in width, and when there was no time to do anything to save themselves. Many of the unfortunates were whirled into the middle of the stream before they could turn around; men, women and children were struggling in the streets, and it is thought that many of them never reached Johnstown, only a mile or two below. At Johnstown a similar scene was enacted, only on a much larger scale. The population is greater and the sweeping whirlpool rushed into a denser mass of humanity. The imagination of the reader can better depict the spectacle than the pen of the writer can give it. It was a twilight of terror, and the gathering shades of evening closed in on a panorama of horrors that has few parallels in the history of casualties. When the great wave from Conemaugh lake, behind the dam, came down the Conemaugh Valley, the first obstacle it struck was the great viaduct over the South Fork. This viaduct was a State work, built to carry the old Portage road across the Fork. The Pennsylvania Railroad parallels the Portage road for a long distance, and runs over the Fork. Besides sweeping the viaduct down, the bore, or smaller bores on its wings, washed out the Portage road for miles. One of the small bores went down the bed of a brook which comes into the Conemaugh at the village of South Fork, which is some distance above the viaduct. The big bore backed the river above the village. The small bore was thus checked in its course and flowed into the village. [Illustration: GENERAL VIEW OF THE RUINS, LOOKING UP STONY CREEK.] The obstruction below being removed, the backed-up water swept the village of South Fork away. The flood came down. It moved steadily, but with a velocity never yet attained by an engine moved by power controllable by man. It accommodated itself to the character of the breaks in the hill. It filled every one, whether narrow or broad. Its thrust was sideways and downward as well as forward. By side thrusts it scoured every cave and bend in the line of the mountains, lessening its direct force to exert power laterally, but at the same time moving its centre straight on Johnstown. It is well to state that the Conemaugh river is tortuous, like most streams of its kind. Wherever the mountains retreat, flats make out from them to the channel of the stream. It was on such flats that South Fork and Mineral Point villages and the boroughs of Conemaugh, Franklin, Woodvale, East Conemaugh and Johnstown were built. After emerging from the South Fork, with the ruins of the great viaduct in its maw, it swept down a narrow valley until just above the village of Mineral Point. There it widened, and, thrusting its right wing into the hollow where the village nestled, it swept away every house on the flat. These were soon welded into a compact mass, with trees and logs and general drift stuff. This mass followed the bore. What the bore could not budge, its follower took up and carried. The first great feat at carrying and lifting was done at East Conemaugh. It tore up every building in the yard of the Pennsylvania Railroad. It took locomotives and carried them down and dug holes for their burials. It has been said that the flood had a downward thrust. There was proof of this on the banks of the river, where there was a sort of breakwater of concreted cinders, slag, and other things, making a combination harder than stone. Unable to get a grip directly on these banks, the flood jumped over them, threw the whole weight of the mass of logs and broken buildings down on the sand behind them, scooped this sand out, and then, by backward blows, knocked the concrete to pieces. In this it displayed almost the uttermost skill of human malice. After crossing the flat of East Conemaugh and scooping out of their situations sixty-five houses in two streets, as well as tearing passenger trains to pieces, drowning an unknown number of persons, and picking up others to dash against whatever obstacles it encountered, it sent a force to the left, which cut across the flat of Franklin borough, ripped thirty-two houses to pieces, and cut a second channel for the Conemaugh river, leaving an island to mark the place of division of the forces of the flood. The strength of the eastern wing can be estimated from the fact that the iron bars piled in heaps in the stock yard of the Cambria Iron Company were swept away, and that some of them may be found all along the river as far as Johnstown. After this came the utter wiping out of the borough of Woodvale, on the flat to the northeast of Johnstown and diagonally opposite it. Woodvale had a population of nearly 3000 people. It requires a large number of houses to shelter so many. Estimating 10 to a family, which is a big estimate, there were 300 houses in Woodvale. There were also a woolen mill, a flour mill, the Gautier Barb Wire Mills of the Cambria Iron Company, and the tannery of W. H. Rosenthal & Co. Only the flour mill and the middle section of the bridge remain. The flat is bare otherwise. The stables of the Woodvale Horse Railroad Company went out with the water; every horse and car in them went also. The change was wrought in five minutes. Robert Miller, who lost two of his children and his mother-in-law, thus describes the scene: "I was standing near the Woodvale Bridge, between Maple avenue and Portage street, in Johnstown. The river was high, and David Lucas and I were speculating about the bridges, whether they would go down or not. Lucas said, 'I guess this bridge will stand; it does not seem to be weakened.' Just then we saw a dark object up the river. Over it was a white mist. It was high and somehow dreadful, though we could not make it out. Dark smoke seemed to form a background for the mist. We did not wait for more. By instinct we knew the big dam had burst and its water was coming upon us. Lucas jumped on a car horse, rode across the bridge, and went yelling into Johnstown. The flood overtook him, and he had to abandon his horse and climb a high hill. "I went straight to my house in Woodvale, warning everybody as I ran. My wife and mother-in-law were ready to move, with my five children, so we went for the hillside, but we were not speedy enough. The water had come over the flat at its base and cut us off. I and my wife climbed into a coal car with one of the children, to get out of the water. I put two more children into the car and looked around for my other children and my mother-in-law. My mother-in-law was a stout woman, weighing about two hundred and twelve pounds. She could not climb into a car. The train was too long for her to go around it, so she tried to crawl under, leading the children. "The train was suddenly pushed forward by the flood, and she was knocked down and crushed, so were my children, by the same shock. My wife and children in the car were thrown down and covered with coal. I was taken off by the water, but I swam to the car and pulled them from under a lot of coal. A second blow to the train threw our car against the hillside and us out of it to firm earth. I never saw my two children and mother-in-law after the flood first struck the train of coal cars. I have often heard it said that the dam might break, but I never paid any attention to it before. It was common talk whenever there was a freshet or a big pack of ice." The principal street of Woodvale was Maple avenue. The Conemaugh river now rushes through it from one side of the flat to the other. Its pavement is beautifully clean. It is doubtful that it will ever be cleared by mortal agency again. Breaking down the barbed steel wire mill and the tannery at the bridge, the flood went across the regular channel of the river and struck the Gautier Steel Works, made up of numerous stanch brick buildings and one immense structure of iron, filled with enormous boilers, fly wheels, and machinery generally. The buildings are strewn through Johnstown. Near their sites are some bricks, twisted iron beams, boilers, wheels, and engine bodies, bound together with logs, driftwood, tree branches, and various other things, woven in and out of one another marvelously. These aggregations are of enormous size and weight. They were not too strong for the immense power of the destroying agent, for a twenty-ton locomotive, taken from the Gautier Works, now lies in Main street, three-quarters of a mile away. It did not simply take a good grip upon them; it was spreading out its line for a force by its left wing, and hit simultaneously upon Johnstown flat, its people and houses, while its right wing did whatever it could in the way of helping the destructive work. The left wing scoured the flat to the base of the mountain. With a portion of the centre it then rushed across Stony creek. The remainder of the central force cleared several paths in diverging directions through the town. While the left and centre were tearing houses to pieces and drowning untold lives, the right had been hurrying along the base of the northern hills, in the channel of the Conemaugh river, carrying down the houses, bridges, human beings and other drift that had been picked up on the way from South Fork. Thus far the destruction at Johnstown had not been one-quarter what it is now. But the bed of the Conemaugh beyond Johnstown is between high hills that come close together. The cut is bridged by a viaduct. The right wing, with its plunder, was stopped by the bridge and the bend. The left and centre came tearing down Stony creek. There was a collision of forces. The men, women, children, horses, other domestic animals, houses, bridges, railroad cars, logs and tree branches were jammed together in a solid mass, which only dynamite can break up. The outlet of Stony creek was almost completely closed and the channel of the Conemaugh was also choked. The water in both surged back. In Stony creek it went along the curve of the base of the hill in front of which Kernville is built. Dividing its strength, one part of the flood went up Stony creek a short distance and moved around again into Johnstown. It swept before it many more houses than before and carried them around in a circle, until they met and crashed against other houses, torn from the point of Johnstown flat by a similar wave moving in a circle from the Conemaugh. The two waves and their burdens went around and around in slowly-diminishing circles, until most of the houses had been ground to pieces. There are living men, women and children who circled in these frightful vortices for an hour. Lawyer Rose, his wife, his two brothers and his two sisters are among those. They were drawn out of their house by the suction of the retreating water, and thus were started on a frightful journey. Three times they went from the Kernville side of the creek to the centre of the Johnstown flat and past their own dwelling. They were dropped at last on the Kernville shore. Mr. Rose had his collar bone broken, but the others were hurt only by fright, wetting and some bruises. Some of the back water went up the creek and did damage at Grubtown and Hornerstown. More of it, following the line of the mountain, rushed in at the back of Kernville. It cut a clear path for itself from the lower end of the village to the upper end, diagonally opposite, passing through the centre. It sent little streams to topple homes over in side places and went on a round trip into the higher part of Johnstown, between the creek and the hill. It carried houses from Kernville to the Johnstown bank of the creek, and left them there. Then it coursed down the bank, overturning trains of the Baltimore and Ohio railroad, and also houses, and keeping on until it had made the journey several times. How so marvelous a force was exerted is illustrated in the following statement from Jacob Reese, of Pittsburg, the inventor of the basic process for manufacturing steel. Mr. Reese says:-- "When the South Fork dam gave way, 16,000,000 tons of water rushed down the mountain side, carrying thousands of tons of rocks, logs and trees with it. When the flood reached the Conemaugh Valley it struck the Pennsylvania Railroad at a point where they make up the trains for ascending the Allegheny Mountains. Several trains with their locomotives and loaded cars were swept down the valley before the flood wave, which is said to have been fifty feet high. Cars loaded with iron, cattle, and freight of all kinds, with those mighty locomotives, weighing from seventy to one hundred tons each, were pushed ahead of the flood, trucks and engines rolling over and over like mere toys. "Sixteen million tons of water gathering fences, barns, houses, mills and shops into its maw. Down the valley for three miles or more rushed this mighty avalanche of death, sweeping everything before it, and leaving nothing but death and destruction behind it. When it struck the railroad bridge at Johnstown, and not being able to force its way through that stone structure, the débris was gorged and the water dammed up fifty feet in ten minutes. "This avalanche was composed of more than 100,000 tons of rocks, locomotives, freight cars, car trucks, iron, logs, trees and other material pushed forward by 16,000,000 tons of water falling 500 feet, and it was this that, sliding over the ground, mowed down the houses, mills and factories as a mowing machine does a field of grain. It swept down with a roaring, crushing sound, at the rate of a mile a minute, and hurled 10,000 people into the jaws of death in less than half an hour. And so the people called it the avalanche of death." CHAPTER V. "Johnstown is annihilated," telegraphed Superintendent Pitcairn to Pittsburg on Friday night. "He came," says one who visited the place on Sunday, "very close to the facts of the case. Nothing like it was ever seen in this country. Where long rows of dwelling-houses and business blocks stood forty-eight hours ago, ruin and desolation now reign supreme. Probably 1500 houses have been swept from the face of the earth as completely as if they had never been erected. Main street, from end to end, is piled fifteen and twenty feet high with débris, and in some instances it is as high as the roofs of the houses. This great mass of wreckage fills the street from curb to curb, and frequently has crushed the buildings in and filled the space with reminders of the terrible calamity. There is not a man in the place who can give any reliable estimate of the number of houses that have been swept away. City Solicitor Kuehn, who should be very good authority in this matter, places the number at 1500. From the woolen mill above the island to the bridge, a distance of probably two miles, a strip of territory nearly a half mile in width has been swept clean, not a stick of timber or one brick on top of another being left to tell the story. It is the most complete wreck that imagination could portray. "All day long men, women, and children were plodding about the desolate waste looking in vain to locate the boundaries of their former homes. Nothing but a wide expanse of mud, ornamented here and there with heaps of driftwood, remained, however, for their contemplation. It is perfectly safe to say that every house in the city that was not located well up on the hillside was either swept completely away or wrecked so badly that rebuilding will be absolutely necessary. These losses, however, are nothing compared to the frightful sacrifice of precious human lives to be seen on every hand. "During all this solemn Sunday Johnstown has been drenched with the tears of stricken mortals, and the air is filled with sobs and sighs that come from breaking hearts. There are scenes enacted here every hour and every minute that affect all beholders profoundly. When homes are thus torn asunder in an instant, and the loved ones hurled from the arms of loving and devoted mothers, there is an element of sadness in the tragedy that overwhelms every heart. "A slide, a series of frightful tosses from side to side, a run, and you have crossed the narrow rope bridge which spanned the chasm dug by the waters between the stone bridge and Johnstown. Crossing the bridge is an exciting task, yet many women accomplished it rather than remain in Johnstown. The bridge pitched like a ship in a storm. Within two inches of your feet rushed the muddy waters of the Conemaugh. There were no ropes to easily guide, and creeping was more convenient than walking. One had to cross the Conemaugh at a second point in order to reach Johnstown proper. This was accomplished by a skiff ferry. The ferryman clung to a rope and pulled the boat over. "After landing one walks across a desolate sea of mud, in which there are interred many human bodies. It was once the handsome portion of the town. The cellars are filled up with mud, so that a person who has never seen the city can hardly imagine that houses ever stood where they did. Four streets solidly built up with houses have been swept away. Nothing but a small, two-story frame house remains. It was near the edge of the wave and thus escaped, although one side was torn off. The walk up to wrecks of houses was interrupted in many places by small branch streams. Occasionally across the flats could be seen the remains of a victim. The stench arising from the mud is sickening. Along the route were strewn tin utensils, pieces of machinery, iron pipes, and wares of every conceivable kind. In the midst of the wreck a clothing store dummy, with a hand in the position of beckoning to a person, stands erect and uninjured. "It is impossible to describe the appearance of Main street. Whole houses have been swept down this one street and become lodged. The wreck is piled as high as the second-story windows. The reporter could step from the wreck into the auditorium of the opera house. The ruins consist of parts of houses, trees, saw logs and reels from the wire factory. Many houses have their side walls and roofs torn up, and one can walk directly into what had been second-story bed-rooms, or go in by way of the top. Further up town a raft of logs lodged in the street, and did great damage. At the beginning of the wreckage, which is at the opening of the valley of the Conemaugh, one can look up the valley for miles and not see a house. Nothing stands but an old woolen mill. "Charles Luther is the name of the boy who stood on an adjacent elevation and saw the whole flood. He said he heard a grinding noise far up the valley, and looking up he could see a dark line moving slowly toward him. He saw that it was houses. On they came, like the hand of a giant clearing off his table. High in the air would be tossed a log or beam, which fell back with a crash. Down the valley it moved and across the little mountain city. For ten minutes nothing but moving houses were seen, and then the waters came with a roar and a rush. This lasted for two hours, and then it began to flow more steadily." Seen from the high hill across the river from Johnstown, the Conemaugh Valley gives an easy explanation of the terrible destruction which it has suffered. This valley, stretching back almost in a straight line for miles, suddenly narrows near Johnstown. The wall of water which came tearing down toward the town, picking up all the houses and mills in the villages along its way, suddenly rose in height as it came to the narrow pass. It swept over the nearest part of the town and met the waters of Stony creek, swollen by rains, rushing along with the speed of a torrent. The two forces coming together, each turned aside and started away again in a half-circle, seeking an outlet in the lower Conemaugh Valley. The massive stone bridge of the Pennsylvania Railroad Company, at the lower base of the triangle, was almost instantly choked up with the great mass of wreckage dashed against it, and became a dam that could not be swept away, and proved to be the ruin of the town and the villages above. The waters checked here, formed a vast whirlpool, which destroyed everything within its circle. It backed up on the other side of the triangle, and devastated the village of Kernville, across the river from Johnstown. The force of the current was truly appalling. The best evidence of its force is exhibited in the mass of débris south of the Pennsylvania bridge. Persons on the hillsides declare that houses, solid from their foundation stones, were rushed on to destruction at the rate of thirty miles an hour. On one house forty persons were counted; their cries for help were heard far above the roaring waters. At the railroad bridge the house parted in the middle, and the cries of the unfortunate people were smothered in the engulfing waters. At the Cambria Iron Works a huge hickory struck the south brick wall of the rolling mill at an angle, went through it and the west wall, where it remains. A still more extraordinary incident is seen at the foot-bridge of the Pennsylvania station, on the freight track built for the Cambria Iron Works. The sunken track and bridge are built in a curve. In clearing out the track the Cambria workmen discovered two huge bridge trusses intact, the larger one 30 feet long and 10 feet high. It lay close to the top of the bridge and had been driven into the cut at least fifty feet. It was with an impulse to the right side of the mountain that the great mass of water came down the Conemaugh river. It was a mass of water with a front forty feet high, and an eighth of a mile wide. Its velocity was so great that its first sweep did little damage on either side. It had no time to spread. Where it burst from the gap it swept south until it struck the bridge, and, although it was ten feet or more deep over the top of the bridge, the obstruction of the mass of masonry was so great that the head of the rush of water was turned back along the Pennsylvania Railroad bluff on the left, and, sweeping up to where it met the first stream again, licked up the portion of the town on the left side of the triangular plain. A great eddy was thus formed. Through the Stony Creek Gap to the right there was a rush of surplus water. In two minutes after the current first burst through, forty feet deep, with a solid mass of water whirling around with a current of tremendous velocity, it was a whirlpool vastly greater than that of ten Niagaras. The only outlet was under and over the railroad bridge, and the continuing rush of the waters into the valley from the gap was greater for some time than the means of escape at the bridge. [Illustration: RUINS SHOWING THE PATH OF THE FLOOD.] "Standing now at the bridge," says a visitor on Monday, "where this vast whirlpool struggled for exit, the air is heavy with smoke and foul with nameless odors from a mass of wreckage. The area of the triangular space where the awful whirlpool revolved is said to be about four square miles. The area of the space covered by this smoking mass is sixty acres. The surface of this mass is now fifteen feet below the top of the bridge and about thirty below the point on the bluff where the surface of the whirlpool lashed the banks. One ragged mass some distance above the bridge rises several feet above the general level, but with that exception the surface of the débris is level. It has burned off until it reached the water, and is smouldering on as the water gradually lowers. On the right bank, at about where was the highest water level, a detachment of the Pittsburg Fire Department is throwing two fitful streams of water down into the smoke, with the idea of gradually extinguishing the fire. In the immensity of the disaster with which they combat their feeble efforts seem like those of boys with squirt guns dampening a bonfire. About the sixty acres of burning débris, and to the left of it from where it begins to narrow toward Stony Creek Gap, there is a large area of level mud, with muddy streams wandering about in it. This tract of mud comprises all of the triangle except a thin fringe of buildings along the bluff on the Pennsylvania Railroad. A considerable number of houses stand on the high ground on the lower face of the central mountain and off to the right into Stony Creek Gap. The fringe along the Pennsylvania Railroad is mostly of stores and other large brick buildings that are completely wrecked, though not swept away. The houses on the higher ground are unharmed; but down toward the edge they fade away by degrees of completeness in their wreckage into the yellow level of the huge tract over which the mighty whirlpool swept. Off out of sight, in Stony Creek Gap, are fringes of houses on either side of the muddy flat. "This flat is a peculiar thing. It is level and uninteresting as a piece of waste ground. Too poor to grow grass, there is nothing to indicate that it had ever been anything else than what it is. It is as clean of débris and wreckage as though there had never been a building on it. In reality it was the central and busiest part of Johnstown. Buildings, both dwellings and stores, covered it thickly. Its streets were paved, and its sidewalks of substantial stone. It had street-car lines, gas and electric lights, and all the other improvements of a substantial city of 15,000 or 20,000 inhabitants. Iron bridges spanned the streams, and the buildings were of substantial character. Not a brick remains, not a stone nor a stick of timber in all this territory. There are not even hummocks and mounds to show where wreckage might be covered with a layer of mud. They are not there, they are gone--every building, every street, every sidewalk and pavement, the street railways, and everything else that covered the surface of the earth has vanished as utterly as though it had never been there. The ground was swept as clean as though some mighty scraper had been dragged over it again and again. Not even the lines of the streets can be remotely traced. "'I have visited Johnstown a dozen times a year for a long time,' said a business man to-day, 'and I know it thoroughly, but I haven't the least idea now of what part of it this is. I can't even tell the direction the streets used to run.' "His bewilderment is hardly greater than that of the citizens themselves. They wander about in the mud for hours trying to find the spot where the house of some friend or relative used to stand. It takes a whole family to locate the site of their friend's house with any reasonable certainty. "Wandering over this muddy plain one can realize something of what must have been the gigantic force of that vast whirlpool. It pressed upon the town like some huge millstone, weighing tens of thousands of tons and revolving with awful velocity, pounding to powder everything beneath. But the conception of the power of that horrible eddy of the flood must remain feeble until that sixty acres of burning débris is inspected. It seems from a little distance like any other mass of wreckage, though vastly longer than any ever before seen in this country. It must have been many times more tremendous when it was heaped up twenty feet higher over its whole area and before the fire leveled it off. But neither then nor now can the full terror of the flood that piled it there be adequately realized until a trip across parts where the fire has been extinguished shows the manner in which the stuff composing it is packed together. It is not a heap of broken timbers lying loosely thrown together in all directions. It is a solid mass. The boards and timbers which made up the frame buildings are laid together as closely as sticks of wood in a pile--more closely, for they are welded into one another until each stick is as solidly fixed in place as though all were one. A curious thing is that wherever there are a few boards together they are edge up, and never standing on end or flat. The terrible force of the whirlpool that ground four square miles of buildings into this sixty acres of wreckage left no opportunity for gaps or holes between pieces in the river. Everything was packed together as solidly as though by sledge-hammer blows. "But the boards and timber of four square miles of buildings are not all that is in that sixty-acre mass. An immense amount of débris from further up the valley lies there. Twenty-seven locomotives, several Pullman cars and probably a hundred other cars, or all that is left of them, are in that mass. Fragments of iron bridges can be seen sticking out occasionally above the wreckage. They are about the only things the fire has not leveled, except the curious hillock spoken of, which is an eighth of a mile back from the bridge, where the flames apparently raged less fiercely. Scattered over the area, also, are many blackened logs that were too big to be entirely burned, and that stick up now like spar buoys in a sea of ruin. Little jets of flame, almost unseen by daylight, but appearing as evening falls, are scattered thickly over the surface of the wreckage. "Of the rest of Johnstown, and the collection of towns within sight of the bridge, not much is to be said. They are, to a greater or less extent, gone, as Johnstown is gone. Far up the gap through which came the flood a large brick building remains standing, but ruined. It is all that is left of one of the biggest wire mills and steel works in the country. Turning around below the bridge are the works of the Cambria Iron Company. The buildings are still standing, but they are pretty well ruined, and the machinery with which they were filled is either totally destroyed or damaged almost beyond repair. High up on the hill at the left and scattered up on other hills in sight are many dwellings, neat, well kept, and attractive places apparently, and looking as bright and fresh now as before the awful torrent wiped out of existence everything in the valley below. "This is Johnstown and its immediate vicinity as nearly as words can paint it. It is a single feature, one section out of fifteen miles of horror that stretches through this once lovely valley of the Allegheny. What is true of Johnstown is true of every town for miles up and down. The desolation of one town may differ from the desolation in others as one death may differ from another; but it is desolation and death everywhere--desolation so complete, so relentless, so dreadful that it is absolutely beyond the power of language fairly to tell the tale." CHAPTER VI. Mr. William Henry Smith, General Manager of the Associated Press, was a passenger on a railroad train which reached the Conemaugh Valley on the very day of the disaster. He writes as follows of what he saw: "The fast line trains that leave Chicago at quarter past three and Cincinnati at seven P.M. constitute the day-express eastward from Pittsburg, which runs in two sections. This train left Pittsburg on time Friday morning, but was stopped for an hour at Johnstown by reports of a wash-out ahead. It had been raining hard for over sixteen hours, and the sides of the mountains were covered with water descending into the valleys. The Conemaugh River, whose bank is followed by the Pennsylvania Railroad for many miles, looked an angry flood nearly bankfull. Passengers were interested in seeing hundreds of saw-logs and an enormous amount of driftwood shoot rapidly by, and the train pursued its way eastward. At Johnstown there was a long wait, as before stated. The lower stories of many houses were submerged by the slack-water, and the inhabitants were looking out of the second-story windows. Horses were standing up to their knees in water in the streets; a side-track of the railroad had been washed out; loaded cars were on the bridge to keep it steady, and the huge poles of the Western Union Telegraph Company, carrying fifteen wires, swayed badly, and several soon went down. The two sections ran to Conemaugh, about two miles eastward of Johnstown, and lay there about three hours, when they were moved on to the highest ground and placed side by side. The mail train was placed in the rear of the first section, and a freight train was run onto a side track on the bank of the Conemaugh. The report was that a bridge had been washed out, carrying away one track and that the other track was unsafe. There was a rumor also that the reservoir at South Fork might break. This made most of the passengers uneasy, and they kept a pretty good look-out for information. The porters of the Pullman cars remained at their posts, and comforted the passengers with the assurance that the Pennsylvania Railroad Company always took care of its patrons. A few gentlemen and some ladies and children quietly seated themselves, apparently contented. One gentleman, who was ill, had his berth made up and retired, although advised not to do so. "Soon the cry came that the water in the reservoir had broken down the barrier and was sweeping down the valley. Instantly there was a panic and a rush for the mountain side. Children were carried and women assisted by a few who kept cool heads. It was a race for life. There was seen the black head of the flood, now the monster Destruction, whose crest was high raised in the air, and with this in view even the weak found wings for their feet. No words can adequately describe the terror that filled every breast, or the awful power manifested by the flood. The round-house had stalls for twenty-three locomotives. There were eighteen or twenty of these standing there at this time. There was an ominous crash, and the round-house and locomotives disappeared. Everything in the main track of the flood was first lifted in air and then swallowed up by the waters. A hundred houses were swept away in a few minutes. These included the hotel, stores, and saloons on the front street and residences adjacent. The locomotive of one of the trains was struck by a house and demolished. The side of another house stopped in front of another locomotive and served as a shield. The rear car of the mail train swung around in the rear of the second section of the express and turned over on its side. Three men were observed standing upon it as it floated. The coupling broke, and the car moved out upon the bosom of the waters. As it would roll the men would shift their position. The situation was desperate, and they were given up for lost. Two or three hardy men seized ropes and ran along the mountain side to give them aid. Later it was reported that the men escaped over some driftwood as their car was carried near a bank. It is believed there were several women and children inside the car. Of course they were drowned. As the fugitives on the mountain side witnessed the awful devastation they were moved as never before in their lives. They were powerless to help those seized upon by the waters; the despair of those who had lost everything in life and the wailing of those whose relatives or friends were missing filled their breasts with unutterable sorrow. "The rain continued to fall steadily, but shelter was not thought of. Few passengers saved anything from the train, so sudden was the cry 'Run for your lives, the reservoir has broken!' "Many were without hats, and as their baggage was left on the trains, they were without the means of relieving their unhappy condition. The occupants of the houses still standing on the high ground threw them open to those who had lost all, and to the passengers of the train. "During the height of the flood, the spectators were startled by the sound of two locomotive whistles from the very midst of the waters. Two engineers, with characteristic courage, had remained at their posts, and while there was destruction on every hand, and apparently no escape for them, they sounded their whistles. This they repeated at intervals, the last time with triumphant vigor, as the waters were receding from the sides of their locomotives. By half-past five the force of the reservoir water had been spent on the village of Conemaugh, and the Pullman cars and locomotive of the second section remained unmoved. This was because, being on the highest and hardest ground, the destructive current of the reservoir flood had passed between that and the mountain, while the current of the river did not eat it away. But the other trains had been destroyed. A solitary locomotive was seen embedded in the mud where the round-house had stood. "As the greatest danger had passed, the people of Conemaugh gave their thoughts to their neighbors of the city of Johnstown. Here was centred the great steel and iron industries, the pride of Western Pennsylvania, the Cambria Iron Works being known everywhere. Here were churches, daily newspapers, banks, dry-goods houses, warehouses, and the comfortable and well-built homes of twelve thousand people. In the contemplation of the irresistible force of that awful flood, gathering additional momentum as it swept on toward the Gulf, it became clear that the city must be destroyed, and that unless the inhabitants had telegraphic notice of the breaking of the reservoir they must perish. A cry of horror went up from the hundreds on the mountain-side, and a few instinctively turned their steps toward Johnstown. The city was destroyed. All the mills, furnaces, manufactories, the many and varied industries, the banks, the residences, all, all were swallowed up before the shadows of night had settled down upon the earth. Those who came back by daybreak said that from five thousand to eight thousand had been drowned. Our hope is that this is an exaggeration, and when the roll is called most will respond. In the light of this calamity, the destruction at Conemaugh sinks into insignificance." Mr. George Johnston, a lumber merchant of Pittsburg, was another witness. "I had gone to Johnstown," he says, "to place a couple of orders. I had scarcely reached the town, about three o'clock in the afternoon, when I saw a bulletin posted up in front of the telegraph office, around which quite a crowd of men had congregated. I pushed my way up, and read that the waters were so high in the Conemaugh that it was feared the three-mile dam, as it was called, would give way. I know enough about Johnstown to feel that my life was not worth a snap once that dam gave way. Although the Johnstown people did not seem to pay much attention to the warning, I was nervous and apprehensive. I had several parties to see, but concluded to let all but one go until some later day. So I hurried through with my most urgent transactions and started for the depot. The Conemaugh had then gotten so high that the residents of the low-lying districts had moved into upper stories. I noticed a number of wagons filled with furniture hurrying through the streets. A few families, either apprehensive of the impending calamity or driven from their houses by the rising waters, had started for the surrounding hills. Johnstown, you know, lies in a narrow valley, and lies principally on the V-shaped point between the converging river and Stony Creek. "I was just walking up the steps to the depot when I heard a fearful roar up the valley. It sounded at first like a heavy train of cars, but soon became too loud and terrible for that. I boarded a train, and as I sat at the car window a sight broke before my view that I will remember to my dying day. Away up the Conemaugh came a yellow wall, whose crest was white and frothy. I rushed for the platform of the car, not knowing what I did, and just then the train began to move. Terrified as I was, I remember feeling that I was in the safest place and I sank back in a seat. When I looked out again what had been the busy mill yards of the Cambria Iron Company was a yellow, turbulent sea, on whose churned currents houses and barns were riding like ships in a brook. The water rushing in upon the molten metal in the mills had caused deafening explosions, which, coupled with the roar and grinding of the flood, made a terrifying din. Turning to the other side and looking on down the valley, I saw the muddy water rushing through the main streets of the town. I could see men and horses floundering about almost within call. House-tops were being filled with white-faced people who clung to each other and looked terror-stricken upon the rising flood. "It had all come so quickly that none of them seemed to realize what had happened. The conductor of my train had been pulling frantically at the bell-rope, and the train went spinning across the bridge. I sat in my seat transfixed with horror. Houses were spinning through beneath the bridge, and I did not know at what moment the structure would melt away under the train. The conductor kept tugging at the bell-rope and the train shot ahead again. We seemed to fairly leap over the yellow torrents, and I wondered for an instant whether we had not left the rails and were flying through the air. My heart gave a bound of relief when we dashed into the forest on the hillside opposite the doomed town. As the train sped along at a rate of speed that made me think the engineer had gone mad, I took one look back upon the valley. What a sight it was! The populous valley for miles either way was a seething, roaring cauldron, through whose boiling surface roofs of houses and the stand-pipes of mills protruded. The water was fairly piling up in a well farther up, and I saw the worst had not yet come. Then I turned my eyes away from the awful sight and tried not to even think until Pittsburg was reached. "I cannot see how it is possible for less than five thousand lives to have been sacrificed in Johnstown alone. At least two-thirds of the town was swept away. The water came so quickly that escape from the low districts was impossible. People retreated to the upper floors of their residences and stores until the water had gotten too deep to allow their escape. When the big flood came the houses were picked up like pasteboard boxes or collapsed like egg-shells. The advance of the flood was black with houses, logs, and other debris, so that it struck Johnstown with the solid force of a battering-ram. None but eye-witnesses of the flood can comprehend its size and awfulness as it came tumbling, roaring down upon the unprotected town." [Illustration: TYPICAL SCENE IN JOHNSTOWN.] The appearance of the flood at Sang Hollow, some miles below Johnstown, is thus pictured by C. W. Linthicum, of Baltimore: "My train left Pittsburg on Friday morning for Johnstown. The train was due at Sang Hollow at two minutes after four, but was five minutes late. At Sang Hollow, just as we were about to pull out, we heard that the flood was coming. Looking ahead, up the valley, we saw an immense wall of water thirty feet high, raging, roaring, rushing toward us. The engineer reversed his engine and rushed back to the hills at full speed, and we barely escaped the waters. We ran back three hundred yards, and the flood swept by, tearing up track, telegraph poles, trees, and houses. Superintendent Pitcairn was on the train. We all got out and tried to save the floating people. Taking the bell cord we formed a line and threw the rope out, thus saving seven persons. We could have saved more, but many were afraid to let go of the debris. It was an awful sight. The immense volume of water was roaring along, whirling over huge rocks, dashing against the banks and leaping high into the air, and this seething flood was strewn with timber, trunks of trees, parts of houses, and hundreds of human beings, cattle, and almost every living animal. The fearful peril of the living was not more awful than the horrors of hundreds of distorted, bleeding corpses whirling along the avalanche of death. We counted one hundred and seven people floating by and dead without number. A section of roof came by on which were sitting a woman and girl. A man named C. W. Heppenstall, of Pittsburg, waded and swam to the roof. He brought the girl in first and then the woman. They told us they were not relatives. The woman had lost her husband and four children, and the girl her father and mother, and entire family. A little boy came by with his mother. Both were as calm as could be, and the boy was apparently trying to comfort the mother. They passed unheeding our proffered help, and striking the bridge below, went down into the vortex like lead. "One beautiful girl came by with her hands raised in prayer, and, although we shouted to her and ran along the bank, she paid no attention. We could have saved her if she had caught the rope. An old man and his wife whom we saved said that eleven persons started from Cambria City on the roof with him, but that the others had dropped off. "At about eight P. M. we started for New Florence. All along the river we saw corpses without number caught in the branches of trees and wedged in corners in the banks. A large sycamore tree in the river between Sang Hollow and New Florence seemed to draw into it nearly all who floated down, and they went under the surface at its roots like lead. When the waters subsided two hundred and nine bodies were found at the root of this tree. All night the living and the dead floated by New Florence. At Pittsburg seventy-eight bodies were found on Saturday, and as many more were seen floating by. Hundreds of people from ill-fated Johnstown are wandering homeless and starving on the mountain-side. Very few saved anything, and I saw numbers going down the stream naked. The suffering within the next few days will be fearful unless prompt relief is extended." H. M. Bennett and S. W. Keltz, engineer and conductor of engine No. 1,165, an extra freight, which happened to be lying at South Fork when the dam broke, tell a graphic story of their wonderful flight and escape on the locomotive before the advancing flood. At the time mentioned Bennett and Keltz were in the signal tower at that point awaiting orders. The fireman and flagman were on the engine, and two brakemen were asleep in the caboose. Suddenly the men in the tower heard a loud booming roar in the valley above them. They looked in the direction of the sound, and were almost transfixed with horror to see two miles above them a huge black wall of water, at least one hundred and fifty feet in height, rushing down the valley upon them. One look the fear-stricken men gave the awful sight, and then they made a rush for the locomotive, at the same time giving the alarm to the sleeping brakemen in the caboose with loud cries, but with no avail. It was impossible to aid them further, however, so they cut the engine loose from the train, and the engineer, with one wild wrench, threw the lever wide open, and they were away on a mad race for life. For a moment it seemed that they would not receive momentum enough to keep ahead of the flood, and they cast one despairing glance back. Then they could see the awful deluge approaching in its might. On it came, rolling and roaring like some Titanic monster, tossing and tearing houses, sheds, and trees in its awful speed as if they were mere toys. As they looked they saw the two brakemen rush out of the cab, but they had not time to gather the slightest idea of the cause of their doom before they, the car, and signal tower were tossed high in the air, to disappear forever in engulfing water. Then with a shudder, as if at last it comprehended its peril, the engine leaped forward like a thing of life, and speeded down the valley. But fast as it went, the flood gained upon them. Hope, however, was in the ascendant, for if they could but get across the bridge below the track would lean toward the hillside in such a manner that they would be comparatively safe. In a few breathless moments the shrieking locomotive whizzed around the curve and they were in sight of the bridge. Horror upon horrors! Ahead of them was a freight train, with the rear end almost on the bridge, and to get across was simply impossible! Engineer Bennett then reversed the lever and succeeded in checking the engine as they glided across the bridge, and then they jumped and ran for their lives up the hillside, as the bridge and tender of the locomotive they had been on were swept away like a bundle of matches in the torrent. CHAPTER VII. There have been many famous rides in history. Longfellow has celebrated that of Paul Revere. Read has sung of Sheridan's. John Boyle O'Reilly has commemorated in graceful verse the splendid achievement of Collins Graves, who, when the Williamsburg dam in Massachusetts broke, dashed down the valley on horseback in the van of the flood, warning the people and saving countless lives: "He draws no rein, but he shakes the street With a shout and a ring of the galloping feet, And this the cry that he flings to the wind: 'To the hills for your lives! The flood is behind!' "In front of the roaring flood is heard The galloping horse and the warning word. Thank God! The brave man's life is spared! From Williamsburg town he nobly dared To race with the flood and take the road In front of the terrible swath it mowed. For miles it thundered and crashed behind, But he looked ahead with a steadfast mind: 'They must be warned,' was all he said, As away on his terrible ride he sped." There were two such heroes in the Conemaugh Valley. Let their deeds be told and their names held in everlasting honor. One was John G. Parke, a young civil engineer of Philadelphia, a nephew of the General John G. Parke who commanded a corps of the Union Army. He was the first to discover the impending break in the South Fork dam, and jumping into the saddle he started at breakneck speed down the valley shouting: "The dam; the dam is breaking; run for your lives!" Hundreds of people were saved by this timely warning. Reaching South Fork Station, young Parke telegraphed tidings of the coming inundation to Johnstown, ten miles below, fully an hour before the flood came in "a solid wall of water thirty feet high" to drown the mountain-bound town. Some heeded the note of alarm at Johnstown; others had heard it before, doubted, and waited until death overtook them. Young Parke climbed up into the mountains when the water was almost at his horse's heels, and saw the deluge pass. Less fortunate was Daniel Peyton, a rich young man of Johnstown. He heard at Conemaugh the message sent down from South Fork by the gallant Parke. In a moment he sprang into the saddle. Mounted on a grand, big, bay horse, he came riding down the pike which passes through Conemaugh to Johnstown, like some angel of wrath of old, shouting his warning: "Run for your lives to the hills! Run to the hills!" The people crowded out of their houses along the thickly settled streets awe-struck and wondering. No one knew the man, and some thought he was a maniac and laughed. On and on, at a deadly pace, he rode, and shrilly rang out his awful cry. In a few moments, however, there came a cloud of ruin down the broad streets, down the narrow alleys, grinding, twisting, hurling, over-turning, crashing--annihilating the weak and the strong. It was the charge of the flood, wearing its coronet of ruin and devastation, which grew at every instant of its progress. Forty feet high, some say, thirty according to others, was this sea, and it travelled with a swiftness like that which lay in the heels of Mercury. On and on raced the rider, on and on rushed the wave. Dozens of people took heed of the warning and ran up to the hills. Poor, faithful rider! It was an unequal contest. Just as he turned to cross the railroad bridge the mighty wall fell upon him, and horse, rider, and bridge all went out into chaos together. A few feet further on several cars of the Pennsylvania Railroad train from Pittsburg were caught up and hurried into the cauldron, and the heart of the town was reached. The hero had turned neither to the right nor left for himself, but rode on to death for his townsmen. When found Peyton was lying face upward beneath the remnants of massive oaks, while hard by lay the gallant horse that had so nobly done all in his power for humanity before he started to seek a place of safety for himself. Mrs. Ogle, the manager of the Western Union telegraph office, who died at her post, will go down in history as a heroine of the highest order. Notwithstanding the repeated notifications which she received to get out of reach of the approaching danger, she stood by the instruments with unflinching loyalty and undaunted courage, sending words of warning to those in danger in the valley below. When every station in the path of the coming torrent had been warned, she wired her companion at South Fork: "This is my last message," and as such it shall always be remembered as her last words on earth, for at that very moment the torrent engulfed her and bore her from her post on earth to her post of honor in the great beyond. Miss Nina Speck, daughter of the Rev. David Speck, pastor of the First United Brethren Church, of Chambersburg, was in Johnstown visiting her brother and narrowly escaped death in the flood. She arrived home clad in nondescript clothing, which had been furnished by an old colored washerwoman, and told the following story of the flood: "Our house was in Kernsville, a part of Johnstown through which Stony Creek ran. Although we were a square from the creek, the back-water from the stream had flooded the streets in the morning and was up to our front porch. At four o'clock on Friday afternoon we were sitting on the front porch watching the flood, when we heard a roar as of a tornado or mighty conflagration. "We rushed up-stairs and got out upon the bay-window. There an awful sight met our eyes. Down the Conemaugh Valley was advancing a mighty wall of water and mist with a terrible roar. Before it were rolling houses and buildings of all kinds, tossing over and over. We thought it was a cyclone, the roar sounding like a tempest among forest trees. We started down-stairs and out through the rear of the house to escape to the hillside near by. But before we could get there the water was up to our necks and we could make no progress. We turned back and were literally dashed by the current into the house, which began to move off as soon as [we] were in it again. From the second-story window I saw a young man drifting toward us. I broke the glass from the frames with my hands and helped him in, and in a few minutes more I pulled in an old man, a neighbor, who had been sick. "Our house moved rapidly down the stream and fortunately lodged against a strong building. The water forced us out of the second-story up into the attic. Then we heard a lot of people on our roof begging us for God's sake to let them in. I broke through the roof with a bed-slat and pulled them in. Soon we had thirteen in all crouched in the attic. "Our house was rocking, and every now and then a building would crash against us. Every moment we thought we would go down. The roofs of all the houses drifting by us were covered with people, nearly all praying and some singing hymns, and now and then a house would break apart and all would go down. On Saturday at noon we were rescued, making our way from one building to the next by crawling on narrow planks. I counted hundreds of bodies lying in the debris, most of them covered over with earth and showing only the outlines of the form." Opposite the northern wall of the Methodist Church the flood struck the new Queen Anne house of John Fronheiser, a superintendent in the Cambria Works. He was at home, as most men were that day, trying to calm the fears of the women and children of the family during the earlier flood. Down went the front of the new Queen Anne house, and into the wreck of it fell the Superintendent, two elder children, a girl and a boy. As the flood passed he heard the boy cry: "Don't let me drown, papa; break my arms first!" and the girl: "Cut off my legs, but don't let me drown!" And as he heard them, came a wilder cry from his wife drifting down with the current, to "Save the baby." But neither wife nor baby could be saved, and boy and girl stayed in the wreck until the water went down and they were extricated. Horror piled on horror is the story from Johnstown down to the viaduct. Horror shot through with intense lights of heroism, and here and there pervaded with gleams of humor. It is known that one girl sang as she was whirled through the flood, "Jesus, lover of my soul," until the water stopped her singing forever. It is known that Elvie Duncan, daughter of the Superintendent of the Street Car Company, when her family was separated and she was swept away with her baby sister, kept the little thing alive by chewing bread and feeding it to her. It is known that John Dibart, banker, died as helplessly in his splendid house as did that solitary prisoner in his cell; that the pleasant park, with the chain fence about it, was so completely annihilated that not even one root of the many shade trees within its boundaries remains. It is known also that to a leaden-footed messenger boy, who was ambling along Main Street, fear lent wings to lift him into the _Tribune_ office in the second story of the Post Office, and that the Rosensteels, general storekeepers of Woodvale, were swept into the windows of their friends, the Cohens, retail storekeepers of Main Street, Johnstown, two miles from where they started. It is known that the Episcopal Church, at Locust and Market Streets, went down like a house of cards, or as the German Lutheran had gone, in the path of the flood, and that Rector Diller, his wife and child, and adopted daughter went with it, while of their next-door neighbors, Frank Daly, of the Cambria Company, and his mother, the son was drowned and the mother, not so badly hurt in body as in spirit, died three nights after in the Mercy Hospital, Pittsburg. But while the flood was driving people to silent death down the valley, there was a sound of lamentation on the hills. Hundreds who had climbed there to be out of reach during the morning's freshet saw the city in the valley disappearing, and their cries rose high above the crash and the roar. Little time had eyes to watch or lips to cry. O'Brien, the disabled Millville storekeeper, was one of the crowd in the park. He saw a town before him, then a mountain of timber approaching; then a dizzy swirl of men at the viaduct, a breaking of the embankment to the east of it, the forming of a whirlpool there that ate up homes and those that dwelt in them, as a cauldron of molten iron eats up the metal scraps that are thrown in to cool it, and then a silence and a subsidence. It was a quarter of four o'clock. At half-past three there had been a Johnstown. Now there was none. CHAPTER VIII. Volumes might be written of the sufferings endured and valor exhibited by the survivors of the flood, or of the heart-rending grief with which so many were stricken. At Johnstown an utterly wretched woman named Mrs. Fenn stood by a muddy pool of water trying to find some trace of a once happy home. She was half crazed with grief, and her eyes were red and swollen. As a correspondent stepped to her side she raised her pale, haggard face and remarked: "They are all gone. O God! be merciful to them! My husband and my seven dear little children have been swept down with the flood, and I am left alone. We were driven by the awful flood into the garret, but the water followed us there. Inch by inch it kept rising, until our heads were crushing against the roof. It was death to remain. So I raised a window, and one by one, placed my darlings on some driftwood, trusting to the great Creator. As I liberated the last one, my sweet little boy, he looked at me and said: 'Mamma, you always told me that the Lord would care for me; will He look after me now?' I saw him drift away with his loving face turned toward me, and, with a prayer on my lips for his deliverance, he passed from sight forever. The next moment the roof crashed in, and I floated outside, to be rescued fifteen hours later from the roof of a house in Kernsville. If I could only find one of my darlings I could bow to the will of God, but they are all gone. I have lost everything on earth now but my life, and I will return to my old Virginia home and lay me down for my last great sleep." A handsome woman, with hair as black as a raven's wing, walked through the depot where a dozen or more bodies were awaiting burial. Passing from one to another, she finally lifted the paper covering from the face of a woman, young, and with traces of beauty showing through the stains of muddy water, and with a cry of anguish she reeled backward to be caught by a rugged man who chanced to be passing. In a moment or so she had calmed herself sufficiently to take one more look at the features of her dead. She stood gazing at the corpse as if dumb. Finally, turning away with another wild burst of grief, she said: "And her beautiful hair all matted and her sweet face so bruised and stained with mud and water!" The dead woman was the sister of the mourner. The body was placed in a coffin a few minutes later and sent away to its narrow house. A woman was seen to smile, one morning just after the catastrophe, as she came down the steps of Prospect Hill, at Johnstown. She ran down lightly, turning up toward the stone bridge. She passed the little railroad station where the undertakers were at work embalming the dead, and walked slowly until she got opposite the station. Then she stopped and danced a few steps. There was but a small crowd there. The woman raised her hands above her head and sang. She became quiet and then suddenly burst into a frenzied fit of weeping and beat her forehead with her hands. She tore her dress, which was already in rags. "I shall go crazy," she screamed, "if they do not find his body." The poor woman could not go crazy, as her mind had been already shattered. "He was a good man," she went on, while the onlookers listened pityingly. "I loved him and he loved me." "Where is he?" she screamed. "I must find him." And she started at the top of her speed down the track toward the river. Some men caught her. She struggled desperately for a few moments, and then fainted. Her name was Eliza Adams, and she was a bride of but two months. Her husband was a foreman at the Cambria Iron Works and was drowned. [Illustration: JOHNSTOWN--VIEW COR. MAIN AND CLINTON STS.] The body of a beautiful young girl of twenty was found wedged in a mass of ruins just below the Cambria Iron Works. She was taken out and laid on the damp grass. She was tall, slender, of well-rounded form, clad in a long red wrapper, with lace at her throat and wrists. Her feet were encased in pretty embroidered slippers. Her face was a study for an artist. Features clear cut as though chiseled from Parian marble; and, strangely enough, they bore not the slightest disfigurement, and had not the swelled and puffed appearance that was present in nearly all the other drowned victims. A smile rested on her lips. Her hair, which had evidently been golden, was matted with mud and fell in heavy masses to her waist. "Does any one know her?" was asked of the silent group that had gathered around. No one did, and she was carried to the improvised morgue in the school-house, and now fills a grave as one of the "unidentified dead." Miss Rose Clark was fastened in the debris at the railroad bridge, at Johnstown. The force of the water had torn all of her garments off and pinned her left leg below the water between two beams. She was more calm than the men who were trying to rescue her. The flames were coming nearer, and the intense heat scorching her bare skin. She begged the men to cut off the imprisoned leg. Finally half of the men turned and fought the fire, while the rest endeavored to rescue Miss Clark. After six hours of hard work, and untold suffering by the brave little lady she was taken from the ruins in a dead faint. She was one mass of bruises, from her breast to her knees, and her left arm and leg were broken. Just below Johnstown, on the Conemaugh, three women were working on the ruins of what had been their home. An old arm-chair was taken from the ruins by the men. When one of the women saw the chair, it brought back a wealth of memory, probably the first since the flood occurred, and throwing herself on her knees on the wreck she gave way to a flood of tears. "Where in the name of God," she sobbed, "did you get that chair? It was mine--no, I don't want it. Keep it and find for me, if you can, my album. In it are the faces of my husband and little girl." Patrick Downs was a worker in one of the mills of the Cambria Iron Works. He had a wife and a fourteen-year-old daughter, Jessie Downs, who was a great favorite with the sturdy, hard-handed fellow-workmen of her father. She was of rare beauty and sweetness. Her waving, golden-yellow hair, brushed away from a face of wondrous whiteness, was confined by a ribbon at the neck. Lustrous Irish blue eyes lighted up the lovely face and ripe, red lips parted in smiles for the workmen in the mills, every one of whom was her lover. Jessie was in the mill when the flood struck the town, and had not been seen since till the work of cleaning up the Cambria plant was begun in earnest. Then, in the cellar of the building a workman spied a little shoe protruding from a closely packed bed of sandy mud. In a few moments the body of Jessie Downs was uncovered. The workmen who had been in such scenes as this for six days stood about with uncovered heads and sobbed like babies. The body had not been bruised nor hurt in any way, the features being composed as if in sleep. The men gathered up the body of their little sweetheart and were carrying it through the town on a stretcher when they met poor Patrick Downs. He gazed upon the form of his baby, but never a tear was in his eye, and he only thanked God that she had not suffered in contest with the angry waves. He had but a moment before identified the body of his wife among the dead recovered, and the mother and child were laid away together in one grave on Grove Hill, and the father resumed work with the others. Dr. Lowman is one of the most prominent physicians of Western Pennsylvania. His residence in Johnstown was protected partially from the avalanche of water by the Methodist Church, which is a large stone structure. Glancing up-stream, the Doctor saw advancing what seemed to be a huge mountain. Grasping the situation, he ran in and told the family to get to the top floors as quickly as possible. They had scarcely reached the second floor when the water was pouring into the windows. They went higher up, and the water followed them, but it soon reached its extreme height. While the family were huddled in the third story the Doctor looked out and saw a young girl floating toward the window on a door. He smashed the glass, and, at the great risk of his own life, succeeded in hauling the door toward him and lifting the girl through the window. She had not been there long when one corner of the building gave way and she became frightened. She insisted on taking a shutter and floating down-stream. In vain did the Doctor try to persuade her to forego such a suicidal attempt. She said that she was a good swimmer, and that, once out in the water, she had no fears for her ultimate safety. Resisting all entreaties and taking a shutter from the window, she plunged out into the surging waters, and has not since been heard from. When the girl deserted the house, Dr. Lowman and his family made their way to the roof. While up there another corner of the house gave way. After waiting for several hours, the intervening space between the bank building and the dwelling became filled with drift. The Doctor gathered his family around him, and after a perilous walk they all reached the objective point in safety. Dr. Lowman's aged father was one of the party. When his family was safe Dr. Lowman started to rescue other unfortunates. All day Saturday he worked like a beaver in water to his neck, and he saved the lives of many. No man returns from the valley of death with more horrible remembrance of the flood than Dr. Henry H. Phillips, of Pittsburg. He is the only one known to be saved out of a household of thirteen, among whom was his feeble old mother and other near and dear friends. His own life was saved by his happening to step out upon the portico of the house just as the deluge came. Dr. Phillips had gone to Johnstown to bring his mother, who was an invalid, to his home in the East End. They had intended starting for Pittsburg Friday morning, but Mrs. Phillips did not feel able to make the journey, and it was postponed until the next day. In the meantime the flood began to come, and during the afternoon of Friday the family retired to the upper floors of the house for safety. There were thirteen in the house, including little Susan McWilliams, the twelve-year-old daughter of Mr. W. H. McWilliams, of Pittsburg, who was visiting her aunt, Mrs. Phillips; Dr. L. T. Beam, son-in-law of Mrs. Phillips; another niece, and Mrs. Dowling, a neighbor. The latter had come there with her children because the Phillips house was a brick structure while her own was frame. Its destruction proved to be the more sudden and complete on account of the material. The water was a foot deep on the first floor, and the family were congratulating themselves that they were so comfortably situated in the upper story, when Dr. Phillips heard a roaring up toward the Cambria Iron Works. Without a thought of the awful truth, he stepped out upon the portico of the house to see what it meant. A wall of water and wreckage loomed up before him like a roaring cloud. Before he could turn back or cry out he saw a house, that rode the flood like a chip, come between him and his vision of the window. Then all was dark, and the cold water seemed to wrap him up and toss him to a house-top three hundred yards from where that of his mother had stood. Gathering his shattered wits together the Doctor saw he was floating about in the midst of a black pool. Dark objects were moving all about him, and although there was some light, he could not recognize any of the surroundings. For seventeen hours he drifted about upon the wreckage where fate had tossed him. Then rescuers came, and he was taken to safe quarters. A long search has so far failed to elicit any tidings of the twelve persons in the Phillips' house. Mr. G. B. Hartley, of Philadelphia, was one of the five out of fifty-five guests of the Hurlburt House who survived. "The experience I passed through at Johnstown on that dreadful Friday night," said Mr. Hartley to a correspondent, "is like a horrible nightmare in a picture before me. When the great rush of water came I was sitting in the parlors of the Hurlburt House. Suddenly we were startled to hear several loud shouts on the streets. These cries were accompanied by a loud, crashing noise. At the first sound we all rushed from the room panic-stricken. There was a crash and I found myself pinned down by broken boards and debris of different kinds. The next moment I felt the water surging in. I knew it went higher than my head because I felt it. The water must have passed like a flash or I would not have come out alive. After the shock I could see that the entire roof of the hotel had been carried off. Catching hold of something I manged to pull myself up on to the roof. The roof had slid off and lay across the street. On the roof I had a chance to observe my surroundings. Down on the extreme edge of the roof I espied the proprietor of the hotel, Mr. Benford. He was nearly exhausted, and it required every effort for him to hold to the roof. Cautiously advancing, I managed to creep down to where he was holding. I tried to pull him up, but found I was utterly powerless. Mr. Benford was nearly as weak as myself, and could do very little toward helping himself. We did not give up, however, and in a few minutes, by dint of struggling and putting forth every bit of strength, Mr. Benford managed to crawl upon the roof. Crouching and shivering on another part of the roof were two girls, one a chamber-maid of the hotel, and the other a clerk in a store that was next to it. The latter was in a pitiable plight. Her arm had been torn from its socket. I took off my overcoat and gave it to her. Mr. Benford did the same thing for the other, for it was quite chilly. A young man was nursing his mother, who had had her scalp completely torn off. He asked me to hold her head until he could make a bandage. He tore a thick strip of cloth and placed it round her head. The blood saturated it before it was well on. Soon after this I was rescued more dead than alive." CHAPTER IX. Many of the most thrilling sights and experiences were those of railroad employees and passengers. Mr. Henry, the engineer of the second section of express train No. 8, which runs between Pittsburg and Altoona, was at Conemaugh when the great flood came sweeping down the valley. He was able to escape to a place of safety. His was the only train that was not injured, even though it was in the midst of the great wave. The story as related by Mr. Henry is most graphic. "It was an awful sight," he said. "I have often seen pictures of flood scenes and I thought they were exaggerations, but what I witnessed last Friday changes my former belief. To see that immense volume of water, fully fifty feet high, rushing madly down the valley, sweeping everything before it, was a thrilling sight. It is engraved indelibly on my memory. Even now I can see that mad torrent carrying death and destruction before it. "The second section of No. 8, on which I was, was due at Johnstown about quarter past ten in the morning. We arrived there safely and were told to follow the first section. When we arrived at Conemaugh the first section and the mail were there. Washouts further up the mountain prevented our going on, so we could do nothing but sit around and discuss the situation. The creek at Conemaugh was swollen high, almost overflowing. The heavens were pouring rain, but this did not prevent nearly all the inhabitants of the town from gathering along its banks. They watched the waters go dashing by and wondered whether the creek would get much higher. But a few inches more and it would overflow its banks. There seemed to be a feeling of uneasiness among the people. They seemed to fear that something awful was going to happen. Their suspicions were strengthened by the fact that warning had come down the valley for the people to be on the lookout. The rains had swollen everything to the bursting point. The day passed slowly, however. Noon came and went, and still nothing happened. We could not proceed, nor could we go back, as the tracks about a mile below Conemaugh had been washed away, so there was nothing for us to do but to wait and see what would come next. "Some time after three o'clock Friday afternoon I went into the train dispatcher's office to learn the latest news. I had not been there long when I heard a fierce whistling from an engine away up the mountain. Rushing out I found dozens of men standing around. Fear had blanched every cheek. The loud and continued whistling had made every one feel that something serious was going to happen. In a few moments I could hear a train rattling down the mountain. About five hundred yards above Conemaugh the tracks make a slight curve and we could not see beyond this. The suspense was something awful. We did not know what was coming, but no one could get rid of the thought that something was wrong at the dam. "Our suspense was not very long, however. Nearer and nearer the train came, the thundering sound still accompanying it. There seemed to be something behind the train, as there was a dull, rumbling sound which I knew did not come from the train. Nearer and nearer it came; a moment more and it would reach the curve. The next instant there burst upon our eyes a sight that made every heart stand still. Rushing around the curve, snorting and tearing, came an engine and several gravel cars. The train appeared to be putting forth every effort to go faster. Nearer it came, belching forth smoke and whistling long and loud. But the most terrible sight was to follow. Twenty feet behind came surging along a mad rush of water fully fifty feet high. Like the train, it seemed to be putting forth every effort to push along faster. Such an awful race we never before witnessed. For an instant the people seemed paralyzed with horror. They knew not what to do, but in a moment they realized that a second's delay meant death to them. With one accord they rushed to the high lands a few hundred feet away. Most of them succeeded in reaching that place and were safe. "I thought of the passengers in my train. The second section of No. 8 had three sleepers. In these three cars were about thirty people, who rushed through the train crying to the others 'Save yourselves!' Then came a scene of the wildest confusion. Ladies and children shrieked and the men seemed terror-stricken. I succeeded in helping some ladies and children off the train and up to the high lands. Running back, I caught up two children and ran for my life to a higher place. Thank God, I was quicker than the flood! I deposited my load in safety on the high land just as it swept past us. "For nearly an hour we stood watching the mad flood go rushing by. The water was full of debris. When the flood caught Conemaugh it dashed against the little town with a mighty crash. The water did not lift the houses up and carry them off, but crushed them up one against the other and broke them up like so many egg-shells. Before the flood came there was a pretty little town. When the waters passed on there was nothing but a few broken boards to mark the central portion of the city. It was swept as clean as a newly-brushed floor. When the flood passed onward down the valley I went over to my train. It had been moved back about twenty yards, but it was not damaged. About fifteen persons had remained in the train and they were safe. Of the three trains ours was the luckiest. The engines of both the others had been swept off the track, and one or two cars in each train had met the same fate. What saved our train was the fact that just at the curve which I mentioned the valley spread out. The valley is six or seven hundred yards broad where our train was standing. This, of course, let the floods pass out. It was only about twenty feet high when it struck our train, which was about in the middle of the valley. This fact, together with the elevation of the track, was all that saved us. We stayed that night in the houses in Conemaugh that had not been destroyed. The next morning I started down the valley and by four o'clock in the afternoon had reached Conemaugh furnace, eight miles west of Johnstown. Then I got a team and came home. "In my tramp down the valley I saw some awful sights. On the tree branches hung shreds of clothing torn from the unfortunates as they were whirled along in the terrible rush of the torrent. Dead bodies were lying by scores along the banks of the creeks. One woman I helped drag from the mud had tightly clutched in her hand a paper. We tore it out of her hand and found it to be a badly water-soaked photograph. It was probably a picture of the drowned woman." Pemberton Smith is a civil engineer employed by the Pennsylvania Railroad. On Friday, when the disaster occurred, he was at Johnstown, stopping at the Merchants' Hotel. What happened he described as follows: "In the afternoon, with four associates, I spent the time playing checkers in the hotel, the streets being flooded during the day. At half-past four we were startled by shrill whistles. Thinking a fire was the cause, we looked out of the window. Great masses of people were rushing through the water in the street, which had been there all day, and still we thought the alarm was fire. All of a sudden the roar of the water burst upon our ears, and in an instant more the streets were filled with debris. Great houses and business blocks began to topple and crash into each other and go down as if they were toy-block houses. People in the streets were drowning on all sides. One of our company started down-stairs and was drowned. The other four, including myself, started up-stairs, for the water was fast rising. When we got on the roof we could see whole blocks swept away as if by magic. Hundreds of people were floating by, clinging to roofs of houses, rafts, timbers, or anything they could get a hold of. The hotel began to tremble, and we made our way to an adjoining roof. Soon afterward part of the hotel went down. The brick structures seemed to fare worse than frame buildings, as the latter would float, while the brick would crash and tumble into one great mass of ruins. We finally climbed into a room of the last building in reach and stayed there all night, in company with one hundred and sixteen other people, among the number being a crazy man. His wife and family had all been drowned only a few hours before, and he was a raving maniac. And what a night! Sleep! Yes, I did a little, but every now and then a building near by would crash against us, and we would all jump, fearing that at last our time had come. "Finally morning dawned. In company with one of my associates we climbed across the tops of houses and floating debris, built a raft, and poled ourselves ashore to the hillside. I don't know how the others escaped. This was seven o'clock on Saturday morning. We started on foot for South Fork, arriving there at three P. M. Here we found that all communication by telegraph and railroad was cut off by the flood, and we had naught to do but retrace our steps. Tired and footsore! Well, I should say so. My gum-boots had chafed my feet so I could hardly walk at all. The distance we covered on foot was over fifty miles. On Sunday we got a train to Altoona. Here we found the railroad connections all cut off, so we came back to Johnstown again on Monday. And what a desolate place! I had to obtain a pass to go over into the city. Here it is: "Pass Pemberton Smith through all the streets. "ALEC. HART, Chief of Police. "A. J. MAXHAM, Acting Mayor." "The tragic pen-pictures of the scenes in the press dispatches have not been exaggerated. They cannot be. The worse sight of all was to see the great fire at the railroad-bridge. It makes my blood fairly curdle to think of it. I could see the lurid flames shoot heavenward all night Friday, and at the same time hundreds of people were floating right toward them on top of houses, etc., and to meet a worse death than drowning. To look at a sight like this and not be able to render a particle of assistance seemed awful to bear. I had a narrow escape, truly. In my mind I can hear the shrieks of men, women, and children, the maniac's ravings, and the wild roar of a sea of water sweeping everything before it." [Illustration: VIEW ON CLINTON ST., JOHNSTOWN.] Among the lost was Miss Jennie Paulson, a passenger on a railroad train, whose fate is thus described by one of her comrades: "We had been making but slow progress all the day. Our train lay at Johnstown nearly the whole day of Friday. We then proceeded as far as Conemaugh, and had stopped from some cause or other, probably on account of the flood. Miss Paulson and a Miss Bryan were seated in front of me. Miss Paulson had on a plaid dress, with shirred waist of red cloth goods. Her companion was dressed in black. Both had lovely corsage bouquets of roses. I had heard that they had been attending a wedding before they left Pittsburg. The Pittsburg lady was reading a novel entitled _Miss Lou_. Miss Bryan was looking out of the window. When the alarm came we all sprang toward the door, leaving everything behind us. I had just reached the door when poor Miss Paulson and her friend, who were behind me, decided to return for their rubbers, which they did. I sprang from the car into a ditch next the hillside, in which the water was already a foot and a-half deep, and, with the others, climbed up the mountain side for our very lives. We had to do so, as the water glided up after us like a huge serpent. Any one ten feet behind us would have been lost beyond a doubt. I glanced back at the train when I had reached a place of safety, but the water already covered it, and the Pullman car in which the ladies were was already rolling down the valley in the grasp of the angry waters." Mr. William Scheerer, the teller of the State Banking Company, of Newark, N. J., was among the passengers on the ill-fated day express on the Pennsylvania Railroad that left Pittsburg at eight o'clock A. M., on the now historic Friday, bound for New York. There was some delays incidental to the floods in the Conemaugh Valley before the train reached Johnstown, and a further delay at that point, and the train was considerably behind time when it left Johnstown. Said Mr. Scheerer: "The parlor car was fully occupied when I went aboard the train, and a seat was accordingly given me in the sleeper at the rear end of the train. There were several passengers in this car, how many I cannot say exactly, among them some ladies. It was raining hard all the time and we were not a very excited nor a happy crowd, but were whiling away the time in reading and in looking at the swollen torrent of the river. Very few of the people were apprehensive of any danger in the situation, even after we had been held up at Conemaugh for nearly five hours. "The railroad tracks where our train stopped were full fourteen feet above the level of the river, and there was a large number of freight and passenger cars and locomotives standing on the tracks near us and strung along up the road for a considerable distance. Between the road and the hill that lay at our left there was a ditch, through which the water that came down from the hill was running like a mill-race. It was a monotonous wait to all of us, and after a time many inquiries were made as to why we did not go ahead. Some of the passengers who made the inquiry were answered laconically--'Wash-out,' and with this they had to be satisfied. I had been over the road several times before, and knew of the existence of the dangerous and threatening dam up in the South Fork gorge, and could not help connecting it in my mind with the cause of our delay. But neither was I apprehensive of danger, for the possibility of the dam giving away had been often discussed by passengers in my presence, and everybody supposed that the utmost damage it would do when it broke, as everybody believed it sometime would, would be to swell a little higher the current that tore down through the Conemaugh Valley. "Such a possibility as the carrying away of a train of cars on the great Pennsylvania road was never seriously entertained by anybody. We had stood stationary until about four o'clock, when two colored porters went through the car within a short time of each other, looking and acting rather excited. I asked the first one what the matter was, and he replied that he did not know. I inferred from his reply that if there was any thing serious up, the passengers would be informed, and so I went on reading. When the next man came along I asked him if the reservoir had given way, and he said he thought it had. "I put down my book and stepped out quickly to the rear platform, and was horrified at the sight that met my gaze up the valley. It seemed as if a forest was coming down upon us. There was a great wall of water roaring and grinding swiftly along, so thickly studded with the trees from along the mountain sides that it looked like a gigantic avalanche of trees. Of course I lingered but an instant, for the mortal danger we all were in flashed upon me at the first sight of that terrible on-coming torrent. But in that instant I saw an engine lifted bodily off the track and thrown over backward into the whirlpool, where it disappeared, and houses crushed and broken up in the flash of an eye. "The noise was like incessant thunder. I turned back into the car and shouted to the ladies, three of whom alone were in the car at the moment, to fly for their lives. I helped them out of the car on the side toward the hill, and urged them to jump across the ditch and run for their lives. Two of them did so, but the third, a rather heavy lady, a missionary, who was on her way to a foreign station, hesitated for an instant, doubtful if she could make the jump. That instant cost her her life. While I was holding out my hand to her and urging her to jump, the rush of waters came down and swept her, like a doll, down into the torrent. In the same instant an engine was thrown from the track into the ditch at my feet. The water was about my knees as I turned and scrambled up the hill, and when I looked back, ten seconds later, it was surging and grinding ten feet deep over the track I had just left. "The rush of waters lasted three-quarters of an hour, while we stood rapt and spell-bound in the rain, looking at the ruin no human agency could avert. The scene was beyond the power of language to describe. You would see a building standing in apparent security above the swollen banks of the river, the people rushing about the doors, some seeming to think that safety lay indoors, while others rushed toward higher ground, stumbling and falling in the muddy streets, and then the flood rolled over them, crushing in the house with a crash like thunder, and burying house and people out of sight entirely. That, of course, was the scene of only an instant, for our range of vision was only over a small portion of the city. "We sought shelter from the rain in the home of a farmer who lived high up on the side-hill, and the next morning walked down to Johnstown and viewed the ruins. It seemed as if the city was utterly destroyed. The water was deep over all the city and few people were visible. We returned to Conemaugh and were driven over the mountains to Ebensburg, where we took the train for Altoona, but finding we could get no further in that direction we turned back to Ebensburg, and from there went by wagon to Johnstown, where we found a train that took us to Pittsburg. I got home by the New York Central." CHAPTER X. Edward H. Jackson, who worked in the Cambria Iron Works, told the following story: "When we were going to work Friday morning at seven o'clock, May 31st, the water in the river was about six inches below the top of the banks, the rains during the night having swollen it. We were used to floods about this time of the year, the water always washing the streets and running into the cellars, so we did not pay much attention to this fact. It continued rising, and about nine o'clock we left work in order to go back to our homes and take our furniture and carpets to the upper floors, as we had formerly done on similar occasions. At noon the water was on our first floors, and kept rising until there was five feet of water in our homes. It was still raining hard. We were all in the upper stories about half-past four, when the first intimation we had of anything unusual was a frightful crash, and the same moment our house toppled over. Jumping to the windows, we saw the water rushing down the streets in immense volumes, carrying with it houses, barns, and, worst of all, screaming, terrified men, women, and children. In my house were Colonel A. N. Hart, who is my uncle, his wife, sister, and two children. They watched their chance, and when a slowly moving house passed by they jumped to the roof and by careful manoeuvring managed to reach Dr. S. M. Swan's house, a three-story brick building, where there were about two hundred other people. I jumped on to a tender of an engine as it floated down and reached the same house. All the women and children were hysterical, most of the men were paralyzed by terror, and to describe the scene is simply impossible. From the windows of this house we threw ropes to persons who floated by on the roofs of houses, and in this way we saved several. "Our condition in the house was none of the pleasantest. There was nothing to eat; it was impossible to sleep, even had any one desired to do so; when thirsty we were compelled to catch the rain-water as it fell from the roof and drink it. Other people had gone for safety in the same manner as we had to two other brick houses, H. Y. Hawse's residence and Alma Hall's, and they went through precisely the same experience as we did. Many of our people were badly injured and cut, and they were tended bravely and well by Dr. W. E. Matthews, although he himself was badly injured. During the evening we saved by ropes W. Forrest Rose, his wife, daughter, and four boys. Mr. Rose's collar-bone and one rib were broken. After a fearful night we found, when day broke, that the water had subsided, and I and some others of the men crawled out upon the rubbish and debris to search for food, for our people were starving. All we could find were water-soaked crackers and some bananas, and these were eagerly eaten by the famished sufferers. "Then, during the morning, began the thieving. I saw men bursting open trunks, putting valuables in their pockets, and then looking for more. I did not know these people, but I am sure they must have lived in the town, for surely no others could have got there at this time. A meeting was held, Colonel Hart was made Chief of Police, and he at once gave orders that any one caught stealing should be shot without warning. Notwithstanding this we afterward found scores of bodies, the fingers of which were cut off, the fiends not wishing to waste time to take off the rings. Many corpses of women were seen from which the ears had been cut, in order to secure the diamond earrings. "Then, to add to our horrors, the debris piled up against the bridge caught fire, and as the streets were full of oil, it was feared that the flames would extend backwards, but happily for us this was not the case. It was pitiful to hear the cries of those who had been caught in the rubbish, and, after having been half drowned, had to face death as inevitable as though bound to a stake. The bodies of those burned to death will never be recognized, and of those drowned many were so badly disfigured by being battered against the floating houses that they also will be unrecognizable. It is said that Charles Butler, the assistant treasurer of the Cambria Iron Works, who was in the Hurlburt House, convinced that he could not escape and wishing his body to be recognized, pinned his photograph and a letter to the lapel of his coat, where they were found when his body was recovered. I have lost everything I owned in the world," said Mr. Jackson, in conclusion, "and hundreds of others are in the same condition. The money in the banks is all right, however, for it was stowed away in the vaults." Frank McDonald, a railroad conductor, says: "I certainly think I saw one thousand bodies go over the bridge. The first house that came down struck the bridge and at once took fire, and as fast as the others came down they were consumed. I believe I am safe in saying I saw one thousand bodies burn. It reminded me of a lot of flies on fly-paper struggling to get away, with no hope and no chance to save them. I have no idea that had the bridge been blown up the loss of life would have been any less. They would have floated a little further with the same certain death. Then, again, it was impossible for any one to have reached the bridge in order to blow it up, for the waters came so fast that no one could have done it." Michael Renesen tells a wonderful story of his escape. He says he was walking down Main Street when he heard a rumbling noise, and, looking around, he imagined it was cloud, but in a minute the water was upon him. He floated with the tide for some time, when he was struck with some floating timber and borne underneath the water. When he came up he was struck again, and at last he was caught by a lightning rod and held there for over two hours, when he was finally rescued. Mrs. Anne Williams was sitting sewing when the flood came on. She heard some people crying and jumped out of the window and succeeded in getting on the roof of an adjoining house. Under the roof she heard the cries of men and women, and saw two men and a woman with their heads just above the water, crying "For God's sake, either kill us outright or rescue us!" Mrs. Williams cried for help for the drowning people, but none came, and she saw them give up one by one. James F. McCanagher had a thrilling experience in the water. He saw his wife was safe on land, and thought his only daughter, a girl aged about twenty-one, was also saved, but just as he was making for the shore he saw her and went to rescue her. He succeeded in getting within about ten feet of land, when the girl said, "Good-bye, father," and expired in his arms before he reached the shore. James M. Walters, an attorney, spent Friday night in Alma Hall, and relates a thrilling story. One of the most curious occurrences of the whole disaster was how Mr. Walters got to the hall. He has his office on the second floor. His home is at No. 135 Walnut Street. He says he was in the house with his family when the waters struck it. All was carried away. Mr. Walters' family drifted on a roof in another direction; he passed down several streets and alleys until he came to the hall. His dwelling struck that edifice and he was thrown into his own office. About three hundred persons had taken refuge in the hall and were on the second, third, and fourth stories. The men held a meeting and drew up some rules which all were bound to respect. Mr. Walters was chosen president, and Rev. Mr. Beale was put in charge of the first floor, A. M. Hart of the second floor, Dr. Matthews of the fourth floor. No lights were allowed, and the whole night was spent in darkness. The sick were cared for, the weaker women and children had the best accommodation that could be had, while the others had to wait. The scenes were most agonizing. Heartrending shrieks, sobs, and moans pierced the gloomy darkness. The crying of children mingled with the suppressed sobs of the women. Under the guardianship of the men all took more hope. No one slept during all the long, dark night. Many knelt for hours in prayer, their supplications mingling with the roar of the waters and the shrieks of the dying in the surrounding houses. In all this misery two women gave premature birth to children, Dr. Matthews is a hero--several of his ribs were crushed by a falling timber, and his pains were most severe. Yet through all he attended the sick. When two women in a house across the street shouted for help, he, with two other brave young men, climbed across the drift and ministered to their wants. No one died during the night, but a woman and children surrendered their lives on the succeeding day as a result of terror and fatigue. Miss Rose Young, one of the young ladies in the hall, was frightfully cut and bruised. Mrs. Young had a leg broken. All of Mr. Walters' family were saved. Mrs. J. F. Moore, wife of a Western Union Telegraph employee in Pittsburg, escaped with her two children from the devastated city just one hour before the flood had covered their dwelling-place. Mr. Moore had arranged to have his family move Thursday from Johnstown and join him in Pittsburg. Their household goods were shipped on Thursday and Friday. The little party caught the last train which made the trip between Johnstown and Pittsburg. Mrs. Moore told her story. "Oh! it was terrible," she said. "The reservoir had not yet burst when we left, but the boom had broken, and before we got out of the house the water filled the cellar. On the way to the depot the water was high up on the carriage wheels. Our train left at quarter to two P. M., and at that time the flood had begun to rise with terrible rapidity. Houses and sheds were carried away and two men were drowned almost before our eyes. People gathered on the roofs to take refuge from the water, which poured into the lower rooms of their dwellings, and many families took flight and became scattered. Just as the train pulled out I saw a woman crying bitterly. Her house had been flooded and she had escaped, leaving her husband behind, and her fears for his safety made her almost crazy. Our house was in the lower part of the town, and it makes me shudder to think what would have happened had we remained in it an hour longer. So far as I know, we were the only passengers from Johnstown on the train." Mrs. Moore's little son told the reporter that he had seen the rats driven out of their holes by the flood and running along the tops of the fences. One old man named Parsons, with his wife and children, as soon as the water struck their house, took to the roof and were carried down to the stone bridge, where the back wash of the Stony Creek took them back up along the banks and out of harm's way, but not before a daughter-in-law became a prey to the torrent. He has lived here for thirty-five years, and had acquired a nice, comfortable home. To-day all is gone, and as he told the story he pointed to a rather seedy-looking coat he had on. "I had to ask a man for it. It's hard, but I am ruined, and I am too old to begin over again." Mr. Lewis was a well-to-do young man, and owned a good property where now is a barren waste. When the flood came the entire family of eight took to the roof, and were carried along on the water. Before they reached the stone bridge, a family of four that had floated down from Woodvale, two and a half miles distant, on a raft, got off to the roof of the Lewis House, where the entire twelve persons were pushed to the bank of the river above the bridge, and all were saved. When Mr. Lewis was telling his story he seemed grateful to the Almighty for his safety while thousands were lost to him. Another young man who had also taken to a friendly roof, became paralyzed with fear, and stripping himself of his clothes flung himself from the housetop into the stream and tried to swim. The force of the water rushed him over to the west bank of the river, where he was picked up soon after. A baby's cradle was fished out of a ruin and the neatly tucked-in sheets and clothes, although soiled with mud, gave evidence of luxury. The entire family was lost, and no one is here to lay claim to baby's crib. In the ruin of the Penn House the library that occupied the extension was entirely gone, while the brick front was taken out and laid bare the parlor floor, in which the piano, turned upside down, was noticeable, while several chandeliers were scattered on top. [Illustration: MAIN AND CLINTON STREETS, LOOKING SOUTHWEST.] CHAPTER XI. The first survivors of the Johnstown wreck who arrived at Pittsburg were Joseph and Henry Lauffer and Lew Dalmeyer. They endured considerable hardship and had several narrow escapes with their lives. Their story of the disaster can best be told in their own language. Joe, the youngest of the Lauffer brothers, said: "My brother and I left on Thursday for Johnstown. The night we arrived there it rained continually, and on Friday morning it began to flood. I started for the Cambria store at a quarter-past eight on Friday, and in fifteen minutes afterward I had to get out of the store in a wagon, the water was running so rapidly. We then arrived at the station and took the day express and went as far as Conemaugh, where we had to stop. The limited, however, got through, and just as we were about to start the bridge at South Fork gave way with a terrific crash, and we had to stay there. We then went to Johnstown. This was at a quarter to ten in the morning, when the flood was just beginning. The whole city of Johnstown was inundated and the people all moved up to the second floor. "Now this is where the trouble occurred. These poor unfortunates did not know the reservoir would burst, and there are no skiffs in Johnstown to escape in. When the South Fork basin gave way mountains of water twenty feet high came rushing down the Conemaugh River, carrying before them death and destruction. I shall never forget the harrowing scene. Just think of it! thousands of people, men, and women, and children, struggling and weeping and wailing as they were being carried suddenly away in the raging current. Houses were picked up as if they were but a feather, and their inmates were all carried away with them, while cries of 'God help me!' 'Save me!' 'I am drowning!' 'My child!' and the like were heard on all sides. Those who were lucky enough to escape went to the mountains, and there they beheld the poor unfortunates being crushed to death among the debris without any chance of being rescued. Here and there a body was seen to make a wild leap into the air and then sink to the bottom. "At the stone bridge of the Pennsylvania Railroad people were dashed to death against the piers. When the fire started there hundreds of bodies were burned. Many lookers-on up on the mountains, especially the woman, fainted." Mr. Lauffer's brother, Harry, then told his part of the tale, which was not less interesting. He said: "We had a series of narrow escapes, and I tell you we don't want to be around when anything of that kind occurs again. "The scenes at Johnstown have not in the least been exaggerated, and, indeed, the worst is to be heard. When we got to Conemaugh and just as we were about to start the bridge gave way. This left the day express, the accommodation, a special train, and a freight train at the station. Above was the South Fork water basin, and all of the trains were well filled. We were discussing the situation when suddenly, without any warning, the whistles of every engine began to shriek, and in the noise could be heard the warning of the first engineer, 'Fly for your lives! Rush to the mountains, the reservoir has burst.' Then with a thundering peal came the mad rush of waters. No sooner had the cry been heard than those who could rushed from the train with a wild leap and up the mountains. To tell this story takes some time, but the moments in which the horrible scene was enacted were few. Then came the avalanche of water, leaping and rushing with tremendous force. The waves had angry crests of white, and their roar was something deafening. In one terrible swath they caught the four trains and lifted three of them right off the track, as if they were only a cork. There they floated in the river. Think of it, three large locomotives and finely finished Pullmans floating around, and above all the hundreds of poor unfortunates who were unable to escape from the car swiftly drifting toward death. Just as we were about to leap from the car I saw a mother, with a smiling, blue-eyed baby in her arms. I snatched it from her and leaped from the train just as it was lifted off the track. The mother and child were saved, but if one more minute had elapsed we all would have perished. "During all of this time the waters kept rushing down the Conemaugh and through the beautiful town of Johnstown, picking up everything and sparing nothing. "The mountains by this time were black with people, and the moans and sighs from those below brought tears to the eyes of the most stony-hearted. There in that terrible rampage were brothers, sisters, wives and husbands, and from the mountain could be seen the panic-stricken marks in the faces of those who were struggling between life and death. I really am unable to do justice to the scene, and its details are almost beyond my power to relate. Then came the burning of the debris near the Pennsylvania Railroad bridge. The scene was too sickening to endure. We left the spot and journeyed across country and delivered many notes, letters, etc., that were intrusted to us." The gallant young engineer, John G. Parke, whose ride of warning has already been described, relates the following: "On Thursday night I noticed that the dam was in good order and the water was nearly seven feet from the top. When the water is at this height the lake is then nearly three miles in length. It rained hard on Thursday night and I rode up to the end of the lake on the eventful day and saw that the woods around there was teeming with a seething cauldron of water. Colonel Unger, the president of the fishing club that owns the property, put twenty-five Italians to work to fix the dam. A farmer in the vicinity also lent a willing hand. To strengthen the dam a plow was run along the top of it, and earth was then thrown into the furrows. On the west side a channel was dug and a sluice was constructed. We cut through about four feet of shale rock, when we came to solid rock which was impossible to cut without blasting. Once we got the channel open the water leaped down to the bed-rock, and a stream fully twenty feet wide and three feet deep rushed out on that end of the dam, while great quantities of water were coming in by the pier at the other end. And then in the face of this great escape of water from the dam, it kept rising at the rate of ten inches an hour. "At noon I fully believed that it was practically impossible to save the dam, and I got on a horse and galloped down to South Fork, and gave the alarm, telling the people at the same time of their danger, and advising them to get to a place of safety. I also sent a couple of men to the telegraph tower, two miles away, to send messages to Johnstown and Cambria and to the other points on the way. The young girl at the instrument fainted when the news reached her, and was carried away. Then, by the timely warning given, the people at South Fork had an opportunity to move their household goods and betake themselves to a place of safety. Only one person was drowned in that place, and he was trying to save an old washtub that was floating down-stream. "It was noon when the messages were sent out, so that the people of Johnstown had just three hours to fly to a place of safety. Why they did not heed the warning will never be told. I then remounted my horse and rode to the dam, expecting at every moment to meet the lake rushing down the mountain-side, but when I reached there I found the dam still intact, although the water had then reached the top of it. At one P. M. I walked over the dam, and then the water was about three inches on it, and was gradually gnawing away its face. As the stream leaped down the outer face, the water was rapidly wearing down the edge of the embankment, and I knew that it was a question of but a few hours. From my knowledge I should say there was fully ten million tons of water in the lake at one o'clock, while the pressure was largely increased by the swollen streams that flowed into it, but even then the dam could have stood it if the level of the water had been kept below the top. But, coupled with this, there was the constantly trickling of the water over the sides, which was slowly but surely wearing the banks away. "The big break took place at just three o'clock, and it was about ten feet wide at first and shallow; but when the opening was made the fearful rushing waters opened the gap with such increasing rapidity that soon after the entire lake leaped out and started on its fearful march of death down the Valley of the Conemaugh. It took but forty minutes to drain that three miles of water, and the downpour of millions of tons of water was irresistible. The big boulders and great rafters and logs that were in the bed of the river were picked up, like so much chaff, and carried down the torrent for miles. Trees that stood fully seventy-five feet in height and four feet through were snapped off like pipe-stems." CHAPTER XII. One of the most thrilling incidents of the disaster was the performance of A. J. Leonard, whose family reside in Morrellville. He was at work, and hearing that his house had been swept away, determined at all hazards to ascertain the fate of his family. The bridges having been carried away, he constructed a temporary raft, and clinging to it as close as a cat to the side of a fence, he pushed his frail craft out in the raging torrent and started on a chase which, to all who were watching, seemed to mean an embrace in death. Heedless of cries "For God's sake, go back, you will be drowned," and "Don't attempt it," he persevered. As the raft struck the current he threw off his coat and in his shirt sleeves braved the stream. Down plunged the boards and down went Leonard, but as it rose he was seen still clinging. A mighty shout arose from the throats of the hundreds on the banks, who were now deeply interested, earnestly hoping he would successfully ford the stream. Down again went his bark, but nothing, it seemed, could shake Leonard off. The craft shot up in the air apparently ten or twelve feet, and Leonard stuck to it tenaciously. Slowly but surely he worked his boat to the other side of the stream, and after what seemed an awful suspense he finally landed, amid ringing cheers of men, women, and children. The scenes at Heanemyer's planing-mill at Nineveh, where the dead bodies are lying, are never to be forgotten. The torn, bruised, and mutilated bodies of the victims are lying in a row on the floor of the planing-mill, which looks more like the field of Bull Run after that disastrous battle than a workshop. The majority of the bodies are nude, their clothing having been torn off. All along the river bits of clothing--a tiny shoe, a baby dress, a mother's evening wrapper, a father's coat--and, in fact, every article of wearing apparel imaginable, may be seen hanging to stumps of trees and scattered on the bank. One of the most pitiful sights of this terrible disaster came to notice when the body of a young lady was taken out of the Conemaugh River. The woman was apparently quite young, though her features were terribly disfigured. Nearly all the clothing excepting the shoes was torn off the body. The corpse was that of a mother, for, although cold in death, she clasped a young male babe, apparently not more than a year old, tightly in her arms. The little one was huddled close up to the face of the mother, who, when she realized their terrible fate, had evidently raised it to her lips to imprint upon its lips the last kiss it was to receive in this world. The sight forced many a stout heart to shed tears. The limp bodies, with matted hair, some with holes in their heads, eyes knocked out, and all bespattered with blood were a ghastly spectacle. Mr. J. M. Fronheiser, one of the Superintendents in the Cambria Iron Works, lived on Main Street. His house was one of the first to go, and he himself, his wife, two daughters, son, and baby were thrown into the raging torrent. His wife and eldest daughter were lost. He, with the baby, reached a place of safety, and his ten-year-old boy and twelve-year-old girl floated near enough to be reached. He caught the little girl, but she cried: "Let me go, papa, and save brother; my leg is broken and my foot is caught below." When he told her he was determined to rescue her, she exclaimed: "Then, papa, get a sharp knife and cut my leg off. I can stand it." The little fellow cried to his father: "You can't save me, papa. Both my feet are caught fast, and I can't hold out any longer. Please get a pistol and shoot me." Captain Gageby, of the army, and some neighbors helped to rescue both children. The girl displayed Spartan fortitude and pluck. All night long she lay in a bed without a mattress or medical attention in a garret, the water reaching to the floor below, without a murmur or a whimper. In the morning she was carried down-stairs, her leg dangling under her, but when she saw her father at the foot of the stairs, she whispered to Captain Gageby: "Poor papa; he is so sad." Then, turning to her father, she threw a kiss with her hands and laughingly said, "Good morning, papa; I'm all right." The Pennsylvania Railroad Company's operators at Switch Corner, "S. Q.," which is near Sang Hollow, tell thrilling stories of the scenes witnessed by them on Friday afternoon and evening. Said one of them: "In order to give you an idea of how the tidal wave rose and fell, let me say that I kept a measure and timed the rise and fall of the water, and in forty-eight minutes it fell four and a half feet. "I believe that when the water goes down about seventy-five children and fifty grown persons will be found among the weeds and bushes in the bend of the river just below the tower. "There the current was very strong, and we saw dozens of people swept under the trees, and I don't believe that more than one in twenty came out on the other side." "They found a little girl in white just now," said one of the other operators. "O God!" said the chief operator. "She isn't dead, is she?" "Yes; they found her in a clump of willow bushes, kneeling on a board, just about the way we saw her when she went down the river." Turning to me he said: "That was the saddest thing we saw all day yesterday. Two men came down on a little raft, with a little girl kneeling between them, and her hands raised and praying. She came so close to us we could see her face and that she was crying. She had on a white dress and looked like a little angel. She went under that cursed shoot in the willow bushes at the bend like all the rest, but we did hope she would get through alive." "And so she was still kneeling?" he said to his companion, who had brought the unwelcome news. "She sat there," was the reply, "as if she was still praying, and there was a smile on her poor little face, though her mouth was full of mud." Driving through the mountains a correspondent picked up a ragged little chap not much more than big enough to walk. From his clothing he was evidently a refugee. "Where are your folks?" he was asked. "We're living at Aunty's now." "Did you all get out?" "Oh! we're all right--that is, all except two of sister's babies. Mother and little sister wasn't home, and they got out all right." "Where were you?" "Oh! I was at sister's house. We was all in the water and fire. Sister's man--her husband, you know--took us up-stairs, and he punched a hole through the roof, and we all climbed out and got saved." "How about the babies?" "Oh! sister was carrying two of them in her arms, and the bureau hit her and knocked them out, so they went down." The child had unconsciously caught one of the oddest and most significant tricks of speech that have arisen from the calamity. Nobody here speaks of a person's having been drowned, or killed, or lost, or uses any other of the general expressions for sudden death. They have simply "gone down." Everybody here seems to avoid harsh words in referring to the possible affliction of another. Euphonistic phrases are substituted for plain questions. Two old friends met for the first time since the disaster. "I'm glad to see you," exclaimed the first. "Are you all right?" "Yes, I'm doing first rate," was the reply. The first friend looked awkwardly about a moment, and then asked with suppressed eagerness: "And--and your family--are they all--well?" There was a world of significance in the hesitation before the last word. "Yes. Thank God! not one of them went down." A man who looked like a prosperous banker, and who had evidently come from a distance drove through the mountains toward South Fork. On the way he met a handsome young man in a silk hat, mounted on a mule. The two shook hands eagerly. "Have you anything?" "Nothing. What have you?" "Nothing." The younger man turned about and the two rode on silently through the forest road. Inquiry later developed the fact that the banker-looking man was really a banker whose daughter had been lost from one of the overwhelmed trains. The young man was his son. Both had been searching for some clue to the young woman's fate. CHAPTER XIII. It was not "good morning" in Johnstown nor "good night" that passed as a salutation between neighbors who meet for the first time since the deluge but "How many of your folks gone?" It is always "folks," always "gone." You heard it everywhere among the crowds that thronged the viaduct and looked down upon the ghastly twenty acres of unburied dead, from which dynamite was making a terrible exhumation of the corpses of two thousand mortals and five hundred houses. You heard it at the rope bridge, where the crowds waited the passage of the incessant file of empty coffins. You heard it upon the steep hillside beyond the valley of devastation, where the citizens of Johnstown had fled into the borough of Conemaugh for shelter. You heard it again, the first salutation, whenever a friend, who had been searching for _his_ dead, met a neighbor: "Are any of your friends gone?" It was not said in tears or even seemingly in madness. It had simply come to be the "how-d'ye-do" of the eleven thousand people who survived the twenty-nine thousand five hundred people of the valley of the Conemaugh. Still finding bodies by scores in the debris: still burying the dead and caring for the wounded; still feeding the famishing and housing the homeless, was the record for days following the one on which Johnstown was swept away. A perfect stream of wagons bearing the dead as fast as they were discovered was constantly filing to the various improvised morgues where the bodies were taken for identification. Hundreds of people were constantly crowding to these temporary houses, one of which was located in each of the suburban boroughs that surround Johnstown. Men armed with muskets, uniformed sentinels, constituting the force that guarded the city while it was practically under martial law, stood at the doors and admitted the crowd by tens. [Illustration: RUINS, CORNER MAIN AND CLINTON STS.] In the central dead-house in Johnstown proper there lay two rows of ghastly dead. To the right were twenty bodies that had been identified. They were mostly women and children, and they were entirely covered with white sheets, and a piece of paper bearing the name was pinned at the feet. To the left were eighteen bodies of the unknown dead. As the people passed they were hurried along by an attendant and gazed at the uncovered faces seeking to identify them. All applicants for admission, if it was thought they were prompted by idle curiosity, were not allowed to enter. The central morgue was formerly a school-house, and the desks were used as biers for the dead bodies. Three of the former pupils lay on the desks dead, with white pieces of paper pinned on the white sheets that covered them, giving their names. But what touching scenes are enacted every hour about this mournful building! Outside the sharp voices of the sentinels are constantly shouting: "Move on." Inside weeping women and sad-faced, hollow-eyed men are bending over loved and familiar faces. Back on the steep grassy hill which rises abruptly on the other side of the street are crowds of curious people who have come in from the country round about to look at the wreckage strewn around where Johnstown was. "Oh! Mr. Jones," a pale-faced woman asks, walking up, sobbing, "can't you tell me where we can get a coffin to bury Johnnie's body?" "Do you know," asks a tottering old man, as the pale-faced woman turns away, "whether they have found Jennie and the children?" "Jennie's body has just been found at the bridge," is the answer, "but the children can't be found." Jennie is the old man's widowed daughter, and was drowned, with her two children, while her husband was at work over at the Cambria Mills. Just a few doors below the school-house morgue is the central office of the "Registry Bureau." This was organized by Dr. Buchanan and H. G. Connaugh, for the purpose of having a registry made of all those who had escaped. They realized that it would be impossible to secure a complete list of dead, and that the only practicable thing was to get a complete list of the living. Then they would get all the Johnstown names, and by that means secure a list of the dead. That estimate will be based on figures secured by the subtraction of the total registry saved from total population of Johnstown and surrounding boroughs. "I have been around trying to find my sister-in-law, Mrs. Laura R. Jones, who is lost," said David L. Rogers. "How do you know she is lost?" he was asked. "Because I can't find her." When persons can't be found it is taken as conclusive evidence that they have been drowned. It is believed that the flood has buried a great many people below the bridge in the ground lying just below the Cambria Works. Here the rush of waters covered the railroad tracks ten feet deep with a coating of stones. Whether they will ever be dug for remains to be seen. Meantime, those who are easier to reach will be hunted for. There are many corpses in the area of rubbish that drifted down and lodged against the stone bridge of the Pennsylvania Railroad. Out of this rubbish one thousand bodies have already been taken. The fire that was started by the driftwood touching against the burning Catholic Church as it floated down was still burning. Walk almost anywhere through the devastated district and you will hear expressions like this: "Why, you see that pile of wreckage there. There are three bodies buried beneath that pile. I know them, for I lived next door. They are Mrs. Charles E. Kast and her daughter, who kept a tavern, and her bartender, C. S. Noble." Henry Rogers, of Pittsburg, is here caring for his relatives. "I am scarcely in a condition to talk," he says. "The awful scenes I have just witnessed and the troubles of my relatives have almost unnerved me. My poor aunt, Mrs. William Slick, is now a raving maniac. Her husband was formerly the County Surveyor. He felt that the warning about the dam should not be disregarded. Accordingly he made preparations to go to a place of safety. His wife was just recovering from an illness, but he had to take her on horseback, and there was no time to get a carriage. They escaped, but all their property was washed away. Mrs. Slick for a time talked cheerfully enough, and said they should be thankful they had escaped with their lives. But on Sunday it was noticed that she was acting strangely. By night she was insane. I suppose the news that some relatives had perished was what turned her mind. I am much afraid that Mrs. Slick is not the only one in Johnstown whose reason has been dethroned by the calamity. I have talked with many citizens, and they certainly seem crazy to me. When the excitement passes off I suppose they will regain their reason. The escape of my uncle, George R. Slick, and his wife, I think was really providential. They, too, had determined to heed the warning that the dam was unsafe. When the flood came they had a carriage waiting at the front door. Just as they were entering it, the water came. How it was, my aunt cannot tell me, but they both managed to catch on to some debris, and were thus floated along. My aunt says she has an indistinct recollection of some one having helped her upon the roof of a house. The person who did her this service was lost. All night they floated along on the roof. They suffered greatly from exposure, as the weather was extremely chilly. Next morning they were fortunately landed safely. My uncle, however, is now lying at the point of death. I have noticed a singular coincidence here. Down in the lower end of the city stood the United Presbyterian parsonage. The waters carried it two miles and a half, and landed it in Sandy Vale Cemetery. Strange as it may seem, the sexton's house in the cemetery was swept away and landed near the foundations of the parsonage. I have seen this myself, and it is commented on by many others." In one place the roofs of forty frame houses were packed in together just as you would place forty bended cards one on top of another. The iron rods of a bridge were twisted into a perfect spiral six times around one of the girders. Just beneath it was a woman's trunk, broken up and half filled with sand, with silk dresses and a veil streaming out of it. From under the trunk men were lifting the body of its owner, perhaps, so burned, so horribly mutilated, so torn limb from limb that even the workmen, who have seen so many of these frightful sights that they have begun to get used to them, turned away sick at heart. In one place was a wrecked grocery store--bins of coffee and tea, flour, spices and nuts, parts of the counter and the safe mingled together. Near it was the pantry of a house, still partly intact, the plates and saucers regularly piled up, a waiter and a teapot, but not a sign of the woodwork, not a recognizable outline of a house. In another place was a human foot, and crumbling indications of a boot, but no signs of a body. A hay-rick, half ashes, stood near the centre of the gorge. Workmen who dug about it to-day found a chicken coop, and in it two chickens, not only alive but clucking happily when they were released. A woman's hat, half burned; a reticule, with part of a hand still clinging to it; two shoes and part of a dress told the story of one unfortunate's death. Close at hand a commercial traveler had perished. There was his broken valise, still full of samples, fragments of his shoes, and some pieces of his clothing. Scenes like these were occurring all over the charred field where men were working with pick and axe and lifting out the poor, shattered remains of human beings, nearly always past recognition or identification, except by guess-work, or the locality where they were found. Articles of domestic use scattered through the rubbish helped to tell who some of the bodies were. Part of a set of dinner plates told one man where in the intangible mass his house was. In one place was a photograph album with one picture still recognizable. From this the body of a child near by was identified. A man who had spent a day and all night looking for the body of his wife, was directed to her remains by part of a trunk lid. CHAPTER XIV. The language of pathos is too weak to describe the scenes where the living were searching for their loved and lost ones among the dead. "That's Emma," said an old man before one of the bodies. He said it as coolly as though he spoke of his daughter in life, not in death, and as if it were not the fifth dead child of his that he had identified. "Is that you, Mrs. James," said one woman to another on the foot-bridge over Stony Creek. "Yes, it is, and we are all well," said Mrs. James. "Oh, have you heard from Mrs. Fenton?" "She's left," said the first woman, "but Mr. Fenton and the children are gone." The scenes at the different relief agencies, where food, clothing, and provisions were given out on the order of the Citizens Committee, were extremely interesting. These were established at the Pennsylvania Railroad depot, at Peter's Hotel, in Adams Street, and in each of the suburbs. At the depot, where there was a large force of police, the people were kept in files, and the relief articles were given out with some regularity, but at such a place as Kernsville, in the suburbs, the relief station was in the upper story of a partly wrecked house. The yard was filled with boxes and barrels of bread, crackers, biscuit, and bales of blankets. The people crowded outside the yard in the street, and the provisions were handed to them over the fence, while the clothing was thrown to them from the upper windows. There was apparently great destitution in Kernsville. "I don't care what it is, only so long as it will keep me warm," said one woman, whose ragged clothing was still damp. The stronger women pushed to the front of the fence and tried to grab the best pieces of clothing which came from the windows, but the people in the house saw the game and tossed the clothing to those in the rear of the crowd. A man stood on a barrel of flour and yelled out what each piece of clothing was as it came down. At each yell there was a universal cry of "That's just what I want. My boy is dying; he must have that. Throw me that for my poor wife," and the likes of that. Finally the clothing was all gone, and there were some people who didn't get any. They went away bewailing their misfortune. A reporter was piloted to Kernsville by Kellog, a man who had lost his wife and baby in the flood. "She stood right thar, sir," said the man, pointing to a house whose roof and front were gone. "She climbed up thar when the water came first and almost smashed the house. She had the baby in her arms. Then another house came down and dashed against ours, and my wife went down with the baby raised above her head. I saw it all from a tree thar. I couldn't move a step to help 'em." Coming back, the same reporter met a man whose face was radiant. He fairly beamed good nature and kindness. "You look happy," said the reporter. "Yes, sir; I've found my boy," said the man. "Is your house gone?" asked the reporter. "Oh, of course," answered the man. "I've lost all I've got except my little boy," and he went on his way rejoicing. A wealthy young Philadelphian named Ogle had become engaged to a Johnstown lady, Miss Carrie Diehl. They were to be wedded in the middle of June, and were preparing for the ceremony. The lover heard of the terrible flood, but, knowing that the residence of his dear one was up in the hills, felt little fear for her safety. To make sure, however, he started for Johnstown. Near the Fourth Street morgue he met Mr. Diehl. "Thank God! you are safe," he exclaimed, and then added: "Is Carrie well?" "She was visiting in the valley when the wave came," was the mournful reply. Then he beckoned the young man to enter the chamber of death. A moment later Mr. Ogle was kneeling beside the rough bier and was kissing the cold, white face. From the lifeless finger he slipped a ring and in its place put one of his own. Then he stole quietly out. "Mamma! mamma!" cried a child. She had recognized a body that no one else could, and in a moment the corpse was ticketed, boxed, and delivered to laborers, who bore it away to join the long funeral procession. A mother recognized a baby boy. "Keep it a few minutes," she asked the undertaker in charge. In a few moments she returned, carrying in her arms a little white casket. Then she hired two men to bear it to a cemetery. No hearses were seen in Johnstown. Relatives recognized their dead, secured the coffins, got them carried the best way they could to the morgues, then to the graveyards. A prayer, some tears, and a few more of the dead thousands were buried in mother earth. A frequent visitor at these horrible places was David John Lewis. All over Johnstown he rode a powerful gray horse, and to each one he met whom he knew he exclaimed: "Have you seen my sisters?" Hardly waiting for a reply, he galloped away, either to seek ingress into a morgue or to ride along the river banks. One week before Mr. Lewis was worth $60,000, his all being invested in a large commission business. After the flood he owned the horse he rode, the clothes on his back, and that was all. In the fierce wave were buried five of his near relatives, sons, and his sisters Anna, Louise, and Maggie. The latter was married, and her little boy and babe were also drowned. They were all dearly loved by the merchant, who, crazed with grief and mounted on his horse, was a conspicuous figure in the ruined city. William Gaffney, an insurance agent, had a very pitiful duty to perform. On his father's and wife's side he lost fourteen relatives, among them his wife and family. He had a man to take the bodies to the grave, and he himself dug graves for his wife and children, and buried them. In speaking of the matter he said: "I never thought that I could perform such a sad duty, but I had to do it, and I did it. No one has any idea of the feelings of a man who acts as undertaker, grave-digger, and pall-bearer for his own family." The saddest sight on the river bank was Mr. Gilmore, who lost his wife and family of five children. Ever since the calamity this old man was seen on the river bank looking for his family. He insisted on the firemen playing a stream of water on the place where the house formerly stood, and where he supposed the bodies lay. The firemen, recognizing his feelings, played the stream on the place, at intervals, for several hours, and at last the rescuers got to the spot where the old man said his house formerly stood. "I know the bodies are there, and you must find them." When at last one of the men picked up a charred skull, evidently that of a child, the old man exclaimed: "That is my child. There lies my family; go on and get the rest of them." The workmen continued, and in a few minutes they came to the remains of the mother and three other children. There was only enough of their clothing left to recognize them by. On the floor of William Mancarro's house, groaning with pain and grief, lay Patrick Madden, a furnaceman of the Cambria Iron Company. He told of his terrible experience in a voice broken with emotion. He said: "When the Cambria Iron Company's bridge gave way I was in the house of a neighbor, Edward Garvey. We were caught through our own neglect, like a great many others, and a few minutes before the houses were struck Garvey remarked that he was a good swimmer, and could get away no matter how high the water rose. Ten minutes later I saw him and his son-in-law drowned. "No human being could swim in that terrible torrent of débris. After the South Fork Reservoir broke I was flung out of the building, and saw, when I rose to the surface of the water, my wife hanging upon a piece of scantling. She let it go and was drowned almost within reach of my arm, and I could not help or save her. I caught a log and floated with it five or six miles, but it was knocked from under me when I went over the dam. I then caught a bale of hay and was taken out by Mr. Morenrow. "My wife is certainly drowned, and six children. Four of them were: James Madden, twenty-three years old; John, twenty-one years; Kate, seventeen years; and Mary, nineteen years." A spring wagon came slowly from the ruins of what was once Cambria. In it, on a board and covered by a muddy cloth, were the remains of Editor C. T. Schubert, of the Johnstown _Free Press_, German. Behind the wagon walked his friend Benjamin Gribble. Editor Schubert was one of the most popular and well-known Germans in the city. He sent his three sons to Conemaugh Borough on Thursday, and on Friday afternoon he and his wife and six other children called at Mr. Gribble's residence. They noticed the rise of the water, but not until the flood from the burst dam washed the city did they anticipate danger. All fled from the first to the second floor. Then, as the water rose, they went to the attic, and Mr. Schubert hastily prepared a raft, upon which all embarked. Just as the raft reached the bridge, a heavy piece of timber swept the editor beneath the surface. The raft then glided through, and all the rest were rescued. Mr. Schubert's body was found beneath a pile of broken timbers. A pitiful sight was that of an old, gray-haired man named Norn. He was walking around among the mass of débris, looking for his family. He had just sat down to eat his supper when the crash came, and the whole family, consisting of wife and eight children, were buried beneath the collapsed house. He was carried down the river to the railroad bridge on a plank. Just at the bridge a cross-tie struck him with such force that he was shot clear upon the pier, and was safe. But he is a mass of bruises and cuts from head to foot. He refused to go to the hospital until he found the bodies of his loved ones. CHAPTER XV. Five days after the disaster a bird's-eye view was taken of Johnstown from the top of a precipitous mountain which almost overhangs it. The first thing that impresses the eye, wrote the observer, is the fact that the proportion of the town that remains uninjured is much smaller than it seems to be from lower-down points of view. Besides the part of the town that is utterly wiped out, there are two great swaths cut through that portion which from lower down seems almost uninjured. Beginning at Conemaugh, two miles above the railroad bridge, along the right side of the valley looking down, there is a strip of an eighth by a quarter of a mile wide, which constituted the heart of a chain of continuous towns, and which was thickly built over for the whole distance, upon which now not a solitary building stands except the gutted walls of the Wood, Morrell & Co. general store in Johnstown, and of the Gautier wire mill and Woodvale flour mill at Woodvale. Except for these buildings, the whole two-mile strip is swept clean, not only of buildings, but of everything. It is a tract of mud, rocks, and such other miscellaneous débris as might follow the workings of a huge hydraulic placer mining system in the gold regions. In Johnstown itself, besides the total destruction upon this strip, extending at the end to cover the whole lower end of the city, there is a swath branching off from the main strip above the general store and running straight to the bluff. It is three blocks wide and makes a huge "Y," with the gap through which the flood came for the base and main strip and the swaths for branches. Between the branches there is a triangular block of buildings that are still standing, although most of them are damaged. At a point exactly opposite the corner where the branches of the "Y" meet, and distant from it by about fifty yards, is one of the freaks of the flood. The Baltimore and Ohio Railroad station, a square, two-story brick building, with a little cupola at the apex of its slanting roof, is apparently uninjured, but really one corner is knocked in and the whole interior is a total wreck. How it stood when everything anywhere near it was swept away is a mystery. Above the "Y"-shaped tract of ruin there is another still wider swath, bending around in Stony Creek, save on the left, where the flood surged when it was checked and thrown back by the railroad bridge. It swept things clean before it through Johnstown and made a track of ruin among the light frame houses for nearly two miles up the gap. The Roman Catholic Church was just at its upper edge. It is still standing, and from its tower the bell strikes the hours regularly as before, although everybody now is noticing that it always sounds like a funeral. Nobody ever noticed it before, but from the upper side it can be seen that a huge hole has been knocked through the side of the building. A train of cars could be run through it. Inside the church is filled with all sorts of rubbish and ruin. A little further on is another church, which curiously illustrates the manner in which fire and flood seemed determined to unite in completing the ruin of the city. Just before the flood came down the valley there was a terrific explosion in this church, supposed to have been caused by natural gas. Amid all the terrors of the flood, with the water surging thirty feet deep all around and through it, the flames blazed through the roof and tower, and its fire-stained walls arise from the débris of the flood, which covers its foundations. Its ruins are one of the most conspicuous and picturesque sights in the city. [Illustration: RUINS FROM SITE OF THE HURLBURT HOUSE.] Next to Adams Street, the road most traveled in Johnstown now is the Pennsylvania Railroad track, or rather bed, across the Stony Creek, and at a culvert crossing just west of the creek. More people have been injured here since the calamity than at any other place. The railroad ties which hold the track across the culvert are big ones, and their strength has not been weakened by the flood, but between the ties and between the freight and passenger tracks there is a wide space. The Pennsylvania trains from Johnstown have to stop, of course, at the eastern end of the bridge, and the thousands of people whom they daily bring to Johnstown from Pittsburgh have to get into Johnstown by walking across the track to the Pennsylvania Railroad depot, and then crossing the pontoon foot-bridge that has been built across the Stony Creek. All day long there is a black line of people going back and forth across this course. Every now and then there is a yell, a plunge, a rush of people to the culvert, a call for a doctor, and cries of "Help" from underneath the culvert. Some one, of course, has fallen between the freight and passenger tracks, or between the ties of the tracks themselves. In the night it is particularly dangerous traveling to the Pennsylvania depot this way, and people falling then have little chance of a rescue. So far at least thirty persons have fallen down the culvert, and a dozen of them, who have descended entirely to the ground, have escaped in some marvelous manner with their lives. Several Pittsburghers have had their legs and arms broken, and one man cracked his collar-bone. It is to be hoped that these accidents will keep off the flock of curiosity-seekers, in some degree at least. The presence of these crowds seriously interferes with the work of clearing up the town, and affects the residents here in even a graver manner, for though many of those coming to Johnstown to spend a day and see the ruins bring something to eat with them, many do not do so, and invade the relief stands, taking the food which is lavishly dealt out to the suffering. Though the Pennsylvania Railroad bridge is as strong as ever, apparently, beyond the bridge, the embankment on which the track is built is washed away, and people therefore do not cross the bridge, but leave the track on the western side, and, clambering down the abutments, cross the creek on a rude foot-bridge hastily erected, and then through the yard of the Open-Hearth Works and of the railroad up to the depot. This yard altogether is about three-quarters of a mile long, but so deceptive are distances in the valley that it does not look one-third that. The bed of this yard, three-quarters of a mile long, and about the same distance wide, is the most desolate place here. The yard itself is fringed with the crumbling ruins of the iron works and of the railroad shops. The iron works were great, high brick buildings, with steep iron roofs. The ends of these buildings were smashed in, and the roofs bend over where the flood struck them, in a curve. But it is the bed of the yard itself that is desolate. In appearance it is a mass of stones and rocks and huge boulders, so that it seems a vast quarry hewn and uncovered by the wind. There is comparatively little débris here, all this having been washed away over to the sides of the buildings, in one or two instances filling the buildings completely. There is no soft earth or mud on the rocks at all, this part of Johnstown being much in contrast with the great stretch of sand along the river. In some instances the dirt is washed away to such a depth that the bed-rock is uncovered. The fury of the waters here may be gathered from this fact: piled up outside the works of the Open-Hearth Company were several heaps of massive blooms--long, solid blocks of pig iron, weighing fifteen tons each. The blooms, though they were not carried down the river, were scattered about the yard like so many logs of wood. They will have to be piled up again by the use of a derrick. The Open-Hearth Iron Works people are making vigorous efforts to clear their buildings. The yards of the company were blazing last night with the burning débris, but it will be weeks before the company can start operations. In the Pennsylvania Railroad yard all is activity and bustle. At the relief station, and at the headquarters of General Hastings, in the signal tower, the man who is the head of all operations there, and the directing genius of the place, is Lieutenant George Miller, of the Fifth United States Infantry. Lieutenant Miller was near here on his vacation when the flood came. He was one of the first on the spot, and was about the only man in Johnstown who showed some ability as an organizer and a disciplinarian. A reporter who groped his way across the railroad track, the foot-bridge, and the quarries and yards at reveille found Lieutenant Miller in a group of the soldiers of the Fourteenth Pennsylvania Regiment telling them just what to do. CHAPTER XVI. Travel was resumed up the valley of Conemaugh Creek for a few miles about five days after the flood, and a weird sight was presented to the visitor. No pen can do justice to it, yet some impressions of it must be recorded. Every one has seen the light iron beams, shafts, and rods in a factory lying in twisted, broken, and criss-cross shape after a fire has destroyed the building. In the gap above Johnstown water has picked up a four-track railroad covered with trains, freight, and passengers, and with machine shops, a round-house, and other heavy buildings with heavy contents, and it has torn the track to pieces, twisted, turned, and crossed it as fire never could. It has tossed huge freight locomotives about like barrels, and cars like packing-boxes, torn them to pieces, and scattered them over miles of territory. It has in one place put a stream of deep water, a city block wide, between the railroad and the bluff, and in another place it has changed the course of the river as far in the other direction and left a hundred yards inland the tracks that formerly skirted the banks. Add to this that in the midst of all this devastation, fire, with the singular fatality that has made it everywhere the companion of the flood in this catastrophe, has destroyed a train of vestibule cars that the flood had wrecked; that the passengers who remained in the cars through the flood and until the fire were saved, while their companions who attempted to flee were overwhelmed and drowned; and that through it all one locomotive stood and still stands comparatively uninjured in the heart of this disaster, and the story of one of the most marvelous freaks of this marvelous flood is barely outlined. That locomotive stands there on its track now with its fires burning, smoke curling from the stack, and steam from its safety valve, all ready to go ahead as soon as they will build a track down to it. It is No. 1309, a fifty-four ton, eight driver, class R, Pennsylvania Railroad locomotive. George Hudson was its engineer, and Conductor Sheely had charge of its train. They, with all the rest of the crew, escaped by flight when they saw the flood. The wonders of this playground, where a giant force played with masses of iron, weighing scores of tons each, as a child might play with pebbles, begins with a bridge, or a piece of a bridge, about thirty feet long, that stands high and dry upon two ordinary stone abutments at Woodvale. The part of the bridge that remains spanned the Pennsylvania tracks. The tracks are gone, the bridge is gone on either side, the river is gone to a new channel, the very earth for a hundred yards around has been scraped off and swept away, but this little span remains perched up there, twenty feet above everything, in the midst of a desert of ruins--the only piece of a bridge that is standing from the railroad bridge to South Forks. It is a light iron structure, and the abutments are not unusually heavy. That it should be kept there, when everything else was twisted and torn to pieces, is one other queer freak of this flood. Near by are the wrecks of two freight trains that were standing side by side when the flood caught them. The lower ends of both trains are torn to pieces, the cars tossed around in every direction, and many of them carried away. The whole of the train on the track nearest the river was smashed into kindling wood. Its locomotive is gone entirely, perhaps because this other train acted as a sort of buffer for the second one. The latter has twenty-five or thirty cars that are uninjured, apparently. They could move off as soon as that wonderful engine, No. 1309, that stands with steam up at their head, gets ready to pull out. A second look, however, shows that the track is in many places literally washed from beneath the cars. Some of the trucks also are turned half way around and standing with wheels running across the track. But the force that did this left the light wood box cars themselves unharmed. They were loaded with dressed beef and provisions. They have been emptied to supply the hungry in Johnstown. In front of engine 1309 and this train the water played one of its most fantastic tricks with the rails. The débris of trees, logs, planks, and every description of wreckage is heaped up in front of the engine to the headlight, and is packed in so tightly that twenty men with ropes and axes worked all day without clearing all away. The track is absolutely gone from the front of the engine clear up to beyond Conemaugh. Parts of it lie about everywhere, twisted into odd shapes, turned upside down, stacked crosswise one above the other, and in one place a section of the west track has been lifted clear over the right track, runs along there for a ways, and then twists back into its proper place. Even stranger are the tricks the water has played with the rails where they have been torn loose from the ties. The rails are steel and of the heaviest weight used. They were twisted as easily as willow branches in a spring freshet in a country brook. One rail lies in the sand in the shape of a letter "S." More are broken squarely in two. Many times rails have been broken within a few feet of a fishplate, coupling them to the next rail, and the fragments are still united by the comparatively weak plates. Every natural law would seem to show that the first place where they should have broken was at the joints. There is little to indicate the recent presence of a railroad in the stretch from this spot up to the upper part of Conemaugh. The little plain into which the gap widened here, and in which stood the bulk of the town, is wiped out. The river has changed its course from one side of the valley to the other. There is not the slightest indication that the central part of the plain was ever anything but a flood-washed gulch in some mountain region. At the upper end of the plain, surrounded by a desert of mud and rock, stands a fantastic collection of ruined railroad equipments. Three trains stood there when the flood swept down the valley. On the outside was a local passenger train with three cars and a locomotive. It stands there yet, the cars tilted by the washing of the tracks, but comparatively uninjured. Somehow a couple more locomotives have been run into the sand bank. In the centre a freight train stood on the track, and a large collection of smashed cars has its place now. It was broken all to pieces. Inside of all was the day express, with its baggage and express cars, and at the end three vestibule cars. It was from this train that a number of passengers--fifteen certainly, and no one knows how many more--were lost. When the alarm came most of the passengers fled for the high ground. Many reached it; others hesitated on the way, tried to run back to the cars, and were lost. Others stayed on the cars, and, after the first rush of the flood, were rescued alive. Some of the freight cars were loaded with lime, and this leaped over the vestibule cars and set them on fire. All three of the vestibule cars were burned down to the trucks. These and the peculiar-shaped iron frames of the vestibules are all that show where the cars stood. The reason the flood, that twisted heavy steel rails like twigs just below, did not wipe out these three trains entirely is supposed to be that just in front of them, and between them and the flood, was the round-house, filled with engines. It was a large building, probably forty feet high to the top of the ventilators in the roof. The wave of wrath, eye-witnesses say, was so high that these ventilators were beneath it. The round-house was swept away to its very foundations, and the flood played jackstraws with the two dozen locomotives lodged in it, but it split the torrent, and a part of it went down each side of the three trains, saving them from the worst of its force. Thirty-three locomotives were in and about the round-house and the repair shops near by. Of these, twenty-six have been found, or at least traced, part of them being found scattered down into Johnstown, and one tender was found up in Stony Creek. The other seven locomotives are gone, and not a trace of them has been found up to this time. It is supposed that some of them are in the sixty acres of débris above the bridge at Johnstown. All the locomotives that remain anywhere within sight of the round-house, all except those attached to the trains, are thrown about in every direction, every side up, smashed, broken, and useless except for old iron. The tenders are all gone. Being lighter than the locomotives, they floated easier, and were quickly torn off and carried away. The engines themselves were apparently rolled over and over in whichever direction the current that had hold of them ran, and occasionally were picked up bodily and slammed down again, wheels up, or whichever way chanced to be most convenient to the flood. Most of them lie in five feet of sand and gravel, with only a part showing above the surface. Some are out in the bed of the river. A strange but very pleasant feature of the disaster in Conemaugh itself is the comparatively small loss of life. As the townspeople figure it out, there are only thirty-eight persons there positively known to have perished besides those on the train. This was partly because the buildings in the centre of the valley were mostly stores and factories, and also because more heed appears to have been paid to the warnings that came from up the valley. At noon the workmen in the shops were notified that there was danger, and that they had better go home. At one o'clock word was given that the dam was likely to go, and that everybody must get on high ground. Few remained in the central part of the valley when the high wave came through the gap. Doré never dreamed a weirder, ghastlier picture than night in the Conemaugh Valley since the flood desolated it. Darkness falls early from the rain-dropping, gray sky that has palled the valley ever since it became a vast bier, a charnel-house fifteen miles long. The smoke and steam from the placers of smouldering débris above the bridge aid to hasten the night. Few lights gleam out, except those of the scattered fires that still flicker fitfully in the mass of wreckage. Gas went out with the flood, and oil has been almost entirely lacking since the disaster. Candles are used in those places where people think it worth while to stay up after dark. Up on the hills around the town bright sparks gleam out like lovely stars from the few homes built so high. Down in the valley the gloom settles over everything, making it look, from the bluffs around, like some vast death-pit, the idea of entering which brings a shudder. The gloomy effect is not relieved, but rather deepened, by the broad beams of ghastly, pale light thrown across the gulf by two or three electric lights erected around the Pennsylvania Railroad station. They dazzle the eye and make the gloom still deeper. Time does not accustom the eyes to this ghastly scene. The flames rising and falling over the ruins look more like witches' bale-fires the longer they are looked at. The smoke-burdened depths in the valley seem deserted by every living thing, except that occasionally, prowling ghoul-like about the edges of the mass of débris, may be seen, as they cross the beams of electric light, dark figures of men who are drawn to the spot day and night, hovering over the place where some chance movement may disclose the body of a wife, mother, or daughter gone down in the wreck. They pick listlessly away at the heaps in one spot for awhile and then wander aimlessly off, only to reappear at another spot, pulling feverishly at some rags that looked like a dress, or poking a stick into some hole to feel if there is anything soft at the bottom. At one or two places the electric lights show, with exaggerated and distorted shadows, firemen in big hats and long rubber coats, standing upon the edge of the bridge, steadily holding the hose, from which two streams of water shoot far out over the mass, sparkle for a moment like silver in the pale light, and then drop downward into the blackness. For noise, there is heavy splashing of the Conemaugh over the rapids below the bridge, the petulant gasping of an unseen fire-engine, pumping water through the hose, and the even more rapid but greater puffing of the dynamo-engine that, mounted upon a flat car at one end of the bridge, furnishes electricity for the lights. There is little else heard. People who are yet about gather in little groups, and talk in low tones as they look over the dark, watchfire-beaconed gulf. Everybody in Johnstown looks over that gulf in every spare moment, day or night. Movement about is almost impossible, for the ways are only foot-paths about the bluffs, irregular and slippery. Every night people are badly hurt by falls over bluffs, through the bridge, or down banks. Lying about under sheds in ruined buildings, and even in the open air, wherever one goes, are the forms, wrapped in blankets, of men who have no better place to sleep, resembling nothing so much as the corpses that men are seen always to be carrying about the streets in the daytime. [Illustration: THE DÉBRIS ABOVE THE PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD BRIDGE.] CHAPTER XVII. One of the first to reach Johnstown from a distance was a New York _World_ correspondent, who on Sunday wrote as follows:-- "I walked late yesterday afternoon from New Florence to a place opposite Johnstown, a distance of four miles. I describe what I actually saw. All along the way bodies were seen lying on the river banks. In one place a woman was half buried in the mud, only a limb showing. In another was a mother with her babe clasped to her breast. Further along lay a husband and wife, their arms wound around each other's necks. Probably fifty bodies were seen on that one side of the river, and it must be remembered that here the current was the swiftest, and consequently fewer of the dead were landed among the bushes. On the opposite side bodies could also be seen, but they were all covered with mud. As I neared Johnstown the wreckage became grand in its massive proportions. In order to show the force of the current I will say that three miles below Johnstown I saw a grand piano lying on the bank, and not a board or key was broken. It must have been lifted on the crest of the wave and laid gently on the bank. In another place were two large iron boilers. They had evidently been treated by the torrent much as the piano had been. "The scenes, as I neared Johnstown, were the most heart-rending that man was ever called to look upon. Probably three thousand people were scattered in groups along the Pennsylvania Railroad track and every one of them had a relative lying dead either in the wreckage above, in the river below, or in the still burning furnace. Not a house that was left standing was in plumb. Hundreds of them were turned on their sides, and in some cases three or four stood one on top of the other. Two miles from Johnstown, on the opposite side of the river from where I walked, stood one-half of the water-works of the Cambria Iron Company, a structure that had been built of massive stone. It was filled with planks from houses, and a large abutment of wreckage was piled up fully fifty feet in front of it. A little above, on the same side, could be seen what was left of the Cambria Iron Works, which was one of the finest plants in the world. Some of the walls are still standing, it is true, but not a vestige of the valuable machinery remains in sight. The two upper portions of the works were swept away almost entirely, and under the pieces of fallen iron and wood could be seen the bodies of more than forty workmen. "At this point there is a bend in the river and the fiery furnace blazing for a quarter of a mile square above the stone bridge came into view. "'My God!' screamed a woman who was hastening up the track, 'can it be that any are in there?' "'Yes; over a thousand,' replied a man who had just come from the neighborhood, and it is now learned that he estimated the number at one thousand too low. "The scenes of misery and suffering and agony and despair can hardly be chronicled. One man, a clerk named Woodruff, was reeling along intoxicated. Suddenly, with a frantic shout, he threw himself over the bank into the flood and would have been carried to his death had he not been caught by some persons below. "'Let me die,' he exclaimed, when they rescued him. 'My wife and children are gone; I have no use for my life.' An hour later I saw Woodruff lying on the ground entirely overcome by liquor. Persons who knew him said that he had never tasted liquor before. "Probably fifty barrels of whisky were washed ashore just below Johnstown, and those men who had lost everything in this world sought solace in the fiery liquid. So it was that as early as six o'clock last night the shrieks and cries of women were intermingled with drunkards' howls and curses. What was worse than anything, however, was the fact that incoming trains from Pittsburgh brought hundreds of toughs, who joined with the Slavs and Bohemians in rifling the bodies, stealing furniture, insulting women, and endeavoring to assume control of any rescuing parties that tried to seek the bodies under the bushes and in the limbs of trees. There was no one in authority, no one to take command of even a citizens' posse could it have been organized. A lawless mob seemed to control this narrow neck of land that was the only approach to the city of Johnstown. I saw persons take watches from dead men's jackets and brutally tear finger-rings from the hands of women. The ruffians also climbed into the overturned houses and ransacked the rooms, taking whatever they thought valuable. No one dared check them in this work, and, consequently, the scene was not as riotous as it would have been if the toughs had not had sway. In fact, they became beastly drunk after a time and were seen lying around in a stupor. Unless the military is on hand early to-morrow there may be serious trouble, for each train pours loads of people of every description into the vicinity, and Slavs are flocking like birds of prey from the surrounding country. "Here I will give the latest conservative estimate of the dead--it is between seven and eight thousand drowned and two thousand burned. The committee at Johnstown in their last bulletin placed the number of lives lost at eight thousand. In doing so they are figuring the inhabitants of their own city and the towns immediately adjoining. But it must be remembered that the tidal wave swept ten miles through a populous district before it even reached the locality over which this committee has supervision. It devastated a tract the size and shape of Manhattan Island. Here are a few facts that will show the geographical outlines of the terrible disaster: The Hotel Hurlburt of Johnstown, a massive three-story building of one hundred rooms, has vanished. There were in it seventy-five guests at the time of the flood. Two only are now known to be alive. The Merchants' Hotel is leveled. How many were inside it is not known, but as yet no one has been seen who came from there or heard of an inmate escaping. At the Conemaugh round-house forty-one locomotives were swept down the stream, and before they reached the stone bridge all the iron and steel work had been torn from their boilers. It is almost impossible in this great catastrophe to go more into details. "I stood on the stone bridge at six o'clock and looked into the seething mass of ruin below me. At one place the blackened body of a babe was seen; in another, fourteen skulls could be counted. Further along the bones became thicker and thicker, until at last at one place it seemed as if a concourse of people who had been at a ball or entertainment had been carried in a bunch and incinerated. At this time the smoke was still rising to the height of fifty feet, and it is expected that when it dies down the charred bodies will be seen dotting the entire mass. "A cable had been run last night from the end of the stone bridge to the nearest point across--a distance of three hundred feet. Over this cable was run a trolley, and a swing was fastened under it. A man went over, and he was the first one who visited Johnstown since the awful disaster. I followed him to-day. "I walked along the hillside and saw hundreds of persons lying on the wet grass, wrapped in blankets or quilts. It was growing cold and a misty rain had set in. Shelter was not to be had, and houses on the hillsides that had not been swept away were literally packed from top to bottom. The bare necessities of life were soon at a premium, and loaves of bread sold at fifty cents. Fortunately, however, the relief train from Pittsburgh arrived at seven o'clock. Otherwise the horrors of starvation would have been added. All provisions, however, had to be carried over a rough, rocky road a distance of four miles (as I knew, who had been compelled to walk it), and in many cases they were seized by the toughs, and the people who were in need of food did not get it. "Rich and poor were served alike by this terrible disaster. I saw a girl standing in her bare feet on the river's bank, clad in a loose petticoat and with a shawl over her head. At first I thought she was an Italian woman, but her face showed that I was mistaken. She was the belle of the town--the daughter of a wealthy Johnstown banker--and this single petticoat and shawl were not only all that was left her, but all that was saved from the magnificent residence of her father. She had escaped to the hills not an instant too soon. "The solicitor of Johnstown, Mr. George Martin, said to me to-day:-- "'All my money went away in the flood. My house is gone. So are all my clothes, but, thank God, my family are safe.'" CHAPTER XVIII. The first train that passed New Florence, bound east, was crowded with people from Pittsburgh and places along the line, who were going to the scene of the disaster with but little hope of finding their loved ones alive. It was a heart-rending sight. Not a dry eye was in the train. Mothers moaned for their children. Husbands paced the aisles and wrung their hands in mute agony. Fathers pressed their faces against the windows and endeavored to see something, they knew not what, that would tell them in a measure of the dreadful fate that their loved ones had met with. All along the raging Conemaugh the train stopped, and bodies were taken on the express car, being carried by the villagers who were out along the banks. Oh, the horror and infinite pity of it all! What a journey has been that of the last half hour! Swollen corpses lay here and there in piles of cross-ties, or on the river banks along the tangled greenery. It was about nine o'clock when the first passenger train since Friday came to the New Florence depot with its load of eager passengers. They were no idle travelers, but each had a mission. Here and there men were staring out the windows with red eyes. Among them were tough-looking Hungarians and Italians who had lost friends near Nineveh, while many were weeping, on all sides. Two of the passengers on the train were man and wife from Johnstown. He was dignified and more or less self-possessed. She was anxious, and tried hard to control her feelings. From every newcomer and possible source of information she sought news. "Ours is a big, new brick house," said she with a brave effort, but with her brown eyes moist and red lips trembling. "It is a three-story house, and I don't think there is any trouble, do you?" said she to me, and without waiting for my answer, she continued with a sob, "There are my four children in the house and their nurse, and I guess father and mother will go over to the house, don't you?" In a few moments all those in the car knew the story of the pair, and many a pitying glance was cast at them. Their house was one of the first to go. The huge wave struck Bolivar just after dark, and in five minutes the Conemaugh rose from six to forty feet, and the waters spread out over the whole country. Soon houses began floating down, and clinging to the débris were men, women, and children shrieking for aid. A large number of citizens gathered at the county bridge, and they were reinforced by a number from Garfield, a town on the opposite side of the river. They brought ropes, and these were thrown over into the boiling waters as persons drifted by, in efforts to save them. For half an hour all efforts were fruitless, until at last, when the rescuers were about giving up all hope, a little boy astride a shingle roof managed to catch hold of one of the ropes. He caught it under his left arm and was thrown violently against an abutment, but managed to keep hold and was pulled onto the bridge amid the cheers of the onlookers. The lad was at once taken to Garfield and cared for. The boy is about sixteen years old and his name is Hessler. His story of the calamity is as follows:-- "With my father I was spending the day at my grandfather's house in Cambria City. In the house at the time were Theodore, Edward, and John Kintz, John Kintz, Jr., Miss Mary Kintz, Mrs. Mary Kintz, wife of John Kintz, Jr.; Miss Treacy Kintz, Mrs. Rica Smith, John Hirsch and four children, my father, and myself. Shortly after five o'clock there was a noise of roaring waters and screams of people. We looked out the door and saw persons running. My father told us to never mind, as the waters would not rise further. But soon we saw houses swept by, and then we ran up to the floor above. The house was three stories, and we were at last forced to the top one. In my fright I jumped on the bed. It was an old-fashioned one, with heavy posts. The water kept rising, and my bed was soon afloat. Gradually it was lifted up. The air in the room grew close, and the house was moving. Still the bed kept rising and pressed the ceiling. At last the posts pushed the plaster. It yielded, and a section of the roof gave way. Then I suddenly found myself on the roof and was being carried down stream. After a little this roof commenced to part, and I was afraid I was going to be drowned, but just then another house with a shingle roof floated by, and I managed to crawl on it and floated down until nearly dead with cold, when I was saved. After I was freed from the house I did not see my father. My grandfather was on a tree, but he must have been drowned, as the waters were rising fast. John Kintz, Jr., was also on a tree. Miss Mary Kintz and Mrs. Mary Kintz I saw drown. Miss Smith was also drowned. John Hirsch was in a tree, but the four children were drowned. The scenes were terrible. Live bodies and corpses were floating down with me and away from me. I would see a person shriek and then disappear. All along the line were people who were trying to save us, but they could do nothing, and only a few were caught." An eye-witness at Bolivar Block station tells a story of heroism which occurred at the lower bridge which crosses the Conemaugh at that point. A young man, with two women, were seen coming down the river on part of a floor. At the upper bridge a rope was thrown down to them. This they all failed to catch. Between the two bridges he was noticed to point toward the elder woman, who, it is supposed, was his mother. He was then seen to instruct the women how to catch the rope which was being lowered from the other bridge. Down came the raft with a rush. The brave man stood with his arms around the two women. As they swept under the bridge he reached up and seized the rope. He was jerked violently away from the two women, who failed to get a hold on the rope. Seeing that they would not be rescued, he dropped the rope and fell back on the raft, which floated on down the river. The current washed their frail craft in toward the bank. The young man was enabled to seize hold of a branch of a tree. He aided the two women to get up into the tree. He held on with his hands and rested his feet on a pile of driftwood. A piece of floating débris struck the drift, sweeping it away. The man hung with his body immersed in the water. A pile of drift soon collected, and he was enabled to get another insecure footing. Up the river there was a sudden crash, and a section of the bridge was swept away and floated down the stream, striking the tree and washing it away. All three were thrown into the water and were drowned before the eyes of the horrified spectators, just opposite the town of Bolivar. At Bolivar a man, woman, and child were seen floating down in a lot of drift. The mass soon began to part, and, by desperate efforts, the husband and father succeeded in getting his wife and little one on a floating tree. Just then the tree was washed under the bridge, and a rope was thrown out. It fell upon the man's shoulders. He saw at a glance that he could not save his dear ones, so he threw the means of safety on one side and clasped in his arms those who were with him. A moment later and the tree struck a floating house. It turned over, and in an instant the three persons were in the seething waters, being carried to their death. An instance of a mother's love at Bolivar is told. A woman and two children were floating down the torrent. The mother caught a rope, and tried to hold it to her and her babe. It was impossible, and with a look of anguish she relinquished the rope and sank with her little ones. A family, consisting of father and mother and nine children, were washed away in a creek at Lockport. The mother managed to reach the shore, but the husband and children were carried out into the Conemaugh to drown. The woman was crazed over the terrible event. A little girl passed under the Bolivar bridge just before dark. She was kneeling on part of a floor, and had her hands clasped as if in prayer. Every effort was made to save her, but they all proved futile. A railroader who was standing by remarked that the piteous appearance of the little waif brought tears to his eyes. All night long the crowd stood about the ruins of the bridge which had been swept away at Bolivar. The water rushed past with a roar, carrying with it parts of houses, furniture, and trees. No more living persons are being carried past. Watchers, with lanterns, remained along the banks until daybreak, when the first view of the awful devastation of the flood was witnessed. Along the bank lay the remnants of what had once been dwelling-houses and stores; here and there was an uprooted tree. Piles of drift lay about, in some of which bodies of the victims of the flood will be found. Harry Fisher, a young telegraph operator, who was at Bolivar when the first rush of waters began, says: "We knew nothing of the disaster until we noticed the river slowly rising, and then more rapidly. News reached us from Johnstown that the dam at South Fork had burst. Within three hours the water in the river rose at least twenty feet. Shortly before six o'clock ruins of houses, beds, household utensils, barrels, and kegs came floating past the bridges. At eight o'clock the water was within six feet of the roadbed of the bridge. The wreckage floated past, without stopping, for at least two hours. Then it began to lessen, and night coming suddenly upon us, we could see no more. The wreckage was floating by for a long time before the first living persons passed. Fifteen people that I saw were carried down by the river. One of these, a boy, was saved, and three of them were drowned just directly below the town. Hundreds of animals lost their lives. The bodies of horses, dogs, and chickens floated past in numbers that could not be counted." Just before reaching Sang Hollow, the end of the mail line on the Pennsylvania Railroad, is "S. O." signal tower, and the men in it told piteous stories of what they saw. A beautiful girl came down on the roof of a building, which was swung in near the tower. She screamed to the operators to save her, and one big, brawny, brave fellow walked as far into the river as he could, and shouted to her to guide herself into shore with a bit of plank. She was a plucky girl, full of nerve and energy, and stood upon her frail support in evident obedience to the command of the operator. She made two or three bold strokes, and actually stopped the course of the raft for an instant. Then it swerved, and went out from under her. She tried to swim ashore, but in a few seconds she was lost in the swirling water. Something hit her, for she lay on her back, with face pallid and expressionless. Men and women, in dozens, in pairs, and singly; children, boys, big and little, and wee babies, were there among the awful confusion of water, drowning, gasping, struggling, and fighting desperately for life. Two men, on a tiny raft, shot into the swiftest part of the current. They crouched stolidly, looking at the shores, while between them, dressed in white, and kneeling with her face turned heavenward, was a girl six or seven years old. She seemed stricken with paralysis until she came opposite the tower, and then she turned her face to the operator. She was so close they could see big tears on her cheeks, and her pallor was as death. The helpless men on shore shouted to her to keep up her courage, and she resumed her devout attitude, and disappeared under the trees of a projecting point a short distance below. "We couldn't see her come out again," said the operator, "and that was all of it." CHAPTER XIX. An interesting story of endeavor was related on Monday by a correspondent of the New York _Sun_, who made his way to the scene of disaster. This is what he wrote:-- Although three days have passed since the disaster, the difficulty of reaching the desolated region is still so great that, under ordinary circumstances, no one would dream of attempting the trip. The Pennsylvania Railroad cannot get within several miles of Johnstown, and it is almost impossible to get on their trains even at that. They run one, two, or three trains a day on the time of the old through trains, and the few cars on each train are crowded with passengers in a few minutes after the gates open. Then the sale of tickets is stopped, the gates are closed, and all admission to the train denied. No extra cars will be put on, no second section sent out, and no special train run on any account, for love or money. The scenes at the station when the gates are shut are sorrowful. Men who have come hundreds of miles to search for friends or relatives among the dead stand hopelessly before the edict of the blue-coated officials from eight in the morning until one in the afternoon. There is no later train on the Pennsylvania road out of Pittsburgh, and the agony of suspense is thus prolonged. Besides that, the one o'clock train is so late in getting to Sang Hollow that the work of beginning a search is practically delayed until the next morning. [Illustration: RUINS OF THE CAMBRIA IRON WORKS.] The _Sun's_ special correspondents were of a party of fifteen or twenty business men and others who had come from the East by way of Buffalo, and who reached Pittsburgh in abundant time to have taken the Pennsylvania Railroad train at eight o'clock, had the company wished to carry them. With hundreds of others they were turned away, and appeals even to the highest official of the road were useless, whether in the interest of newspaper enterprise or private business, or in the sadder but most frequent case where men prayed like beggars for an opportunity to measure the extent of their bereavement, or find if, by some happy chance, one might not be alive out of a family. The sight-seeing and curious crowd was on hand early, and had no trouble in getting on the train. Those who had come from distant cities, and whose mission was of business or sorrow, were generally later, and were left. No effort was made to increase the accommodations of the train for those who most needed them. The _Sun's_ men had traveled a thousand miles around to reach Pittsburgh. Their journey had covered three sides of the State of Pennsylvania, from Philadelphia at the extreme southeast, through New Jersey and New York to Buffalo by way of Albany and the New York Central, and thence by the Lake Shore to Ashtabula, O., passing through Erie at the extreme northwest corner of the State; thence down by the Pittsburgh and Lake Erie road to Youngstown, O., and so into Pittsburgh by the back door, as it were. Circumstances and the edict of the Pennsylvania Railroad were destined to carry them still further around, more than a hundred miles, nearly south of Pittsburgh, almost across the line into Maryland, and thence fifty miles up before they reached their destination. The Baltimore and Ohio Railroad ordinarily does not attempt to compete for business from Pittsburgh into Johnstown. Its only route between those two cities leads over small branch lines among the mountains south of Johnstown, and is over double the length of the Pennsylvania main line route. The first train to reach Johnstown, however, was one over the Baltimore and Ohio lines, and, although they made no attempt to establish a regular line, they did on Sunday get two relief trains out of Pittsburgh and into Johnstown. Superintendent Patten, of the Baltimore and Ohio, established headquarters in a box car two miles south of Johnstown, and telegraphed to Acting Superintendent McIlvaine, at Pittsburgh, to take for free transportation all goods offered for the relief of the sufferers. No passenger trains were run, however, except the regular trains on the main line for Cumberland, Md., and the branches from the main line to Johnstown were used entirely by wildcat trains running on special orders, with no object but to get relief up as quickly as possible. Nothing had left Pittsburgh for Johnstown, however, to-day up to nine o'clock. Arrangements were made for a relief train to go out early in the afternoon, to pick up cars of contributed goods at the stations along the line and get them into Johnstown some time during the night. "No specials" was also the rule on the Baltimore and Ohio, but Acting Superintendent McIlvaine recognized in the _Sun_, with its enormous possibilities in the way of spreading throughout the country the actual situation of affairs in the devastated district, a means of awaking the public to the extent of the disaster that would be of more efficient relief to the suffering people than even train-loads of food and clothing. The _Sun's_ case was therefore made exceptional, and when the situation was explained to him he consented, for a sum that appalled the representatives of some other papers who heard it, but which was, for the distance to be covered, very fair, to set the _Sun's_ men down in Johnstown at the earliest moment that steam and steel and iron could do it. In fifteen minutes one of the Baltimore and Ohio light passenger engines, with Engineer W. E. Scott in charge and Fireman Charles Hood for assistant, was hitched to a single coach out in the yard. Conductor W. B. Clancy was found somewhere about and put in command of the expedition. Brakeman Dan Lynn was captured just as he was leaving an incoming train, and although he had been without sleep for a day, he readily consented to complete the crew of the _Sun's_ train. There was no disposition to be hoggish in the matter, and at a time like this the great thing was to get the best possible information as to affairs at Johnstown spread over the country in the least possible time. The facilities of the train were therefore placed at the disposal of other newspaper men who were willing to share in the expense. None of them, however, availed themselves of this chance to save practically a whole day in reaching the scene, except the artist representing _Harper's Weekly_, who had accompanied the _Sun_ men this far in their race against time from the East. As far as the New York papers were concerned, there were no men except those from the _Sun_ to take the train. If any other New York newspaper men had yet reached Pittsburgh at all, they were not to be found around the Baltimore and Ohio station, where the _Sun_ extended its invitation to the other representatives of the press. There were a number of Western newspaper men on hand, but journalism in that section is not accustomed to big figures except in circulation affidavits, and they were staggered at the idea of paying even a share of the expense that the _Sun_ was bearing practically alone. At 9.15 A. M., therefore, when the special train pulled out of the Baltimore and Ohio station, it had for passengers only the _Sun_ men and _Harper's_ artist. As it started Acting Superintendent McIlvaine was asked:-- "How quickly can we make it?" "Well, it's one hundred and forty-six miles," he replied, "and it's all kinds of road. There's an accommodation train that you will have to look out for until you pass it, and that will delay you. It's hard to make any promise about time." "Can we make it in five hours?" he was asked. "I think you can surely do that," he replied. How much better than the acting superintendent's word was the performance of Engineer Scott and his crew this story shows. The special, after leaving Pittsburgh, ran wild until it got to McKeesport, sixteen miles distant. At this point the regular train, which left Pittsburgh at 8.40, was overtaken. The regular train was on a siding, and the special passed through the city with but a minute's stop. Then the special had a clear track before it, and the engineer drove his machine to the utmost limit of speed consistent with safety. It is nineteen miles from McKeesport to West Newton, and the special made this distance in twenty minutes, the average time of over a mile a minute being much exceeded for certain periods. The curves of the road are frightful, and at times the single car which composed the train was almost swung clear off the track. The _Sun_ men recalled vividly the ride of Horace Greeley with Hank Monk, and they began to reflect that there was such a thing as riding so fast that they might not be able to reach Johnstown at all. From Layton's to Dawson the seven and one-half miles were made in seven minutes, while the fourteen miles from Layton's to Connellsville were covered in fourteen minutes precisely. On the tender of the engine the cover of the water-tank flew open and the water splashed out. Coal flew from the tender in great lumps, and dashed against the end of the car. Inside the car the newspaper men's grips and belongings went flying around on the floor and over seats like mad. The Allegheny River, whose curves the rails followed, seemed to be right even with the car windows, so that one could look straight down into the water, so closely to it was the track built. In Connellsville there was a crowd to see the special. On the depot was the placard:-- "Car will leave at 3 P. M. to-day with food and clothing for Johnstown." In Connellsville the train stopped five minutes and underwent a thorough inspection. Then it shoved on again. At Confluence, twenty-seven miles from Connellsville, a bridge of a Baltimore and Ohio branch line across the river was washed away, but this didn't interfere with the progress of the special. For sixty miles on the road is up hill at a grade of sixty-five feet to the mile, and the curves, if anything, are worse, but there was no appreciable diminution in the speed of the train. Just before reaching Rockwood the first real traces of the flood were apparent. The waters of the Castlemore showed signs of having been recently right up to the railroad tracks, and driftwood and débris of all descriptions lay at the side of the rails. Nearly all bridges on the country roads over the river were washed away and their remnants scattered along the banks. Rockwood was reached at 12.05 P. M. Rockwood is eighty-seven miles from McKeesport, and this distance, which is up an extremely steep grade, was therefore made in two hours, which includes fifteen minutes' stop. The distance covered from Pittsburgh was one hundred and two miles in two hours. Rockwood is the junction of the main line of the Baltimore and Ohio road at its Cambria branch, which runs to Johnstown. The regular local train from there to Johnstown was held to allow the _Sun's_ special to pass first. The _Sun's_ special left Rockwood at 12.20 in charge of Engineer Oliver, who assumed charge at that point. He said that the branch to Johnstown was a mountain road, with steep grades, very high embankments, and damaged in spots, and that he would have to use great precaution in running. He gave the throttle a yank and the train started with a jump that almost sent the newspaper men on their heads. Things began to dance around the car furiously as the train dashed along at a great pace, and the reporters began to wonder what Engineer Oliver meant by his talk about precautions. All along the route up the valley at the stations were crowds of people, who stared in silence as the train swept by. On the station platforms were piled barrels of flour, boxes of canned goods, and bales of clothing. The roads leading in from the country to the stations were full of farmers' wagons laden with produce of all kinds for the sufferers. The road from Rockwood to Johnstown lies in a deep gully, at the bottom of which flows little Stony Creek, now swollen to a torrent. Wooden troughs under the track carry off the water which trickles down from the hills, otherwise the track would be useless. As it is there are frequent washouts, which have been partly filled in, and for ten miles south of Johnstown all trains have to be run very slowly. The branches of trees above the bank which have been blown over graze the cars on the railroad tracks. The _Sun's_ special arrived in Johnstown at two o'clock. CHAPTER XX. The experience of the newspaper correspondents in the Conemaugh valley was the experience of a lifetime. Few war correspondents, even, have been witnesses of such appalling scenes of horror and desolation. Day after day they were busy recording the annals of death and despair, conscious, meanwhile, that no expressions of accumulated pathos at their command could do justice to the theme. They had only to stand in the street wherever a knot of men had gathered, to hear countless stories of thrilling escapes. Hundreds of people had such narrow escapes that they hardly dared to believe that they were saved for hours after they reached solid ground. William Wise, a young man who lived at Woodvale, was walking along the road when the rush of water came down the valley. He started to rush up the side of the hills, but stopped to help a young woman; Ida Zidstein, to escape; lost too much time, and was forced to drag the young woman upon a high pile of metal near the road. They had clung there several hours, and thought that they could both escape, as the metal pile was not exposed to the full force of the torrent. A telegraph pole came dashing down the flood, its top standing above the water, from which dangled some wires. The pole was caught in an eddy opposite the pile. It shot in toward the two who were clinging there. As the pole swung around, the wires came through the air like a whip-lash, and catching in the hair of the young woman, dragged her down to instant death. The young man remained on the heap of metal for hours before the water subsided so as to allow him to escape. One man named Homer, with his child, age six, was on one of the houses which were first carried away. He climbed to the roof and held fast there for four hours, floating all the way to Bolivar, fifteen miles below. A young hero sat upon the roof of his father's house, holding his mother and little sister. Once the house swung in toward a brick structure which still rested on its foundation. As one house struck the other, the boy sprang into one of the windows. As he turned to rescue his mother and sister, the house swung out again, and the boy, seeing that there was no possibility of getting them off, leaped back to their side. A second time the house was stopped--this time by a tree. The boy helped his mother and sister to a place of safety in the tree, but before he could leave the roof, the house was swept on and he was drowned. One man took his whole family to the roof of his floating house. He and one child escaped to another building, but his wife and five children were whirled around for hours, and finally carried down to the bridge where so many people perished in the flames. They were all rescued. District Attorney Rose, his wife, two brothers and two sisters were swept across the lower portion of the town. They had been thrown into the water, and were swimming, the men assisting the women. Finally, they got into a back current, and were cast ashore at the foot of the hills back of Knoxville. One merchant of Johnstown, after floating about upon a piece of wreckage for hours, was carried down to the stone bridge. After a miraculous escape from being burned to death, he was rescued and carried ashore. He was so dazed and terrified by his experience, however, that he walked off the bridge and broke his neck. One man who was powerless to save his wife, after he had leaped from a burning building to a house floating by, was driven insane by her shrieks for help. An old gentleman of Verona rescued a modern Moses from the bulrushes. Verona is on the east bank of the Allegheny river, twelve miles above Pittsburg. Mr. McCutcheon, while standing on the river bank watching the drift floating by, was compelled by instinct to take a skiff and row out to one dense mass of timber. As he reached it, he was startled to find in the centre, out of the reach of the water, a cradle covered with the clothing. As he lifted the coverings aside a pretty five-months-old boy baby smiled on him. The little innocent, unconscious of the scenes it had passed through, crowed with delight as the old man lifted it tenderly, cradle and all, into his skiff and brought it ashore. Among the miraculous escapes is that of George J. Lea and family. When the rush of water came there were eight people on the roof of Lea's house. The house swung around and floated for nearly half an hour before it struck the wreck above the stone bridge. A three-year-old girl, with sunny, golden hair and dimpled cheeks, prayed all the while that God would save them, and it seemed that God really answered the prayer and directed the house against the drift, enabling every one of the eight to get off. H. M. Bennett and S. W. Keltz, engineer and conductor of engine No. 1165 and the extra freight, which happened to be lying at South Fork when the dam broke, tell a graphic story of their wonderful flight and escape on the locomotive before the advancing flood. Bennett and Keltz were in the signal tower awaiting orders. The fireman and flagman were on the engine, and two brakemen were asleep in the caboose. Suddenly the men in the tower heard a roaring sound in the valley above them. They looked in that direction and were almost transfixed with horror to see, two miles above them, a huge black wall of water, at least 150 feet in height, rushing down the valley. The fear-stricken men made a rush for the locomotive, at the same time giving the alarm to the sleeping brakemen in the caboose, but with no avail. It was impossible to aid them further, however, so Bennett and Keltz cut the engine loose from the train, and the engineer, with one wild wrench, threw the lever wide open, and they were away on a mad race for life. It seemed that they would not receive momentum enough to keep ahead of the flood, and they cast one despairing glance back. Then they could see the awful deluge approaching in its might. On it came, rolling and roaring, tossing and tearing houses, sheds and trees in its awful speed as if they were toys. As they looked, they saw the two brakemen rush out of the caboose, but they had not time to gather the slightest idea of the cause of their doom before they, the car and signal tower were tossed high in the air, to disappear forever. Then the engine leaped forward like a thing of life, and speeded down the valley. But fast as it went, the flood gained upon it. In a few moments the shrieking locomotive whizzed around a curve, and they were in sight of a bridge. Horror upon horrors! ahead of them was a freight train, with the rear end almost on the bridge, and to get across was simply impossible. Engineer Bennett then reversed the lever, and succeeded in checking the engine as they glided across the bridge. Then the men jumped and ran for their lives up the hillside. The bridge and the tender of the engine they had been on were swept away like a bundle of matches. A young man who was a passenger on the Derry express furnishes an interesting account of his experiences. "When we reached Derry," he said, "our train was boarded by a relief committee, and no sooner was it ascertained that we were going on to Sang Hollow than the contributions of provisions and supplies of every kind were piled on board, filling an entire car. On reaching Sang Hollow the scene that presented itself to us was heart-rending. The road was lined with homeless people, some with a trunk or solitary chair, the only thing saved from their household goods, and all wearing an aspect of the most hopeless misery. Men were at work transferring from a freight car a pile of corpses at least sixty in number, and here and there a ghastly something under a covering showed where the body of some victim of the flood lay awaiting identification or burial in a nameless grave. Busy workers were engaged in clearing away the piles of driftwood and scattered articles of household use which cumbered the tracks and the roads. These piles told their own mournful story. There were beds, bureaus, mattresses, chairs, tables, pictures, dead horses and mules, overcoats, remnants of dresses sticking on the branches of trees, and a thousand other odd pieces of flotsam and jetsam from ruined homes. I saw a man get off the train and pick up an insurance policy for $30,000. Another took away as relics a baby's chair and a confirmation card in a battered frame. On the banks of the Little Conemaugh creek people were delving in the driftwood, which was piled to a depth of six or seven feet, unearthing and carrying away whatever could be turned to account. Under those piles, it is thought, numbers of bodies are buried, not to be recovered except by the labor of many days. A woman and a little girl were brought from Johnstown by some means which I could not ascertain. The woman was in confinement, and was carried on a lounge, her sole remaining piece of property. She was taken to Latrobe for hospital treatment. I cannot understand how it is that people are unable to make their way from Sang Hollow to Johnstown. The distance is short, and it should certainly be a comparatively easy task to get over it on foot or horseback. However, there seems to be some insuperable obstacle. All those who made the trip on the train with me in order to obtain tidings of their friends in Johnstown, were forced to return as I did. "The railroad is in a terrible condition. The day express and the limited, which left Pittsburg on Friday morning, are lying between Johnstown and Conemaugh on the east, having been cut off by the flood. Linemen were sent down from our train at every station to repair the telegraph wires which are damaged. Tremendous efforts are being exerted to repair the injury sustained by the railroad, and it is only a question of a couple of days until through communication is reëstablished. Our homeward trip was marked by a succession of sad spectacles. At Blairsville intersection two little girls lay dead, and in a house taken from the river was the body of a woman. Some idea of the force of the flood may be had from the statement that freight cars, both loaded and empty, had been lifted bodily from the track, and carried a distance of several blocks, and deposited in a graveyard in the outskirts of the town, where they were lying in a mass mixed up with tombstones and monuments." [Illustration: RUINS OF THE CAMBRIA IRON CO'S STORE.] CHAPTER XXI. Where the carcass is, there will the vultures be gathered together. It is humiliating to human nature to record it, but it is nevertheless true, that amid all the suffering and sacrifice, and heroism and generosity that was displayed in this awful time, there arose some of the basest passions of unbridled vice. The lust of gain led many skulking wretches to rob and despoil, and even to mutilate the bodies of the dead. Pockets were searched. Jewels were stolen. Finger-rings and ear-rings were torn away, the knife often being used upon the poor, dead clay to facilitate the spoliation. Against this savagery the better elements of the populace sternly revolted. For the time there was no organized government. But outraged and indignant humanity soon formulates its own code of laws. Pistol and rope and bludgeon, in the hand of honesty, did effective work. The reports of summary lynchings that at first were spread abroad were doubtless exaggerated, but they had a stern foundation of truth; and they had abundant provocation. Writing on that tragic Sunday, one correspondent says: "The way of the transgressor in the desolated valley of the Conemaugh is hard indeed. Each hour reveals some new and horrible story of suffering and outrage, and every succeeding hour brings news of swift and merited punishment meted out to the fiends who have dared to desecrate the stiff and mangled bodies in the city of the dead, and torture the already half-crazed victims of the cruelest of modern catastrophes. Last night a party of thirteen Hungarians were noticed stealthily picking their way along the banks of the Conemaugh toward Sang Hollow. Suspicious of their purpose, several farmers armed themselves and started in pursuit. Soon their most horrible fears were realized. The Hungarians were out for plunder. They came upon the dead and mangled body of a woman, lying upon the shore, upon whose person there were a number of trinkets of jewelry and two diamond rings. In their eagerness to secure the plunder, the Hungarians got into a squabble, during which one of the number severed the finger upon which were the rings, and started on a run with his fearful prize. The revolting nature of the deed so wrought upon the pursuing farmers, who by this time were close at hand, that they gave immediate chase. Some of the Hungarians showed fight, but, being outnumbered, were compelled to flee for their lives. Nine of the brutes escaped, but four were literally driven into the surging river and to their death. The thief who took the rings was among the number of the involuntary suicides." At 8.30 o'clock this morning an old railroader, who had walked from Sang Hollow, stepped up to a number of men who were on the platform station at Curranville, and said:-- "Gentlemen, had I a shot-gun with me half an hour ago, I would now be a murderer, yet with no fear of ever having to suffer for my crime. Two miles below here I watched three men going along the banks stealing the jewels from the bodies of the dead wives and daughters of men who have been robbed of all they hold dear on earth." He had no sooner finished the last sentence than five burly men, with looks of terrible determination written on their faces, were on their way to the scene of plunder, one with a coil of rope over his shoulder and another with a revolver in his hand. In twenty minutes, so it is stated, they had overtaken two of their victims, who were then in the act of cutting pieces from the ears and fingers from the hands of the bodies of two dead women. With revolver leveled at the scoundrels, the leader of the posse shouted:-- "Throw up your hands, or I'll blow your heads off!" With blanched faces and trembling forms, they obeyed the order and begged for mercy. They were searched, and, as their pockets were emptied of their ghastly finds, the indignation of the crowd intensified, and when a bloody finger of an infant encircled with two tiny gold rings was found among the plunder in the leader's pocket, a cry went up, "Lynch them! Lynch them!" Without a moment's delay ropes were thrown around their necks and they were dangling to the limbs of a tree, in the branches of which an hour before were entangled the bodies of a dead father and son. After half an hour the ropes were cut and the bodies lowered and carried to a pile of rocks in the forest on the hill above. It is hinted that an Allegheny county official was one of the most prominent in this justifiable homicide. One miserable wretch who was caught in the act of mutilating a body was chased by a crowd of citizens, and when captured was promptly strung up to a telegraph pole. A company of officers rescued him before he was dead, much to the disgust of many reputable people, whose feelings had been outraged by the treatment of their deceased relations. Shortly after midnight an attempt was made to rob the First National Bank, which, with the exception of the vaults, had been destroyed. The plunderers were discovered by the citizens' patrol, which had been established during the night, and a lively chase ensued. A number of the thieves--six, it is said--were shot. It is not known whether any were killed or not, as their bodies would have been washed away almost immediately if such had been the case. A number of Hungarians collected about a number of bodies at Cambria which had been washed up, and began rifling the trunks. After they had secured all the contents they turned their attention to the dead. The ghastly spectacle presented by the distorted features of those who had lost their lives during the flood had no influence upon the ghouls, who acted more like wild beasts than human beings. They took every article from the clothing on the dead bodies, not leaving anything of value or anything that would serve to identify the remains. After the miscreants had removed all their plunder to dry ground a dispute arose over a division of the spoils. A pitched battle followed, and for a time the situation was alarming. Knives and clubs were used freely. As a result several of the combatants were seriously wounded and left on the ground, their fellow-countrymen not making any attempt to remove them from the field of strife. A Hungarian was caught in the act of cutting off a dead woman's finger, on which was a costly ring. The infuriated spectators raised an outcry and the fiend fled. He was hotly pursued, and after a half-hour's hard chase, was captured and hanged to a telegraph pole, but was cut down and resuscitated by officers. Liquor emboldened the ghouls, and Pittsburg was telegraphed for help, and the 18th and 14th Regiments, Battery B and the Washington Infantry were at once called out for duty, members being apprised by posters in the newspaper windows. One correspondent wrote: "The number of drunken men is remarkable. Whiskey seems marvelously plenty. Men are actually carrying it around in pails. Barrels of the stuff are constantly located among the drifts, and _men are scrambling over each other and fighting like wild beasts_ in their mad search for it. At the cemetery, at the upper end of town, I saw a sight that rivals the Inferno. A number of ghouls had found a lot of fine groceries, among them a barrel of brandy, with which they were fairly stuffing themselves. One huge fellow was standing on the strings of an upright piano singing a profane song, every little while breaking into a wild dance. A half-dozen others were engaged in a hand-to-hand fight over the possession of some treasure stolen from a ruined house, and the crowd around the barrel were yelling like wild men." These reports were largely discredited and denied by later and probably more trustworthy authorities, but there was doubtless a considerable residue of truth in them. There were so many contradictory stories about these horrible doings that our painstaking correspondent put to "Chall" Dick, the Deputy Sheriff, this "leading question": "Did you shoot any robbers?" Chall did not make instant reply, but finally looked up with a peculiar expression on his face and said:-- "There are some men whom their friends will never again see alive." "Well, now, how many did you shoot?" was the next question. "Say," said Chall. "On Saturday morning I was the first to make my way to Sang Hollow to see if I could not get some food for people made homeless by the flood. There was a car-load of provisions there, but the vandals were on hand. They broke into the car and, in spite of my protestations, carried off box after box of supplies. I only got half a wagon load. They were too many for me. I know when I have no show. There was no show there and I got out. "As I was leaving Sang Hollow and got up the mountain road a piece, I saw two Hungarians and one woman engaged in cutting the fingers off of corpses to get some rings. Well, I got off that team and--well, there are three people who were not drowned and who are not alive." "Where are the bodies?" "Ain't the river handy there? I went down to Sang Hollow on Sunday, but I went fixed for trouble that time. When I got into the hollow the officers had in tow a man who claimed he was arrested because he had bummed it on the freight train. A large crowd of men were trying to rescue the fellow. I rode into that crowd and scattered it. I got between the crowd and officers, who succeeded in getting their man in here. The fellow had been robbing the dead and had a lot of jewelry on his person. I see by the papers that Consul Max Schamberg, of Pittsburg, asserts that the Huns are a law-abiding race, and that when they were accused of robbing the dead they were simply engaged in trying to identify some of their friends. Consul Schamberg does not know what he is talking about. I know better, for I saw them engaged in robbing the dead. "Those I caught at it will never do the like again. Why, I saw them let go of their friends in the water to catch a bedstead with a mattress on it. That's the sort of law-abiding citizens the Huns are." Down the Cambria road, past which the dead of the river Conemaugh swept into Nineveh in awful numbers, was witnessed a wretched scene--that of a young officer of the National Guard in full uniform, and a poor deputy-sheriff, who had lost home, wife, children and all, clinched like madmen and struggling for the former's revolver. If the officer of the Guard had won, there might have been a tragedy, for he was drunk. The homeless deputy-sheriff, with his wife and babies swept to death past the place where they struggled, was sober and in the right. The officer was a first lieutenant. His company came with that regiment into this valley of distress to protect survivors from ruffianism and maintain the peace and dignity of the State. The man with whom he fought for the weapon was almost crazy in his own woe, but singularly cool and self-possessed regarding the safety of those left living. It was one o'clock in the afternoon when a Philadelphia _Press_ correspondent noticed on the Cambria road the young officer with his long military coat cut open, leaning heavily for support upon two privates. He was crying in a maudlin way, "You just take me to a place and I'll drink soft stuff." They entreated him to return at once to the regimental headquarters, even begged him, but he cast them aside and went staggering down the road to the line, where he met the grave-faced deputy face to face. The latter looked in the white of his eyes and said: "You can't pass here, sir." "Can't pass here?" he cried, waving his arms. "You challenge an officer? Stand aside!" "You can't pass here!" this time quietly, but firmly; "not while you're drunk." "Stand aside!" yelled the lieutenant. "Do you know who I am? You talk to an officer of the National Guard." "Yes; and listen," said the man in front of him so impatiently that it hushed his antagonist's tirade. "I talk to an 'officer' of the National Guard--I who have lost my wife, my children and all in this flood no man has yet described; we who have seen our dead with their bodies mutilated and their fingers cut from their hands by dirty foreigners for a little gold, are not afraid to talk for what is right, even to an officer of the National Guard." While he spoke another great, dark, stout man, who looked as if he had suffered, came up, and upon taking in the situation every vein in his forehead swelled purple with rage. "You dirty cur," he cried to the officer; "you dirty, drunken cur, if it was not for the sake of peace I'd lay you out where you stand." "Come on," yelled the Lieutenant, with an oath. The big man sent out a terrible blow that would have left the Lieutenant senseless had not one of the privates dashed in between, receiving part of it and warding it off. The Lieutenant got out of his military coat. The privates seized the big man and with another correspondent, who ran to the scene, held him back. The Lieutenant put his hand to his pistol pocket, the deputy seized him, and the struggle for the weapon began. For a moment it was fierce and desperate, then another private came to the deputy's assistance. The revolver was wrested from the drunken officer and he himself was pushed back panting to the ground. The deputy seized the military coat he had thrown on the ground, and with it and the weapon started to the regimental headquarters. Then the privates got around him and begged him, one of them with tears in his eyes, not to report their officer, saying that he was a good man when he was sober. He studied a long while, standing in the road, while the officer slunk away over the hill. Then he threw the disgraced uniform to them, and said: "Here, give them to him; and, mind you, if he does not go at once to his quarters, I'll take him there, dead or alive." CHAPTER XXII. While yet the first wild cry of anguish was thrilling among the startled hills of the Conemaugh, the great heart of the nation answered it with a mighty throb of sympathy. On Tuesday afternoon, at Washington, the President called a gathering of eminent citizens to devise measures of relief. The meeting was held in Willard's Hall, on F street, above Fourteenth, and President Harrison made such an eloquent appeal for assistance that nearly $10,000 was raised in the hour and a half that the meeting was in session. As presiding officer the Chief Magistrate sat in a big arm-chair on the stage. On his right were District Commissioner Douglass, Hine and Raymond, and on his left sat Postmaster-General Wanamaker and Private Secretary Halford. In the audience were Secretaries Noble, Proctor and Tracy, Attorney-General Miller, Congressman Randall and Senators and Representatives from all parts of the country. President Harrison called the meeting to order promptly at 3 o'clock. A dead silence fell over the three hundred people as the President stepped to the front of the platform and in a clear, distinct voice appealed for aid for the thousands who had been bereft of their all by the terrible calamity. His voice trembled once or twice as he dwelt upon the scene of death and desolation, and a number of handkerchiefs were called into use at his vivid portrayal of the disaster. Upon taking the chair the President said:-- "Every one here to-day is distressingly conscious of the circumstances which have convened this meeting. It would be impossible to state more impressively than the newspapers have already done the distressing incidents attending the calamity which has fallen upon the city of Johnstown and the neighboring hamlets, and upon a large section of Pennsylvania situated upon the Susquehanna river. The grim pencil of Doré would be inadequate to portray the horrors of this visitation. In such meetings as we have here in the national capital and other like gatherings that are taking place in all the cities of this land, we have the only rays of hope and light in the general gloom. When such a calamitous visitation falls upon any section of our country we can do no more than to put about the dark picture the golden border of love and charity. [Applause.] It is in such fires as these that the brotherhood of man is welded. "And where is sympathy and help more appropriate than here in the national capital? I am glad to say that early this morning, from a city not long ago visited with pestilence, not long ago itself appealing to the charitable people of the whole land for relief--the city of Jacksonville, Fla.--there came the ebb of that tide of charity which flowed toward it in the time of its need, in a telegram from the Sanitary Relief Association authorizing me to draw upon them for $2000 for the relief of the Pennsylvania sufferers. [Applause.] "But this is no time for speech. While I talk men and women are suffering for the relief which we plan to give. One word or two of practical suggestion, and I will place this meeting in your hands to give effect to your impatient benevolence. I have a despatch from the Governor of Pennsylvania advising me that communication has just been opened with Williamsport, on a branch of the Susquehanna river, and that the losses in that section have been appalling; that thousands of people there are homeless and penniless, and that there is an immediate call for food to relieve their necessities. He advises me that any supplies of food that can be hastily gathered here should be sent via Harrisburg to Williamsport, where they will be distributed. I suggest, therefore, that a committee be constituted having in charge the speedy collection of articles of food. "The occasion is such that the bells might well be rung through your streets to call the attention of the thoughtless to this great exigency--in order that a train load of provisions may be despatched to-night or in the early morning to this suffering people. "I suggest, secondly, as many of these people have had the entire furnishings of their houses swept away and have now only temporary shelter, that a committee be appointed to collect such articles of clothing, and especially bed clothing, as can be spared. Now that the summer season is on, there can hardly be a house in Washington which cannot spare a blanket or a coverlet. "And, third, I suggest that from the substantial business men and bankers there be appointed a committee who shall collect money, for after the first exigency is past there will be found in those communities very many who have lost their all, who will need aid in the construction of their demolished homes and in furnishing them so that they may be again inhabited. "Need I say in conclusion that, as a temporary citizen of Washington, it would give me great satisfaction if the national capital should so generously respond to this call of our distressed fellow citizens as to be conspicuous among the cities of our land. [Applause.] I feel that, as I am now calling for contributions, I should state that on Saturday, when first apprised of the disaster at Johnstown, I telegraphed a subscription to the Mayor of that city. I do not like to speak of anything so personal as this, but I felt it due to myself and to you that I should say so much as this." [Illustration: THIRD STREET, WILLIAMSPORT, DURING THE FLOOD.] The vice presidents elected included all the members of the Cabinet, Chief Justices Fuller, Bingham and Richardson, M. G. Emery, J. A. J. Cresswell, Dr. E. B. Clark, of the Bank of the Republic; C. L. Glover, of the Riggs Bank; Cashier James, of the Bank of Washington; B. H. Warner, Ex-Commissioners Webb and Wheatley, Jesse B. Wilson, Ex-Minister Foster and J. W. Thompson. The secretaries were S. H. Kaufmann, Beriah Wilkins, E. W. Murphy and Hallett Kilbourne; treasurer, E. Kurtz Johnson. While subscriptions were being taken up, the President intimated that suggestions would be in order, and a prompt and generous response was the result. The Adams Express Company volunteered to transport all material for the relief of the distressed people free of charge, and the Lamont Opera Company tendered their services for a benefit, to be given in aid of the sufferers. The managers offered the use of their theatre free of charge for any performances. Numerous other offers of provisions and clothing were made and accepted. Then President Harrison read a number of telegrams from Governor Beaver, in which he gave a brief synopsis of the horrors of the situation and asked for the government pontoon bridge. "I regret to say," added the President, "that the entire length of the pontoon bridge is only 550 feet. Governor Beaver advises me that the present horrors are not alone to be dreaded, but he fears that pestilence may come. I would therefore suggest that disinfectants be included in the donations. I think we should concentrate our efforts and work, through one channel, so that the work may be expeditiously done. In view of that fact we should have one headquarters and everything should be sent there. Then it could be shipped without delay." The use of Willard Hall was tendered and decided upon as a central point. The District Commissioners were appointed a committee to receive and forward the contributions. When the collections had been made, the amounts were read out and included sums ranging from $500 to $1. The President, in dismissing the meeting, said:-- "May I express the hope that this work will be earnestly and thoroughly pushed, and that every man and woman present will go from this meeting to use their influence in order that these supplies of food and clothing so much and so promptly needed may be secured, and that either to-night or to-morrow morning a train well freighted with relief may go from Washington." In adjourning the meeting, President Harrison urged expediency in forwarding the materials for the sufferers. Just before adjournment a resolution was read, thanking the President for the interest he had taken in the matter. President Harrison stepped to the front of the platform then, and declined the resolution in a few graceful remarks. "I appreciate the resolution," he said, "but I don't see why I should be thanked any more than the others, and I would prefer that the resolution be withdrawn." Pension Commissioner Tanner, on Monday, sent the following telegram to the United States Pension agent at Pittsburg:-- "Make special any current vouchers from the towns in Pennsylvania ruined by floods and pay at once on their receipt. Where certificates have been lost in floods send permit to execute new voucher without presenting certificate to magistrate. Permits signed in blank forwarded to-day. Make special all original certificates of pensioners residing in those towns and pay on receipt of vouchers, regardless of my instruction of May 13th." The Governor of Pennsylvania issued the following:-- "COMMONWEALTH OF PENNSYLVANIA, "EXECUTIVE CHAMBER, "HARRISBURG, PA., June 3d, 1889. "_To the People of the United States:--_ "The Executive of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania has refrained hitherto from making any appeal to the people for their benefactions, in order that he might receive definite and reliable information from the centres of disaster during the late floods, which have been unprecedented in the history of the State or nation. Communication by wire has been established with Johnstown to-day. The civil authorities are in control, the Adjutant General of the State coöperating with them; order has been restored and is likely to continue. Newspaper reports as to the loss of life and property have not been exaggerated. "The valley of the Conemaugh, which is peculiar, has been swept from one end to the other as with the besom of destruction. It contained a population of forty thousand to fifty thousand people, living for the most part along the banks of a small river confined within narrow limits. The most conservative estimates place the loss of life at 5000 human beings, and of property at twenty-five millions. Whole towns have been utterly destroyed. Not a vestige remains. In the more substantial towns the better buildings, to a certain extent, remain, but in a damaged condition. Those who are least able to bear it have suffered the loss of everything. "The most pressing needs, so far as food is concerned, have been supplied. Shoes and clothing of all sorts for men, women and children are greatly needed. Money is also urgently required to remove the débris, bury the dead and care temporarily for the widows and orphans and for the homeless generally. Other localities have suffered to some extent in the same way, but not in the same degree. "Late advices seem to indicate that there is great loss of life and destruction of property along the west branch of the Susquehanna and in localities from which we can get no definite information. What does come, however, is of the most appalling character, and it is expected that the details will add new horrors to the situation. "The responses from within and without the State have been most generous and cheering. North and South, East and West, from the United States and from England, there comes the same hearty, generous response of sympathy and help. The President, Governors of States, Mayors of cities, and individuals and communities, private and municipal corporations, seem to vie with each other in their expressions of sympathy and in their contributions of substantial aid. But, gratifying as these responses are, there is no danger of their exceeding the necessities of the situation. "A careful organization has been made upon the ground for the distribution of whatever assistance is furnished, in kind. The Adjutant General of the State is there as the representative of the State authorities, and is giving personal attention, in connection with the Chief Burgess of Johnstown and a committee of relief, to the distribution of the help which is furnished. "Funds contributed in aid of the sufferers can be deposited with Drexel & Co., Philadelphia; Jacob C. Bomberger, banker, Harrisburg, or William R. Thompson & Co., bankers, Pittsburg. All money contributed will be used carefully and judiciously. Present wants are fairly met. "A large force will be employed at once to remove the débris and bury the dead, so as to avoid disease and epidemic. "The people of the Commonwealth and others whose unselfish generosity is hereby heartily appreciated and acknowledged may be assured that their contributions will be made to bring their benefactions to the immediate and direct relief of those for whose benefit they are intended. "JAMES A. BEAVER. "By the Governor, CHARLES W. STONE, Secretary of the Commonwealth." Governor Hill, of New York, also issued the following proclamation:-- STATE OF NEW YORK. "A disaster unparalleled of its kind in the history of our nation has overtaken the inhabitants of the city of Johnstown and surrounding towns in our sister State of Pennsylvania. In consequence of a mighty flood thousands of lives have been lost, and thousands of those saved from the waters are homeless and in want. The sympathy of all the people of the State of New York is profoundly aroused in behalf of the unfortunate sufferers by the calamity. The State, in its capacity as such, has no power to aid, but the generous-hearted citizens of our State are always ready and willing to afford relief to those of their fellow countrymen who are in need, whenever just appeal has been made. "Therefore, as the Governor of the State of New York, I hereby suggest that in each city and town in the State relief committees be formed, contributions be solicited and such other appropriate action be taken as will promptly afford material assistance and necessary aid to the unfortunate. Let the citizens of every portion of the State vie with each other in helping with liberal hand this worthy and urgent cause. "Done at the Capitol, this third day of June, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and eighty-nine." DAVID B. HILL. By the Governor, WILLIAM G. RICE, _Sec._ Nor were Americans in foreign lands less prompt with their offerings. On Wednesday, in Paris, a meeting of Americans was held at the United States Legation, on a call in the morning papers by Whitelaw Reid, the United States Minister, to express the sympathy of the Americans in Paris with the sufferers by the Johnstown calamity. In spite of the short notice the rooms of the Legation were packed, and many went away unable to gain admittance. Mr. Reid was called to the chair, and Mr. Ernest Lambert was appointed secretary. The following resolutions were offered by Mr. Andrew Carnegie and seconded by Mr. James N. Otis:-- _Resolved_, That we send across the Atlantic to our brethren, overwhelmed by the appalling disaster at Johnstown, our most profound and heartfelt sympathy. Over their lost ones we mourn with them, and in every pang of all their misery we have our part. _Resolved_, That as American citizens we congratulate them upon and thank them for the numerous acts of noble heroism displayed under circumstances calculated to unnerve the bravest. Especially do we honor and admire them for the capacity shown for local self-government, upon which the stability of republican institutions depends, the military organizations sent from distant points to preserve order during the chaos that supervened having been returned to their homes as no longer required within forty-eight hours of the calamity. In these few hours the civil power recreated and asserted itself and resumed sway without the aid of counsel from distant authorities, but solely by and from the inherent power which remains in the people of Johnstown themselves. _Resolved_, That the thanks of this meeting be cordially tendered to Mr. Reid for his prompt and appropriate action in this matter, and for services as chairman of this meeting. _Resolved_, That a copy of these resolutions be forwarded at once by telegraph to the Mayors of Johnstown, Pittsburg and Philadelphia. Brief and touching speeches were made by General Lawton, late United States Minister to Austria; the Hon. Abram S. Hewitt, General Meredith Read and others. The resolutions were then unanimously adopted, and a committee was appointed to receive subscriptions. About 40,000 francs were subscribed on the spot. The American bankers all agreed to open subscriptions the next day at their banking houses. "Buffalo Bill" subscribed the entire receipts of one entertainment, to be given under the auspices of the committee. Besides those already named, there were present Benjamin Brewster, Louis von Hoffman, Charles A. Pratt, ex-Congressman Lloyd Bryce, Clarence Dinsmore, Edward Tuck, Professor Chanler, the Rev. Dr. Stoddard and others from New York; Colonel Otis Ritchie, of Boston; General Franklin and Assistant Commissioner Tuck; George W. Allen, of St. Louis; Consul-General Rathbone, and a large number of the American colony in Paris. It was the largest and most earnest meeting of Americans held in Paris for many years. The Municipal Council of Paris gave 5000 francs to the victims of the floods. In London, the American Minister, Mr. Robert T. Lincoln, received from his countrymen there large contributions. Mr. Marshall R. Wilder, the comedian, gave an evening of recitations to swell the fund. Generous contributions also came from Berlin and other European cities. CHAPTER XXIII. Spontaneously as the floods descended upon the fated valley, the American people sprang to the relief of the survivors. In every city and town subscription lists were opened, and clothing and bedding and food were forwarded by the train-load. Managers gave theatrical performances and baseball clubs gave benefit games to swell the fund. The Mayors of New York, Philadelphia and other large cities took personal charge of the collection and forwarding of funds and goods. In New York a meeting of representative citizens was called by the Mayor, and a committee formed, with General Sherman as chairman, and the presidents of the Produce Exchange and the Chamber of Commerce among the vice-chairmen, while the president of the Stock Exchange acted as treasurer. The following appeal was issued:-- "_To the People of the City of New York:_-- "The undersigned have been appointed a committee by a meeting held at the call of the Mayor of the city to devise means for the succor and relief of the sufferers in the Conemaugh Valley. A disaster of unparalleled magnitude has overtaken the people of that valley and elsewhere. Without warning, their homes have been swept away by an unexpected and unprecedented flood. The daily journals of this city contain long lists of the dead, and the number of those who perished is still unknown. The survivors are destitute. They are houseless and homeless, with scant food and no shelter, and the destructive waters have not yet subsided. "In this emergency their cry for help reaches us. There has never been an occasion in our history that the appeal to our citizens to be generous in their contributions was of greater moment than the present. That generosity which has distinguished them above the citizens of every other city, and which was extended to the relief of the famishing in Ireland, to the stricken city of Charleston, to the plague-smitten city of Jacksonville, and so on through the record of every event where man was compelled to appeal to man, will not be lacking in this most recent calamity. Generous contributions have already reached the committee. Let the amount increase until they swell into a mighty river of benevolence. "The committee earnestly request, as the want is pressing and succor to be effectual must be speedy, that all contributions be sent at as early a date as possible. Their receipt will be promptly acknowledged and they will be applied, through responsible channels, to the relief of the destitute and suffering." All the exchanges, newspapers and other public agencies took up the work, and hundreds of thousands of dollars rolled in every day. Special collections were taken in the churches, and large sums were thus realized. In Philadelphia the work of relief was entered into in a similar manner, with equally gratifying results. By Tuesday evening the various funds established in that city for the sufferers had reached a total of $360,000. In addition over 100,000 packages of provisions, clothing, etc., making fully twenty car-loads, had been started on the way. The leading business houses tendered the service of their delivery wagons for the collection of goods, and some of them placed donation boxes at their establishments, yielding handsome returns. At a meeting of the Board of Directors of the Pennsylvania Railroad Company the following resolution was adopted by a unanimous vote:-- "_Resolved_, That in addition to the $5000 subscribed by this company at Pittsburg, the Pennsylvania Railroad Company hereby makes an extra donation of $25,000 for the assistance of the sufferers by the recent floods at Johnstown and other points upon the lines of the Pennsylvania Railroad and the other affiliated roads, the contribution to be expended under the direction of the Committee on Finance." At the same time the members of the Board and executive officers added a contribution, as individuals, of $5000. The Philadelphia and Reading Railroad Company subscribed $10,000 to the Citizens' Fund. In pursuance of a call issued by the Citizens' Permanent Relief Association, a largely-attended meeting was held at the Mayor's office. Drexel & Co., the treasurers of the fund, started the fund with a contribution of $10,000. Several subscriptions of $1000 each were announced. Many subscriptions were sent direct to Drexel & Co.'s banking house, including $5000 from the Philadelphia brewers, $5000 from the Baldwin Locomotive Works and other individual contributors. But the great cities had no monopoly of benefactions. How every town in the land responded to the call may be imagined from a few items clipped at random from the daily papers, items the like of which for days crowded many columns of the public press:-- _Bethlehem, Penn., June 3._--The Bethlehem Iron Company to-day contributed $5000 for the relief of the sufferers. _Johnstown, Penn., June 3._--Stephen Collins, of the Pittsburg post-office, and several other members of the Junior Order of United American Mechanics, were here to-day to establish a relief fund. They have informed the committees that the members of this strong organization are ready to do their best for their sufferers. _Buffalo, June 3._--A meeting was held at the Mayor's office to-day to devise means for the aid of the flood sufferers. The Mayor sent $1000 by telegraph this afternoon. A committee was appointed to raise funds. The Merchants' Exchange also started a relief fund this morning. A relief train on the Western New York and Pennsylvania Railroad left here for Pittsburg to-night with contributions of food and clothing. _Albany, June 3._--_The Morning Express_ to-day started a subscription for the relief of the sufferers. A public meeting, presided over by Mayor Maher, was held at noon to-day, and a number of plans were adopted for securing funds. There is now on hand $1000. Another meeting was held this evening. The offertory in the city churches will be devoted to the fund. _Poughkeepsie, June 3._--A general movement was begun here to-day to aid the sufferers in Pennsylvania. Mayor Rowley issued a proclamation and people have been sending money to _The Eagle_ office all day. Factory operatives are contributing, clergymen are taking hold of the matter, and to-night the Retail Dealers' Association held a public meeting at the Court House to appoint committees to go about among the merchants with subscription lists. Mrs. Brazier, proprietress of a knitting factory, sent off sixty dozen suits of under-wear to the sufferers to-day. _Troy, June 3._--Subscriptions exceeding $1500 for the relief of the Pennsylvania flood sufferers were received to-day by _The Troy Press_. The Mayor has called a public meeting for to-morrow. _Washington, June 3._--A subscription for the relief of the sufferers by the Johnstown flood was started at the Post-office Department to-day by Chief Clerk Cooley. First Assistant Postmaster-General Clarkson headed the list with $100. The indications are that nearly $1000 will be raised in this Department. Postmaster-General Wanamaker had already subscribed $1000 in Philadelphia. _The Post_ has started a subscription for the relief of the Johnstown sufferers. It amounts at present to $810. The largest single contribution is $250 by Allen McLane. [Illustration: WRECK OF TRUSS BRIDGE, AT WILLIAMSPORT.] _Trenton, June 3._--In the Board of Trade rooms to-night over $1000 was subscribed for the benefit of Johnstown sufferers. Contributions made to-day will swell the sum to double that amount. Committees were appointed to canvass the city. _Chicago, June 3._--Mayor Cregier called a public meeting, which was held at the City Hall to-day, to take measures for the relief of the Johnstown sufferers. John B. Drake, of the Grand Pacific, headed a subscription with $500. _Hartford, Conn., June 3._--The House to-day concurred with the Senate in passing the resolution appropriating $25,000 for the flood sufferers. _Boston, June 3._--The House this afternoon admitted a bill appropriating $10,000 for the relief of the sufferers. A citizens' committee will receive subscriptions. It was announced that $4600 had already been subscribed. Dockstader's Minstrels will give a benefit to-morrow afternoon in aid of the sufferers' fund. _Pittsfield, Mass., June 3._--A meeting was held here to-night and about $300 was raised for the Johnstown sufferers. The town will be canvassed to-morrow. Senator Dawes attended the meeting, made an address and contributed liberally. _Charleston, S. C., June 3._--At a meeting of the Charleston Cotton Exchange to-day $500 was subscribed for the relief of the flood sufferers. _Fort Worth, Texas, June 3._--The Texas Spring Palace Association to-night telegraphed to George W. Childs, of Philadelphia, that to-morrow's receipts at the Spring Palace will be given to the sufferers by the flood. _Nashville, Tenn., June 3._--_The American_ to-day started a fund for the relief of the Johnstown sufferers. _Utica, June 4._--Utica to-day sent $2000 to Johnstown. _Ithaca, June 4._--Cornell University has collected $800 for the sufferers. _Troy, June 4._--_The Troy Times_ sent this afternoon $1200 to the Mayor of Pittsburg. _The Press_ sent $1000, making $2000 forwarded by _The Press_. _Boston, June 4._--The House to-day amended its bill of yesterday and appropriated $30,000. The Citizens' Committee has received $12,000, and Governor Ames' check for $250 was received. _New Bedford, Mass., June 4._--Mayor Clifford has sent $500 to the sufferers. _Providence, R. I., June 4._--A meeting of business men this morning raised $4000 for the sufferers. _Erie, Penn., June 4._--In mass meeting last night ex-Congressman W. L. Scott led with a $1500 subscription for Johnstown, followed by ex-Judge Galbraith with $500. The list footed up $6000 in a quarter of an hour. Ward committees were appointed to raise it to $10,000. In addition to a general subscription of $1000, which was sent forward yesterday, it is rumored that a private gift of $5000 was also sent. _Toledo, June 4._--Two thousand dollars have been obtained here for the flood sufferers. _Cleveland, June 4._--Over $16,000 was subscribed yesterday, which, added to the $5000 raised on Sunday, swells Cleveland's cash contributions to $21,000. Two car-loads of provisions and clothing and twenty-one car-loads of lumber went forward to Johnstown. _Cincinnati, June 4._--Subscriptions amounting to $10,000 were taken on 'Change yesterday. _Milwaukee, June 4._--State Grand Commander Weissert telegraphed $250 to the Pennsylvania Department yesterday. _Detroit, June 4._--The relief fund already reaches nearly $1000. Ex-Governor Alger and Senator James McMillan have each telegraphed $500 to the scene of the disaster. _Chicago, June 4._--A meeting of business men was held this morning to collect subscriptions. Several large subscriptions, including one of $1000 by Marshall Field & Co., were received. The committees expect to raise $50,000 within twenty four hours. Governor Fifer has issued a proclamation urging the people to take measures for rendering aid. The Aldermen of Chicago subscribed among themselves a purse of $1000. The jewelers raised $1500. On the Board of Trade one member obtained $5000, and another $4000. From a citizens' meeting in Denver to-night $2500 was raised. President Hughitt announces that the Chicago and Northwestern, the Chicago, St. Paul, Minneapolis and Omaha, and the Fremont, Elkhorn and Missouri Valley Railways will transport, free of charge, all provisions and clothing for the sufferers. _Kansas City, Mo., June 4._--At the mass meeting last night a large sum was subscribed for the sufferers. _Chattanooga, June 3._--Chattanooga to-day subscribed $500. _Wilmington, Del., June 4._--Over $2700 has been raised here for the sufferers. A carload of supplies was shipped last night. Two doctors have offered their services. _Knoxville, Tenn., June 4._--The relief committee to-day raised over $1500 in two hours for the sufferers in Johnstown and vicinity. _Saratoga, June 4._--The village of Saratoga Springs has raised $2000. Judge Henry Hilton subscribed one-half the amount. A committee was appointed to-night to solicit additional subscriptions. _Carlisle, Penn., June 4._--Aid for the sufferers has been pouring in from all sections of the Cumberland Valley. From this city $700 and a supply of clothing and provisions have been sent. Among the contributions to-day was $100 from the Indian children at the Government training school. _Charleston, S. C., June 4._--The City Council to-day voted $1000 for the relief of the Pennsylvania sufferers. The Executive Committee of the Chamber of Commerce subscribed $380 in a few minutes, and appointed three committees to canvass for subscriptions. The Merchants' Exchange is at work and general subscriptions are starting. _St. Louis, June 4._--Generous subscriptions for the Conemaugh Valley sufferers have been made here. The Merchants' Exchange has called a mass meeting for to-morrow. _Middletown, June 4._--To-day the Mayor telegraphed the Mayor of Johnstown to draw on him for $1000. _Poughkeepsie, June 4._--Mayor Rowley to-day sent $1638 to Drexel & Co., Philadelphia. As much more was subscribed to-day. _Auburn, June 5._--Auburn has subscribed $2000. _Lockport, N. Y., June 5._--The Brewers' National Convention at Niagara Falls this morning contributed $10,000. _St. Johnsbury, Vt., June 5._--Grand Master Henderson issued an invitation to-day to Odd Fellows in Vermont to contribute toward the sufferers. _Newburg, N. Y., June 5._--Newburg has raised about $2000 for the sufferers. _Worcester, Mass., June 5._--Subscriptions to the amount of $2400 were made here to-day. _Boston, June 5._--The total of the subscriptions received through Kidder, Peabody & Co. to-day amounted to $35,400. The Fall River Line will forward supplies free of charge. _Providence, June 5._--The subscriptions here now exceed $11,000. _Minneapolis, June 5._--The Citizens' Committee to-day voted to send 2000 barrels of flour to the sufferers. _Chicago, June 5_.--It is estimated that Chicago's cash contributions to date aggregate about $90,000. _St. Louis, June 5._--The town of Desoto in this State has contributed $200. Litchfield, Ill., has also raised $200. _Los Angeles, Cal., June 5._--This city has forwarded $2000 to Governor Beaver. _Macon, June 5._--The City Council last night appropriated $200 for the sufferers. _Chattanooga, Tenn., June 5._--A. B. Forrest Camp, No. 3, Confederate Veterans of Chattanooga, have contributed $100 to the relief fund. J. M. Duncan, general manager of the South Tredegar Iron Company, of this city, who a few years ago left Johnstown for Chattanooga as a young mechanic, sent $1000 to-day to the relief fund. Another $1000 will be sent from the proceeds of a popular subscription. _Savannah, June 5._--The Savannah Benevolent Association subscribed $1000 for the sufferers. _Binghamton, June 5._--More than $2600 will be sent to Johnstown from this city. Lieutenant-Governor Jones telegraphed that he would subscribe $100. _Albany, June 5._--Mayor Maher has telegraphed the Mayor of Pittsburg to draw on him for $3000. The fund being raised by _The Morning Express_ amounts to over $1141. _Lebanon, Penn., June 5._--This city will raise $5000 for the sufferers. _Rochester, June 5._--Over $400 was subscribed to the Red Cross relief fund to-day and $119 to a newspaper fund besides. _Cleveland, June 5._--The cash collected in this city up to this evening is $38,000. Ten car-loads of merchandise were shipped to Johnstown to-day, and a special train of twenty-eight car-loads of lumber, from Cleveland dealers, left here to-night. _Fonda, N. Y., June 5._--The people of Johnstown, N. Y., instead of making an appropriation with which to celebrate the Fourth of July, will send $1000 to the sufferers at Johnstown, Pa. _New Haven, June 5._--Over $2000 has been collected here. _Wilmington, Del., June 5._--This city's fund has reached $470. The second car-load of supplies will be shipped to-morrow. _Glens Falls, N. Y., June 5._--Subscriptions here to-day amounted to $622. _Poughkeepsie, June 5._--Up to this evening $2736 have been raised in this city for Johnstown. _Washington, June 7._--The total cash contributions of the employees of the Treasury Department to date, amounting to $2070, were to-day handed to the treasurer of the Relief Fund of Washington. The officers and clerks of the several bureaus of the Interior Department have subscribed $2280. The contributions in the Government Printing Office aggregate $1275. Chief Clerk Cooley to-day transmitted to the chairman of the local committee $600 collected in the Post-office Department. _Syracuse, N. Y., June 7._--Mayor Kirk to-day sent to Governor Beaver a draft for $3000. _Utica, N. Y., June 7._--Ilion has raised $1100, and has sent six cases of clothing to Johnstown. The Little Falls subscription is $700 thus far. The Utica subscription is now nearly $6000. Thus the gifts of the people flowed in, day by day, from near and from far, from rich and from poor, to make less dark the awful desolation that had set up its fearful reign in the Valley of the Conemaugh. CHAPTER XXIV. The city of Philadelphia with characteristic generosity began the work of raising a relief fund on the day following the disaster, the Mayor's office and Drexel's banking house being the chief centres of receipt. Within four days six hundred thousand dollars was in hand. A most thorough organization and canvass of all trades and branches of business was made under the following committees: Machinery and Iron--George Burnham, Daniel A. Waters, William Sellers, W. B. Bement, Hamilton Disston, Walter Wood, J. Lowber Welsh, W. C. Allison, Charles Gilpin, Jr., E. Y. Townsend, Dawson Hoopes, Alvin S. Patterson, Charles H. Cramp, and John H. Brill. Attorneys--Mayer Sulzberger, George S. Graham, George W. Biddle, Lewis C. Cassidy, William F. Johnson, Joseph Parrish, Hampton L. Carson, John C. Bullitt, John R. Read, and Samuel B. Huey. Physicians--William Pepper, Horatio C. Wood, Thomas G. Morton, W. H. Pancoast, D. Hayes Agnew, and William W. Keen. Insurance--R. Dale Benson, C. J. Madeira, E. J. Durban, and John Taylor. Chemicals--William Weightman, H. B. Rosengarten, and John Wyeth. City Officers--John Bardsley, Henry Clay, Robert P. Dechert, S. Davis Page, and Judge R. N. Willson. Paper--A. G. Elliott, Whitney Paper Company, W. E. & E. D. Lockwood, Alexander Balfour, and the Nescochague Paper Manufacturing Company. Coal--Charles F. Berwind, Austin Corbin, Charles E. Barrington, and George B. Newton. Wool Dealers--W. W. Justice, David Scull, Coates Brothers, Lewis S. Fish & Co., and Theodore C. Search. Commercial Exchange--Walter F. Hagar and William Brice. Board of Trade--Frederick Fraley, T. Morris Perot, John H. Michener, and Joel Cook. Book Trade, Printing, and Newspapers--Charles Emory Smith, Walter Lippincott, A. K. McClure, Charles E. Warburton, Thomas MacKellar, William M. Singerly, Charles Heber Clark, and William V. McKean. Furniture--Charles B. Adamson, Hale, Kilburn & Co., John H. Sanderson, and Amos Hillborn & Co. Bakers and Confectioners--Godfrey Keebler, Carl Edelheim, Croft & Allen, and H. O. Wilbur & Sons. China, etc.--R. J. Allen, and Tyndale, Mitchell & Co. Lumber--Thomas P. C. Stokes, William M. Lloyd Company, Henry Bayard & Co., Geissel & Richardson, and D. A. Woelpper. Cloth and Tailors' Trimmings--Edmund Lewis, Henry N. Steel, Joseph R. Keim, John Alburger, and Samuel Goodman. Notions, etc.--Joel J. Baily, John Field, Samuel Clarkson, John C. Sullivan, William Super, John C. File, and W. B. Hackenberg. Clothing--H. B. Blumenthal, William Allen, Leo Loeb, William H. Wanamaker, Alan H. Reed, Morris Newberger, Nathan Snellenburg, Samuel Goodman, and John Alburger. Dry Goods Manufacturers--Lincoln Godfrey, Lemuel Coffin, N. Parker Shortridge, and W.H. Folwell. Wholesale Dry Goods--Samuel B. Brown, John M. Howett, Henry H. Ellison, and Edward T. Steel. Retail Dry Goods--Joseph G. Darlington, Isaac H. Clothier, Granville B. Haines, and Henry W. Sharpless. Jewelers--Mr. Bailey, of Bailey, Banks & Biddle; James E. Caldwell, and Simon Muhr. Straw Goods, Hats, and Millinery--John Adler, C. H. Garden & Co., and Henry Tilge. City Railways--Alexander M. Fox, William H. Kemble, E. B. Edwards, John F. Sullivan, and Charles E. Ellis. Photography--F. Gutekunst, A. K. P. Trask, and H. C. Phillips. Pianos and Musical--W. D. Dutton, Schomacker Piano Company, and C. J. Heppe. Plumbers--William Harkness, Jr., J. Futhey Smith, C. A. Blessing, and Henry B. Tatham. Liquors and Brewers--Joseph F. Sinnott, Bergner & Engel, John Gardiner, and John F. Belz. Hotels--E. F. Kingsley, Thomas Green, L. U. Maltby, C. H. Reisser, and H. J. Crump. Butchers--Frank Bower and Shuster Boraef. Woolen Manufacturers--William Wood, George Campbell, Joseph P. Truitt, and John C. Watt. Retail Grocers--George B. Woodman, George A. Fletcher, Robert Ralston, H. B. Summers, and E. J. Howlett. Boots and Shoes--John Mundell, John G. Croxton, Henry Z. Ziegler, and A. A. Shumway. Theatrical--J. Fred. Zimmerman, Israel Fleishman, and T. F. Kelly. Tobacco Trade--M. J. Dohan, L. Bamberger, E. H. Frishmuth, Jr., Walter Garrett, M. E. McDowell, J. H. Baltz, Henry Weiner, and George W. Bremer. Hosiery Manufactures--J. B. Allen and James B. Doak, Jr. Real Estate--Adam Everly, John M. Gummey, and Lewis H. Redner. Cordage--E. H. Fitler, John T. Bailey, and Charles Lawrence. Patent Pavement--Dr. L. S. Filbert and James Stewart, Jr. Bankers and Brokers--Winthrop Smith, Robert H. Glendenning, George H. Thomas, William G. Warden, Lindley Smyth, Thomas Cochran, J. L. Erringer, Charles H. Banes, Wharton Barker, and Jacob Naylor. Wholesale Grocers and Sugar Refiners--Francis B. Reeves, Edward C. Knight, Adolph Spreckels, William Janney, and Charles C. Harrison. Shirt Manufacturers and Dealers--Samuel Sternberger and Jacob Miller. Carpets--James Dobson, Robert Dornan, Hugh McCallum, John F. Orne, John R. White, and Thomas Potter, Jr. Saddlery Hardware, etc.--William T. Lloyd, of Lloyd & Supplee; Conrad B. Day, George DeB. Keim, Charles Thackara, John C. Cornelius, William Elkins, Jr., and James Peters. By Tuesday the tide of relief was flowing strongly. On that day between eight and nine thousand packages of goods were sent to the freight depot of the Pennsylvania Railroad, to be forwarded to the sufferers. Wagons came in an apparently endless stream and the quantity of goods received far exceeded that of any previous day. Eight freight cars, tightly packed, were shipped to Johnstown, while five car-loads of provisions were sent to Williamsport, and one of provisions to Lewistown. The largest consignment of goods from an individual was sent to Williamsport by W. M. McCormick. He was formerly a resident of Williamsport, and when he heard that the people of that city were suffering for want of provisions, he immediately went out and ordered a car-load of flour (one hundred and twenty-five barrels) and a car-load of groceries and provisions, consisting of dried and smoked meats, sugar, crackers, and a large assortment of other necessaries. Mr. McCormick said he thought that several of his friends would go in with him when they knew of the venture, but if they did not he would foot all the bills himself. The saddest incident of the day was the visit of a handsome young lady, about twenty-three years of age. She was accompanied by an older lady, and brought three packages of clothing. It was Miss Clydia Blackford, whose home was in Johnstown. She said sobbingly that every one of her relatives and friends had been lost in the floods, and her home entirely wiped out. The gift of the packages to the sufferers of her old home seemed to give her a sort of sad pleasure. She departed with tears in her eyes. When the convicts in the Eastern Penitentiary learned of the disaster through the weekly papers which arrived on Wednesday and Thursday--the only papers they are allowed to receive--a thing that will seem incongruous to the outside world happened. The criminal, alone in his cell, was touched with the same sympathy and desire to help fellow-men in sore distress as the good people who have been filling relief depots with supplies and coffers with money. Each as he read the story of the flood would knock on his wicket and tell the keeper he wanted to give some of his money. The convicts, by working over and above their daily task, are allowed small pay for the extra time. Half the money so earned goes to the county from which the convict comes and half to the convict himself. The maximum amount a Cherry Hill inmate can make in a week for himself is one dollar. The keepers told Warden Cassidy of the desire expressed all along that the authorities receive their contributions. The convicts can do what they please with their over-time money, by sending it to their friends, and several had already sent small sums out of the Penitentiary to be given to the Johnstown sufferers. The warden very promptly acceded to the general desire and gave the keepers instructions. There are about one thousand one hundred and ten men imprisoned in the institution, and of this number one hundred and forty-six persons gave five hundred and forty-two dollars and ninety-six cents. It would take one convict working all his extra time ten years to earn that sum. There was one old man, a cripple, who had fifteen dollars to his credit. He said to the keeper: "I've been doing crooked work nearly all my life, and I want to do something square this time. I want to give all the money coming to me for these fellers out there." The warden, however, had made a rule prohibiting any individual from contributing more than five dollars. The old man was told this, but he was determined. "Look here," said he; "I'll send the rest of my money out to my folks and tell them to send it." Chief of Police Mayer, in denying reports that there was an influx of professional thieves into the flooded regions to rob the dead, said: "The thieves wouldn't do anything like that; there is too much of the gentleman in them." But here were thieves and criminals going into their own purses out of that same "gentlemanly" part of them. Up to Saturday, June 8th, the cash contributions in Philadelphia, amounted to $687,872.68. Meantime countless gifts and expressions of sympathy came from all over the world. The Lord Mayor of Dublin, Ireland, raised a fund of $5,000. Archbishop Walsh gave $500. Sir Julian Pauncefote, the British Minister at Washington, called on the President on June 7th, in company with Secretary Blaine, and delivered a message from Queen Victoria expressing her deep sympathy for the sufferers by the recent floods in Pennsylvania. The President said in reply: "Mr. Minister: This message of sympathy from Her Majesty the Queen will be accepted by our people as another expression of her own generous character, as well as of the friendliness and good-will of her people. The disasters which have fallen upon several communities in the State of Pennsylvania, while extreme and full of the most tragic and horrifying incidents, have fortunately been limited in territorial extent. The generosity of our own citizens will promptly lessen to these stricken people every loss that is not wholly irretrievable; and these the sympathy of the Queen and the English people will help to assuage. Will you, Mr. Minister, be pleased to convey to the Queen the sincere thanks of the American people." [Illustration: WRECK OF THE LUMBER YARDS AT WILLAMSPORT, PA.] A newspaper correspondent called upon the illustrious Miss Florence Nightingale, at her home in London, and asked her to send a message to America regarding the floods. In response, she wrote: "I am afraid that I cannot write such a message as I would wish to just at this moment. I am so overdone. I have the deepest sympathy with the poor sufferers by the floods, and with Miss Clara Barton, of the Red Cross Societies, and the good women who are hastening to their help. I am so overworked and ill that I can feel all the more but write all the less for the crying necessity. (Signed) "FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE." Though Miss Nightingale is sixty-nine years old, and an invalid, this note was written in a hand indicating all the strength and vigor of a schoolgirl. She is seldom able to go out now, though when she can she dearly loves to visit the Nightingale Home for Training Nurses, which constitutes such an enduring monument and noble record of her life. But, though in feeble health, Miss Nightingale manages to do a great deal of work yet. From all parts of the world letters pour in upon her, asking advice and suggestions on matters of hospital management, of health and of education, all of which she seldom fails to answer. Last, but not least, let it be recorded that the members of the club that owned the fatal lake sent promptly a thousand blankets and many thousands of dollars to the sufferers from the floods, which had been caused by their own lack of proper supervision of the dam. CHAPTER XXV. New York, Philadelphia, and Pittsburg were, of course, the three chief centres of charitable contributions, and the sources from which the golden flood of relief was poured into the devastated valley. One of the earliest gifts in New York city was that of $1,200, the proceeds of a collection taken on Sunday morning, June 2d, in the West Presbyterian Church, after an appeal by the Rev. Dr. John R. Paxton, the pastor. The next day a meeting of prominent New York business men was held at the Mayor's office, and a relief committee was formed. At this meeting many contributions were announced. Isidor Wormser said that the Produce Exchange had raised $15,000 for the sufferers. Ex-Mayor Grace reported that the Lackawanna Coal and Iron Company had telegraphed the Cambria Iron Company to draw upon it for $5,000 for the relief of the Cambria's employees. Mayor Grant announced that he had received letters and checks during the forenoon aggregating the sum of $15,000, and added his own for $500. Subscriptions of $1,000 each were offered as fast as the Secretary could record them by Kuhn, Loeb & Co., Jesse Seligman, Calvin S. Brice, Winslow, Lanier & Co., Morris K. Jesup, Oswald Ottendorfer, R. H. Macy & Co., M. Schiff & Co., and O. B. Potter. Sums of $500 were subscribed with equal cheerfulness by Eugene Kelly, Sidney Dillon, the Chatham National Bank, Controller Myers, Cooper, Hewitt & Co., Frederick Gallatin, Tefft, Weller & Co., City Chamberlain Croker, and Tiffany & Co. Numerous gifts of less sums quickly followed. Elliott F. Shepard announced that the _Mail and Express_ had already sent $10,000 to Johnstown. Before the Committee on Permanent Organization had time to report, the Secretary gave out the information that $27,000 had been subscribed since the meeting was called to order. Before the day was over no less than $75,000 had been received at the Mayor's office, including the following subscriptions: Pennsylvania Relief Committee of the Maritime Association of the Port of New York, Gustav H. Schwab, Treasurer, $3,435; Chatham National Bank, $500; Morris K. Jesup, $1,000; William Steinway, $1,000; Theodore W. Myers, $500; J. G. Moore, $1,000; J. W. Gerard, $200; Platt & Bowers, $250; Henry L. Hoguet, $100; Harry Miner, $200; Tefft, Weller & Co., $500; Louis May, $200; Madison Square Bank, $200; Richard Croker, $500; Tiffany & Co., $500; John Fox, $200; Jacob H. Schiff, $1,000; Nash & Brush, $100; Oswald Ottendorfer, $1,000; William P. St. John, $100; George Hoadly, for Hoadly, Lauterbach & Johnson, $250; Edwin Forrest Lodge, Order of Friendship, $200; W. T. Sherman, $100; W. L. Stone, $500; John R. Dos Passos, $250; G. G. Williams, $100; Coudert Bros., $250; _Staats-Zeitung_, $1,166; Cooper, Hewitt & Co., $500; Frederick Gallatin, $500; R. H. Macy & Co., $1,000; Mr. Caldwell, $100; C. N. Bliss, $500; Ward & Olyphant, $100; Eugene Kelly, $500; Lackawanna Coal and Iron Company, through Mayor Grace, $5,000; W. R. Grace, $500; G. Schwab & Bros., $300; Kuhn, Loeb & Co., $1,000; Central Trust Co., $1,000; Calvin S. Brice, $1,000; J. S. Seligman & Co., $1,000; Sidney Dillon, $500; Winslow, Lanier & Co., $1,000; Hugh J. Grant, $500; Orlando B. Potter, $1,000. Through _The Tribune_, $319.75; through _The Sun_, $87.50; from Tammany Society, through Richard Croker, $1,000; Joseph Pulitzer, $2,000; Lazard Fréres, $1,000; Arnold, Constable & Co., $1,000; D. H. King, Jr., $1,000; August Belmont & Co., $1,000; New York Life Insurance Co., $500; John D. Crimmins, $500; Nathan Manufacturing Co., $500; Hugh N. Camp, $250; National Railway Publishing Co., $200; William Openhym & Sons, $200; New York Transfer Co., $200; Warner Brothers, $100; L. J. and I. Phillips, $100; John Davel & Sons, $100; Hoole Manufacturing Co., $100; Hendricks Brothers, $100; Rice & Bijur, $100; C. A. Auffmordt, $100; Thomas C. T. Crain, $100; J. J. Wysong & Co., $100; Megroz, Portier, & Megroz & Co., $100; Foster, Paul & Co., $100; S. Stein & Co., $100; James McCreery & Co., $100; Lazell, Dalley & Co., $100; George W. Walling, $100; Thomas Garner & Co., $100; John Simpson, $100; W. H. Schieffelin & Co., $100; through A. Schwab, $1,400; H. C. F. Koch & Co., $100; George T. Hoadly, $250; G. Sidenburg & Co., $100; Ward & Oliphant, $100; Robert Bonner, $1,000; Horace White, $100; A. H. Cridge, $250; Edward Shriever, $300; C. H. Ludington, $100; Gamewell Fire Alarm Telegraph Company of New York, $200; Warner Brothers, $100; _New York Times_ (cash), $100; cash items, $321.20; Bennett Building, $105. Shortly after the opening of the New York Stock Exchange a subscription was started for the benefit of the Johnstown sufferers. The Governing Committee of the Exchange made Albert King treasurer of the Exchange Relief Fund, and, although many leading members were absent from the floor, as is usual on Monday at this season of the year, the handsome sum of $14,520 was contributed by the brokers present at the close of business. Among the subscriptions received were: Vermilye & Co., $1,000; Moore & Schley, $1,000; L. Von Hoffman & Co., $500; N. S. Jones, $500; Speyer & Co., $500; Homans & Co., $500; Work, Strong & Co., $250; Washington E. Connor, $250; Van Emberg & Atterbury, $250; Simon Borg & Co., $250; Chauncey & Gwynne Bros., $250; John D. Slayback, $250; Woerishoffer & Co., $250; S. V. White, $250; I. & S. Wormser, $250; Henry Clews & Co., $250; Ladenberg, Thalmann & Co., $250; John H. Davis & Co., $200; Jones, Kennett & Hopkins, $200; H. B. Goldschmidt, $200; other subscriptions, $7,170. Generosity rose higher still on Tuesday. Early in the day $5,000 was received by cable from the London Stock Exchange. John S. Kennedy also sent $5,000 from London. John Jacob Astor subscribed $2,500 and William Astor $1,000. Other contributions received at the Mayor's office were these: Archbishop Corrigan, $250; Straiton & Storm, $250; Bliss, Fabyan & Co., $500; Funk & Wagnalls, $100; Nathan Straus, $1,000; Sidney Dillon, $500; Winslow, Lanier & Co., $1,000; Henry Hilton, $5,000; R. J. Livingston, $1,000; Peter Marie, $100; The Dick & Meyer Co., Wm. Dick, President, $1,000; Decastro & Donner Sugar Refining Co., $1,000; Havemeyers & Elder Sugar Refining Co., $1,000; Frederick Gallatin, $500; Continental National Bank, from Directors, $1,000; F. O. Mattiessen & Wiechers' Sugar Refining Co., $1,000; Phelps, Dodge & Co., $2,500; Knickerbocker Ice Co., $1,000; First National Bank, $1,000; Apollinaris Water Co., London, $1,000; W. & J. Sloane, $1,000; Tefft, Weller & Co., $500; New York Stock Exchange, $20,000; Board of Trade, $1,000; Central Trust Co, $1,000; Samuel Sloan, $200. The following contributions were made in ten minutes at a special meeting of the Chamber of Commerce: Brown Brothers & Co., $2,500; Morton, Bliss & Co., $1,000; H. B. Claflin & Co., $2,000; Percy R. Pyne, $1,000; Fourth National Bank, $1,000; E. D. Morgan & Co., $1,000; C. S. Smith, $500; J. M. Ceballas, $500; Barbour Brothers & Co., $500; Naumberg, Kraus & Co., $500; Thos. F. Rowland, $500; Bliss, Fabyan & Co., $500; William H. Parsons & Co., $250; Smith, Hogg & Gardner, $250; Doerun Lead Company, $250; A. R. Whitney & Co., $250; Williams & Peters, $100; Joy, Langdon & Co., $250; B. L. Solomon's Sons, $100; D. F. Hiernan, $100; A. S. Rosenbaum, $100; Henry Rice, $100; Parsons & Petitt, $100; Thomas H. Wood & Co., $100; T. B. Coddington, $100; John I. Howe, $50; John Bigelow, $50; Morrison, Herriman & Co., $250; Frederick Sturges, $250; James O. Carpenter, $50; C. H. Mallory, $500; George A. Low, $25; Henry W. T. Mali & Co., $500; C. Adolph Low, $50; C. C. Peck, $20. Total, $15,295. Thousands of dollars also came in from the Produce Exchange, Cotton Exchange, Metal Exchange, Coffee Exchange, Real Estate Exchange, etc. The Adams Express Co. gave $5,000, and free carriage of all goods for the sufferers. The Mutual Life Insurance Co., gave $10,000. And so all the week the gifts were made. Jay Gould, gave $1,000; the Jewish Temple Emanuel, $1,500; The Hide and Leather Trade, $5,000; the Commercial Cable Co., $500; the Ancient Order of Hibernians, $270; J. B. & J. H. Cornell, $1,000; the New York Health Department, $500; Chatham National Bank, $500; the boys of the House of Refuge on Randall's Island, $258.22. Many gifts came from other towns and cities. Kansas City, $12,000; Cincinnati Chamber of Commerce, $22,106; Washington Post Office, $600; Boston, $94,000; Willard (N. Y.) Asylum for Insane, $136; Washington Government Printing Office, $1,275; Saugerties, N. Y., $850; Ithaca, N. Y., $1,600; Cornell University, $1,100; Whitehall, N. Y., $600; Washington Interior Department, $2,280; Schenectady, N. Y., $3,000; Albany, $10,500; Washington Treasury Department, $2,070; Augusta, Ga., $1,000; Charleston, S. C., $3,500; Utica, N. Y., $6,000; Little Falls, N. Y., $700; Ilion, N. Y., $1,100; Trenton, N. J., $12,000; Cambridge, Mass., $3,500; Haverhill, Mass., $1,500; Lawrence, Mass., $5,000; Salem, Mass., $1,000; Taunton, Mass., $1,010; New London, Conn., $1,120; Newburyport, Mass., $1,500. No attempt has been made above to give anything more than a few random and representative names of givers. The entire roll would fill a volume. By the end of the week the cash contributions in New York city amounted to more than $600,000. Collections in churches on Sunday, June 9th, aggregated $15,000 more. Benefit performances at the theatres the next week brought up the grand total to about $700,000. CHAPTER XXVI. And now begins the task of burying the dead and caring for the living. It is Wednesday morning. Scarcely has daylight broken before a thousand funerals are in progress on the green hill-sides. There were no hearses, few mourners, and as little solemnity as formality. The majority of the coffins were of rough pine. The pall-bearers were strong ox-teams, and instead of six pall-bearers to one coffin, there were generally six coffins to one-team. Silently the processions moved, and silently they unloaded their burdens in the lap of mother earth. No minister of God was there to pronounce a last blessing as the clods rattled down, except a few faithful priests who had followed some representatives of their faith to the grave. All day long the corpses were being hurried below ground. The unidentified bodies were grouped on a high hill west of the doomed city, where one epitaph must do for all, and that the word "unknown." Almost every stroke of the pick in some portions of the city resulted in the discovery of another victim, and, although the funerals of the morning relieved the morgues of their crush, before night they were as full of the dead as ever. Wherever one turns the melancholy view of a coffin is met. Every train into Johnstown was laden with them, the better ones being generally accompanied by friends of the dead. Men could be seen staggering over the ruins with shining mahogany caskets on their shoulders. In the midst of this scene of death and desolation a relenting Providence seems to be exerting a subduing influence. Six days have elapsed since the great disaster, and the temperature still remains low and chilly in the Conemaugh valley. When it is remembered that in the ordinary June weather of this locality from two to three days are sufficient to bring an unattended body to a degree of decay and putrefaction that would render it almost impossible to prevent the spread of disease throughout the valley, the inestimable benefits of this cool weather are almost beyond appreciation. The first body taken from the ruins was that of a boy, Willie Davis, who was found in the debris near the bridge. He was badly bruised and burned. The remains were taken to the undertaking rooms at the Pennsylvania Railroad station, where they were identified. The boy's mother has been making a tour of the different morgues for the past few days, and was just going through the undertaking rooms when she saw the remains of her boy being brought in. She ran up to the body and demanded it. She seemed to have lost her mind, and caused quite a scene by her actions. She said that she had lost her husband and six children in the flood, and that this was the first one of the family that had been recovered. The bodies of a little girl named Bracken and of Theresa and Katie Downs of Clinton Street were taken out near where the remains of Willie Davis were found. Two hundred experienced men with dynamite, a portable crane, a locomotive, and half a dozen other appliances for pulling, hauling, and lifting, toiled all of Wednesday at the sixty-acre mass of debris that lies above the Pennsylvania Railroad bridge at Johnstown. "As a result," wrote a correspondent, "there is visible, just in front of the central arch, a little patch of muddy water about seventy-five feet long by thirty wide. Two smaller patches are in front of the two arches on each side of this one, but both together would not be heeded were they not looked for especially. Indeed, the whole effect of the work yet done would not be noticed by a person who had never seen the wreck before. The solidity of the wreck and the manner in which it is interlaced and locked together exceeds the expectations of even those who had examined the wreck carefully, and the men who thought that with dynamite the mass could be removed in a week, now do not think the work can be done in twice this time. The work is in charge of Arthur Kirk, a Pittsburg contractor. Dynamite is depended upon for loosening the mass, but it has to be used in small charges for fear of damaging the bridge, which, at this time, would be another disaster for the town. As it is, the south abutment has been broken a little by the explosions. "After a charge of dynamite had shaken up a portion of the wreck in front of the middle arch, men went to work with long poles, crowbars, axes, saws, and spades. All the loose pieces that could be got out were thrown into the water under the bridge, and then, beginning at the edges, the bits of wreck were pulled, pushed and cut out, and sent floating away. At first the work of an hour was hardly perceptible, but each fresh log of timber pulled out loosened others and made better progress possible. When the space beneath the arch was cleared, and a channel thus made through which the debris could be floated off, a huge portable crane, built on a flat-car and made for raising locomotives and cars, was run upon the bridge over the arch and fastened to the track with heavy chains. A locomotive was furnished to pull the rope, instead of the usual winch with a crank handle. A rope from the crane was fastened by chains or grapnels to a log, and then the locomotive pulled. About once in five times the log came out. Other times the chain slipped or something else made the attempt a failure. Whenever a big stick came out men with pikes pushed off all the other loosened debris that they could get at. Other men shoveled off the dirt and ashes which cover the raft so thickly that it is almost as solid as the ground. "When a ten-foot square opening had been made back on the arch, the current could be seen gushing up like a great spring from below, showing that there was a large body of it being held down there by the weight of the debris. The current through the arch became so strong that the heaviest pieces in the wreck were carried off readily once they got within its reach. One reason for this is that laborers are filling up the gaps on the railroad embankment approaching the bridge in the north, through which the river had made itself a new bed, and the water thus dammed back has to go through or under the raft and out by the bridge-arches. This both buoys up the whole mass and provides a means of carrying off the wooden part of the debris as fast as it can be loosened. "Meanwhile an attack on the raft was being made through the adjoining arch in another way. A heavy winch was set up on a small island in the river seventy-five yards below the bridge, and ropes run from this were hitched to heavy timbers in the raft, and then pulled out by workmen at the winch. A beginning for a second opening in the raft was made in this way. One man had some bones broken and was otherwise hurt by the slipping of the handle while he was at work at the winch this afternoon. The whole work is dangerous for the men. There is twenty feet of swift water for them to slip into, and timbers weighing tons are swinging about in unexpected directions to crush them. "So far it is not known that any bodies have been brought out of the debris by this work of removal, though many logs have been loosened and sent off down the river beneath the water without being seen. There will probably be more bodies back toward the centre of the raft than at the bridge, for of those that came there many were swept over the top. Some went over the arches and a great many were rescued from the bridge and shore. People are satisfied now that dynamite is the only thing that can possibly remove the wreck and that as it is being used it is not likely to mangle bodies that may be in the debris any more than would any other means of removing it. There are no more protests heard against its use." Bodies continue to be dug out of the wreck in the central portion all day. A dozen or so had been recovered up to nightfall, all hideously burned and mangled. In spite of all the water that has been thrown upon it by fire engines and all the rain that has fallen, the debris is still smouldering in many spots. Work was begun in dead earnest on Wednesday on the Cambria Iron Works buildings. The Cambria people gave out the absurd statement that their loss will not exceed $100,000. It will certainly take this amount to clean the works of the debris, to say nothing of repairing them. The buildings are nearly a score in number, some of them of enormous size, and they extend along the Conemaugh River for half a mile, over a quarter of a mile in width. Their lonely chimneys, stretching high out of the slate roofs above the brick walls, make them look not unlike a man-of-war of tremendous size. The buildings on the western end of the row are not damaged a great deal, though the torrent rolled through them, turning the machinery topsy-turvy; but the buildings on the eastern end, which received the full force of the flood, fared badly. The eastern ends are utterly gone, the roofs bent over and smashed in, the chimneys flattened, the walls cracked and broken, and, in some cases, smashed entirely. Most of the buildings are filled with drift. The workmen, who have clambered over the piles of logs and heavy drift washed in front of the buildings and inside, say that they do not believe that the machinery in the mills is damaged very much, and that the main loss will fall on the mills themselves. Half a million may cover the loss of the Cambria people, but this is a rather low estimate. They have nine hundred men at work getting things in shape, and the manner in which they have had to go to work illustrates the force with which the flood acted. The trees jammed in and before the buildings were so big and so solidly wedged in their places that no force of men could pull them out, and temporary railroad tracks were built up to the mass of debris. Then one of the engines backed down from the Pennsylvania Railroad yards, and the workmen, by persistent effort, managed to get big chains around parts of the drift. These chains were attached to the engine, which rolled off puffing mightily, and in this way the mass of drift was pulled apart. Then the laborers gathered up the loosened material, heaped it in piles a distance from the buildings, and burned them. Sometimes two engines had to be attached to some of the trees to pull them out, and there are many trees which cannot be extricated in this manner. They will have to be sawed into parts, and these parts lugged away by the engines. [Illustration: 250,000,000 FEET OF LOGS AFLOAT IN THE SUSQUEHANNA.] CHAPTER XXVII. Upon a pretty little plateau two hundred feet above the waters of Stony Creek, and directly in front of a slender foot-bridge which leads into Kernsville, stands a group of tents which represents the first effort of any national organization to give material sanitary aid to the unhappy survivors of Johnstown. It is the camp of the American National Association of the Red Cross, and is under the direction of that noble woman, Miss Clara Barton of Washington, the President of the organization in this country. The camp is not more than a quarter of a mile from the scene of operations in this place, and, should pestilence attend upon the horrors of the flood, this assembly of trained nurses and veteran physicians will be known all over the land. That an epidemic of some sort will come, there seems to be no question. The only thing which can avert it is a succession of cool days, a possibility which is very remote. Miss Barton, as soon as she heard of the catastrophe, started preparations for opening headquarters in this place. By Saturday morning she had secured a staff, tents, supplies, and all the necessary appurtenances of her work, and at once started on the Baltimore and Ohio Road. She arrived here on Tuesday morning, and pitched her tents near Stony Creek. This was, however, a temporary choice, for soon she removed her camp to the plateau upon which it will remain until all need for Miss Barton will have passed. With her came Dr. John B. Hubbell, field agent; Miss M. L. White, stenographer; Gustave Angerstein, messenger, and a corps of fifteen physicians and four trained female nurses, under the direction of Dr. O'Neill, of Philadelphia. Upon their arrival they at once established quartermaster and kitchen departments, and in less than three hours these divisions were fully equipped for work. Then when the camp was formally opened on the plateau there were one large hospital tent, capable of accommodating forty persons, four smaller tents to give aid to twenty persons each, and four still smaller ones which will hold ten patients each. Then Miss Barton organized a house-to-house canvass by her corps of doctors, and began to show results almost immediately. The first part of the district visited was Kernsville. There great want and much suffering were discovered and promptly relieved. Miss Barton says that in most of the houses which were visited were several persons suffering from nervous prostration in the most aggravated form, many cases of temporary insanity being discovered, which, if neglected, would assume chronic conditions. There were a large number of persons, too, who were bruised by their battling on the borders of the flood, and were either ignorant or too broken-spirited to endeavor to aid themselves in any particular. The majority of these were not sufficiently seriously hurt to require removal from their homes to the camp, and so were given medicines and practical, intelligent advice how to use them. There were fifteen persons, however, who were removed from Kernsville and from a district known as the Brewery, on the extreme east of Johnstown. Three of the number were women and were sadly bruised. One man, Caspar Walthaman, a German operative at the Cambria Iron Works, was the most interesting of all. He lived in a little frame house within fifty yards of the brewery. When the flood came his house was lifted from its foundations and was tossed about like a feather in a gale, until it reached a spot about on a line with Washington Street. There the man's life was saved by a great drift, which completely surrounded the house, and which forced the structure against the Prospect Hill shore, where the shock wrecked it. Walthaman was sent flying through the air, and landed on his right side on the water-soaked turf. Fortunately the turf was soft and springy with the moisture, and Walthaman had enough consciousness left to crawl up the hillside, and then sank into unconsciousness. At ten o'clock Saturday morning some friends found him. He was taken to their home in Kernsville. He was scarcely conscious when found, and before he had been in a place of safety an hour he had lost his mind, the reaction was so great. His hair had turned quite white, and the places where before the disaster his hair had been most abundant, on the sides of his head, were completely denuded of it. His scalp was as smooth as an apple-cheek. The physicians who removed him to the Red Cross Hospital declared the case as the most extraordinary one resulting from fright that had ever come under their observation. Miss Barton declares her belief that not one of the persons who are now under treatment is seriously injured, and is confident they will recover in a few days. Her staff was reinforced by Mrs. and Dr. Gardner, of Bedford, who, during the last great Western floods, rendered most excellent assistance to the sufferers. Both are members of the Relief Association. The squad of physicians and nurses was further added to by more from Philadelphia, and then Miss Barton thought she was prepared to cope with anything in the way of sickness which might arise. The appearance of the tents and the surroundings are exceedingly inviting. Everything is exquisitely neat, the boards of the tent-floors being almost as white as the snowy linen of the cots. This contrast to the horrible filth of the town, with its fearful stenches and its dead-paved streets, is so invigorating that it has become a place of refuge to all who are compelled to remain here. The hospital is an old rink on the Bedford pike, which has been transformed into an inviting retreat. Upon entering the door the visitor finds himself in a small ante-room, to one side of which is attached the general consulting-room. On the other side, opposite the hall, is the apothecary's department, where the prescriptions are filled as carefully as they would be at a first-class druggist's. In the rear of the medical department and of the general consultation-room are the wards. There are two of them--one for males and the other for females. A long, high, heavy curtain divides the wards, and insures as much privacy as the most modest person would wish. Around the walls in both wards are ranged the regulation hospital beds, with plenty of clean and comfortable bed-clothes. Patients in the hospital said they couldn't be better treated if they were paying the physician for their attendance. The trained nurses of the Red Cross Society carefully look after the wants of the sick and injured, and see that they get everything they wish. People who have an abhorrence of going into these hospitals need have no fear that they will not be well treated. The orphans of the flood--sadly few there are of them, for it was the children that usually went down first, not the parents--are looked after by the Pennsylvania Children's Aid Society, which has transferred its headquarters for the time being from Philadelphia to this city. There was a thriving branch of this society here before the flood, but of all its officers and executive force two only are alive. Fearing such might be the situation, the general officers of the society sent out on the first available train Miss H. E. Hancock, one of the directors, and Miss H. W. Hinckley, the Secretary. They arrived on Thursday morning, and within thirty minutes had an office open in a little cottage just above the water-line in the upper part of the city. Business was ready as soon as the office, and there were about fifty children looked after before evening. In most cases these were children with relatives or friends in or near Johnstown, and the society's work has been to identify them and restore them to their friends. As soon as the society opened its office all cases in which children were involved were sent at once to them, and their efforts have been of great benefit in systematizing the care of the children who are left homeless. Besides this, there are many orphans who have been living in the families of neighbors since the flood, but for whom permanent homes must be found. One family has cared for one hundred and fifty-seven children saved from the flood, and nearly as many are staying with other families. There will be no difficulty about providing for these little ones. The society already has offers for the taking of as many as are likely to be in need of a home. The Rev. Morgan Dix, on behalf of the Leake and Watts Orphan Home in New York, has telegraphed an offer to care for seventy-five orphans. Pittsburg is proving itself generous in this as in all other matters relating to the flood, and other places all over the country are telegraphing offers of homes for the homeless. Superintendent Pierson, of the Indianapolis Natural Gas Company, has asked for two; Cleveland wants some; Altoona would like a few; Apollo, Pa., has vacancies the orphans can fill, and scores of other small places are sending in similar offers and requests. A queer thing is that many of the officers are restricted by curious provisions as to the religious belief of the orphans. The Rev. Dr. Griffith, for instance, of Philadelphia, says that the Angora (Pa.) Home would like some orphans, "especially Baptist ones," and Father Field, of Philadelphia, offers to look after a few Episcopal waifs. The work of the society here has been greatly assisted by the fact that Miss Maggie Brooks, formerly Secretary of the local society here, but living in Philadelphia at the time of the flood, has come here to assist the general officers. Her acquaintance with the town is invaluable. Johnstown is generous in its misery. Whatever it has left it gives freely to the strangers who have come here. It is not much, but it shows a good spirit. There are means by which Johnstown people might reap a rich harvest by taking advantage of the necessities of strangers. It is necessary, for instance, to use boats in getting about the place, and men in light skiffs are poling about the streets all day taking passengers from place to place. Their services are free. They not only do not, but will not accept any fee. J. D. Haws & Son own large brick-kilns near the bridge. The newspaper men have possession of one of the firm's buildings and one of the firm spends most of his time in running about trying to make the men comfortable. A room in one of the firm's barns filled with straw has been set apart solely for the newspaper men, who sleep there wrapped in blankets as comfortably as in beds. There is no charge for this, although those who have tried one night on the floors, sand-piles, and other usual dormitories of the place, would willingly pay high for the use of the straw. Food for the newspaper and telegraph workers has been hard to get except in crude form. Canned corned beef, eaten with a stick for a fork, and dry crackers were the staples up to Tuesday, when a house up the hill was discovered where anybody who came was welcome to the best the house afforded. There was no sugar for the coffee, no vinegar for the lettuce, and the apple butter ran out before the siege was raised, but the defect was in the circumstances of Johnstown, and not in the will of the family. "How much?" was asked at the end of the meal. They were poor people. The man probably earns a dollar a day. "Oh!" replied the woman, who was herself cook, waiter, and lady of the house, "we don't charge anything in times like these. You see, I went out and spent ten dollars for groceries at a place that wasn't washed away right after the flood, and we've been living on that ever since. Of course we don't ask any of the relief, not being washed out. You men are welcome to all I can give." She had seen the last of her ten dollars worth of provisions gobbled up without a murmur, and yet didn't "charge anything in times like these." Her scruples did not, however, extend so far as to refusing tenders of coin, inasmuch as without it her larder would stay empty. She filled it up last night, and the news of the place having spread, she has been getting a continual meal from five in the morning until late at night. Although she makes no charge, her income would make a regular restaurant keeper dizzy. So far as the Signal Service is concerned, the amount of rainfall in the region drained by the Conemaugh River cannot be ascertained. Mrs. H. M. Ogle, who had been the Signal Service representative in Johnstown for several years and also manager of the Western Union office there, telegraphed at eight o'clock Friday morning to Pittsburg that the river marked fourteen feet, rising; a rise of thirteen feet in twenty-four hours. At eleven o'clock she wired: "River twenty feet and rising, higher than ever before; water in first floor. Have moved to second. River gauges carried away. Rainfall, two and three-tenth inches." At twenty-seven minutes to one P. M. Mrs. Ogle wired: "At this hour north wind; very cloudy; water still rising." Nothing more was heard from her by the bureau, but at the Western Union office at Pittsburg later in the afternoon she commenced to tell an operator that the dam had broken, that a flood was coming, and before she had finished the conversation a singular click of the instrument announced the breaking of the current. A moment afterward the current of her life was broken forever. Sergeant Stewart, in charge of the Pittsburg bureau, says that the fall of water on the Conemaugh shed at Johnstown up to the time of the flood was probably two and five-tenth inches. He believes it was much heavier in the mountains. The country drained by the little Conemaugh and Stony Creek covers an area of about one hundred square miles. The bureau, figuring on this basis and two and five-tenth inches of rainfall, finds that four hundred and sixty-four million six hundred and forty thousand cubic feet of water was precipitated toward Johnstown in its last hours. This is independent of the great volume of water in the lake, which was not less than two hundred and fifty million cubic feet. It is therefore easily seen that there was ample water to cover the Conemaugh Valley to the depth of from ten to twenty-five feet. Such a volume of water was never known to fall in that country in the same time. Colonel T. P. Roberts, a leading engineer, estimates that the lake drained twenty-five square miles, and gives some interesting data on the probable amount of water it contained. He says: "The dam, as I understand, was from hill to hill, about one thousand feet long and about eighty-five feet high at the highest point. The pond covered above seven hundred acres, at least for the present I will assume that to be the case. We are told also that there was a waste-weir at one end seventy-five feet wide and ten feet below the comb or top of the dam. Now we are told that with this weir open and discharging freely to the utmost of its capacity, nevertheless the pond or lake rose ten inches per hour until finally it overflowed the top, and, as I understand, the dam broke by being eaten away at the top. "Thus we have the elements for very simple calculation as to the amount of water precipitated by the flood, provided these premises are accurate. To raise seven hundred acres of water to a height of ten feet would require about three hundred million cubic feet of water, and while this was rising the waste-weir would discharge an enormous volume--it would be difficult to say just how much without a full knowledge of the shape of its side-walls, approaches, and outlets--but if the rise required ten hours the waste-weir might have discharged perhaps ninety million cubic feet. We would then have a total of flood water of three hundred and ninety million cubic feet. This would indicate a rainfall of about eight inches over the twenty-five square miles. As that much does not appear to have fallen at the hotel and dam it is more than likely that even more than eight inches was precipitated in places farther up. These figures I hold tentatively, but I am much inclined to believe that there was a cloud burst." Of course, the Johnstown disaster, great as it was, was by no means the greatest flood in history, since Noah's Deluge. The greatest of modern floods was that which resulted from the overflow of the great Hoang-Ho, or Yellow River, in 1887. This river, which has earned the title of "China's Sorrow," has always been the cause of great anxiety to the Chinese Government and to the inhabitants of the country through which it flows. It is guarded with the utmost care at great expense, and annually vast sums are spent in repairs of its banks. In October, 1887, a number of serious breaches occurred in the river's banks about three hundred miles from the coast. As a result the river deserted its natural bed and spread over a thickly-populated plain, forcing for itself finally an entire new road to the sea. Four or five times in two thousand years the great river had changed its bed, and each time the change had entailed great loss of life and property. In 1852 it burst through its banks two hundred and fifty miles from the sea and cut a new bed through the northern part of Shaptung into the Gulf of Pechili. The isolation in which foreigners lived at that time in China prevented their obtaining any information as to the calamitous results of this change, but in 1887 many of the barriers against foreigners had been removed and a general idea of the character of the inundation was easily obtainable. For several weeks preceding the actual overflow of its banks the Hoang-Ho had been swollen from its tributaries. It had been unusually wet and stormy in northwest China, and all the small streams were full and overflowing. The first break occurred in the province of Honan, of which the capital is Kaifeng, and the city next in importance is Ching or Cheng Chou. The latter is forty miles west of Kaifeng and a short distance above a bend in the Hoang-Ho. At this bend the stream is borne violently against the south shore. For ten days a continuous rain had been soaking the embankments, and a strong wind increased the already great force of the current. Finally a breach was made. At first it extended only for a hundred yards. The guards made frantic efforts to close the gap, and were assisted by the frightened people in the vicinity. But the breach grew rapidly to a width of twelve hundred yards, and through this the river rushed with awful force. Leaping over the plain with incredible velocity, the water merged into a small stream called the Lu-chia. Down the valley of the Lu-chia the torrent poured in an easterly direction, overwhelming everything in its path. Twenty miles from Cheng Chou it encountered Chungmou, a walled city of the third rank. Its thousands of inhabitants were attending to their usual pursuits. There was no telegraph to warn them, and the first intimation of disaster came with the muddy torrent that rolled down upon them. Within a short time only the tops of the high walls marked where a flourishing city had been. Three hundred villages in the district disappeared utterly, and the lands about three hundred other villages were inundated. The flood turned south from Chungmou, still keeping to the course of the Lu-chia, and stretched out in width for thirty miles. This vast body of water was from ten to twenty feet deep. Several miles south of Kaifeng the flood struck a large river which there joins the Lu-chia. The result was that the flood rose to a still greater height, and, pouring into a low-lying and very fertile plain which was densely populated, submerged upward of one thousand five hundred villages. Not far beyond this locality the flood passed into the province of Anhui, where it spread very widely. The actual loss of life could not be computed accurately, but the lowest intelligent estimate placed it at one million five hundred thousand, and one authority fixed it at seven million. Two million people were rendered destitute by the flood, and the suffering that resulted was frightful. Four months later the inundated provinces were still under the muddy waters. The government officials who were on guard when the Hoang-Ho broke its banks were condemned to severe punishment, and were placed in the pillory in spite of their pleadings that they had done their best to avert the disaster. The inundation which may be classed as the second greatest in modern history occurred in Holland in 1530. There have been many floods in Holland, nearly all due to the failure of the dikes which form the only barrier between it and the sea. In 1530 there was a general failure of the dikes, and the sea poured in upon the low lands. The people were as unprepared as were the victims of the Johnstown disaster. Good authorities place the number of human beings that perished in this flood at about four hundred thousand, and the destruction of property was in proportion. [Illustration: LAST TRAINS IN AND OUT OF HARRISBURG.] In April, 1421, the River Meuse broke in the dikes at Dort, or Dordrecht, an ancient town in the peninsula of South Holland, situated on an island. Ten thousand persons perished there and more than one hundred thousand in the vicinity. In January, 1861, there was a disastrous flood in Holland, the area sweeping over forty thousand acres, and leaving thirty thousand villages destitute, and again in 1876 severe losses resulted from inundations in this country. The first flood in Europe of which history gives any authentic account occurred in Lincolnshire, England, A. D. 245, when the sea passed over many thousands of acres. In the year 353 a flood in Cheshire destroyed three thousand human lives and many cattle. Four hundred families were drowned in Glasgow by an overflow of the Clyde in 758. A number of English seaport towns were destroyed by an inundation in 1014. In 1483 a terrible overflow of the Severn, which came at night and lasted for ten days, covered the tops of mountains. Men, women, and children were carried from their beds and drowned. The waters settled on the lands and were called for one hundred years after the Great Waters. A flood in Catalonia, a province of Spain, occurred in 1617, and fifty thousand persons lost their lives. One of the most curious inundations in history, and one that was looked upon at the time as a miracle, occurred in Yorkshire, England, in 1686. A large rock was split assunder by some hidden force, and water spouted out, the stream reaching as high as a church steeple. In 1771 another flood, known as the Ripon flood, occurred in the same province. In September, 1687, mountain torrents inundated Navarre, and two thousand persons were drowned. Twice, in 1787 and in 1802, the Irish Liffey overran its banks and caused great damage. A reservoir in Lurca, a city of Spain, burst in 1802, in much the same way as did the dam at Johnstown, and as a result one thousand persons perished. Twenty-four villages near Presburg, and nearly all their inhabitants, were swept away in April, 1811, by an overflow of the Danube. Two years later large provinces in Austria and Poland were flooded, and many lives were lost. In the same year a force of two thousand Turkish soldiers, who were stationed on a small island near Widdin, were surprised by a sudden overflow of the Danube and all were drowned. There were two more floods in this year, one in Silesia, where six thousand persons perished, and the French army met such losses and privations that its ruin was accelerated; and another in Poland, where four thousand persons were supposed to have been drowned. In 1816 the melting of the snow on the mountains surrounding Strabane, Ireland, caused destructive floods, and the overflow of the Vistula in Germany laid many villages under water. Floods that occasioned great suffering occurred in 1829, when severe rains caused the Spey and Findhorn to rise fifty feet above their ordinary level. The following year the Danube again overflowed its banks and inundated the houses of fifty thousand inhabitants of Vienna. The Saone overflowed in 1840, and poured its turbulent waters into the Rhine, causing a flood which covered sixty thousand acres. Lyons was flooded, one hundred houses were swept away at Avignon, two hundred and eighteen at La Guillotiere, and three hundred at Vaise, Marseilles, and Nimes. Another great flood, entailing much suffering, occurred in the south of France in 1856. A flood in Mill River valley in 1874 was caused by the bursting of a badly constructed dam. The waters poured down upon the villages in the valley much as at Johnstown, but the people received warning in time, and the torrent was not so swift. Several villages were destroyed and one hundred and forty-four persons drowned. The rising of the Garonne in 1875 caused the death of one thousand persons near Toulouse, and twenty thousand persons were made homeless in India by floods in the same year. In 1882 heavy floods destroyed a large amount of property and drowned many persons in the Mississippi and Ohio valleys. The awful disaster in the Conemaugh Valley calls attention to the fact that there are many similar dams throughout the United States. Though few of these overhang a narrow gorge like the one in which the borough of Johnstown reposed, there is no question that several of the dams now deemed safe would, if broken down by a sudden freshet, sweep down upon peaceful hamlets, cause immense damage to property and loss of life. The lesson taught by the awful scenes at Johnstown should not go unheeded. Croton Lake Dam was first built with ninety feet of masonry overfall, the rest being earth embankment. On January 7th, 1841, a freshet carried away this earth embankment, and when rebuilt the overfall of the dam was made two hundred and seventy feet long. The foundation is two lines of cribs, filled with dry stone, and ten feet of concrete between. Upon this broken range stone masonry was laid, the down-stream side being curved and faced with granite, the whole being backed with a packing of earth. The dam is forty feet high, its top is one hundred and sixty-six feet above tidewater, and it controls a reservoir area of four hundred acres and five hundred million gallons of water. The Boyd's Corner Dam holds two million seven hundred and twenty-seven thousand gallons, and was built during the years 1866 and 1872. It stands twenty-three miles from Croton dam, and has cut-stone faces filled between with concrete. The extreme height is seventy-eight feet, and it is six hundred and seventy feet long. Although this dam holds a body of water five times greater than that at Croton Lake, it is claimed by engineers that should it give way the deluge of water which would follow would cause very little loss of life and only destroy farming lands, as below it the country is comparatively level and open. Middle Branch Dam holds four billion four hundred thousand gallons, and was built during 1874 and 1878. It is composed of earth, with a centre of rubble masonry carried down to the rock bottom. It is also considered to be in no danger of causing destruction by sudden breakage, as the downpour of water would spread out over a large area of level land. Besides these there are other Croton water storage basins formed by dams as follows: East Branch, with a capacity of 4,500,000,000 gallons; Lake Mahopac, 575,000,000 gallons; Lake Kirk, 565,000,000 gallons; Lake Gleneida, 165,000,000 gallons; Lake Gilead, 380,000,000 gallons; Lake Waccabec, 200,000,000 gallons; Lake Lonetta, 50,000,000 gallons; Barrett's ponds, 170,000,000 gallons; China pond, 105,000,000 gallons; White pond, 100,000,000 gallons; Pines pond, 75,000,000 gallons; Long pond, 60,000,000 gallons; Peach pond, 230,000,000 gallons; Cross pond, 110,000,000 gallons, and Haines pond, 125,000,000 gallons, thus completing the storage capacity of the Croton water system of 14,000,000,000 gallons. The engineers claim that none of these last-named could cause loss of life or any great damage to property, because there exist abundant natural outlets. At Whitehall, N. G., there is a reservoir created by a dam three hundred and twenty feet long across a valley half a mile from the village and two hundred and sixty-six feet above it. A break in this dam would release nearly six million gallons, and probably sweep away the entire town. Norwich, N. Y., is supplied by an earthwork dam, with centre puddle-wall, three hundred and twenty-three feet long and forty feet high. It imprisons thirty million gallons and stands one hundred and eighty feet above the village. At an elevation of two hundred and fifty feet above the town of Olean N. Y., stands an embankment holding in check two million, five hundred thousand gallons. Oneida, N. Y., is supplied by a reservoir formed by a dam across a stream which controls twenty-two million, three hundred and fifty thousand gallons. The dam is nearly three miles from the village and at an altitude of one hundred and ninety feet above it. Such are some of the reservoirs which threaten other communities of our fair land. CHAPTER XXVIII. It is now the Thursday after the disaster, and amid the ruins of Johnstown people are beginning to get their wits together. They have quit the aimless wandering about amid the ruins, that marked them for a crushed and despairing people. Everybody is getting to work and forgetting something of the horror of the situation in the necessity of thinking of what they are doing. The deadly silence that has prevailed throughout the town is ended, giving place to the shouts of hundreds of men pulling at ropes, and the crash of timbers and roofs as they pull wrecked buildings down or haul heaps of débris to pieces. Hundreds more are making an almost merry clang with pick and shovel as they clear away mud and gravel, opening ways on the lines of the old streets. Locomotives are puffing about, down into the heart of the town now, and the great whistle at the Cambria Iron Works blew for noon yesterday and to-day for the first time since the flood silenced it. To lighten the sombre aspect of the ruined area, heightened by the cold gray clouds hanging low about the hills, were acres of flame, where debris is being got rid of. Down in what was the heart of the city the soldiers have gone into camp, and little flags snap brightly in the high wind from their acres of white tents. The relief work seems now to be pretty thoroughly organized, and thousands of men are at work under the direction of the committee. The men are in gangs of about a hundred each, under foremen, with mounted superintendents riding about overseeing the work. The first effort, aside from that being made upon the gorge at the bridge, is in the upper part of the city and in Stony Creek Gap, where there are many houses with great heaps of debris covering and surrounding them. Three or four hundred men were set at work with ropes, chains, and axes upon each of these heaps, tearing it to pieces as rapidly as possible. Where there are only smashed houses and furniture in the heap the work is easy, but when, as in most instances, there are long logs and tree-trunks reaching in every direction through the mass, the task of getting them out is a slow and difficult one. The lighter parts of the wreck are tossed into heaps in the nearest clear space and set on fire. Horses haul the logs and heavier pieces off to add them to other blazing piles. Everything of any value is carefully laid aside, but there is little of it. Even the strongest furniture is generally in little bits when found, but in one heap this morning were found two mirrors, one about six feet by eight in size, without a crack in it, and with its frame little damaged; the other one, about two feet by three in size, had a little crack at the bottom, but was otherwise all right. Every once in a while the workmen about these wreck-heaps will stop their shouting and straining at the ropes, gather into a crowd at some one spot in the ruins, and remain idle and quiet for a little while. Presently the group will stir itself a little, fall apart, and out of it will come six men bearing between them on a door or other improvised stretcher a vague form covered with a canvas blanket. The bearers go off along the irregular paths worn into the muddy plain, toward the different morgues, and the men go to work again. These little groups of six, with the burden between them, are as frequent as ever. One runs across them everywhere about the place. Sometimes they come so thick that they have to form in line at the morgue doors. The activity with which work was prosecuted brought rapidly to light the dark places within the ruins in which remained concealed those bodies that the previous desultory searching had not brought to light. Many of the disclosures might almost better have never seen the light, so heart-rending were they. A mother lay with three children clasped in her arms. So suddenly had the visitation come upon them that the little ones had plainly been snatched up while at play, for one held a doll clutched tightly in its dead hand, and in one hand of another were three marbles. This was right opposite the First National Bank building, in the heart of the city, and near the same spot a family of five--father, mother, and three children--were found dead together. Not far off a roof was lifted up, and dropped again in horror at the sight of nine bodies beneath it. There were more bodies, or fragments of bodies, found, too, in the gorge at the bridge, and from the Cambria Iron Works the ghastly burden-bearers began to come in with the first contributions of that locality to the death list. The passage of time is also bringing to the surface bodies that have been lying beneath the river further down, and from Nineveh bodies are continually being sent up to Morrellville, just below the iron works, for identification. Wandering about near the ruins of Wood, Morrell & Co.'s store a messenger from Morrellville found a man who looked like the pictures of the Tennessee mountaineers in the _Century Magazine_, with an addition of woe and misery upon his gaunt, hairy face that no picture could ever indicate. He was tall and thin, and bent, and, from his appearance, abjectly poor. He was telling two strangers how he had lived right across from the store, with his wife and eight children. When the high water came and word was brought that the dam was in danger, he told his wife to get the children together and come with him. The water was deep in the streets, and the passage to the bluff would have been difficult. She laughed at him and told him the dam was all right. He urged her, ordered her, and did everything else but pick her up bodily and carry her out, but she would not come. Finally he set the example and dashed out, himself, through the water, calling to his wife to follow. As his feet began to touch rising ground, he saw the wall of water coming down the valley. He climbed in blind terror up the bank, helped by the rising water, and, reaching solid ground, turned just in time to see the water strike his house. "When I turned my back," he said, "I couldn't look any longer." Tears ran down his face as he said this. The messenger coming up just then said:-- "Your wife has been found. They got her down at Nineveh. Her brother has gone to fetch her up." The man went away with the messenger. "He didn't seem much rejoiced over the good news about his wife," remarked one of the strangers, who had yet to learn that Johnstown people speak of death and the dead only indirectly whenever possible. It was the wife's body, not the wife, that had been found, and that the messenger was to fetch up. The bodies of this man's eight children have not yet been found. He is the only survivor of a family of ten. Queer salvage from the flood was a cat that was taken out alive last evening. Its hair was singed off and one eye gone, but it was able to lick the hand of the man who picked it up and carried it off to keep, he said, as a relic of the flood. A white Wyandotte rooster and two hens were also dug out alive, and with dry feathers, from the centre of a heap of wrecked buildings. The work of clearing up the site of the town has progressed so far that the outlines of some of the old streets could be faintly traced, and citizens were going about hunting up their lots. In many cases it was a difficult task, but enough old landmarks are left to make the determination of boundary lines by a new survey a comparatively easy matter. The scenes in the morgues are disgusting in the highest degree. The embalmers are at work cutting and slashing with an apathy born of four days and nights of the work, and such as they never experienced before. The boards on which the bodies lie are covered with mud and slime, in many instances. Men with dynamite, blowing up the drift at the Pennsylvania Railroad bridge, people in the drift watching for bodies, people finding bodies in the ruins and carrying them away on stretchers or sheets, the bonfires of blazing débris all over the town, the soldiers with their bayonets guarding property or taking thieves into custody, the tin-starred policemen with their base ball clubs promenading the streets and around the ruins, the scenes of distress and frenzy at the relief stations, the crash of buildings as their broken remnants fall to the ground--this is the scene that goes on night and day in Johnstown, and will go on for an indefinite time. Still, people have worked so in the midst of such excitement, with the pressure of such an awful horror on their minds that they can get but little rest even when they wish to. Men in this town are too tired to sleep. They lie down with throbbing brains that cannot stop throbbing, so that even the sense of thinking is intense agony. The undertakers and embalmers claim that they are the busiest men in town, and that they have done more to help the city than any other workmen. The people who attend the morgues for the purpose of identifying their friends and relatives are hardly as numerous as before. Many of them are exhausted with the constant wear and tear, and many have about made up their minds that their friends are lost beyond recovery, and that there is no use looking for them any longer. Others have gone to distant parts of the State, and have abandoned Johnstown and all in it. A little girl in a poor calico dress climbed upon the fence at the Adams Street morgue and looked wistfully at the row of coffins in the yard. People were only admitted to the morgue in squads of ten each, and the little girl's turn had not come yet. Her name was Jennie Hoffman. She was twelve years old. She told a reporter that out of her family of fourteen the father and mother and oldest sister were lost. They were all in their home on Somerset Street when the flood came. The father reached out for a tree which went sweeping by, and was pulled out of the window and lost. The mother and children got upon the roof, and then a dash of water carried her and the eldest daughter off. A colored man on an adjoining house took off the little girls who were left--all of them under twelve years of age, except Jennie--and together they clambered over the roofs of the houses near by and escaped. CHAPTER XXIX. Day after day the work of reparation goes on. The city has been blotted out. Yet the reeking ruins that mark its site are teeming with life and work more vigorous than ever marked its noisy streets and panting factories. As men and money pour into Johnstown the spirit of the town greatly revives, and the people begin to take a much more favorable view of things. The one thing that is troubling people just now is the lack of ready money. There are drafts here in any quantity, but there is no money to cash them until the money in the vaults of the First National Bank has been recovered. It is known that the vaults are safe and that about $500,000 in cash is there. Of this sum $125,000 belongs to the Cambria Iron Company. It was to pay the five thousand employés of the works. The men are paid off every two weeks, and the last pay-day was to have been on the Saturday after the fatal flood. The money was brought down to Johnstown, on the day before the flood, by the Adams Express Company, and deposited in the bank. After the water subsided, and it was discovered that the money was safe, a guard was placed around the bank and has been maintained ever since. When the pay-day of the Cambria Iron Company does come it will be an impressive scene. The only thing comparable to it will be the roll-call after a great battle. Mothers, wives, and children will be there to claim the wages of sons, and husbands, and fathers. The men in the gloomy line will have few families to take their wages home to. The Cambria people do not propose to stand on any red-tape rules about paying the wages of their dead employés to the surviving friends and relatives. They will only try to make reasonably sure that they are paying the money to the right persons. An assistant cashier, Thomas McGee, in the company's store saved $12,000 of the company's funds. The money was all in packages of bills in bags in the safe on the ground floor of the main building of the stores. When the water began to rise he went up on the second floor of the building, carrying the money with him. When the crash of the reservoir torrent came Mr. McGee clambered upon the roof, and just before the building tottered and fell he managed to jump on the roof of a house that went by. The house was swept near the bank. Mr. McGee jumped off and fell into the water, but struck out and managed to clamber up the bank. Then he got up on the hills and remained out all night guarding his treasure. [Illustration: COLUMBIA, PA., UNDER THE FLOOD.] At dawn of Thursday the stillness of the night, which had been punctured frequently by the pistol and musket shots of vigilant guards scaring off possible marauders, was permanently fractured by the arousing of gangs of laborers who had slept about wherever they could find a soft spot in the ruins, as well as in tents set up in the centre of where the town used to be. The soldiers in their camps were seen about later, and the railroad gang of several hundred men set out up the track toward where they had left off work the night before. Breakfast was cooked at hundreds of camp-fires, and about brick-kilns, and wherever else a fire could be got. At seven o'clock five thousand laborers struck pick and shovel and saw into the square miles of débris heaped over the city's site. At the same time more laborers began to arrive on trains and march through the streets in long gangs toward the place where they were needed. Those whose work was to be pulling and hauling trailed along in lines, holding to their ropes. They looked like gangs of slaves being driven to a market. By the time the forenoon was well under way, seven thousand laborers were at work in the city under the direction of one hundred foremen. There were five hundred cars and as many teams, and half a dozen portable hoisting engines, besides regular locomotives and trains of flat cars that were used in hauling off débris that could not be burned. With this force of men and appliances at work the ruined city, looked at from the bluffs, seemed to fairly swarm with life, wherever the flood had left anything to be removed. The whole lower part of the city, except just above the bridge, remained the deserted mud desert that the waters left. There was no cleaning up necessary there. Through the upper part of the city, where the houses were simply smashed to kindling wood and piled into heaps, but not ground to pieces under the whirlpool that bore down on the rest of the city, acres of bonfires have burned all day. The stifling smoke, blown by a high wind, has made life almost unendurable, and the flames have twirled about so fiercely in the gusts as to scorch the workmen some distance away. Citizens whose houses were not damaged beyond salvation have almost got to work in clearing out their homes and trying to make them somewhere near habitable. In the poorer parts of the city often one story and a half frame cottages are seen completely surrounded by heaps of débris tossed up high above their roofs. Narrow lanes driven through the débris have given the owners entrance to their homes. With all the work the apparent progress was small. A stranger seeing the place for the first time would never imagine that the wreck was not just as the flood left it. The enormity of the task of clearing the place grows more apparent the more the work is prosecuted, and with the force now at work the job cannot be done in less than a month. It will hardly be possible to find room for any larger force. The railroads added largely to the bustle of the place. Long freight trains, loaded with food and clothing for the suffering, were continually coming in faster than they could be unloaded. Lumber was also arriving in great quantities, and hay and feed for the horses was heaped up high alongside the tracks. Hundreds of men were swarming over the road-bed near the Pennsylvania station, strengthening and improving the line. Work was begun on frame sheds and other temporary buildings in several places, and the rattle of hammers added its din to the shouts of the workmen and the crash of falling wreckage. Some sort of organization is being introduced into other things about the city than the clearing away of the débris. The Post-office is established in a small brick building in the upper part of the city. Those of the letter carriers who are alive, and a few clerks, are the working force. The reception of mail consists of one damaged street letter-box set upon a box in front of the building and guarded by a carrier, who has also to see that there is no crowding in the long lines of people waiting to get their turn at the two windows where letters and stamps are served out. A wide board, stood up on end, is lettered rudely, "Post-office Bulletin," and beneath is a slip of paper with the information that a mail will leave the city for the West during the day, and that no mail has been received. There are many touching things in these Post-office lines. It is a good place for acquaintances who lived in different parts of the city to find out whether each is alive or dead. "You are through all right, I see," said one man in the line to an acquaintance who came up this morning. "Yes," said the acquaintance. "And how's your folks? They all right, too?" was the next question. "Two of them are--them two little ones sitting on the steps there. The mother and the other three have gone down." Such conversations as this take place every few minutes. Near the Post-office is the morgue for that part of the city, and other lines of waiting people reach out from there, anxious for a glimpse at the contents of the twenty-five coffins ranged in lines in front of the school-building, that does duty for a dead-house. Only those who have business are admitted, but the number is never a small one. Each walks along the lines of coffins, raises the cover over the face, glances in, drops the cover quickly, and passes on. Men bearing ghastly burdens on stretchers pass frequently into the school-house, where the undertakers prepare the bodies for identification. A little farther along is the relief headquarters for that part of the city, and the streets there are packed all day long with women and children with baskets on their arms. So great is the demand that the people have to stand in line for an hour to get their turn. A large unfinished building is turned into a storehouse for clothing, and the people throng into it empty-handed and come out with arms full of underclothing and other wearing apparel. At another building the sanitary bureau is serving out disinfectants. The workmen upon the débris in what was the heart of the city have now reached well into the ruins and are getting to where the valuable contents of jewelry and other stores may be expected to be found, and strict watch is being kept to prevent the theft of any such articles by the workmen or others. In the ruins of the Wood, Morrell & Co. general store a large amount of goods, chiefly provisions and household utensils, has been found in fairly good order. It is piled in a heap as fast as gotten out, and the building is being pulled down. About the worst heap of wreckage in the centre of the city is where the Cambria Library building stood, opposite the general store. This was a very substantial and handsome building and offered much obstruction to the flood. It was completely destroyed, but upon its site a mass of trees, logs, heavy beams, and other wreckage was left, knotted together into a mass only extricable by the use of the ax and saw. Two hundred men have worked at it for three days and it is not half removed yet. The Cambria Iron Company have several acres of gravel and clay to remove from the upper end of its yard. Except for an occasional corner of some big iron machine that projects above the surface no one would ever suspect that it was not the original earth. In one place a freight car brake-wheel lies just on the surface of the ground, apparently dropped there loosely. Any one who tries to kick it aside or pick it up finds that it is still attached to its car, which is buried under a solid mass of gravel and broken rock. Several lanes have been dug through this mass down to the old railroad tracks, and two or three of the little yard engines of the iron company, resurrected with smashed smoke-stacks and other light damage, but workable yet, go puffing about hardly visible above the general level of the new-made ground. The progress of the work upon the black and still smoking mass of charred ruins above the bridge is hardly perceptible. There is clear water for about one hundred feet back from the central arch, and a little opening before the two on each side of it. When there is a good-sized hole made before all three of these arches, through which the bulk of the water runs, it is expected that the stuff can be pulled apart and set afloat much more rapidly. Dynamiter Kirk, who is overseeing the work, used up the last one hundred pounds of the explosive early this afternoon, and had to suspend operations until the arrival of two hundred pounds more that was on the way from Pittsburgh. The dynamite has been used in small doses for fear of damaging the bridge. Six pounds was the heaviest charge used. Even with this the stone beneath the arches of the bridge is charred and crumbling in places, and some pieces have been blown out of the heavy coping. The whole structure shakes as though with an earthquake at every discharge. The dynamite is placed in holes drilled in logs matted into the surface of the raft, and its effect being downward, the greatest force of the explosion is upon the mass of stuff beneath the water. At the same time each charge sent up into the air, one hundred feet or more, a fountain of dirt, stones, and blackened fragments of logs, many of them large enough to be dangerous. The rattling crash of their fall upon the bridge follows hard after the heavy boom of the explosion. One of the worst and most unexpected objects with which the men on the raft have to contend is the presence in it of hundreds of miles of telegraph wire wound around almost everything there and binding the whole mass together. No bodies have yet been brought to the surface by the operations with dynamite, but indications of several buried beneath the surface are evident. A short distance back from where the men are not at work, bodies continue to be taken out from the surface of the raft at the rate of ten or a dozen a day. The men this afternoon came across hundreds of feet of polished copper pipe, which is said to have come from a Pullman car. It was not known until then that there was a Pullman car in that part of the raft. The remnants of a vestibule car are plainly seen at a point a hundred feet away from this. CHAPTER XXX. The first thing that Johnstown people do in the morning is to go to the relief stations and get something to eat. They go carrying big baskets, and their endeavor is to get all they can. There has been a new system every day about the manner of dispensing the food and clothing to the sufferers. At first the supplies were placed where people could help themselves. Then they were placed in yards and handed to people over the fences. Then people had to get orders for what they wanted from the Citizens Committee, and their orders were filled at the different relief stations. Now the whole matter of receiving and dispensing relief supplies has been placed in the hands of the Grand Army of the Republic men. Thomas A. Stewart, commander of the Department of Pennsylvania, G. A. R., arrived with his staff and established his headquarters in a tent near the headquarters of the Citizens Committee, and opposite the temporary post-office. Over this tent floats Commander Stewart's flag, with purple border, bearing the arms of the State of Pennsylvania. The members of his staff are: Quartermaster-General Tobin Taylor and his assistant H. J. Williams, Chaplain John W. Sayres, and W. V. Lawrence, quartermaster-general of the Ohio Department. The Grand Army men have made the Adams Street relief station a central relief station, and all the others, at Kernville, the Pennsylvania depot, Cambria City, and Jackson and Somerset Street, sub-stations. The idea is to distribute supplies to the sub-stations from the central station, and thus avoid the jam of crying and excited people at the committee's headquarters. The Grand Army men have appointed a committee of women to assist them in their work. The women go from house to house, ascertaining the number of people quartered there, the number of people lost from there in the flood, and the exact needs of the people. It was found necessary to have some such committee as this, for there were women actually starving, who were too proud to take their places in line with the other women with bags and baskets. Some of these people were rich before the flood. Now they are not worth a dollar. A _Sun_ reporter was told of one man who was reported to be worth $100,000 before the flood, but who now is penniless, and who has to take his place in the line along with others seeking the necessaries of life. Though the Adams Street station is now the central relief station, the most imposing display of supplies is made at the Pennsylvania Railroad freight and passenger depots. Here, on the platforms and in the yards, are piled up barrels of flour in long rows, three and four barrels high; biscuits in cans and boxes, where car-loads of them have been dumped; crackers, under the railroad sheds in bins; hams, by the hundred, strung on poles; boxes of soap and candles, barrels of kerosene oil, stacks of canned goods, and things to eat of all sorts and kinds. The same is visible at the Baltimore and Ohio road, and there is now no fear of a food famine in Johnstown, though of course everybody will have to rough it for weeks. What is needed most in this line is cooking utensils. Johnstown people want stoves, kettles, pans, knives, and forks. All the things that have been sent so far have been sent with the evident idea of supplying an instant need, and that is right and proper, but it would be well now, if, instead of some of the provisions that are sent, cooking utensils would arrive. Fifty stoves arrived from Pittsburgh this morning, and it is said that more are coming. At both the depots where the supplies are received and stored a big rope-line incloses them in an impromptu yard, so as to give room to those having them in charge to walk around and see what they have got. On the inside of this line, too, stalk back and forth the soldiers, with their rifles on their shoulders, and, beside the lines pressing against the ropes, there stands every day, from daylight until dawn, a crowd of women with big baskets, who make piteous appeals to the soldiers to give them food for their children at once, before the order of the relief committee. Those to whom supplies are dealt out at the stations have to approach in a line, and this line is fringed with soldiers, Pittsburgh policemen, and deputy sheriffs, who see that the children and weak women are not crowded out of their places by the stronger ones. The supplies are not given in large quantities, but the applicants are told to come again in a day or so and more will be given them. The women complain against this bitterly, and go away with tears in their eyes, declaring that they have not been given enough. Other women utter broken words of thankfulness and go away, their faces wreathed in smiles. One night something in the nature of a raid was made by Father McTahney, one of the Catholic priests here, on the houses of some people whom he suspected of having imposed upon the relief committee. These persons represented that they were destitute, and sent their children with baskets to the relief stations, each child getting supplies for a different family. There are unquestionably many such cases. Father McTahney found that his suspicions were correct in a great many cases, and he brought back and made the wrong-doers bring back the provisions which they had obtained under false pretenses. The side tracks at both the Pennsylvania and Baltimore and Ohio Railroad depots are filled with cars sent from different places, bearing relief supplies to Johnstown. The cars are nearly all freight cars, and they contain the significant inscriptions of the railroad officials: "This car is on time freight. It is going to Johnstown, and must not be delayed under any circumstances." Then, there are the ponderous labels of the towns and associations sending the supplies. They read this way: "This car for Johnstown with supplies for the sufferers." "Braddock relief for Johnstown." "The contributions of Beaver Falls to Johnstown." The cars from Pittsburgh had no inscriptions. Some cars had merely the inscription, in great big black letters on a white strip of cloth running the length of the car, "Johnstown." One car reads on it: "Stations along the route fill this car with supplies for Johnstown, and don't delay it." CHAPTER XXXI. At the end of the week Adjutant-General Hastings moved his headquarters from the signal tower and the Pennsylvania Railroad depot to the eastern end of the Pennsylvania freight depot. Here the general and his staff sleep on the hard floor, with only a blanket under them. They have their work systematized and in good shape, though about all they have done or will do is to prevent strangers and others who have no business here from entering the city. The entire regiment which is here is disposed around the city in squads of two or three men each. The men are scattered up and down the Conemaugh, away out on the Pennsylvania and Baltimore and Ohio Railroad tracks, along Stony Creek on the southern side of the town, and even upon the hills. It is impossible for any one to get into town by escaping the guards, for there is a cordon of soldiers about it. General Hastings rides around on a horse, inspecting the posts, and the men on guard present arms to him in due form, he returning the salute. The sight is a singular one, for General Hastings is not in uniform, and in fact wears a very rusty civilian's dress. He wears a pair of rubber boots covered with mud, and a suit of old, well-stained, black clothes. His coat is a cutaway. His appearance among his staff officers is still more dramatic, for the latter, being ordered out and having time to prepare, are in gold lace and feathers and glittering uniforms. General Hastings came here right after the flood, on the spur of the moment, and not in his official capacity. He rides his horse finely and looks every inch a soldier. He has established in his headquarters in the freight depot a very much-needed bureau for the answering of telegrams from friends of Johnstown people making inquiries as to the latter's safety. The bureau is in charge of A. K. Parsons, who has done good work since the flood, and who, with Lieutenant George Miller, of the Fifth Infantry, U. S. A., General Hastings' right-hand man, has been with the general constantly. The telegrams in the past have all been sent to the headquarters of the Citizens Committee, in the Fourth Ward Hotel, and have laid there, along with telegrams of every sort, in a little heap on a little side table in one corner of the room. Three-quarters of them were not called for, and people who knew that telegrams were there for them did not have the patience to look through the heap for them. Finally some who were not worried to death took the telegrams, opened them all, and pinned them in separate packages in alphabetical order and then put them back on the table again, and they have been pored over, until their edges are frayed, by all the people who crowded into the little low-roofed room where Dictator Scott and his messengers are. There were something like three thousand telegrams there in all. Occasionally a few are taken away, but in the majority of cases they remain there. The persons to whom they were sent are dead or have not taken the trouble to come to headquarters and see if their friends are inquiring after them. Of course the Western Union Telegraph Company makes no effort to deliver the messages. This would be impossible. [Illustration: PENNSYLVANIA AVE., COR. SIXTH ST., WASHINGTON, D. C.] The telegrams addressed to the Citizens Committee headquarters are all different in form, of course, but they all breathe the utmost anxiety and suspense. Here are some samples:-- Is Samuel there? Is there any hope? Answer me and end this suspense. SARAH. _To anybody in Johnstown_: Can you give me any information of Adam Brennan? MARY BRENNAN. Are any of you alive? JAMES. Are you all safe? Is it our John Burn that is dead? Is Eliza safe? Answer. It is worth repeating again that the majority of these telegrams will never be answered. The Post-office letter carriers have only just begun to make their rounds in that part of the town which is comparatively uninjured. Bags of first-class mail matter are alone brought into town. It will be weeks before people see the papers in the mails. The supposition is that nobody has time to read papers, and this is about right. The letter carriers are making an effort, as far as they can, to distribute mail to the families of the deceased people. Many of the letters which arrive now contain money orders, and while great care has to be taken in the distribution, the postal authorities recognize the necessity of getting these letters to the parties addressed, or else returning them to the Dead Letter Office as proof of the death of the individuals in question. It is no doubt that in this way the first knowledge of the death of many will be transmitted to friends. It is fair to say that the best part of the energies of the State of Pennsylvania at present are all turned upon Johnstown. Here are the leading physicians, the best nurses, some of the heaviest contractors, the brightest newspaper men, all the military geniuses, and, if not the actual presence, at least the attention, of the capitalists. The newspapers, medical reviews, and publications of all sorts teem with suggestions. Johnstown is a compendium of business, and misery, and despair. One class of men should be given credit for thorough work in connection with the calamity. These are the undertakers. They came to Johnstown, from all over Pennsylvania, at the first alarm. They are the men whose presence was imperatively needed, and who have actually been forced to work day and night in preserving bodies and preparing them for burial. One of the most active undertakers here is John McCarthy, of Syracuse, N. Y., one of the leading undertakers there, and a very public-spirited man. He brought a letter of introduction from Mayor Kirk, of Syracuse, to the Citizens Committee here. He said to a reporter:-- "It is worthy of mention, perhaps, that never before in such a disaster as this have bodies received such careful treatment and has such a wholesale embalming been practiced. Everybody recovered, whether identified or not, whether of rich man or poor man, or of the humblest child, has been carefully cleaned and embalmed, placed in a neat coffin, and not buried when unidentified until the last possible moment. When you reflect that over one thousand bodies have been treated in this way it means something. It is to be regretted that some pains were not taken to keep a record of the bodies recovered, but the undertakers cannot be blamed for that. They should have been furnished with clerks, and that whole matter made the subject of the work of a bureau by itself. We have had just all we could do cleaning and embalming the bodies." The unsightliest place in Johnstown is the morgue in the Presbyterian Church. The edifice is a large brick structure in the centre of the city, and was about the first church building in the city. About one hundred and seventy-five people took refuge there during the flood. After the first crash, when the people were expecting another every instant, and of course that they would perish, the pastor of the church, the Rev. Mr. Beale, began to pray fervently that the lives of those in the church might be spared. He fairly wrestled in prayer, and those who heard him say that it seemed to be a very death-struggle with the demon of the flood itself. No second crash came, the waters receded, and the lives of those in the church were spared. The people said that it was all due to the Rev. Mr. Beale's prayer. The pews in the church were all demolished, and the Sunday-school room under it was flooded with the angry waters, and filled up to the ceiling with débris. The Rev. Mr. Beale is now general morgue director in Johnstown, and has the authority of a dictator of the bodies of the dead. In the Presbyterian Church morgue the bodies are, almost without exception, those which have been recovered from the ruins of the smashed buildings. The bodies are torn and bruised in the most horrible manner, so that identification is very difficult. They are nearly all bodies of the prominent or well-known residents of Johnstown. The cleaning and embalming of the bodies takes place in the corners of the church, on either side of the pulpit. As soon as they have a presentable appearance, the bodies are placed in coffins, put across the ends of the pews near the aisles, so that people can pass around through the aisles and look at them. Few identifications have yet been made here. In one coffin is the body of a young man who had on a nice bicycle suit when found. In his pockets were forty dollars in money. The bicycle has not been found. It is supposed that the body is that of some young fellow who was on a bicycle tour up the Conemaugh River, and who was engulfed by the flood. The waters played some queer freaks. A number of mirrors taken out of the ruins with the frames smashed and with the glass parts entirely uninjured have been a matter for constant comment on the part of those who have inspected the ruins and worked in them. When the waters went down, the Sunday-school rooms of the Presbyterian Church just referred to were found littered with playing cards. In a baby's cradle was found a dissertation upon infant baptism and two volumes of a history of the Crusades. A commercial man from Pittsburgh, who came down to look at the ruins, found among them his own picture. He never was in Johnstown but two or three times before, and he did not have any friends there. How the picture got among the ruins of Johnstown is a mystery to him. About the only people who have come into Johnstown, not having business there connected with the clearing up of the city, are people from a great distance, hunting up their friends and relatives. There are folks here now from almost every State in the Union, with the exception, perhaps, of those on the Pacific coast. There are people, too, from Pennsylvania and States near by, who, receiving no answer to their telegrams, have decided to come on in person. They wander over the town in their search, at first frantically asking everybody right and left if they have heard of their missing friends. Generally nobody has heard of them, or some one may remember that he saw a man who said that he happened to see a body pulled out at Nineveh or Cambria City, or somewhere, that looked like Jack So-and-So, naming the missing one. At the morgues the inquirer is told that about four hundred unidentified dead have already been buried, and on the fences before the morgues and on the outside house walls of the buildings themselves he reads several hundred such notices as these, of bodies still unclaimed:-- A woman, dark hair, blue eyes, blue waist, dark dress, clothing of fine quality; a single bracelet on the left arm; age, about twenty-three. An old lady, clothing undistinguishable, but containing a purse with twenty-seven dollars and a small key. A young man, fair complexion, light hair, gray eyes, dark blue suit, white shirt; believed to have been a guest at the Hurlburt House. A female; supposed to belong to the Salvation Army. A man about thirty-five years old, dark-complexioned, brown hair, brown moustache, light clothes, left leg a little shortened. A boy about ten years old, found with a little girl of nearly same age; boy had hold of girl's hand; both light-haired and fair-complexioned, and girl had long curls; boy had on dark clothes, and girl a gingham dress. * * * * * The people looking for their friends had lots of money, but money is of no use now in Johnstown. It cannot hire teams to go up along the Conemaugh River, where lots of people want to go; it cannot hire men as searchers, for all the people in Johnstown not on business of their own are digging in the ruins; it cannot even buy food, for what little food there is in Johnstown is practically free, and a good square meal cannot be procured for love nor money anywhere. Under these discouragements many people are giving up the search and going home, either giving their relatives up for dead or waiting for them to turn up, still maintaining the hope that they are alive. Johnstown at night now is a wild spectacle. The major part of the town is enveloped in darkness, and lights of all colors flare out all around, so that the city looks something like a night scene in a railroad yard. The burning of immense piles of débris is continued at night, and the red glare of the flames at the foot of the hills seems like witch-fires at the mouth of caverns. The camp-fires of the military on the hills above the Conemaugh burn brightly. Volumes of smoke pour up all over the town. Along the Pennsylvania Railroad gangs of men are working all night long by electric light, and the engines, with their great headlights and roaring steam, go about continually. Below the railroad bridge stretches away the dark, sullen mass of the drift, with its freight of human bodies beyond estimate. Now and then, from the headquarters of the newspaper men, can be heard the military guards on their posts challenging passers-by. CHAPTER XXXII. It is now a week since the flood, and Johnstown is a cross between a military camp and a new mining town, and is getting more so every day. It has all the unpleasant and disagreeable features of both, relieved by the pleasures of neither. Everywhere one goes soldiers are lounging about or standing guard on all roads leading into the city, and stop every one who cannot show a pass. There is a mass of tents down in the centre of the ruins, and others are scattered everywhere on every cleared space beside the railroad tracks and on the hills about. A corps of engineers is laying pontoon bridges over the streams, pioneers are everywhere laying out new camps, erecting mess sheds and other rude buildings, and clearing away obstructions to the ready passage of supply wagons. Mounted men are continually galloping about from place to place carrying orders. At headquarters about the Pennsylvania Railroad depot there are dozens of petty officers in giddy gold lace, and General Hastings, General Wiley, and a few others in dingy clothes, sitting about the shady part of the platform giving and receiving orders. The occasional thunder of dynamite sounds like the boom of distant cannon defending some outpost. Supplies are heaped up about headquarters, and are being unloaded from cars as rapidly as locomotives can push them up and get the empty cars out of the way again. From cooking tents smoke and savory odors go up all day, mingled with the odor carbolic from hospital tents scattered about. It is very likely that within a short time this military appearance will be greatly increased by the arrival of another regiment and the formal declaration of martial law. On the other hand the town's resemblance to a new mining camp is just as striking. Everything is muddy and desolate. There are no streets nor any roads, except the rough routes that the carts wore out for themselves across the sandy plain. Rough sheds and shanties are going up on every hand. There are no regular stores, but cigars and drink--none intoxicating, however--are peddled from rough board counters. Railroads run into the camp over uneven, crooked tracks. Trains of freight cars are constantly arriving and being shoved off onto all sorts of sidings, or even into the mud, to get them out of the way. Everybody wears his trousers in his boots, and is muddy, ragged, and unshaven. Men with picks and shovels are everywhere delving or mining for something that a few days ago was more precious than gold, though really valueless now. Occasionally they make a find and gather around to inspect it as miners might a nugget. All it needs to complete the mining camp aspect of the place is a row of gambling hells in full blast under the temporary electric lights that gaudily illuminate the centre of the town. Matters are becoming very well systematized, both in the military and the mining way. Martial law could be imposed to-day with very little inconvenience to any one. The guard about the town is very well kept, and the loafers, bummers, and thieves are being pretty well cleared out. The Grand Army men have thoroughly organized the work of distributing supplies to the sufferers by the flood, the refugees, and contraband of this camp. The contractors who are clearing up the débris have their thousands of men well in hand, and are getting good work out of them, considering the conditions under which the men have to live, with insufficient food, poor shelter, and other serious impediments to physical effectiveness. All the men except those on the gorge above the bridge have been working amid the heaps of ruined buildings in the upper part of the city. The first endeavor has been to open the old streets in which the débris was heaped as high as the house-tops. Fair progress has been made, but there are weeks of work at it yet. Only one or two streets are so far cleared that the public can use them. No one but the workmen are allowed in the others. Up Stony Creek Gap, above the contractors, the United States Army engineers began work on Friday under command of Captain Sears, who is here as the personal representative of the Secretary of War. The engineers, Captain Bergland's company from Willet's Point, and Lieutenant Biddle's company from West Point, arrived on Friday night, having been since Tuesday on the road from New York. Early in the morning they went to work to bridge Stony Creek, and unloaded and launched their heavy pontoons and strung them across the streams with a rapidity and skill that astonished the natives, who had mistaken them, in their coarse, working uniforms of over-all stuff, for a fresh gang of laborers. The engineers, when there are bridges enough laid, may be set at other work about town. They have a camp of their own on the outskirts of the place. There are more constables, watchmen, special policemen, and that sort of thing in Johnstown than in any three cities of its size in the country. Naturally there is great difficulty in equipping them. Badges were easily provided by the clipping out of stars from pieces of tin, but every one had to look out for himself when it came to clubs. Everything goes, from a broomstick to a base ball bat. The bats are especially popular. "I'd like to get the job of handling your paper here," said a young fellow to a Pittsburgh newspaper man. "You'll have to get some newsman to do it anyhow, for your old men have gone down, and I and my partner are the only newsmen in Johnstown above ground." The newsdealing business is not the only one of which something like that is true. There has been a great scarcity of cooking utensils ever since the flood. It not only is very inconvenient to the people, but tends to the waste of a good deal of food. The soldiers are growling bitterly over their commissary department. They claim that bread, and cheese, and coffee are about all they get to eat. The temporary electric lights have now been strung all along the railroad tracks and through the central part of the ruins, so that the place after dark is really quite brilliant seen from a distance, especially when to the electric display is added the red glow in the mist and smoke of huge bonfires. Anybody who has been telegraphing to Johnstown this week and getting no answers, would understand the reason for the lack of answers if he could see the piles of telegrams that are sent out here by train from Pittsburgh. Four thousand came in one batch on Thursday. Half of them are still undelivered, and yet there is probably no place in the country where the Western Union Company is doing better work than here. The flood destroyed not only the company's offices, but the greater part of their wires in this part of the country. The office they established here is in a little shanty with no windows and only one door which won't close, and it handles an amount of outgoing matter, daily, that would swamp nine-tenths of the city offices in the country. Incoming business is now received in considerable quantities, but for several days so great was the pressure of outgoing business that no attempt was made to receive any dispatches. The whole effort of the office has been to handle press matter, and well they have done it. But there will be no efficient delivery service for a long time. The old messenger boys are all drowned, and the other boys who might make messenger boys are also most of them drowned, so that the raw material for creating a service is very scant. Besides that, nobody knows nowadays where any one else lives. The amateur and professional photographers who have overrun the town for the last few days came to grief on Friday. A good many of them were arrested by the soldiers, placed under a guard, taken down to the Stony Creek and set to lugging logs and timbers. Among those arrested were several of the newspaper photographers, and these General Hastings ordered released when he heard of their arrest. The others were made to work for half a day. They were a mad and disgusted lot, and they vowed all sorts of vengeance. It does seem that some notice to the effect that photographers were not permitted in Johnstown should have been posted before the men were arrested. The photographers all had passes in regular form, but the soldiers refused even to look at these. More sightseers got through the guards at Bolivar on Friday night, and came to Johnstown on the last train. Word was telegraphed ahead, and the soldiers met them at the train, put them under arrest, kept them over night, and in the morning they were set to work in clearing up the ruins. The special detail of workmen who have been at work looking up safes in the ruins and seeing that they were taken care of, reports that none of the safes have been broken open or otherwise interfered with. The committee on valuables reports that quantities of jewelry and money are being daily turned into them by people who have found them in the ruins. Often the people surrendering this stuff are evidently very poor themselves. The committee believes that as a general thing the people are dealing very honestly in this matter of treasure-trove from the ruins. Three car-loads of coffins was part of the load of one freight train. Coffins are scattered everywhere about the city. Scores of them seem to have been set down and forgotten. They are used as benches, and even, it is said, as beds. Grandma Mary Seter, aged eighty-three years, a well-known character in Johnstown, who was in the water until Saturday, and who, when rescued, had her right arm so injured that amputation at the shoulder was necessary, is doing finely at the hospital, and the doctors expect to have her around again before long. One enterprising man has opened a shop for the sale of relics of the disaster, and is doing a big business. Half the people here are relic cranks. Everything goes as a relic, from a horseshoe to a two-foot section of iron pipe. Buttons and little things like that, that can easily be carried off, are the most popular. [Illustration: SEVENTH STREET, WASHINGTON, D. C., UNDER THE FLOOD.] CHAPTER XXXIII. A mantle of mist hung low over the Conemaugh Valley when the people of Johnstown rose on Sunday morning, June 9th; but about the time the two remaining church bells began to toll, the sun's rays broke through the fog, and soon the sky was clear save for a few white clouds which sailed lazily to the Alleghenies. Never in the history of Johnstown did congregations attend more impressive church services. Some of them were held in the open air, others in half-ruined buildings, and one only in a church. The ceremonies were deeply solemn and touching. Early in the forenoon German Catholics picked their way through the wreck to the parsonage of St. Joseph's, where Fathers Kesbernan and Ald said four masses. Next to the parsonage there was a great breach in the walls made by the flood, and one-half of the parsonage had been carried away. At one end of the pastor's reception-room had been placed a temporary altar lighted by a solitary candle. There were white roses upon it, while from the walls, above the muddy stains, hung pictures of the Immaculate Conception, the Crucifixion, and the Virgin Mary. The room was filled with worshipers, and the people spread out into the lateral hall hanging over the cellar washed bare of its covering. No chairs or benches were in the room. There was a deep hush as the congregation knelt upon the damp floors, silently saying their prayers. With a dignified and serene demeanor, the priest went through the services of his church, while the people before him were motionless, the men with bowed heads, the women holding handkerchiefs to their faces. Back of this church, on the side of a hill, there gathered another congregation of Catholics. Their church and parsonage and chapel had all been destroyed, and they met in a yard near their cemetery. A pretty arbor, covered with vines, ran back from the street, and beneath this stood their priest, Father Tahney, who had worked with them over a quarter of a century. His hair was white, but he stood erect as he talked to his people. Before him was a white altar. This, too, was lighted with a single candle. The people stood before him and on each side, reverently kneeling on the grass as they prayed. Three masses were said by Father Tahney and by Father Matthews, of Washington, and then the white-haired priest spoke a few words of encouragement to his listeners. He urged them to make a manful struggle to rebuild their homes, to assist one another in their distress, and to be grateful to all Americans for the helping hand extended to them. Other Catholic services were held at the St. Columba's Church, in Cambria, where Father Troutwein, of St. Mary's Church, Fathers Davin and Smith said mass and addressed the congregation. Father Smith urged them not to sell their lands to those who were speculating in men's misery, but to be courageous until the city should rise again. At the Pennsylvania station a meeting was held on the embankment overlooking the ruined part of the town. The services were conducted by the Rev. Mr. McGuire, chaplain of the 14th Regiment. The people sang "Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing," and then Mr. McGuire read the psalm beginning "I will bless the Lord at all times." James Fulton, manager of the Cambria Iron Works, spoke encouraging words. He assured them that the works would be rebuilt, and that the eight thousand employés would be cared for. Houses would be built for them and employment given to all in restoring the works. There was a strained look on men's faces when he told them in a low voice that he held the copy of a report which he had drawn up on the dam, calling attention to the fact that it was extremely dangerous to the people living in the valley. One of the peculiar things a stranger notices in Johnstown is the comparatively small number of women seen in the place. Of the throngs who walk about the streets searching for dead friends, there is not one woman to ten men. Occasionally a little group of two or three women with sad faces will pick their way about, looking for the morgues. There are a few Sisters of Charity, in their black robes, seen upon the streets, and in the parts of the town not totally destroyed the usual number of women are seen in the houses and yards. But, as a rule, women are a rarity in Johnstown now. This is not a natural peculiarity of Johnstown, nor a mere coincidence, but a fact with a dreadful reason behind it. There are so many more men than women among the living in Johnstown now, because there are so many more women than men among the dead. Of the bodies recovered there are at least two women for every man. Besides the fact that their natural weakness made them an easier prey to the flood, the hour at which the disaster came was one when the women would most likely be in their homes and the men at work in the open air or in factory yards, from which escape was easy. Children also are rarely seen about the town, and for a similar reason. They are all dead. There is never a group of the dead discovered that does not contain from one to three or four children for every grown person. Generally the children are in the arms of the grown persons, and often little toys and trinkets clasped in their hands indicate that the children were caught up while at play, and carried as far as possible toward safety. Johnstown when rebuilt will be a city of many widowers and few children. In turning a school-house into a morgue the authorities probably did a wiser thing than they thought. It will be a long time before the school-house will be needed for its original purpose. The miracle, as it is called, that happened at the Church of the Immaculate Conception, has caused a tremendous sensation. A large number of persons will testify as to the nature of the event, and, to put it mildly, the circumstances are really remarkable. The devotions in honor of the Blessed Virgin celebrated daily during the month of May were in progress on that Friday when the water descended on Cambria City. The church was filled with people at the time, but when the noise of the flood was heard the congregation hastened to get out of the way. They succeeded as far as escaping from the interior is concerned, and in a few minutes the church was partially submerged, the water reaching fifteen feet up the sides and swirling around the corners furiously. The building was badly wrecked, the benches were torn out, and in general the entire structure, both inside and outside, was fairly dismantled. Yesterday morning, when an entrance was forced through the blocked doorway the ruin appeared to be complete. One object alone had escaped the water's wrath. The statue of the Blessed Virgin, that had been decorated and adorned because of the May devotions, was as unsullied as the day it was made. The flowers, the wreaths, the lace veil were undisturbed and unsoiled, although the marks on the wall showed that the surface of the water had risen above the statue to a height of fifteen feet, while the statue nevertheless had been saved from all contact with the liquid. Every one who has seen the statue and its surroundings is firmly convinced that the incident was a miraculous one, and even to the most skeptical the affair savors of the supernatural. A singular feature of the great flood was discovered at the great stone viaduct about half way between Mineral Point and South Fork. At Mineral Point the Pennsylvania Railroad is on the south side of the river, although the town is on the north side. About a mile and a half up the stream there was a viaduct built of very solid masonry. It was originally built for the old Portage Road. It was seventy-eight feet above the ordinary surface of the water. On this viaduct the railroad tracks crossed to the north side of the river and on that side ran into South Fork, two miles farther up. It is the general opinion of engineers that this strong viaduct would have stood against the gigantic wave had it not been blown up by dynamite. But at South Fork there was a dynamite magazine which was picked up by the flood and shot down the stream at the rate of twenty miles an hour. It struck the stone viaduct and exploded. The roar of the flood was tremendous, but the noise of this explosion was heard by farmers on the Evanston Road, two miles and a half away. Persons living on the mountain sides, in view of the river, and who saw the explosion, say that the stones of the viaduct at the point where the magazine struck it, were thrown into the air to the height of two hundred feet. An opening was made, and the flood of death swept through on its awful errand. CHAPTER XXXIV. It is characteristic of American hopefulness and energy that before work was fairly begun on clearing away the wreck of the old city, plans were being prepared for the new one that should arise, Ph[oe]nix-like, above its grave. If the future policy of the banks and bankers of Johnstown is to be followed by the merchants and manufacturers of the city the prospects of a magnificent city rising from the present ruins are of the brightest. James McMillen, president of the First National and Johnstown Savings Banks, said: "The loss sustained by the First National Bank will be merely nominal. It did a general commercial business and very little investing in the way of mortgages. When the flood came the cash on hand and all our valuable securities and papers were locked in the safe and were in no way affected by the water. The damage to the building itself will be comparatively small. Our capital was one hundred thousand dollars, while our surplus was upwards of forty thousand dollars. The depositors of this bank are, therefore, not worrying themselves about our ability to meet all demands that may be made upon us by them. The bank will open up for business within a few days as if nothing had happened. "As to the Johnstown Savings Bank it had probably $200,000 invested in mortgages on property in Johnstown, but the wisdom of our policy in the past in making loans has proven of great value to us in the present emergency. Since we first began business we have refused to make loans to parties on property where the lot itself would not be of sufficient value to indemnify us against loss in case of the destruction of the building. If a man owned a lot worth $2,000 and had on it a building worth $100,000 we would refuse to loan over the $2,000 on the property. The result is that the lots on which the buildings stood in Johnstown, on which $200,000 of our money is loaned, are worth double the amount, probably, that we have invested in them. "What will be the effect of the flood on the value of lots in Johnstown proper? Well, instead of decreasing, they have already advanced in value. This will bring outside capital to Johnstown, and a real estate boom is bound to follow in the wake of this destruction. All the people want is an assurance that the banks are safe and will open up for business at once. With that feeling they have started to work with a vim. We have in this bank $300,000 invested in Government bonds and other securities that can be converted into cash on an hour's notice. We propose to keep these things constantly before our business men as an impetus to rebuilding our principal business blocks as soon as possible." "What do you think of the idea projected by Captain W. R. Jones, to dredge and lower the river bed about thirty feet and adding seventy per cent. to its present width, as a precautionary measure against future washouts?" "I not only heartily indorse that scheme, but have positive assurance from other leading business men that the idea will be carried out, as it certainly should be, the moment the work of cleaning away the debris is completed. Besides that, a scheme is on foot to get a charter for the city of Johnstown which will embrace all those surrounding boroughs. In the event of that being done, and I am certain it will be, the plan of the city will be entirely changed and made to correspond with the best laid-out cities in the country. In ten years Johnstown will be one of the prettiest and busiest cities in the world, and nothing can prevent it. The streets will be widened and probably made to start from a common centre, something after the fashion of Washington City, with a little more regard for the value of property. With the Cambria Iron Company, the Gautier Steel Works, and other manufactories, as well as yearly increasing railroad facilities, Johnstown has a start which will grow in a short time to enormous proportions. From a real estate standpoint the flood has been a benefit beyond a doubt. Another addition to the city will be made in the shape of an immense water-main to connect with a magnificent reservoir of the finest water in the world to be located in the mountains up Stony Creek for supplying the entire city as contemplated in the proposed new charter. This plant was well under way when the flood came, and about ten thousand dollars had already been expended on it which has been lost." Mr. John Roberts, the surviving partner of the banking-house of John Dibert & Company, said: "Aside from the loss to our own building we have come out whole and entire. We had no money invested in mortgages in Johnstown that is not fully indemnified by the lots themselves. Most of our money is invested in property in Somerset County, where Mr. Dibert was raised. We will exert every influence in our power to place the city on a better footing than was ever before. The plan of raising the city or lowering the bed of the river as well as widening its banks will surely be carried out. In addition, I think the idea of changing the plan of the city and embracing Johnstown and the surrounding buroughs in one large city will be one of the greatest benefits the flood could have wrought to the future citizens of Johnstown and the Conemough Valley. "I have been chairman of our Finance Committee of Councils for ten years past, and I know the trouble we have had with our streets and alleys and the necessity of a great change. In order to put the city in the proper shape to insure commercial growth and topographical beauty, we will be ready for business in a few days, and enough money will be put into circulation in the valley to give the people encouragement in the work of rebuilding." CHAPTER XXXV. Among the travelers who were in or near the Conemaugh Valley at the time of the flood, and who thus narrowly escaped the doom that swallowed up thousands of their fellow-mortals, was Mr. William Henry Smith, General Manager of the Associated Press. He remained there for some time and did valuable work in directing the operations of news-gatherers and in the general labors of relief. The wife and daughter of Mr. E. W. Halford, private secretary to President Harrison, were also there. They made their way to Washington on Thursday, to Mr. Halford's inexpressible relief, they having at first been reported among the lost. On their arrival at the Capital they went at once to the Executive Mansion, where the members of the Executive household were awaiting them with great interest. The ladies lost all their baggage, but were thankful for their almost miraculous delivery from the jaws of death. Mrs. Harrison's eyes were suffused with tears as she listened to the dreadful narrative. The President was also deeply moved. From the first tidings of the dire calamity his thoughts have been absorbed in sympathy and desire to alleviate the sufferings of the devastated region. The manner of the escape of Mrs. Halford and her daughter has already been told. When the alarm was given, she and her daughter rushed with the other passengers out of the car and took refuge on the mountain side by climbing up the rocky excavation near the track. Mrs. Halford was in delicate health owing to bronchial troubles. She has borne up well under the excitement, exposure, fatigue, and horror of her experiences. Mrs. George W. Childs was also reported among the lost, but incorrectly. Mr. Childs received word on Thursday for the first time direct from his wife, who was on her way West to visit Miss Kate Drexel when detained by the flood. Indirectly he had heard she was all right. The telegram notified him that Mrs. Childs was at Altoona, and could not move either way, but was perfectly safe. George B. Roberts, President of the Pennsylvania Railway Company, was obliged to issue the following card: "In consequence of the terrible calamity that has fallen upon a community which has such close relations to the Pennsylvania Railway Company, Mr. and Mrs. George B. Roberts feel compelled to withdraw their invitations for Thursday, June 6th." Mr. and Mrs. Charles E. Pugh also felt obliged to withdraw their invitations for Wednesday, June 5th. The Rev. J. A. Ranney, of Kalamazoo, Mich., and his wife were passengers on one of the trains wrecked by the Conemaugh flood. Mr. Ranney said: "Mrs. Ranney and I were on one of the trains at Conemaugh when the flood came. There was but a moment's warning and the disaster was upon us. The occupants of our car rushed for the door, where Mrs. Ranney and I became separated. She was one of the first to jump, and I saw her run and disappear behind the first house in sight. Before I could get out the deluge was too high, and, with a number of others, I remained in the car. Our car was lifted up and dashed against a car loaded with stone and badly wrecked, but most of the occupants of this car were rescued. As far as I know all who jumped from the car lost their lives. The remainder of the train was swept away. I searched for days for Mrs. Ranney, but could find no trace of her. I think she perished. The mind cannot conceive the awful sight presented when we first saw the danger. The approaching wall of water looked like Niagara, and huge engines were caught up and whirled away as if they were mere wheel-barrows." D. B. Cummins, of Philadelphia, the President of the Girard National Bank, was one of the party of four which consisted of John Scott, Solicitor-General of the Pennsylvania Railroad; Edmund Smith, ex-Vice-President of the same company; and Colonel Welsh himself, who had been stopping in the country a few miles back of Williamsport. Mr. Cummins, in talking of the condition of things in that vicinity and of his experience, said: "We were trout-fishing at Anderson's cabin, about fourteen miles from Williamsport, at the time the flood started. We went to Williamsport, intending to take a train for Philadelphia. Of course, when we got there we found everything in a frightful condition, and the people completely disheartened by the flood. Fortunately the loss of life was very slight, especially when compared with the terrible disaster in Johnstown. The loss, from a financial standpoint, will be very great, for the city is completely inundated, and the lumber industry seriously crippled. Besides, the stagnation of business for any length of time produces results which are disastrous." [Illustration: FOURTEENTH STREET, WASHINGTON, D. C., IN THE FLOOD.] The first passengers that came from Altoona to New York by the Pennsylvania Railroad since the floods included five members of the "Night Off" Company, which played in Johnstown on Thursday night, about whom considerable anxiety was felt for some time, till E. A. Eberle received telegrams from his wife, the contents of which he at once gave to the press. Mrs. Eberle was among the five who arrived. "No words can tell the horrors of the scenes we witnessed," she said in answer to a request for an account of her experiences, "and nothing that has been published can convey any idea of the awful havoc wrought in those few but apparently never-ending minutes in which the worst of the flood passed us. "Our company left Johnstown on Friday morning. We only got two miles away, as far as Conemaugh, when we were stopped by a landslide a little way ahead. About noon we went to dinner, and soon after we came back some of our company noticed that the flood had extended and was washing away the embankment on which our train stood. They called the engineer's attention to the fact, and he took the train a few hundred feet further. It was fortunate he did so, for a little while after the embankment caved in. "Then we could not move forward or backward, as ahead was the landslide and behind there was no track. Even then we were not frightened, and it was not till about three o'clock, when we saw a heavy iron bridge go down as if it were made of paper, that we began to be seriously alarmed. Just before the dam broke a gravel train came tearing down, with the engine giving out the most awful shriek I ever heard. Every one recognized that this was a note of warning. We fled as hard as we could run down the embankment, across a ditch, and for a distance equal to about two blocks up the hillside. Once I turned to look at the vast wall of water, but was hurried on by my friends. When I had gone about the distance of another block the head of the flood had passed far away, and with it went houses, cars, locomotives, everything that a few minutes before had made up a busy scene. The wall of water looked to be fifty feet high. It was of a deep yellow color, but the crest was white with foam. "Three of us reached the house of Mrs. William Wright, who took us in and treated us most kindly. I did not take any account of time, but I imagine it was about an hour before the water ceased to rush past the house. The conductor of our train, Charles A. Wartham, behaved with the greatest bravery. He took a crippled passenger on his back in the rush up the hill. A floating house struck the cripple, carried him away and tore some of the clothes off Wartham's back, and he managed to struggle on and save himself. Our ride to Ebensburg, sixteen miles, in a lumber wagon without springs, was trying, but no one thought of complaining. Later in the day we were sent to Cresson and thence to Altoona." CHAPTER XXXVI. No travelers in an upheaved and disorganized land push through with more pluck and courage than the newspaper correspondents. Accounts have already been given of some of their experiences. A writer in the New York _Times_ thus told of his, a week after the events described: "A man who starts on a journey on ten minutes' notice likes the journey to be short, with a promise of success and of food and clothes at its end. Starting suddenly a week ago, the _Times's_ correspondent has since had but a small measure of success, a smaller measure of food, and for nights no rest at all; a long tramp across the Blue Hills and Allegheny Mountains, behind jaded horses; helping to push up-hill the wagon they tried to pull or to lift the vehicle up and down bridges whose approaches were torn away, or in and out of fords the pathways to which had disappeared; and in the blackness of the night, scrambling through gullies in the pike road made by the storm, paved with sharp and treacherous rocks and traversed by swift-running streams, whose roar was the only guide to their course. All this prepared a weary reporter to welcome the bed of straw he found in a Johnstown stable loft last Monday, and on which he has reposed nightly ever since. "And let me advise reporters and other persons who are liable to sudden missions to out-of-the-way places not to wear patent leather shoes. They are no good for mountain roads. This is the result of sad experience. Wetness and stone bruises are the benisons they confer on feet that tread rough paths. "The quarter past twelve train was the one boarded by the _Times's_ correspondent and three other reporters on their way hither a week ago Friday night. It was in the minds of all that they would get as far as Altoona, on the Pennsylvania Road, and thence by wagon to this place. But all were mistaken. At Philadelphia we were told that there were wash-outs in many places and bridges were down everywhere, so that we would be lucky if we got even to Harrisburg. This was harrowing news. It caused such a searching of time-tables and of the map of Pennsylvania as those things were rarely ever subjected to before. It was at last decided that if the Pennsylvania Railroad stopped at Harrisburg an attempt would be made to reach the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad at Martinsburg, West Virginia, by way of the Cumberland Railroad, a train on which was scheduled to leave Harrisburg ten minutes after the arrival of the Pennsylvania train. "It was only too evident to us, long before we reached Harrisburg, that we would not get to the West out of that city. The Susquehanna had risen far over its banks, and for miles our train ran slowly with the water close to the fire-box of the locomotive and over the lower steps of the car platform. At last we reached the station. Several energetic Philadelphia reporters had come on with us from that lively city, expecting to go straight to Johnstown. As they left the train one cried: 'Hurrah, boys, there's White. He'll know all about it.' White stood placidly on the steps, and knew nothing more than that he and several other Philadelphia reporters, who had started Friday night, had got no further than the Harrisburg station, and were in a state of wonderment, leaving them to think our party caught. "As the Cumberland Valley train was pulling out of the station, its conductor, a big, genial fellow, who seemed to know everybody in the valley, was loth to express an opinion as to whether we would get to Martinsburg. He would take us as far as he could, and then leave us to work out our own salvation. He could give us no information about the Baltimore and Ohio Road. Hope and fear chased one another in our midst; hope that trains were running on that road, and fear that it, too, had been stopped by wash-outs. In the latter case it seemed to us that we should be compelled to return to Harrisburg and sit down to think with our Philadelphia brethren. "The Cumberland Valley train took us to Hagerstown, and there the big and genial conductor told us it would stay, as it could not cross the Potomac to reach Martinsburg. We were twelve miles from the Potomac and twenty from Martinsburg. Fortunately, a construction train was going to the river to repair some small wash-outs, and Major Ives, the engineer of the Cumberland Valley Road, took us upon it, but he smiled pitifully when we told him we were going across the bridge. "'Why, man,' he said to the _Times's_ correspondent, 'the Potomac is higher than it was in 1877, and there's no telling when the bridge will go.' "At the bridge was a throng of country people waiting to see it go down, and wondering how many more blows it would stand from foundering canal-boats, washed out of the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, whose lines had already disappeared under the flood. A quick survey of the bridge showed that its second section was weakening, and had already bent several inches, making a slight concavity on the upper side. "No time was to be lost if we were going to Martinsburg. The country people murmured disapproval, but we went on the bridge, and were soon crossing it on the one-foot plank that served for a footwalk. It was an unpleasant walk. The river was roaring below us. To yield to the fascination of the desire to look between the railroad ties at the foaming water was to throw away our lives. Then that fear that the tons of drift stuff piled against the upper side of the bridge, would suddenly throw it over, was a cause of anything but confidence. But we held our breath, balanced ourselves, measured our steps, and looked far ahead at the hills on the Western Virginia shore. At last the firm embankment was reached, and four reporters sent up one sigh of relief and joy. "Finding two teams, we were soon on our way to Martinsburg. "The Potomac was nine feet higher than it was ever known to be before, and it was out for more than a mile beyond the tracks of the Cumberland Valley Railroad at Falling Waters, where it had carried away several houses. This made the route to Martinsburg twice as long as it otherwise would have been. To weary, anxious reporters it seemed four times as long, and that we should never get beyond the village of Falling Waters. It confronted us at every turn of the crooked way, until it became a source of pain. It is a pretty place, but we were yearning for Johnstown, not for rural beauty. "All roads have an end, and Farmer Sperow's teams at last dragged us into Martinsburg. Little comfort was in store for us there. No train had arrived there for more than twenty-four hours. Farmer Sperow was called on to take us back to the river, our instructions being to cross the bridge again and take a trip over the mountains. Hope gave way to utter despair when we learned that the bridge had fallen twenty minutes after our passage. We had put ourselves into a pickle. Chief Engineer Ives and his assistant, Mr. Schoonmaker joined us a little while later. They had followed us across the bridge and been cut off also. They were needed at Harrisburg, and they backed up our effort to get a special train to go to the Shenandoah Valley Road's bridge, twenty-five miles away, which was reported to be yet standing. "The Baltimore and Ohio officials were obdurate. They did not know enough about the tracks to the eastward to experiment with a train on them in the dark. They promised to make up a train in the morning. Wagons would not take us as soon. A drearier night was never passed by men with their hearts in their work. Morning came at last and with it the news that the road to the east was passable nearly to Harper's Ferry. Lots of Martinsburg folks wanted to see the sights at the Ferry, and we had the advantage of their society on an excursion train as far as Shenandoah Junction, where Mr. Ives had telegraphed for a special to come over and meet us if the bridge was standing. "The telegraph kept us informed about the movement of the train. When we learned that it had tested and crossed the bridge our joy was modified only by the fear that we had made fools of ourselves in leaving Harrisburg, and that the more phlegmatic Philadelphia reporters had already got to Johnstown. But this fear was soon dissipated. The trainman knew that Harrisburg was inundated and no train had gone west for nearly two days. A new fear took its place. It was that New York men, starting behind us, had got into Johnstown through Pittsburg by way of the New York Central and its connections. No telegrams were penned with more conflicting emotions surging through the writer than those by which the _Times's_ correspondent made it known that he had got out of the Martinsburg pocket and was about to make a wagon journey of one hundred and ten miles across the mountains, and asked for information as to whether any Eastern man had got to the scene of the flood. "The special train took us to Chambersburg, where Superintendent Riddle, of the Cumberland Valley Road, had information that four Philadelphia men were on their way thither, and had engaged a team to take them on the first stage of the overland trip. A wild rush was made for Schiner's livery, and in ten minutes we were bowling over the pike toward McConnellsburg, having already sent thither a telegraphic order for fresh teams. The train from Harrisburg was due in five minutes when we started. As we mounted each hill we eagerly scanned the road behind for pursuers. They never came in sight. "In McConnellsburg the entire town had heard of our coming, and were out to greet us with cheers. They knew our mission and that a party of competitors was tracking us. Landlord Prosser, of the Fulton Hotel, had his team ready, but said there had been an enormous wash-out near the Juniata River, beyond which he could not take us. We would have to walk through the break in the pike and cross the river on a bridge tottering on a few supports. Telegrams to Everett for a team to meet us beyond the river and take us to Bedford, and to the latter place for a team to make the journey across the Allegehenies to Johnstown settled all our plans. "As well as we could make it out by telegraphic advices, we were an hour ahead of the Philadelphians. Ten minutes was not, therefore, too long for supper. Landlord Prosser took the reins himself and we started again, with a hurrah from the populace. As it was Sunday, they would sell us nothing, but storekeeper Young and telegraph operator Sloan supplied us with tobacco and other little comforts, our stock of which had been exhausted. It will gratify our Prohibition friends to learn that whisky was not among them. McConnellsburg is, unfortunately, a dry town for the time being. It was a long and weary pull to the top of Sidling Hill. To ease up on the team, we walked the greater part of the way. A short descent and a straight run took us to the banks of Licking Creek. "Harrisonville was just beyond, and Harrisonville had been under a raging flood, which had weakened the props of the bridge and washed out the road for fifty feet beyond it. The only thing to do was to unhitch and lead the horses over the bridge and through the gully. This was difficult, but it was finally accomplished. The more difficult task was to get the wagon over. A long pull, with many strong lifts, in which some of the natives aided, took it down from the bridge and through the break, but at the end there were more barked shins and bruised toes than any other four men ever had in common. "It was a quick ride from Everett to Bedford, for our driver had a good wagon and a speedy team. Arriving at Bedford a little after two o'clock in the morning, we found dispatches that cheered us, for they told us that we had made no mistake, and might reach the scene of disaster first. Only a reporter who has been on a mission similar to this can tell the joy imparted by a dispatch like this: "'NEW YORK--Nobody is ahead of you. Go it.' "At four o'clock in the morning we started on our long trip of forty miles across the Alleghenies to Johnstown. Pleasantville was reached at half-past six A. M. Now the road became bad, and everybody but the driver had to walk. Footsore as we were, we had to clamber over rocks and through mud in a driving rain, which wet us through. For ten miles we went thus dismally. Ten miles from Johnstown we got in the wagon, and every one promptly went to sleep, at the risk of being thrown out at any time as the wagon jolted along. Tired nature could stand no more, and we slumbered peacefully until four half-drunken special policemen halted us at the entrance to Johnstown. Argument with them stirred us up, and we got into town and saw what a ruin it was." CHAPTER XXXVII. Nor was the life of the correspondents at Johnstown altogether a happy one. The life of a newspaper man is filled with vicissitudes. Sometimes he feeds on the fat of the land, and at others he feeds on air; but as a rule he lives comfortably, and has as much satisfaction in life as other men. It may safely be asserted, however, that such experiences as the special correspondents of Eastern papers have met with in Johnstown are not easily paralleled. When a war correspondent goes on a campaign he is prepared for hardship and makes provision against it. He has a tent, blankets, heavy overcoat, a horse, and other things which are necessaries of life in the open air. But the men who came hurrying to Johnstown to fulfill the invaluable mission of letting the world know just what was the matter were not well provided against the suffering set before them. The first information of the disaster was sent out by the Associated Press on the evening of its occurrence. The destruction of wires made it impossible to give as full an account as would otherwise have been sent, but the dispatches convinced the managing editors of the wide-awake papers that a calamity destined to be one of the most fearful in all human history had fallen upon the peaceful valley of the Conemaugh. All the leading Eastern papers started men for Philadelphia at once. From Philadelphia these men went to Harrisburg. There were many able representatives in the party, and they are ready to wager large amounts that there was never at any place a crowd of newspaper men so absolutely and hopelessly stalled as they were there. Bridges were down and the roadway at many places was carried away. Then came the determined and exhausting struggle to reach Johnstown. The stories of the different trips have been told. From Saturday morning till Monday morning the correspondents fought a desperate battle against the raging floods, risking their lives again and again to reach the city. At one place they footed it across a bridge that ten minutes later went swirling down the mad torrent to instant destruction. Again they hired carriages and drove over the mountains, literally wading into swollen streams and carrying their vehicles across. Finally one party caught a Baltimore and Ohio special train and got into Johnstown. It was Monday. There was nothing to eat. The men were exhausted, hungry, thirsty, sleepy. Their work was there, however, and had to be done. Where was the telegraph office? Gone down the Conemaugh Valley to hopeless oblivion. But the duties of a telegraph company are as imperative as those of a newspaper. General Manager Clark, of Pittsburgh, had sent out a force of twelve operators, under Operator Munson as manager _pro tem._, to open communications at Johnstown. The Pennsylvania Railroad rushed them through to the westerly end of the fatal bridge. Smoke and the pall of death were upon it. Ruin and devastation were all around. To get wires into the city proper was out of the question. Nine wires were good between the west end of the bridge and Pittsburgh. The telegraph force found, just south of the track, on the side of the hill overlooking the whole scene of Johnstown's destruction, a miserable hovel which had been used for the storage of oil barrels. The interior was as dark as a tomb, and smelled like the concentrated essence of petroleum itself. The floor was a slimy mass of black grease. It was no time for delicacy. In went the operators with their relay instruments and keys; out went the barrels. Rough shelves were thrown up to take copy on, and some old chairs were subsequently secured. Tallow dips threw a fitful red glare upon the scene. The operators were ready. Toward dusk ten haggard and exhausted New York correspondents came staggering up the hillside. They found the entire neighborhood infested with Pittsburgh reporters, who had already secured all the good places, such as they were, for work, and were busily engaged in wiring to their offices awful tales of Hungarian depredations upon dead bodies, and lynching affairs which never occurred. One paper had eighteen men there, and others had almost an equal number. The New York correspondents were in a terrible condition. Some of them had started from their offices without a change of clothing, and had managed to buy a flannel shirt or two and some footwear, including the absolutely necessary rubber boots, on the way. Others had no extra coin, and were wearing the low-cut shoes which they had on at starting. One or two of them were so worn out that they turned dizzy and sick at the stomach when they attempted to write. But the work had to be done. Just south of the telegraph office stands a two-story frame building in a state of dilapidation. It is flanked on each side by a shed, and its lower story, with an earth floor, is used for the storage of fire bricks. The second-story floor is full of great gaps, and the entire building is as draughty as a seive and as dusty as a country road in a drought. The Associated Press and the _Herald_ took the second floor, the _Times_, _Tribune_, _Sun_, _Morning Journal_, _World_, Philadelphia _Press_, Baltimore _Sun_, and Pittsburgh _Post_ took possession of the first floor, using the sheds as day outposts. Some old barrels were found inside. They were turned up on end, some boards were picked up outdoors and laid on them, and seats were improvised out of the fire-bricks. Candles were borrowed from the telegraph men, who were hammering away at their instruments and turning pale at the prospect, and the work of sending dispatches to the papers began. Not a man had assuaged his hunger. Not a man knew where he was to rest. All that the operators could take, and a great deal more, was filed, and then the correspondents began to think of themselves. Two tents, a colored cook, and provisions had been sent up from Pittsburgh for the operators. The tents were pitched on the side of the hill, just over the telegraph "office," and the colored cook utilized the natural gas of a brick-kiln just behind them. The correspondents procured little or nothing to eat that night. Some of them plodded wearily across the Pennsylvania bridge and into the city, out to the Baltimore and Ohio tracks, and into the car in which they had arrived. There they slept, in all their clothing, in miserably-cramped positions on the seats. In the morning they had nothing to wash in but the polluted waters of the Conemaugh. Others, who had no claim on the car, moved to pity a night watchman, who took them to a large barn in Cambria City. There they slept in a hay-loft, to the tuneful piping of hundreds of mice, the snorting of horses and cattle, the nocturnal dancing of dissipated rats, and the solemn rattle of cow chains. [Illustration: SEVENTH STREET, WASHINGTON, DURING THE FLOOD.] In the morning all hands were out bright and early, sparring for food. The situation was desperate. There was no such thing in the place as a restaurant or a hotel; there was no such thing as a store. The few remaining houses were over-crowded with survivors who had lost all. They could get food by applying to the Relief Committee. The correspondents had no such privilege. They had plenty of money, but there was nothing for sale. They could not beg nor borrow; they wouldn't steal. Finally, they prevailed upon a pretty Pennsylvania mountain woman, with fair skin, gray eyes, and a delicious way of saying "You un's," to give them something to eat. She fried them some tough pork, gave them some bread, and made them some coffee without milk and sugar. The first man that stayed his hunger was so glad that he gave her a dollar, and that became her upset price. It cost a dollar to go in and look around after that. Then Editor Walters, of Pittsburgh, a great big man with a great big heart, ordered up $150 worth of food from Pittsburgh. He got a German named George Esser, in Cambria City, to cook at his house, which had not been carried away, and the boys were mysteriously informed that they could get meals at the German's. He was supposed to be one of the dread Hungarians, and the boys christened his place the Café Hungaria. They paid fifty cents apiece to him for cooking the meals, but it was three days before the secret leaked out that Mr. Walters supplied the food. If ever Mr. Walters gets into a tight place he has only to telegraph to New York, and twenty grateful men will do anything in their power to repay his kindness. Then the routine of Johnstown life for the correspondents became settled. At night they slept in the old car or the hay-mow or elsewhere. They breakfasted at the Café Hungaria. Then they went forth to their work. They had to walk everywhere. Over the mountains, through briers and among rocks, down in the valley in mud up to their knees, they tramped over the whole district lying between South Fork and New Florence, a distance of twenty-three miles, to gather the details of the frightful calamity. Luncheon was a rare and radiant luxury. Dinner was eaten at the café. Copy was written everywhere and anywhere. Constant struggles were going on between correspondents and policemen or deputy sheriffs. The countersign was given out incorrectly to the newspaper men one night, and many of them had much trouble. At night the boys traversed the place at the risk of life and limb. Two _Times_ men spent an hour and a half going two miles to the car for rest one night. The city--or what had been the city--was wrapped in Cimmerian darkness, only intensified by the feeble glimmer of the fires of the night guards. The two correspondents almost fell through a pontoon bridge into the Conemaugh. Again they almost walked into the pit full of water where the gas tank had been. At length they met two guards going to an outlying post near the car with a lantern. These men had lived in Johnstown all their lives. Three times they were lost on their way over. Another correspondent fell down three or four slippery steps one night and sprained his ankle, but he gritted his teeth and stuck to his work. One of the _Times_ men tried to sleep in a hay-mow one night, but at one o'clock he was driven out by the rats. He wandered about till he found a night watchman, who escorted him to a brick-kiln. Attired in all his clothing, his mackintosh, rubber boots, and hat, and with his handkerchief for a pillow, he stretched himself upon a plank on top of the bricks inside the kiln and slept one solitary hour. It was the third hour's sleep he had enjoyed in seventy-two hours. The next morning he looked like a paralytic tramp who had been hauled out of an ash-heap. Another correspondent fell through an opening in the Pennsylvania bridge and landed in a culvert several feet below. His left eye was almost knocked out, and he had to go to one of the hospitals for treatment. But he kept at his work. The more active newspaper men were a sight by Wednesday. They knew it. They had their pictures taken. They call the group "The Johnstown Sufferers." Their costumes are picturesque. One of them--a dramatically inclined youth sometimes called Romeo--wears a pair of low shoes which are incrusted with yellow mud, a pair of gray stained trousers, a yellow corduroy coat, a flannel shirt, a soft hat of a dirty greenish-brown tint, and a rubber overcoat with a cape. And still he is not happy. CHAPTER XXXVIII. The storm that filled Conemaugh Lake and burst its bounds also wrought sad havoc elsewhere. Williamsport, Pa., underwent the experience of being flooded with thirty-four feet of water, of having the Susquehanna boom taken out with two hundred million feet of logs, over forty million feet of sawed lumber taken, mills carried away and others wrecked, business and industrial establishments wrecked, and a large number of lives lost. The flood was nearly seven feet higher than the great high water of 1865. Early on Friday news came of the flood at Clearfield, but it was not before two o'clock Saturday morning that the swelling water began to become prominent, the river then showing a rise averaging two feet to the hour. Steadily and rapidly thereafter the rise continued. The rain up the country had been terrific, and from Thursday afternoon, throughout the night, and during Friday and Friday night, the rain fell here with but little interruption. After midnight Friday it came down in absolute torrents until nearly daylight Saturday morning. As a result of this rise, Grafins Run, a small stream running through the city from northwest to southeast, was raised until it flooded the whole territory on either side of it. Soon after daylight, the rain having ceased, the stream began to subside, and as the river had not then reached an alarming height, very few were concerned over the outlook. The water kept getting higher and higher, and spreading out over the lower streets. At about nine o'clock in the forenoon the logs began to go down, filling the stream from bank to bank. The water had by this time reached almost the stage of 1865. It was coming up Third Street to the Court-house, and was up Fourth Street to Market. Not long after it reached Third Street on William, and advanced up Fourth to Pine. Its onward progress did not stop, however, as it rose higher on Third Street, and soon began to reach Fourth Street both at Elmira and Locust Streets. No one along Fourth between William and Hepburn had any conception that it would trouble them, but the sequel proved they were mistaken. Soon after noon the water began crossing the railroad at Walnut and Campbell Streets, and soon all the country north of the railroad was submerged, that part along the run being for the second time during the day flooded. The rise kept on until nine o'clock at night, and after that hour it began to go slowly the other way. By daylight Sunday morning it had fallen two feet, and that receding continued during the day. When the water was at its highest the memorable sight was to be seen of a level surface of water extending from the northern line of the city from Rural Avenue on Locust Street, entirely across the city to the mountain on the south side. This meant that the water was six feet deep on the floors of the buildings in Market Square, over four feet deep in the station of the Pennsylvania Railroad and at the Park Hotel. Fully three-quarters of the city was submerged. The loss was necessarily enormous. It was heaviest on the lumbermen. All the logs were lost, and a large share of the cut lumber. The loss of life was heavy. A general meeting of lumbermen was held, to take action on the question of looking after the lost stock. A comparison as to losses was made, but many of those present were unable to give an estimate of the amount they had lost. It was found that the aggregate of logs lost from the boom was about two hundred million feet, and the aggregate of manufactured lumber fully forty million feet. The only saw-mill taken was the Beaver mill structure, which contained two mills, that of S. Mack Taylor and the Williamsport Lumber Company. It went down stream just as it stood, and lodged a few miles below the city. A member of the Philadelphia _Times_' staff telegraphed from Williamsport:-- "Trusting to the strong arms of brave John Nichol, I safely crossed the Susquehanna at Montgomery in a small boat, and met Superintendent Westfall on the other side on an engine. We went to where the Northern Central crosses the river again to Williamsport, where it is wider and swifter. The havoc everywhere is dreadful. Most of the farmers for miles and miles have lost their stock and crops, and some their horses and barns. In one place I saw thirty dead cattle. They had caught on the top of a hill, but were drowned and carried into a creek that had been a part of a river. I could see where the river had been over the tops of the barns a quarter of a mile from the usual bank. A man named Gibson, some miles below Williamsport, lost every animal but a gray horse, which got into the loft and stayed there, with the water up to his body. "A woman named Clark is alive, with six cows that she got upstairs. Along the edges of the washed-out tracks families with stoves and a few things saved are under board shanties. We passed the saw-mill that, by forming a dam, is responsible for the loss of the Williamsport bridges. The river looked very wild, but Superintendent Westfall and I crossed it in two boats. It is nearly half a mile across. Both boats were carried some distance and nearly upset. It was odd, after wading through mud into the town, to find all Williamsport knowing little or nothing about Johnstown or what had been happening elsewhere. Mr. Westfall was beset by thousands asking about friends on the other side, and inquiring when food can be got through. "The loss is awful. There have not been many buildings in the town carried off, but there are few that have not been damaged. There is mourning everywhere for the dead. Men look serious and worn, and every one is going about splashed with mud. The mayor, in his address, says: 'Send us help at once--in the name of God, at once. There are hundreds utterly destitute. They have lost all they had, and have no hope of employment for the future. Philadelphia should, if possible, send provisions. Such a thing as a chicken is unknown here. They were all carried off. It is hard to get anything to eat for love or money. Flour is needed worse than anything else.' "I gave away a cooked chicken and sandwiches that I had with me to two men who had had nothing to eat since yesterday morning. The flood having subsided, all the grim destitution is now uncovered. Last night a great many grocery and other stores were gutted, not by the water, but by hungry, desperate people. They only took things to eat. "A pathetic feature of the loss of life is the great number of children drowned. In one case two brothers named Youngman, up the river, who have a woolen mill, lost their wives and children and their property, too, by the bursting of the dam. Everything was carried away in the night. They saved themselves by being strong. One caught in a tree on the side of the mountain across the river and remained there from Saturday night until late Sunday, with the river below him." Among the many remarkable experiences was that of Garrett L. Crouse, proprietor of a large kindling-wood mill, who is also well known to many Philadelphia and New York business men. Mr. Crouse lives on the north side of West Fourth Street, between Walnut and Campbell. On Saturday he was down town, looking after his mill and wood, little thinking that there was any flood in the western part of the city. At eleven o'clock he started to go home, and sauntered leisurely up Fourth Street. He soon learned the condition of things and started for Lycoming Street, and was soon in front of the Rising Sun Hotel, on Walnut Street, wading in the water, which came nearly to his neck. Boats passing and repassing refused to take him in, notwithstanding that he was so close to his home. The water continued to rise and he detached a piece of board-walk, holding on to a convenient tree. In this position he stayed two hours in the vain hope that a boat would take him on. At this juncture a man with a small boat hove in sight and came so close that Mr. Crouse could touch it. Laying hold of the boat he asked the skipper how much he would take to row him down to Fourth Street, where the larger boats were running. "I can't take you," was the reply; "this boat only holds one." "I know it only holds one, but it will hold two this time," replied the would-be passenger. "This water is getting unpleasantly close to my lower lip. It's a matter of life and death with me, and if you don't want to carry two your boat will carry one; but I'll be that one." The fellow in the boat realized that the talk meant business, and the two started down town. At Pine Street Mr. Crouse waited for a big boat another hour, and when he finally found one he was shivering with cold. The men in the boat engaged to run him for five dollars, and they started. It was five o'clock when they reached their destination, when they rowed to their passenger's stable and found his horses up to their necks in the flood. "What will you charge to take these two horses to Old Oaks Park?" he asked. "Ten dollars apiece," was the reply. "I'll pay it." They then rowed to the harness room, got the bridles, rowed back to the horses and bridled them. They first took out the brown horse and landed her at the park, Mr Crouse holding her behind the boat. They returned for the gray and started out with her, but had scarcely left the stable when her head fell back to one side. Fright had already exhausted her. They took her back to the house porch, when Mr. Crouse led her upstairs and put her in a bed-room, where she stayed high and dry all night. On Sunday morning the folks who were cleaning up were surprised to see a gray horse and a man backing down a plank out of the front door of a Fourth Street residence. It was Garrett Crouse and his gray horse, and when the neighbors saw it they turned from the scene of desolation about them and warmly applauded both beast and master. This is how a Williamsport man got home during the flood and saved his horses. It took him five hours and cost him twenty-five dollars. Mr. James R. Skinner, of Brooklyn, N. Y., arrived home after a series of remarkable adventures in the floods at Williamsport. "I went to Williamsport last Thursday," said Mr. Skinner, "and on Friday the rain fell as I had never seen it fall before. The skies seemed simply to open and unload the water. The Susquehanna was booming and kept on rising rapidly, but the people of Williamsport did not seem to be particularly alarmed. On Saturday the water had risen to such a height that the people quit laughing and gathered along the sides of the torrent with a sort of awe-stricken curiosity. "A friend of mine, Mr. Frank Bellows, and myself went out to see the grand spectacle, and found a place of observation on the Pennsylvania Railroad bridge. Great rafts of logs were swept down the stream, and now and then a house would be brought with a crash against the bridge. Finally, one span gave way and then we beat a hasty retreat. By wading we reached the place of a man who owned a horse and buggy. These we hired and started to drive to the hotel, which is on the highest ground in the city. The water was all the time rising, and the flood kept coming in waves. These waves came with such frequency and volume that we were forced to abandon the horse and buggy and try wading. With the water up to our armpits we got to an outhouse, and climbing to the top of it made our way along to a building. This I entered through a window, and found the family in the upper stories. Floating outside were two canoes, one of which I hired for two dollars and fifty cents. I at once embarked in this and tried to paddle for my hotel. I hadn't gone a hundred feet when I capsized. Going back, I divested myself of my coat, waistcoat, shoes, and stockings. I tried again to make the journey, and succeeded very well for quite a distance, when the canoe suddenly struck something and over it went. I managed to hold the paddle and the canoe, but everything else was washed away and lost. After a struggle in the water, which was running like a mill-race, I got afloat again and managed to lodge myself against a train of nearly submerged freight cars. Then, by drawing myself against the stream, I got opposite the hotel and paddled over. My friend Bellows was not so fortunate. The other canoe had a hole in it, and he had to spend the night on the roof of a house. "The trainmen of the Pennsylvania road thought to sleep in the cars, but were driven out, and forced to take refuge in the trees, from which they were subsequently rescued. The Beaver Dam mill was moved from its position as though it was being towed by some enormous steam tug. The river swept away everything that offered it any resistance. Saturday night was the most awful I ever experienced. The horrors of the flood were intensified by an inky darkness, through which the cries of women and children were ceaselessly heard. Boatmen labored all night to give relief, and hundreds were brought to the hotel for safety. "On Sunday the waters began to subside, and then the effects were more noticeable. All the provision stores were washed out completely, and one of the banks had its books, notes, and greenbacks destroyed. I saw rich men begging for bread for their children. They had money, but there was nothing to be bought. This lack of supplies is the greatest trouble that Williamsport has to contend with, and I really do not see how the people are to subsist. "Sunday afternoon Mr. C. H. Blaisdell, Mr. Cochrane, a lumberman and woodman, a driver, and myself started in a wagon for Canton, with letters and appeals for assistance. The roads were all washed away, and we had to go over the mountains. We had to cut our way through the forests at times, hold the wagon up against the sides of precipices, ford streams, and undergo a thousand hardships. After two days of travel that even now seems impossible, we got into Canton more dead than alive. The soles were completely gone from my boots, and I had on only my night-shirt, coat, and trousers, which I had saved from the flood. A relief corps was at once organized, and sent with provisions for the sufferers. But it had to take a roundabout way, and I do not know what will become of those poor people in the meantime." Mr. Richard P. Rothwell, the editor of the New York _Engineering and Mining Journal_, and Mr. Ernest Alexander Thomson, the two men who rowed down the Susquehanna River from Williamsport, Pa., to Sunbury, and brought the first news of the disaster by flood at Williamsport, came through to New York by the Reading road. The boat they made the trip in was a common flat-bottom rowboat, about thirteen feet long, fitted for one pair of oars. There were three men in the crew, and her sides were only about three inches above the water when they were aboard. The third was Mr. Aaron Niel, of Phoenixville, Pa. He is a trotting-horse owner. Mr. Thomson is a tall, athletic young man, a graduate of Harvard in '87. He would not acknowledge that the trip was very dangerous, but an idea of it can be had from the fact that they made the run of forty-five miles in four and one-half hours. "My brother, John W. Thomson, myself, and Mr. Rothwell," he said, "have been prospecting for coal back of Ralston. It began to rain on Friday just after we got into Myer's Hotel, where we were staying. The rain fell in torrents for thirty-two hours. The water was four or five feet deep in the hotel when the railroad bridge gave way, and domestic animals and outhouses were floating down the river by scores. The bridge swung around as if it were going to strike the hotel. Cries of distress from the back porch were heard, and when we ran out we found a parrot which belonged to me crying with all his might, 'Hellup! hellup! hellup!' My brother left for Williamsport by train on Friday night. We followed on foot. There were nineteen bridges in the twenty-five miles to Williamsport, and all but three were gone. "In Williamsport every one seemed to be drinking. Men waited in rows five or six deep in front of the bars of the two public houses, the Lush House and the Concordia. We paid two dollars each for the privilege of sleeping in a corner of the bar-room. Mr. Rothwell suggested the boat trip when we found all the wagons in town were under water. The whole town except Sauerkraut Hill was flooded, and it was as hard to buy a boat as it was to get a cab during the blizzard. It was here we met Niel. 'I was a raftsman,' he said, 'on the Allegheny years ago, and I may be of use to you,' and he was. He sat in the bow, and piloted, I rowed, and Mr. Rothwell steered with a piece of board. Our danger was from eddies, and it was greatest when we passed the ruins of bridges. We started at 10.15, and made the run to Montgomery, eighteen miles, in one and a quarter hours. In places we were going at the rate of twenty miles an hour. There wasn't a whole bridge left on the forty-five miles of river. As we passed Milton we were in sight of the race-track, where Niel won a trot the week before. The grand stand was just toppling into the water. "I think I ought to row in a 'Varsity crew now," Mr. Thomson concluded. "I don't believe any crew ever beat our time." CHAPTER XXXIX. There was terrible destruction to life and property throughout the entire Juniata Valley by the unprecedented flood. Between Tyrone and Lewistown the greatest devastation was seen and especially below Huntingdon at the confluence of the Raystown branch and the Juniata River. During the preceding days of the week the rain-filled clouds swept around the southeast, and on Friday evening met an opposing strata of storm clouds, which resulted in an indescribable down-pour of rain of twelve hours' duration. The surging, angry waters swept down the river, every rivulet and tributary adding its raging flood to the stream, until there was a sea of water between the parallel hills of the valley. Night only added to the terror and confusion. In Huntingdon City, and especially in the southern and eastern suburbs, the inhabitants were forced to flee for their lives at midnight on Thursday, and by daybreak the chimneys of their houses were visible above the rushing waters. Opposite the city the people of Smithfield found safety within the walls of the State Reformatory, and for two days they were detained under great privations. Some conception of the volume of water in the river may be had from the fact that it was thirty-five feet above low-water mark, being eight feet higher than the great flood of 1847. Many of the inhabitants in the low sections of Huntingdon, who hesitated about leaving their homes, were rescued, before the waters submerged their houses, with great difficulty. Huntingdon, around which the most destruction is to be seen of any of the towns in the Juniata Valley, was practically cut off from all communication with the outside world, as all the river bridges crossing the stream at that point were washed away. There was but one bridge standing in the county, and that was the Huntingdon and Broad Top Railroad bridge, which stood isolated in the river, the trestle on the other end being destroyed. Not a county bridge was left, and this loss alone approximated $200,000. The gas works were wrecked on Thursday night and the town was left in darkness. Just below where the Juniata and Raystown branch meet, lived John Dean and wife, aged seventy-seven each, and both blind. With them resided John Swaner and wife. Near by lived John Rupert, wife and three small children. When the seething current struck these houses they were carried a half mile down the course of the stream and lodged on the ends amid stream. The Ruperts were soon driven to the attic, and finally, when it became evident that they must perish, the frantic mother caught up two bureau drawers, and placed her little children in them upon the angry waves, hoping that they might be saved; but all in vain. The loss of life by the flood in Clinton County, in which Lock Haven is situated, was heavy. Twenty of those lost were in the Nittany Valley, and seven in Wayne Township. Lock Haven was very fortunate, as the inhabitants there dwelling in the midst of logs on the rivers are accustomed to overflows. There were many sagacious inhabitants who, remembering the flood of 1865, on Saturday began to prepare by removing their furniture and other possessions to higher ground for safety. It was this full and realizing sense of the danger that gave Lock Haven such immunity from loss of life. The only case of drowning in Lock Haven was of James Guilford, a young man who, though warned not to do so, attempted to wade across the main street, where six feet of the overflowed river was running, and was carried off by the swift current. The other dead include William Confur and his wife and three children, all carried off and drowned in their little home as it floated away, and the two children of Jacob Kashne. Robert Armstrong and his sister perished at Clintondale under peculiarly dreadful circumstances. At Mackeyville, John Harley, Andrew R. Stine, wife and two daughters, were drowned, while the two boys were saved. At Salona, Alexander M. Uting and wife, Mrs. Henry Snyder were drowned. At Cedar Springs, Mrs. Luther S. Eyler and three children were drowned. The husband was found alive in a tree, while his wife was dead in a drift-pile a few rods away. At Rote, Mrs. Charles Cole and her two children were drowned, while he was saved. Mrs. Charles Barner and her children were also drowned, while the husband and father was saved. This is a queer coincidence found all through this section, that the men are survivors, while the wives and children are victims. The scenes that have been witnessed in Tyrone City during the time from Friday evening, May 31st, to Monday evening, June 3d, are almost indescribable. On Friday afternoon, May 31st, telephone messages from Clearfield gave warning of a terrible flood at that place, and preparations were commenced by everybody for high water, although no one anticipated that it would equal in height that of 1885, which had always in the past served as high-water mark in Lock Haven. All of that Friday rain descended heavily, and when at eight o'clock in the evening the water commenced rising, the rain was falling in torrents. The river rose rapidly, and before midnight was over the top of the bank. Its rapid rising was the signal for hasty preparations for higher water than ever before witnessed in the city. As the water continued rising, both the river and Bald Eagle Creek, the vast scope of land from mountain to mountain was soon a sea of foaming water. The boom gave away about two o'clock Saturday morning, and millions of feet of logs were taken away. Along Water Street, logs, trees, and every conceivable kind of driftwood went rushing by the houses at a fearful rate of swiftness. The night was one to fill the stoutest heart with dread, and the dawn of day on Saturday morning was anxiously awaited by thousands of people. In the meantime men in boats were busy during the night taking people from their houses in the lower portions of the city, and conveying them to places of imagined security. When day dawned on June 1st, the water was still rising at a rapid rate. The city was then completely inundated, or at least all that portion lying east of the high lands in the Third and Fourth Wards. It was nearly three o'clock Saturday afternoon before the water reached the highest mark. It then was about three feet above the high-water mark of 1885. At four o'clock Saturday evening the flood began to subside, slowly at first, and it was nearly night on Sunday before the river was again within its banks. Six persons are reported missing at Salona, and the dead bodies of Mrs. Alexander Whiting and Mrs. William Emenheisen were recovered at Mill Hall and that of a six-year old child near by. The loss there is terrible, and the community is in mourning over the loss of life. G. W. Dunkle and wife had a miraculous escape from drowning early Saturday A. M. They were both carried away on the top of their house from Salona to Mill Hall, where they were both rescued in a remarkable manner. A window in the house of John Stearn was kicked out, and Mr. and Mrs. Dunkle taken in the aperture, both thus being rescued from a watery grave. Near by a baby was saved, tied in a cradle. It was a pretty, light-haired light cherub, and seemed all unconscious of the peril through which it passed on its way down the stream. The town of Mill Hall was completely gutted by the flood, entailing heavy loss upon the inhabitants. The town of Renovo was completely wrecked. Two spans of the river bridge and the opera-house were swept away. Houses and business places were carried off or damaged and there was some loss of life. At Hamburg seven persons were drowned by the flood, which carried away almost everything in its path. Bellefonte escaped the flood's ravages, and lies high and dry. Some parts of Centre County were not so fortunate, however, especially in Coburn and Miles Townships, where great destruction is reported. Several persons were drowned at Coburn, Mrs. Roust and three children among the number. The bodies of the mother and one child were recovered. James Corss, a well-known resident of Lock Haven, and Miss Emma Pollock, a daughter of ex-Governor Pollock of Philadelphia, were married at the fashionable Church of the Holy Trinity, Philadelphia, at noon of Wednesday, June 5th. The cards were sent out three weeks before, but when it was learned that the freshet had cut off Lock Haven from communication with the rest of the world, and several telegrams to the groom had failed to bring any response, it was purposed to postpone the wedding. The question of postponement was being considered on Tuesday evening, when a dispatch was brought in saying that the groom was on his way overland. Nothing further was heard from him, and the bride was dressed and the bridal party waiting when the groom dashed up to the door in a carriage at almost noon. After an interchange of joyful greetings all around, the bride and groom set out at once for the church, determined that they should not be late. On the way to the church the bride fainted. As the church came into view she fainted again, and she was driven leisurely around Rittenhouse Square to give her a chance to recover. She got better promptly. The groom stepped out of the carriage and went into the church by the vestry way. The carriage then drove round to the main entrance, and the bride alighted with her father and her maids, and, taking her proper place in the procession, marched bravely up the aisle, while the organ rang out the well-remembered notes of Mendelssohn's march. The groom met her at the chancel, the minister came out, and they were married. A reception followed. The bride and groom left on their wedding-journey in the evening. Before they went the groom told of his journey from Lock Haven. He said that the little lumber town had been shut out from the rest of the world on Friday night. He is a widower, and, accompanied by his grown daughter, he started on his journey on Monday at two o'clock. They drove to Bellefonte, a distance of twenty-five miles, and rested there on Monday night. They drove to Leedsville on Tuesday morning. There, by hiring relays of horses and engaging men to carry their baggage and row them across streams, they succeeded in reaching Lewistown, a distance of sixty-five miles, by Tuesday night. At Lewistown they found a direct train for Philadelphia, and arrived there on Wednesday forenoon. CHAPTER XL. The opening of the month of June will long be remembered with sadness and dismay by thousands of people in New York, Pennsylvania, Maryland and the two Virginias. In the District of Columbia, too, it was a time of losses and of terror. The northwestern and more fashionable part of Washington, D. C., never looked more lovely than it did on Sunday, but along a good part of the principal business thoroughfare, Pennsylvania avenue, and in the adjacent streets to the southward, there was a dreary waste of turbid, muddy water, that washed five and six feet deep the sides of the houses, filling cellars and basements and causing great inconvenience and considerable loss of property. Boats plied along the avenue near the Pennsylvania Railroad station and through the streets of South Washington. A carp two feet long was caught in the ladies' waiting-room at the Baltimore and Potomac station, and several others were caught in the streets by boys. These fish came from the Government Fish Pond, the waters of the Potomac having covered the pond and allowed them to escape. Along the river front the usually calm Potomac was a wide, roaring, turbulent stream of dirty water, rushing madly onward, and bearing on its swift-moving surface logs, telegraph poles, portions of houses and all kinds of rubbish. The stream was nearly twice its normal width, and flowed six feet and more deep through the streets along the river front, submerging wharves, small manufacturing establishments, and lapping the second stories of mills, boat-houses and fertilizing works in Georgetown. It completely flooded the Potomac Flats, which the Government had raised at great expense to a height in most part of four and five feet, and inundated the abodes of poor negro squatters, who had built their frame shanties along the river's edge. The rising of the waters has eclipsed the high-water mark of 1877. The loss was enormous. The river began rising early on Saturday morning, and from that time continued to rise steadily until five o'clock Sunday afternoon, when the flood began to abate, having reached a higher mark than ever before known. The flood grew worse and worse on Saturday, and before noon the river had become so high and strong that it overflowed the banks just above the Washington Monument, and backing the water into the sewer which empties itself at this point, began to flow along the streets on the lower levels. By nightfall the water in the streets had increased to such an extent as to make them impassable by foot passengers, and boats were ferrying people from the business part of the town to the high grounds in South Washington. The street cars also continued running and did a thriving business conveying pleasure-seekers, who sat in the windows and bantered one another as the deepening waters hid the floor. On Louisiana avenue the produce and commission houses are located, and the proprietors bustled eagerly about securing their more perishable property, and wading knee-deep outside after floating chicken-coops. The grocery merchants, hotel men and others hastily cleared out their cellars and worked until the water was waist-deep removing their effects to higher floors. Meanwhile the Potomac, at the Point of Rocks, had overflowed into the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, and the two became one. It broke open the canal in a great many places, and lifting the barges up, shot them down stream at a rapid rate. Trunks of trees and small houses were torn from their places and swept onward. The water continued rising throughout the night, and about noon of Sunday reached its maximum, three feet six inches above high-water mark of 1877, which was the highest on record. At that time the city presented a strange spectacle. Pennsylvania avenue, from the Peace monument, at the foot of the Capitol, to Ninth street, was flooded with water, and in some places it was up to the thighs of horses. The cellars of stores along the avenue were flooded, and so were some of the main floors. In the side streets south of the avenue there was six to eight feet of water, and yawls, skiffs and canoes were everywhere to be seen. Communication except by boat was totally interrupted between North and South Washington. At the Pennsylvania Railroad station the water was up to the waiting-room. Through the Smithsonian and Agricultural Department grounds a deep stream was running, and the Washington Monument was surrounded on all sides by water. A dozen lives lost, a hundred poor families homeless, and over $2,000,000 worth of property destroyed, is the brief but terrible record of the havoc caused by the floods in Maryland. Every river and mountain stream in the western half of the State has overflowed its banks, inundating villages and manufactories and laying waste thousands of acres of farm lands. The losses by wrecked bridges, washed-out roadbeds and land-slides along the western division of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, from Baltimore to Johnstown, reach half a million dollars or more. The Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, that political bone of contention and burden to Maryland, which has cost the State many millions, is a total wreck. The Potomac river, by the side of which the canal runs, from Williamsport, Md., to Georgetown, D. C., has swept away the locks, towpaths, bridges, and, in fact, everything connected with the canal. The probability is that the canal will not be restored, but that the canal bed will be sold to one of the railroads that have been trying to secure it for several years. The concern has never paid, and annually has increased its enormous debt to the State. The Western Maryland Railroad Company and the connecting lines, the Baltimore and Harrisburg, and the Cumberland Valley roads, lose heavily. On the mountain grades of the Blue Ridge there are tremendous washouts, and in some sections the tracks are torn up and the road-bed destroyed. Several bridges were washed away. Dispatches from Shippensburg, Hagerstown and points in the Cumberland Valley state that the damage to that fertile farming region is incalculable. Miles of farm lands were submerged by the torrents that rushed down from the mountains. Several lives were lost and many head of cattle drowned. At the mountain town of Frederick, Md., the Monocacy river, Carroll creek and other streams combined in the work of destruction. Friday night was one of terror to the people of that section. The Monocacy river rose rapidly from the time the rain ceased until last night, when the waters began to fall. The back-water of the river extended to the eastern limit of the city, flooding everything in its path and riding over the fields with a fierce current that meant destruction to crops, fences and everything in its path. At the Pennsylvania Railroad bridge the river rose thirty feet above low-water mark. It submerged the floor of the bridge and at one time threatened it with destruction, but the breaking away of 300 feet of embankment on the north side of the bridge saved the structure. With the 300 feet of embankment went 300 feet of track. The heavy steel rails were twisted by the waters as if they had been wrenched in the jaws of a mammoth vise. The river at this point and for many miles along its course overflowed its banks to the width of a thousand feet, submerging the corn and wheat fields on either side and carrying everything before it. Just below the railroad bridge a large wooden turnpike bridge was snapped in two and carried down the tide. In this way a half-dozen turnpike bridges at various points along the river were carried away. The loss to the counties through the destruction of these bridges will foot up many thousand dollars. Mrs. Charles McFadden and Miss Maggie Moore, of Taneytown, were drowned in their carriage while attempting to cross a swollen stream. The horse and vehicle were swept down the stream, and when found were lodged against a tree. Miss Moore was lying half-way out of the carriage, as though she had died in trying to extricate herself. Mrs. McFadden's body was found near the carriage. At Knoxville considerable damage was done, and at Point of Rocks people were compelled to seek the roofs of their houses and other places of safety. A family living on an island in the middle of the river, opposite the Point, fired off a gun as a signal of distress. They were with difficulty rescued. In Frederick county, Md., the losses aggregate $300,000. The heaviest damage in Maryland was in the vicinity of Williamsport, Washington county. The railroads at Hagerstown and Williamsport were washed out. The greatest loser is the Cumberland Valley Railroad. Its new iron bridge across the Potomac river went down, nothing being left of the structure except the span across the canal. The original cost of the bridge was $70,000. All along the Potomac the destruction was great. At and near Williamsport, where the Conococheague empties into the Potomac, the loss was very heavy. At Falling Waters, where only a few days before a cyclone caused death and destruction, two houses went down in the angry water, and the little town was almost entirely submerged. In Carroll County, Md., the losses reached several hundred thousand dollars. George Derrick was drowned at Trevanion Mills, on Pipe creek. Along the Patapsco river in Howard county great damage was done to mills and private property. Near Sykesville the water undermined the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad track and a freight train was turned over an embankment. William Hudson was standing on the Suspension Bridge, at Orange Grove, when the structure was swept away, and he was never seen again. Port Deposit, near the mouth of the Susquehanna river, went under water. Residents along the river front left their homes and took refuge on the hills back of the town. The river was filled with thousands of logs from the broken booms up in the timber regions. From the eastern and southern sections of the State came reports of entire fruit farms swept away. Two men were drowned in the storm by the capsizing of a sloop near Salisbury. A number of houses on the Shenandoah and Potomac rivers near Harper's Ferry were destroyed by the raging waters which came thundering down from the mountains, thirty to forty feet higher than low-water mark. John Brown's fort was nearly swept away. The old building has withstood a number of floods. There is only a rickety portion of it standing, anyhow, and that is now covered with mud and rubbish. While the crowds on the heights near Harper's Ferry were watching the terrible work of destruction, a house was seen coming down the Potomac. Upon its roof were three men wildly shouting to the people on the hills to save them. Just as the structure struck the railroad bridge, the men tried to catch hold of the flooring and iron work, but the swift torrent swept them all under, and they were seen no more. What appeared to be a babe in a cradle came floating down behind them, and a few moments later the body of a woman, supposed to be the mother of the child, swept by. Robert Connell, a farmer living upon a large island in the Potomac, known as Herter Island, lost all his wheat crop and his cattle. His family was rescued by Clarence Stedman and E. A. Keyser, an artist from Washington, at the risk of their lives. The fine railroad bridge across the Shenandoah, near Harper's Ferry, was destroyed. The Ferry Mill Company sustained heavy losses. Along the South Mountains, in Washington and Alleghany counties, Md., the destruction was terrible. Whole farms, including the houses and barns, were swept away and hundreds of live stock killed. Between Williamsport, Md., and Dam No. 6 on the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal twenty-six houses were destroyed, and it is reported that several persons were drowned. The homeless families are camping out on the hills, being supplied with food and clothing by the citizens of Williamsport. Joseph Shifter and family made a narrow escape. They were driven to the roof of their house by the rising waters, and just a minute before the structure collapsed the father caught a rowboat passing by, and saved his wife and little ones. The town of Point of Rocks, on the Potomac river, twelve miles eastward of Harper's Ferry, was half-submerged. Nearly $100,000 worth of property in the town and vicinity was swept away. The Catholic Church there is 500 feet from the river. The extent of the flood here may be imagined when it is stated that the water was up to the eaves of the church. The Chesapeake and Ohio Canal has been utterly lost, and what formerly was the bed of the canal is now part of the Potomac river. There were but few houses in Point of Rocks that were not under water. The Methodist Church had water in its second story. The two hotels of which the place boasts, the American and the St. Charles, were full of water, and any stranger in town had to hunt for something to eat. Every bridge in Frederick county, Md., was washed away. Some of these bridges were built as long ago as 1834, and were burned by the Confederate and Union forces at various times in 1864, afterward being rebuilt. At Martinsburg, W. Va., a number of houses were destroyed. Little Georgetown, a village on the Upper Potomac, near Williamsport, Md., was entirely swept away. Navigation on Chesapeake Bay was seriously interrupted by the masses of logs, sections of buildings and other ruins afloat. Several side-wheel steamers were damaged by the logs striking the wheels. Looking southward for miles from Havre de Grace, the mouth of the Susquehanna, and far out into the bay the water was thickly covered with the floating wood. Crowds of men and boys were out on the river securing the choicest logs of hard wood and bringing them to a safe anchorage. By careful count it was estimated that 200 logs, large and small, were swept past Havre de Grace every minute. At that rate there would be 12,000 logs an hour. It is estimated that over 70,000,000 feet of cut and uncut timber passed Havre de Grace within two days. Large rafts of dressed white pine boards floated past the city. The men who saved the logs got from 25 cents to $1 for each log for salvage from the owners, who sent men down the river to look after the timber. Enough logs have been saved to give three years' employment to men, and mills will be erected to saw up the stuff. Not within the memory of the oldest inhabitants had Petersburg, Virginia, been visited by a flood as fierce and destructive as that which surprised it on Saturday and Sunday. The whole population turned out to see the sight. The storm that did such havoc in Virginia and West Virginia on Thursday reached Gettysburg on Saturday morning. The rain began at 7 o'clock Friday morning and continued until 3 o'clock Saturday. It was one continuous down-pour during all that time. As a result, the streams were higher than they had been for twenty-five years. By actual measurement the rain-fall was 4.15 inches between the above hours. Nearly every bridge in the county was either badly damaged or swept away, and farmers who lived near the larger streams mourn for their fences carried away and grain fields ruined. Both the railroads leading to the town had large portions of their embankments washed out and many of their bridges disturbed. On the Baltimore and Harrisburg division of the Western Maryland Railroad the damage was great. At Valley Junction 1000 feet of the embankment disappeared, and at Marsh creek, on the new branch of the road to Hagerstown, four divisions of the bridge were swept away. But at Pine Grove and Mount Holly perhaps the greatest damage was done. The large Laudel dam, which supplies the water to run the forge at Pine Grove furnace, and which covers thirty acres of land, burst. It swept away part of the furnace and a house. The occupants were saved by men wading in water up to their waists. Every bridge, with one exception, in Mount Holly was swept away by the flood occasioned by the breaking of the dam which furnished water for the paper mills at that place. The water at Elmira, N. Y., on Saturday night was from a foot to a foot and a half higher than ever before known. The Erie Railroad bridge was anchored in its place by two trains of loaded freight cars. The water rose to the cars, which, with the bridge, acted as a dam, and forced the water back through the city on the north side of the Chemung river, where the principal business houses are located. The water covered the streets to a depth of two or three feet, and the basements of the stores were quickly flooded, causing thousands of dollars of damage. The only possible way of entering the Rathbone House, the principal hotel of the city and on the chief business street, was by boats, which were rowed directly into the hotel office. On the south side of the river the waters were held in check for several hours by the ten-foot railroad embankment, but hundreds of families were driven into the upper stories of their houses. Late in the evening, two thousand feet of the embankment was forced away, and the water carried the railroad tracks and everything else before it. An extensive lumber yard in the path of the rushing water was swept away. Many horses were drowned, and the people living on the flats were rescued with great difficulty by the police and firemen. A terrible rain-storm visited Andover, N. Y. All the streams were swollen far above high-water mark, and fields and roads were overflowed. No less than a dozen bridges in this town were carried away, and newly planted crops were utterly ruined. The water continued to rise rapidly until 4 o'clock. At that hour the two dams at the ponds above the village gave away, and the water rushed wildly down into the village. Nearly every street in the place was overflowed, and in many cases occupants of houses were driven to the upper floors for safety. Owen's large tannery was flooded and ruined. Almost every rod of railroad track was covered and much of it will have to be rebuilt. The track at some points was covered fifteen feet with earth. At Wellsville, N. Y., the heavy rain raised creeks into rivers and rivers into lakes. Never, in the experience of the oldest inhabitant, had Wellsville been visited with such a flood. Both ends of the town were submerged, water in many cases standing clear to the roofs of houses. Canisteo, N. Y., was invaded by a flood the equal of which had never been known or seen in that vicinity before. Thursday afternoon a drizzling rain began and continued until it became a perfect deluge. The various creeks and mountain rills tributary to the Canisteo river became swollen and swept into the village, inundating many of the streets to the depth of three feet and others from five to seven feet. The streets were scarcely passable, and all stores on Main and the adjacent streets were flooded to a depth of from one to two feet and much of the stock was injured or spoiled. Many houses were carried away from their foundations, and several narrow escapes from death were made. One noble deed, worthy of special mention, was performed by a young man, who waded into the water where the current was swift and caught a baby in his arms as it was thrown from the window of a house that had just been swept from its foundation. The Fire Department Building, one of the most costly blocks in town, was undermined by the flood and the greater part fell to the ground with a crash. The town jail was almost destroyed. The inundation in the coal, iron and lumber country around Sunbury, Penn., occasioned much destruction and suffering, while no less than fifty lives were lost. The Susquehanna, Allegheny, Bald Eagle, Sinnamahoning and Huntingdon Railways suffered greatly, and the losses incurred reach, in round numbers, $2,000,000. In Clearfield, Clinton, Lycoming, Elk, Cameron, Northumberland, Centre, Indiana, McKean, Somerset, Bedford, Huntingdon, Blair and Jefferson counties the rain-storm was one of unprecedented severity. The mountain streams grew into great rivers, which swept through the country with irresistible fury and force, and carried devastation in all directions. The destruction in the Allegheny Valley at and near Dubois, Red Bank, New Bethlehem and Driftwood was immense, hardly a saw-mill being left standing. Transcriber's Notes Corrections The use of larger or small capitals for "P.M." and "A.M." varies and have been left intact. Several apparent errors were noted, but have been allowed to stand, and are included in this list. The spelling of 'Pittsburgh' frequently omits the final 'h'. Both variants are retained. Variants in other place names are retained as well. An apparent confusion on p. 279: "_Fonda, N. Y., June 5._--The people of Johnstown, N. Y...." is retained. Fonda and Johnstown N.Y. were and are neighboring communities. In lists of contributions, missing or incorrect punctuation has been rendered consistent. The following corrections were made where the errors are clearly inadvertent. Several instances of possibly nonstandard spelling have been noted with 'sic', which have been retained. p. viii | 13[7] | Completed page number. | | p. 17 | Franks[]town Turnpike | Missing hyphen at page | | break. | | p. 43 | here and there[.] Each | Added stop. | | p. 97 | [']To the hills | Added single quote. | | p. 101 | as soon as [we] were in it | Added 'we'. | | p. 129 | The Pitt[t]sburg lady | Removed extra 't'. | | p 135 | so we [we] did not pay much | Removed redundant 'we'. | | p. 149 | especially the [woman], fainted. | sic | | p. 151 | that were intrusted to us.["] | Closing quote added. | | p. 177 | and Mary, nineteen years." | Added missing quote. | | p. 182 | SITE OF THE HU[R]LBURT | Elsewhere spelled | | Hurlburt. | | p. 204 | the Hotel Hurlbu[r]t | Elsewhere spelled | | Hurlburt. | | p. 224 | train was on a sid[]ing | Missing hyphen on | | line break. | | p. 225 | to[-]day | Missing hyphen added. | | p. 287 | amounted to $687,872[,/.]68 | Comma replaced with | | decimal. | | p. 294 | Thomas Garner & Co[.] | Period added. | | p. 297 | Saugerties[,] N. Y., $850; | comma added. | | p. 301 | débris / debris | Both the accented and | | unaccented spellings | | are retained, here and | | elsewhere. | | p. 306 | nine hundred men [a]t work | Added missing 'a'. | | p. 317 | was discovered w[h]ere anybody | Added missing 'h'. | | p. 319 | there was ample water t[e/o] cover | Corrected typo. | | | amount of water i[n/t] contained | Corrected typo. | | p. 320 | ninety million cubic feet[.] | Added missing '.' | | p. 321 | Ho[u/a]ng-ho | Changed to agree with | | other instances. | | p. 322 | But the b[r]each grew | Corrected typo. | | p. 327 | A large rock was split assunder | sic | | p. 328 | and caused great dam[s/a]ge | Corrected typo. | | p. 329 | the Danube again o[u/v]erflowed | Corrected typo. | | | its turbulent waters i[u/n]to | Corrected typo. | | p. 332 | At Whitehall, [N.G./N.Y.] | Corrected typo. | | | one hundred and nin[e]ty feet | Corrected typo. | | p. 358 | Baltimore and Ohio Rail[a/r]oad | Corrected typo. | | p. 377 | turned in[]to them by people | sic | | p. 407 | Allegehenies | sic | | p. 414 | draughty as a seive | sic | | p. 434 | ever beat our time[.]" | Added '.' | | p. 458 | [Caniesto/Canisteo] river | Corrected typo. 
57319	----	+-------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | |Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ SAN ISIDRO BY Mrs. Schuyler Crowninshield [Illustration: Logo] HERBERT S. STONE & COMPANY CHICAGO & NEW YORK MDCCCC COPYRIGHT 1899 BY HERBERT S. STONE & CO. TO C. S. C. A MEMORY OF "LA MADRUGADA" SAN ISIDRO[1] I People wondered why Don Beltran remained in the casa down by the river. He had been warned by his prudent neighbors, who lived anywhere from two to six miles away, that some time a flood, greater than any that the valley had yet known, would arise and sweep house and inmates away to the sea. Don Beltran laughed at this. He was happy as he was, and content. There had always been floods, and they had sometimes caused the river to overflow so as to wash across his potreros, but the cacao and bananas were planted on gentle elevations where the water as yet had never reached. Then, too, there was always the Hill Rancho, though neither so large nor so comfortable as the casa. Why borrow trouble? At the first sign of danger the cattle and horses had always betaken themselves to the grove on the hill, there to browse and feed, until the shallow lake which stretched across the plains below them had subsided. Once Don Beltran, Adan, his faithful serving-man, and Adan's niece, Agueda, had been belated. Adan had quickly untied the bridle of the little brown horse from the tethering staple at the corner of the casa, and mounting it, had swum away for safety. "That is right," said Don Beltran; "he will swim Mexico"--Don Beltran said Mayheco--"to the rising ground, and save the young rascal. As for us, Agueda, the horse had stampeded before I noticed the cloud-burst. It seems that you and I must stay." Agueda made no answer, but she thought it no hardship to remain. "There is no danger for us, child; we can go up to the thatch and wait." "The peons have gone," said Agueda, shyly. "They were within their rights," answered Don Beltran. "All must go who are afraid. I have always told them that. For me, I have known many floods. They were always interesting, never dangerous. Had I my choice, I should have stayed." "And I," said Agueda. She did not look at Don Beltran as she spoke. The lids were drooped over her grey eyes. Agueda turned away and entered the comidor, leaving Don Beltran looking up the valley: not anxiously--merely as one surveys a spectacle of interest. Once in the comidor, Agueda busied herself opening cupboards and closets. She took therefrom certain articles of food which she placed within a basket. She did not move nervously, but quickly, as if to say, "It may come at any moment; we have not much time, perhaps." She recalled, as she lightly hurried about, the last time that the flood had overtaken them at the casa. Nada, her mother, had prepared the basket then. Nada, Adan's sister, who had kept Don Beltran's house, after she had been left alone on the hillside--Nada, sweet Nada, who had died six months ago of no malady that the little Spanish doctor could discover. Don Beltran prized his Capitas, Adan, above all the serving-men whom he had ever employed, and nothing was too good for Adan's sister Nada--so young, so fair-looking, so patient, her mouth set ever in that heartrending smile, which is more bitter to look upon than a fierce compression of the lips, whose gentle tones wring the heart more cruelly than do the wild denunciations of the revengeful and vindictive. The little Spanish doctor, who, like the Chinese, had never forgotten anything, as he had never learned anything, had ordered a young calf slain and its heart brought to where Nada lay wasting away. Warm and almost beating, it had been opened and laid upon the spot where she felt the gnawing pain; but as there is no prophylactic against the breaking of a heart, so for that crushed and quivering organ there is no remedy. And Nada, tortured in every feeling, physical and mental, had suffered all that devotion and ignorance could suggest, and died. Agueda knew little of her mother's history, and remembered only her invariable patience and gentleness. She remembered their leaving Los Alamos to come to the hacienda down by the river. She remembered that one day she had suddenly awakened to the fact that Don Jorge was at the casa no longer, that her mother smiled no more, that she paid slight attention to her little daughter's questionings, that Nada was always robed in black now, that there had been no funeral, no corpse, no grave! Don Jorge was not dead, that she knew, because the old Capitas, Rafael, was always ordering the peons about, saying, "The Señor wills it," or "The Señor will have it so." Then there had come a day when the bull-cart was brought to the door--the side door which opened from their apartment. In it were placed her little trunk, which Nada had brought her from Haldez, when she went to the midwinter fair, and her mother's American chair, which Don Jorge had brought once when he returned from the States; she remembered how kindly he had smiled at her pleasure. In fact, all that in any way seemed to be part and parcel of the two was placed in the cart, not unkindly, by Juan Filipe, and then the vehicle awaited Nada's pleasure. She remembered how Nada had taken her by the hand and led her through the rooms of the large, spreading, uneven casa. They had passed through halls and corridors, and had finally come to a pretty interior, which Agueda remembered well, but in which she had not been now for a long time. The walls were pink, and on the floor was a pink and white rug, faded it is true, but dainty still. Here Nada had looked about with streaming eyes. She had gone round behind the bed, and Agueda had looked up to see her standing, her lips pressed to the wall, and whispering through her kisses, "Good by, good by!" Then she had taken Agueda by the hand. "Look at this room well, 'Gueda," she had said. "Why, mother?" But Nada did not speak. Her lips trembled. She could not form her words. She stood for a moment, her eyes devouring that room which she should never see again. Her tears had stopped; her eyes were burning. She stooped down by her daughter. "Agueda," she said, "repeat these words after me." "Yes, mother." "Say, 'All happiness be upon this house.'" "No, no! mother, I will not. This casa has made you cry. I will not say it." "Agueda!" Nada's tone was almost stern. "Do as I tell you, child, repeat my words--'All happiness come to this house.'" But Agueda had pressed her lips tightly together and shaken her head. She had closed the grey eyes so that the curled lashes swept her round brown cheek. Nada had lifted the child in her arms and carried her through the corridors and out to the side veranda. She had set her in the cart and got in beside her. "Where to, Señora?" Juan Filipe had asked gently. "To San Isidro," Nada had answered from stiff lips. "_Aaaaaiiieee!_" Juan Filipe had shouted, at the same time flourishing the long lash of his whip round the animals' heads. They, knowing that they must soon move, had tossed their noses stubbornly. Another warning, the wheels had creaked, turned round, and they had passed down the hill. Agueda never forgot that ride to San Isidro. Had it not been for her mother's tears, she would have been more than happy. She had always wished to ride in the new bull-cart; Juan Filipe had promised her many a time. Now he was at last keeping his promise. This argued well. If she could take one ride, how many more might she not have? All the time during that little trip to San Isidro, Agueda was asking herself mental questions. There was no use in speaking to her mother. She only looked far away toward Los Alamos, and answered "Yes" and "No" at random. Agueda remembered with what delight she had seen the patient bulls turn the creaking cart into the camino which led to San Isidro. "Oh," she said, clapping her hands, "we are going to Uncle Adan's!" For was not this Uncle Adan's casa, and did not Don Beltran live with Uncle Adan? She was not sure. But when she had been there with her mother, she had seen that splendid tall Don Beltran about the house with the dogs, or with his bulls in the field, or in his shooting coat with his gun slung across his shoulder, or going with his fishing-tackle to the river. Yes, she was sure that Don Beltran lived at Uncle Adan's house. Agueda's thoughts sped with the rapidity that reminiscence brings, and as she placed some rounds of cassava bread in the basket she saw her mother doing the same, as if it were but yesterday, and saying between halting breaths: "Never trust a gentleman--Agueda--marry some--plain, honest--man--a man of--our people, Agueda--but do not--trust--" "Who are our people, mother?" the girl had interrupted. Aye, who were their people? Nada had not answered. She had lain her thin arms round Agueda's unformed shoulders, turned the girl's head backward with the other hand laid upon her brow, and gazed steadily into the good grey eyes. "My little Agueda," she had said--stopped short, and sighed. It was hopeless. There was no escape from the burden of inheritance. Agueda had not understood the cause of her mother's sigh and her halting words. She had been ill to death--that she knew. Then came long years of patience, as Agueda grew to girlhood. Could it be only six months ago that she had lost her? "My sweet Nada," she whispered, as she laid a napkin over the contents of the basket, "I do not know what you meant, but I do not forget you, Nada." "Hasten, Agueda! There is no danger, but there is no need of getting a wetting." Agueda turned to see Don Beltran standing in the doorway of the comidor. He was smiling. His face looked brown and healthful against the worn blue of the old painted door. His white trousers were tucked within the tops of his high boots, and he wore a belt of tanned leather, with the usual accompaniment of a pistol-holder, which was empty, the belt forming a strap for a machete, and holding safely that useful weapon of domesticity or menace. His fine striped shirt hung in loose folds partly over the belt; the collar, broad, and turned down from the brown throat, being held carelessly in place by a flowing coloured tie. He had an old Panama hat in his brown hand. His wavy hair swept back from his forehead, crisp and changeable in its dark gold lights. His brown eyes looked kindly at the girl, but more particularly at the basket which she filled. "Have you some glasses?" he asked, "and some--" "Water, Señor? Yes, I have not forgotten that." Don Beltran laughed merrily. "I fancy that we shall have water enough, 'Gueda, child. Get my flask and fill it with rum. The pink rum of the vega. Here, let me get the demijohn. Run for the flask, child. Perhaps I should have listened to the warning of old Emperatriz." There were other warnings which Beltran had not taken into account. The sultry day that had passed, the total absence of breeze, the low-flying birds, the stridulous cry of the early home-flying parrots, the dun-colored sky to the south and east, the whinneying and neighing of the horses. The old grey, who knew the signs of the times, had torn his bridle loose and raced across the pasture-land to the hill where stood the rancho. He was the pioneer; the others had followed him, and the little roan had galloped away last of all, with Adan to guide and reassure him. The bulls, leaping and plunging with heads to earth and hind hoofs raised in air, with shaking fringe of tail and bellowed pleading, had asked, as plainly as could creatures to whom God gave a soul, to be allowed to flee to the mountain. Adan, in passing, had unclasped and thrown wide the gate, and they had raced with him for certain life from the death which might be imminent. Emperatriz had whined and had pounded her tail restlessly against the planks of the floor. Then she had arisen, and stood with her great forepaws resting upon Beltran's shoulder, gazing with anxiety that was almost human into his face. "Caramba Hombre!" Beltran had said, as he threw the great beast away from him. Then he had laughed. "I am like the peons, who address even the women so. It does mean a storm, Emperatriz, old girl, but I do not care to go." He had opened the outer door. The great hound had darted through, leaped from the veranda to the ground, and fled toward the south, barking as she ran at the encroaching enemy. She had circled round the casa, nose in air, her whimpering cries ascending to the sky, which shone, as yet, blue overhead. Then back she had torn to the steps, and bounding up and in at the door, had crouched at her master's feet, her nose upon the leather of his shoe, her flanks curved high. Then she had leaped upon him again. She had taken his sleeve gently between her teeth as if to compel him to safety, then crouched again, flapping her great tail upon the floor, her eyes raised to his, her whine pleading like the tones of a human voice. Beltran had shaken the dog away. "I am not going, Emperatriz," he had said, impatiently. "Be off with you!" A few more circlings round the casa, a few more appealing cries, a backward glance and a backward bark, and Emperatriz had started for the rancho, and none too soon. The potrero had become a shallow lake, through which she splashed before she had placed her forefeet upon the rise. "Hasten, Agueda! Come! Come!" called Beltran. Agueda ran to the ladder, which was ever ready for just such surprises. It was the expected which usually did not happen at San Isidro, but the ladder was always there, fastened secure and firm, rivetted to the floor and roof alike. It could move but with the house. Agueda stepped lightly upon the rungs, one after the other. She raised the basket up to Don Beltran's down-reaching grasp. He took it, placed it upon the gently sloping roof, and held out a kindly hand to the girl, but Agueda did not take it at once. She descended the ladder a round or two, and from a nail in a near-by beam seized a coat which Don Beltran wore sometimes when the nights were cool, and the trade winds blew up too freshly from the sea. When she climbed again to the opening in the thatch, Don Beltran was leaning against the old stone chimney, which raised its moss-grown head between the casa and cocina. He had forgotten the girl. His horizontal palm shaded his eyes from the ray of the level sun. There was no sign of fear visible upon his face; he appeared rather like an interested observer, which indeed he was, for he felt secure and safe, for himself, his people, and his cattle. "See the commotion among the forests up there, near Palmacristi, Agueda! It may be only a slight storm and quickly over, but if we do have a flood like the last one, I have no wish that Garcia and Manuel Medina shall float in at my front door in their dugouts and carry off all things movable. It is so easy to lay everything to the flood!" "The men have been moving the furniture for an hour past, Señor. I think there is little that can be carried away." Don Beltran gave a sudden start. "Where is the cross, Agueda? Did you remember that?" "I have it here, Señor." Agueda laid her hand upon the bosom of her gown. "And the Señor's little cart, that is locked within the inner cupboard. It cannot go unless the casa goes also." "And in that case I should want it no more in this world, Agueda. You are thoughtful, child. The two souvenirs of my mother! Ah, see!" As he spoke there was a stir among the treetops far over to the westward. There, where yellow-brown clouds hung massed and solid as a wall over the rift below, a strange agitation was visible. "It is a dance, 'Gueda. Do you see them, those fairies? Watch that one advancing there, to the southward. She approaches the lady from the east. See them skip and whirl and pass as if in a quadrille. It is a pretty sight. You will see that once in a lifetime--not oftener. They call it the _trompa marina_ at sea." Agueda raised her eyes and looked smiling towards the spot to which he nodded. There white and twisting spirals danced and swayed against that lurid background, and above the deep bay, which was hidden by the hills. They advanced, they retreated, they dipped like sprites from palm tuft to palm tuft. Sometimes they skipped gaily in couples, again one was left to follow three or four that had their heads close together, like schoolchildren telling secrets. It was all so human and everyday-like, that Agueda laughed gaily and gazed fascinated at the antics of these children of the storm. The long, ragged-edged split in the angry clouds disclosed a blood-red glow behind, which sent its glare down through the valley and across the woods, where it flecked the tree trunks. From Beltran's vantage point the palm shafts stood black as night against the glare. When he turned and looked behind him, unwilling to lose a single bit of this latest painting from the brush of nature, he found that she had dashed every tree trunk with one gorgeous splash of ruddy gold. Agueda lifted her basket and carried it to the chimenea unaided. Beltran was so absorbed in the grand sight that he had forgotten to be kind. There was usually no thought of gallantry in what he did for the girl, but even the natural kindliness of his manner was in abeyance. Agueda set the basket behind the great stone wall. She remembered what he had said the last time they had sought shelter from the water. "It is ridiculous, that great chimney," he had said: "but even the absurd things of life have their uses." She remembered how she had crouched in her mother's arms the whole long day, but beyond a few drops there had been no cloud-burst, no flood that came higher than the top step of the veranda. They had descended at night dry and unharmed. "It may be like the last one," she ventured to say. But her sentence was drowned. There came a rustling and swaying sound from afar, growing louder as it approached. Beltran noted the ruthless path which it indicated, and then, "there came a rushing, mighty wind from Heaven." It fell upon the tall lilies as if they were grass, bent them to the earth, and laid them prostrate. Some of them, denizens of the soil more tenacious of their hold than others, clung to Mother Earth with the grip of the inheritor of primogeniture. But the struggle was brief. "I was certain that those I planted upside down would stand," said Beltran to Agueda. "I allowed twelve-inch holes, too." But there comes a time when precaution is proven of no avail. The massive stalks were torn from their holdings like so much straw, and laid low with their weaker brothers. As they began to fall in the near field, "It is upon us!" shouted Beltran. He seized Agueda's wrist and drew her behind the chimney. And there they cowered as the wind raved past them on either side, carrying heavy missiles on its strong wings. At this Beltran's face showed for the first time some uneasiness. He was peering out from behind his stone bulwark. "There goes Aranguez's casa," he said, regretfully. "I had no thought of that. I wish I had sent you to the rancho, child." They crouched low behind the chimney. He clung to one of the staples mortared in the interstices of the stone-work, against just such a day as this, and braced his foot beneath the eaves. Again he peered cautiously out. A whistling, rustling sound had made him curious as to its source. The river, which had been flowing tranquilly but a few minutes before, now threw upward white and pointed arms of foam, They reached to the branches, which threshed through open space, and swayed over to meet their supplication, then straightened a moment to bend again to north, to east, to west. The floods had fallen fiercely upon the defenceless bosom of the gentle Rio Frio, had beaten and lashed it and overcome it, so that it mingled perforce with its conqueror, while raising appealing arms for mercy. It grieved, it tossed, it wept, it wailed, but its invader shrieked gleefully as he hurried his helpless prize down through the savannas to that welcoming tyrant, the sea. The water crept rapidly up toward the foundation of the casa. It washed underneath the high flooring. It lapped against the pilotijos. It carried underneath the house branches and twigs which it had brought down in its mad rush toward the lowlands. As it rose higher and higher, it wove the banana stalks and wisps of straw which it bore upon its bosom in and out between the trunks and stems of trees. With the skill of an old-time weaver, it interlaced them through the upright growth which edged the bank. One saw the vegetable fabric there for years after, unless the sun and rain had rotted it away, and another flood had replaced within the warp a fresher woof. Beltran arose and took a few cautious steps upon the roof, but the wind, if warm, was fierce, and thrust him back with violence. He barely escaped being dashed to the new-made lake below. He caught at the chimenea, and edging slowly round, seated himself again by Agueda. She had been calling to him, and had stretched out her hand. Her eyes showed her fear, and also the relief which his presence gave her. When she felt that he was safe beside her she made no further sign. Beltran had laid his hand on Agueda's shoulder as he would have done upon the chimney itself. By it he steadied himself in taking his seat. She raised her eyes and shyly offered him his coat. He shook his head with a smile. His lips moved, but she could hear no word for the noise of the wind and water. Don Beltran put his hand to his mouth and placed his lips to Agueda's ear. "Do not be afraid," he shouted. "There is really no danger." She shook her head and glanced up at him again, dropping almost at once the childish eyes to the hands in her lap. She moved a little nearer to their dividing line, and called in answer: "I am not afraid." He saw her lips move, and guessed at the words, though her look of confidence would have answered him. Why had he never noticed those eyes before? Was it because she had always kept them cast down? What slim hands the girl had! What shapely shoulders! He looked at them as they rested against the weather-beaten stones of the chimney. Agueda turned her head backward and clutched quickly at the light handkerchief which confined the waves of her short hair. She laughed and looked upward at Don Beltran from under her sweeping lashes. Her soul went forth to meet his gaze, unconscious as a little child that she had a secret to tell; unconscious that the next moment she had told it. How can one tell anything except by word of mouth? Beltran drew sharply back, as far as the contracted space would allow. He leaned over the edge of the roof, and saw that the water was now sweeping through the casa, flowing more slowly as it spread over a greater space. It glided in at the doors and out at the windows, which he had left open purposely, not dreaming, it is true, that this flood would be greater than others of its kind, but that in case it should be, the resistance might be less. Glancing down stream, he saw a chair and some tin pans bobbing and courtesying to each other as they drifted across the potrero where the cattle usually browsed. The sun declined, the dusk came creeping down, and with the approach of night the wind subsided. Fortunately there was no rain. The clouds had been carried in from the sea at right angles with the stream, and had broken in the mountains and poured out their torrents there. Still the rushing of the river drowned all other sounds. It grew quite dark. Beltran leaned back against the chimenea. The slight creature at his side rested, also, in silence. The darkness became intense. The chimenea was needed no longer as a protection from the wind, but the utter absence of all light made the slightest motion dangerous. A chill mist crept up from the sea. The night began to grow cold, as do the tropic nights of midwinter. Beltran shivered. Something was pushed against his hand. He reached down and felt another hand, a hand slim and cold. He took it within his own, but it was at once withdrawn, and a rough and heavy article thrown across his knees. He felt some buttons, a pocket which held papers, a collar. Ah! It must be his woollen coat, which she had had the forethought to bring. Feeling for the sleeve, he threw the coat round his shoulders, and with a resolve born in a moment, reached out toward Agueda. His groping fingers fell upon her sweet throat and the tendrils of her boyish hair, the great dark rings, which, now that he could not see them, he suddenly remembered. Throwing his arm around her, he drew the damp and shivering figure close. Then he grasped the sleeve of his coat, and drew it towards him, forcing her head down upon his breast. He sought the other hand, and later found the tremulous lips. He held his willing prisoner close, and so they sat the whole night through. Many and strange thoughts rushed through Agueda's brain during those blissful hours. Life began for her then, and she found it well worth living. She awoke. Her child's heart sprang into full being, to lie dormant never again. Nada's words came back to her. She did not wish to recall them, but they forced themselves upon her: "Never trust a gentleman, Agueda; he will only betray you." "I should think much of your warning, Nada," thought Agueda, "if I saw other gentlemen. I never do see them. If I do, he will protect me." The danger had not arrived. It could never come now. She had found her bulwark and her defence. FOOTNOTE: [1] Pronounced E-see-dro. II "When the flood has subsided," Agueda had said to herself, "all will be as before. But stay! Would anything ever be as before? Well, what matter? Who would go back? Shall we not trust those whom we love? Life is the better for it. This was life. Life was all happiness, all joy. The future? There was to be no future but this. This life of hers and his should be the same until death claimed the one or the other. God grant that they might go together, rather than that one should be left behind. Let them go in a greater flood, perhaps, than the one which they had outspent upon the thatched roof in the shelter of the old chimenea." Agueda knew not the meaning of those words of calculation--"the world." She had never known the world, she had never seen the world. She found herself living as many did about her. Only that they had heart-burnings, jealousies, disappointments, and sorrows. She was secure, and she pitied them that their lots had not been cast within so safe a fold as hers. Her nature, if ignorant, was undefiled and undepraved; and noble, in that she found no sacrifice too great for this splendid young god who claimed her. What else was her mission in life but to make his life as near Heaven as earthly existence could become? She stretched out her young arms to the sky with a glow of happiness that asked nothing further of God. There were the mountains, the fields, the forests, the plantations, the river, and the rambling, thatched casa. These made for her the world. Sometimes she thought of and pitied Aneta at El Cuco. Poor Aneta, who had thought that a life-long happiness was hers, when suddenly one day Don Mateo had returned from the city with a bride. "Poor Aneta!" Agueda used often to say, with a pitying smile through which her own contentment broke in ripples of joy. How could she trust a man like Don Mateo? As Agueda sat and thought, she mended with anxious but unskilled fingers the pile of linen which old Juana had brought in from the ironing room. Juana had clumped along the back veranda and set the basket down with a heavy thump. There were table linen and bed linen, there were the Señor's striped shirts of fine material from the North, and his dainty underwear, and Agueda's neat waists and collars keeping company with them in truly domestic manner. Agueda had never done menial work; Uncle Adan's position as manager of the plantation had secured something better for his niece. If Uncle Adan knew the truth, he made no sign. The lax state of morals in the country had always been the same. In reality he saw no harm in it. Besides which, had he wished to, what change could he make--he, a simple manager and farming man, against the owner of the hacienda, a rich and powerful Señor from Adan's point of view. Suddenly Agueda remembered that she had not seen Aneta for a long time. She would go now, this very minute, and pay the visit so long overdue. She arose at once. With characteristic carelessness she dropped the sheet upon which she had been engaged on the floor, took from its peg the old straw hat, and clapped it over her boyish curls. The hat was yellow, it had a peaked crown, and twisted round the crown was a handkerchief of pale blue. Agueda made no toilet; she hardly looked at her smiling image in the glass. From the corner of the room she took a time-worn umbrella, which had once been white, and started towards the door. A backward glance showed her the confusion of the room. For herself she did not care, but the Señor might come in perhaps before her return. He had gone to the mail-station across the bay; the post-office and the bank were both there. He was bringing home some bags of pesos with which to pay his men. Possibly he would bring a letter or two from the fruit agents, or the merchant to whom he sold the little coffee that he raised; but the pesos were more of a certainty than the letters. If he returned home before her, the sitting-room would have a disorderly appearance, and he disliked disorder. His mother, the Doña Maria, had been a very neat old lady. There are some persons to whom order and neatness are inborn. With a touch of a deft finger here or there, an apartment becomes at once a place where the most critical may enter. To others it is a labor to make a room appear well cared for. It may be immaculate in all that pertains to dust or the thorough cleanliness of linen or woodwork, but the power to so impress the beholder is lacking. Agueda was one of these. She sighed as she gazed at the unkempt appearance of the room. There was not much the matter, and yet she did not know how to remedy it. She re-entered the room and picked up the sheet from the floor, together with a pillow-slip whose starched glossiness had caused it to slide down to keep the sheet company. Folding these, not any too precisely, she laid them upon the chair where she had lately sat. Then she glanced around the room again. Its careless air still offended her, but time was flying, and she had a long walk before her. Suddenly she put her hand to her ear and took from behind it the rose that had been there since early morning. It was the first that she had struggled to raise, and it had repaid her efforts, in that hot section of the country, by dwining and dwindling like a puny child. Still, it was a rose. She laid it on the badly folded sheet; it gave an air of habitation to the room. She smiled down at this, her messenger. She gave the linen a final pat and went out, closing the door softly. It was as if a young mother had left her sleeping child to be awakened by its father, should he be the first to return. "It is something of me," thought Agueda. "It will be the first to greet him." Agueda stepped out on the broad veranda. The loose old boards creaked even under her slight weight. "Juana!" she called, "I'm going to see Aneta at El Cuco." She made no other explanation. He would ask as soon as he returned, and they would tell him. "Youah neva fin youah roaad in dis yer fawg," squeaked Juana. "The fog may lift," laughed Agueda. The river, forgetful of its past turbulence, smiled and glanced and beckoned as it slipped tranquilly onward, but Agueda did not answer the summons. She turned abruptly to the right and crossed the well-known potrero path. This led her for a quarter of a mile through the mellow pasture-land, where horses were browsing. The grey was not there--sure sign of his master's absence, but the little chestnut was in evidence, and farther along, beyond the wire fence, were the great bulls, which had not been driven afield with the suckers. There stood Cæsar, the big brown bull with the great, irregular white spots. Agueda went close to the fence, and picked a handful of sweet herbs, such as Cæsar loved. "Cæsar," she called, "Cæsar, it is I that have the sweet things for you." Cæsar threw up his head quickly, tossing long strings of saliva into the air. He stood for a moment with hesitant look, then perceiving that it was Agueda, trotted, tail held stiff, to where she waited, her hand held out to him. He extended his thick neck, holding his wet, pink nostrils just over the barrier, wound his dripping tongue round the dainty, and then withdrew his head that he might eat with ease. "Too bad, poor Cæsar, that the horses get all the sweets, and you none." With awkward arm held high, that she might not catch her sleeve upon the topmost wire, she patted the animal's nose; then thrust one more bunch of grass into the ready cavity, and turning, ran along toward the rise. When Agueda had closed the rickety potrero gate, she started up the elevation which confronted her. Here the young bananas were just showing above the ground. She had deplored the fact that this pretty hill-forest had been sacrificed to banana culture, and had hated to see the great giants which she had known from childhood cut and slashed. At the fall of each one of them she had felt as if she had lost a friend. "I shall never sit under the gri-gri again," she had thought, "and eat my guavas as I look down on the river"; or, "I shall never again play house beneath the old mahogany that stood up there at the edge of the meadow." The face of nature was changed for her in this particular. It was the only thing that she had to make her unhappy. Who among us would think the world a sadder place because of the felling of a tree! The stumps stood even with Agueda's shoulder, for Natalio, that African giant, was the axe-man of the hacienda. His ringing strokes struck hip high. It was less work to cut through the trunk some distance above its spreading roots. There was no clearing up nor carrying away of branches or limbs. With all their massive foliage, the branches were hacked from the parent stem, and left to dry in the tropic sun. They were then placed in great piles about the mother tree, lighted, and left to burn. Sometimes these fallen denizens of the wood, whose life had seen generations of puny men fade and wither, and other generations spring up and die while they stood splendid and vigourous, refused to be annihilated. The fallen trunk remained for years, proof of the vandalism of man. More often, a long line of ashes marked the spot where the giant had blazed, then smouldered sullenly, to become wind-blown, intangible. This great woodland crematory having been made ready by death for the life that was to spring up through its vanquishment, the peons came with their machetes and dug the graves in which the bulbs, teeming with quiescent life, were to be planted, each sucker twelve feet from any one of its neighbors, there to be warmed and nurtured in the bosom of Mother Earth. Because exposed upon a windy hillside, the bulbs had been placed in their graves head and sprouting end downward, and at the depth of ten inches. This was a provision against hurricanes, which, with all their power, find it difficult to uproot so securely planted a stalk. And now the field which she had helped to "avita"--for one gives in when the tide of circumstances flows too strong--the waste whose seed-graves she had seen dug, whose bulbs she had seen buried from sight, had suddenly become a field of life once more. Pale green spears were springing up in every direction--a light, wonderful green with a tinge of yellow. The spatulated leaves were handsomest, Agueda thought, when spotted or marked with brown, or a rich chocolate shade. In their tender infancy they were the loveliest things on earth, she thought, as she ran about the damp, hot hillside, comparing one with another; and as she again returned to the path, she nearly stumbled against the ebony giant, who, standing just at the edge of the field, was watching her. "It is wonderful, Natalio," she said, "how quickly they have sprouted." She smiled upward. "Si, Señorit'," said Natalio, smiling down. "It is the early rains that bring the life. Perhaps the good God may be thanked a little, too, but it is the good soil, and the rains most of all." He stooped his great height, and took some of the earth in his fingers. "It is the caliche so the Señor says." He rubbed the disintegrated gravelly mass between his fingers. Some of it powdered away. The fine bits of stone that it contained dropped in a faint patter upon his feet. "I never heard the Señor say that," said Agueda, with the air of one who would know what were the Señor's favourite convictions, "but of course he knows, the Señor." "Bieng," said Natalio. "It is certain that the Señor knows." Agueda moved on up the hill. She felt, crunching beneath her feet, the shells of the circular grub which had lost life and home in this terrific holocaust. "It seems hard," mused Agueda, "that some things must die that other things may be created." She smiled as she said this. She need not die that other things might live. It had no personal application for her. At least it would not have for sixty or eighty years, and that was a whole lifetime. She might not be glad to die even then! Agueda had reached the summit of the hill. She turned to look back at Natalio. He was standing gazing after her. When he saw her turn he expanded his handsome lips into a smile, showing his white teeth. Then he uncovered his head, and swept the ground with his ragged Panama hat. He called; Agueda could not hear at first what he said. "Que es eso?" she called back in answer. Natalio approached a few feet with his great strides. "I asked if the Señorit' would not ride the bull?" "Pablo is away," said Agueda. "I cannot go alone. The Señor will not have me to ride the bull alone." "El Caballo Castaño, Señorit'," said Natalio, suggestively, approaching nearer. "Would you saddle him, Natalio?" asked Agueda, thinking this an excellent change of programme. "It would give me pleasure, Señorit'," said Natalio. Agueda turned and began to walk rapidly down the hill. "The small man's saddle, Natalio," she called. "I will be ready in a moment." Agueda ran down the hill, keeping ahead of the giant, and sped across the potrero. She flew to her room. There lay the rose as she had left it upon the chair, but she had no time for sentiment. The horse would be at the door in a moment, and indeed, before she had changed her skirt for the cotton riding garment that she usually wore, and which our ladies have imported of late under the name of a divided skirt, Natalio was at the steps. Agueda buckled on her spur, and was out on the veranda in the twinkling of an eye. Uncle Adan was coming up from the river. He saw her stand upon the second step and throw her leg boy-fashion over the saddle, seize the whip from Natalio, and canter away again toward the hill. To his shout of "Where are you going?" she flung back the words, "To Aneta's," and was off. Her easy seat astride the animal gave her a sense of freedom and independence. The top of the hill reached, she struck off toward Troja, on the other side of which lived Aneta, at El Cuco. Agueda galloped along the damp roads, and then clattered through the streets of the quiet little West Indian town. Arrived upon its further outskirts, she allowed the chestnut to walk, for he was warm and tired. She was passing at the back of Escobeda's casa, through a narrow lane shaded with coffee trees. The wall of the casa descended abruptly to this lane, the garden being in front, facing the broad camino. Agueda heard her name softly called. She halted and looked towards the casa. A shutter just at the side of the balcony moved almost imperceptibly, then was pushed open a trifle, and she saw a face, the face of Raquel, the niece of Escobeda. Raquel had her finger upon her lips. Agueda guided her horse near, in as cautious a manner as could be. When she was well under the opening, Raquel spoke again. "It is Agueda, is it not? Agueda from San Isidro?" Raquel whispered her words. Agueda, seeing that there was need for secrecy, also let her voice fall lower than was usual. "Yes," she smiled, "I am certainly Agueda from San Isidro." "Ah! you happy girl," said Raquel, in a cautious tone, "to be riding about alone." Agueda's head was almost on a level with Raquel's. "I am a prisoner, Agueda," said Raquel. "My uncle has shut me up here. He means to take me away in a short time. It's a dreadful thing which is to happen. Can you carry a note for me, Agueda?" "I will carry a note for you," said Agueda. "Is it ready, Señorita?" "I will write it in a moment. Agueda, good girl, you know the plantation of the Silencios, do you not? Palmacristi?" "I can find it," said Agueda. "It is down by the sea. It is not much out of my way." "If it were miles and miles out of your way, Agueda, dear, you must take my letter." "Give it to me, then," said Agueda. There was a noise inside the room, at the door of the chamber. "Ride on to the clump of coffee bushes where the roads meet," whispered Raquel. "The fog will help hide you, too. I will drop the note." As she tried to guide the chestnut softly over the turf, Agueda heard a loud call from within. It was a man's coarse voice. She heard Raquel answer drowsily, "In a moment, uncle; I was just asleep. Wait until I--" Agueda halted for some minutes behind the concealment of the coffee bushes. She grudged this delay, for she had still some distance to travel, and must make a detour because of Raquel's request. "But," she argued, "had I walked, I should have been much longer on the way." She watched the window at the back of Escobeda's house, then, presently, from the front, saw a man mount and ride away in the opposite direction. Then, as she still awaited the fluttering of the note, the shutter was flung wide, and an arm encased in a yellow sleeve beckoned desperately. Agueda struck her spur into the chestnut, and was soon under the window again. "He has gone," said Raquel, "and I am locked in the house alone. All the servants have gone to the fair." "You can climb down," said Agueda. "It is not high." "Where should I go then, Agueda?" asked Raquel. "No, he would only bring me back. Now I will write my note, and I will ask you to take it to Don Gil." As Raquel said this name her voice trembled. She coloured all over her face. "You are lovely that way," said Agueda. "What does he do to you, Señorita?--the Señor Escobeda. Does he starve you? Does he ill treat--I could tell the Señor Don Beltran--" "You do not blush when you speak of him," said Raquel, who had heard some rumours. "I have no cause to blush," said Agueda, with dignity. "But come, Señorita, the note!" Raquel withdrew into the room. She scribbled a few words on a piece of blue paper, folded it, and encased it in a long thin envelope. This she sealed with a little pink wafer, on which were two turtle doves with their bills quite close together. She leaned out and handed the missive down to Agueda. "Thank you, dear," she said. "I should like to kiss you." "I should like much to have you," said Agueda. "Perhaps I can stand up." Agueda spurred her horse closer under the window. She raised herself as high as she could. The chestnut started. "He will throw you," said Raquel. "I will lean out." Raquel stretched her young form as far out of the window as possible. She could just reach Agueda's forehead. She kissed her gently. "I thank you, Señorita," said Agueda. She felt the kiss upon her forehead all the way to the plantation; it seemed like a benediction. She did not reason out the cause of her feeling, but it was true that no one of Raquel's class had ever kissed her before. Agueda rode along her way with quick gait. The plantation of Palmacristi was some miles farther on, and she wished still to see Aneta. On her way toward Palmacristi, and as she mounted the slope leading to the casa, she met no one. Arrived at that splendid estate by the sea, she spurred her horse over the hill and round to the counting-house. This was the place, she had heard, where the Señor was usually to be found. She had seen the Señor at a distance. She thought that she would know him. At that same hour the Señor Don Gil Silencio-y-Estrada sat within his counting-house. The counting-house was constructed of the boards of the palm, the inner side plain, the outer side curved, as the tree had curved. The bark had not been removed. The roof of the building was also made of palm boards; it was thickly thatched with yagua. Since the days of the old Don Gil the finca had enlarged and improved. The counting-house stood within its small enclosure, its back against the side of the casa, and though it communicated with the interior of the imposing mahogany mansion, it remained the same palm-board counting-house--that is, to the outside world--that the estate of Palmacristi had ever known. Two tall palms stood like sentinels upon either side of the low step before the doorway. The palm trees were dead. They had been topped by no green plume of leaves since before the death of the old Don Gil. Now, as then, the carpenter birds made their homes in the decaying shaft. The round beak-made holes, from root to treetop, disclosed numberless heads, if so much as a tap were given the resounding stem of the palm. No one wondered why Don Gil still used the ancient structure as a counting-house. No one ever wondered at anything at Palmacristi; everything was accepted with quiescence. "The good God wills it," a shrug of the shoulders accompanying the remark, made alike, if a tornado unroofed a house or a peon died of the wounds received at the last garito.[2] The changes which had taken place at Palmacristi had nothing to say to the condition of the counting-house, or it to them, except that it acceded, somewhat slowly in some cases, to the payment of bills. Since his father's day Don Gil had added much to the estate. Upon the right he had bought more than twenty caballerias from Don Luis Salas--land which marched with his own to the seashore. This included a tall headland, with a sand spit at its base, which pushed itself a half mile out into the sea. This sand spit curved in a hook to the left, and formed a pleasant and safe harbour for boating. To the north of his inheritance Don Gil had taken in the old estates of La Flor and Provedencia, and at the back of the casa, which already stood high up on the slope, he had extended his possessions over the crest of the hill. Had the original owner of Palmacristi returned on a visit to earth, he would have found his old plantation the center of a magnificent estate, with, however, the same shiftless, careless ways of master and servant that had obtained in his time. This would probably grow worse as his descendants succeeded each other in ownership. The casa was built upon a level, where the hill ceased to be a hill just long enough to allow of a broad foundation for Don Gil's improvements. At the edge of the veranda the hill sloped gently again for the distance of a hundred yards, and then dropped in a short but steep declivity to the sand beach. The old habitation had been built entirely of palm boards, but in its place, at the bidding of Don Gil, had arisen a new and more modern erection, whose only material was mahogany. Pilotijos, escaleras, ligazones, verandas, techos, all were hewn and formed of the fine red mahogany. The boards were unpolished, it is true, but dark and rich in tone. They made a cool interior, where, coming from the white glare outside, body and eye alike were at once at rest. The covering of the techos was the glazed tile of Italy. Perhaps one should speak of the roofs as _tejados_, as they were covered with tiles. This tiling proved a beacon by day, as it glittered in the blazing light of the sun of the tropics. Agueda guided her horse up the path between the two dead palm trees, and rapped with the stock of her whip upon the counting-house door, which stood partly open. "Entra," was the reply. She rapped again. "It is I who cannot enter, Señor," she called in her clear, young voice. "I have not the time to dismount." An inner door was opened and closed. A fine-looking young fellow stepped across the intervening space and appeared upon the threshold of the outer door. He raised his brows; he did not know Agueda. Don Beltran made various pretexts for her absence when he had visitors. Agueda held out the note. It was crumpled and dusty from being held in her hand. "I am sorry," she said; "the day is hot, and my Castaño is not quiet." Don Gil gazed with interest at the boyish-looking figure riding astride the little chestnut. "What a handsome lad she would make!" he thought. "And you are from--" "It makes no difference for me. I bring a message." Silencio took the note which she reached out to him. "You will dismount and let me send for some fruit, some coffee?" "I thank you, Señor, I must hasten; I am going to El Cuco." "That is not so far," said Don Gil, smiling. "No, but I then have to ride a long way back to--" "To--?" "To San Isidro." "The Señorita takes roundabout ways. Is she then carrying messages all about the country?" "Oh, no, Señor," said Agueda, smiling frankly. "When I go back to San Isidro I go to my home. I live there." "Ah!" What was there imperceptible in Don Gil's tone? "You live there? Is the Señorita perhaps the niece of the manager, Señor Adan?" "Si, Señor," answered Agueda, flushing hotly, she knew not why. She wheeled Castaño and paced down between the palm trees. "And you will not take pity on my loneliness?" Don Gil was still smiling, but there was something new, something of familiarity, it seemed to Agueda, in his tone. "I cannot stop, Señor. A Dios!" she said, gravely. As Agueda rode out of the enclosure the day seemed changed. Why was it? She had been so happy before she had delivered the note! Now she felt sad, depressed. The sun was still shining, though there were occasional showers of rain, and the birds were still singing. Nothing in nature had changed. Ah, stay! There was a cloud over there, hanging low down above the sea. It was coming to the westward, she thought. She hoped that it would come, and quickly. She hoped that it would burst in rain upon her, and make her ride for it, and struggle with it. Anything to drive away that unhappy impression. Had Silencio been asked what he had said or done to cause this young girl to change suddenly from a thoughtless, happy creature to one who felt that she had reason for uneasiness, he could not have told. He had heard vague rumours of the girl, Adan's niece, who lived over at San Isidro. But that he had allowed any such impression to escape him in intonation or gesture he was quite unaware. At all events, he was entirely oblivious of Agueda the moment that she had ridden away, for he opened the little blue note that she had brought, and was lost in its contents. FOOTNOTE: [2] Cock-fight. III When Agueda left the Casa de Caboa she turned down the trocha towards the sea. Although the sea was not far from San Isidro as the crow flies, the dwellers at the hacienda rarely went there. In the first place, there was the river to cross, and then the wood beyond the river was filled with a thick, short growth of prickly pear. This sort of underbrush was unpleasant to pull through. Don Beltran had tried to buy it from Escobeda up at Troja, but Escobeda seemed to have been born to annoy the human race in general, and Don Beltran and Silencio in particular. He would not sell, and he would not cultivate, so that the sea meadow, as they called it at San Isidro, was an eyesore and a cause of heart-burning to Don Beltran. Agueda chirruped to her horse, and was soon skirting the plantation of Palmacristi. The chestnut was a pacer, and Agueda liked his single foot, and kept him down to it at all hazards. She felt as if she were in Nada's American chair, the motion was so easy and pleasant. The beach was rather a new experience to the chestnut, but after a little moment of hesitancy he started on with a nod of the head. "Ah!" said Agueda, with a laugh, "it is you, Castaño, who know that I never lead you wrong." She shook the bridle, and the horse put forth his best powers. They took the wet sand just where the water had retreated but a little while before. It was as hard and firm as the country road, but moist and cool. "How I should like to plunge into that sea," said Agueda to Castaño. Castaño again nodded an acquiescent head. A salt-water bath was a novelty to these comrades. After a few moments of pacing, Agueda came to the sand spit which ran out from the plantation into the sea. Here was the boat-house which Don Gil had built, and Agueda noticed that it was placed upon a high point, with ways leading down on either side into the water. She looked wistfully at the boat-house. "How I should love to sail upon that sea," thought Agueda. "No water, however high, could frighten me." Then she recalled with a flash the flood which had brought her happiness. She smiled faintly, for with the thought the unpleasant feeling which Don Gil's words had called up returned, she knew not why. Agueda was pacing towards the south. Upon her right stood up tall and high the asta of Palmacristi, the staff from which hung the lantern that, she had heard, sent forth its white ray each night to warn the seafarers on that lonely coast. "What harm for a ship to run on the sand," thought Agueda. "I have heard that rocks are cruel. But the sand is soft. It need hurt no one." She struck spurs to Castaño, and covered several miles before she again drew rein. And now the bank grew high, and Agueda awoke to the fact that she was alone upon the beach, screened from the eyes of every one. Again the thought came to her of a bath in the sea, and she was about to rein the chestnut in when she heard a shout from the plateau above her head. She stopped, and tipping back her straw hat, she looked upward. All that she could discover was a mass of flowers in motion. "They are the air-plants, certainly," said Agueda to herself, "but I never saw them to grow like that." She looked to right and to left, but there was no human being in sight along the yellow bank outlined by sand and overhanging weeds. "Who calls me?" she cried aloud, holding her hair from her ears, where the wind persisted in blowing it. "Caramba, muchacho! Can you not see who it is? It is I, Gremo." There was a violent agitation of the mass of blooms, and Agueda now perceived that a head was shaking out its words from the centre of this woodland extravaganza. "I can hardly see you, Gremo," said Agueda. "What do you want with me, Gremo?" "And must I make brains for every muchacho[3] between here and the Port of Entry? Do you not know there are the quicksands just beyond?" "Quicksands, Gremo! Yes, I had heard of quicksands, but I did not think them here. Can I get up the bank, Gremo?" "No," answered Gremo, from his flower screen. "You must ride back a long way." He wheeled suddenly toward the south--at least, the mass of flowers wheeled, and a hand was stretched forth from the centre. A finger pointed along the sand. Agueda turned in the saddle and shaded her eyes again. "What is it, Gremo?" she asked. "I see nothing." "Then you do not see that small thing over which the vultures hover?" "I see the vultures, certainly," said Agueda. "Some bit of fish, perhaps." "No bit of fish or fowl, but foul flesh, if you will, hombre. It is the hand of a Señor, muchacho." "The hand of a Señor? And what is the hand of a Señor doing, lying along there on the shore?" "It lies there because it cannot get loose. Caramba, muchacho! Do I not know?" "Cannot get loose from what?" asked Agueda, still puzzled. "From the Señor himself, muchachito. He lies below there, and his good horse with him. Do you not see a hoof just over beyond where the big bird lights?" Agueda turned pale. She had never been near such death before. Nada had passed peacefully away with the sacred wafer upon her lips, and in her ears the good padre's words of forgiveness for all her sins, of which Agueda was sure she had committed none. Hers was a sweet, calm, sad death. One thought of it with relief and hope, but this was tragedy. There, along the beach, beneath the smiling sand, whose grains glistened in a million, million sparkles, lay the bodies of horse and rider, overtaken by this placid sea. "I suppose he was a stranger," said Agueda. "There was no one to warn him." Suddenly she felt faint. A strong whiff of air reached her from the direction of the birds. She turned the chestnut rapidly, and struck the spur to his side. "Wait, Gremo, wait!" she cried, "I am coming! Do not leave me here alone." The chestnut paced as never horse paced before, and after a few minutes Agueda found a little cleft in the bank where a stream trickled down. Into this opening she guided Castaño, and with spur and whip aided him in his scramble up the bank. She galloped southward again, and neared the place where Gremo stood. She was guided by the mass of bloom. As she advanced she saw the blossoms shaking, but as yet perceived nothing human. Tales of the forest suddenly came back to her. Could it be that this was a woodland spirit, who had lured her here to this high headland, to throw her over the cliff again to keep company with the dead man yonder and the birds of prey? She had half turned her horse, when Gremo, seeing her plan, thrust himself further from his gorgeous environment. "Ah! It is the little Agueda! Do not be afraid, Agueda, little Señorita. It is I, Gremo." Agueda's cheek had not as yet regained its colour. "It is Gremo, muchachito." "What terrible thing is that down there, Gremo? And to see you looking like this frightened me!" It was a curious sight which met Agueda's eyes. Gremo, the little yellow keeper of Los Santos light, was standing not far from his signal pole. He held a staff in each hand. The staves were crooked and uneven. They were covered with bark, and scraggy bits of moss hung from them here and there. The strange thing about them was that each blossomed like the prophet's rod. At the top of the right-hand staff there shot out a splendid orange-coloured flower, with velvety oval-shaped leaves. Near the top of the left-hand staff was a pale pink blossom, large also, not wilted, as plucked flowers are apt to be, but firm and fresh. But these were not all the prophet's rods which Gremo carried. Across his back was slung an old canvas stool, opened to its fullest extent, and laid lengthwise across this were many more ragged staves, and on each and all of them a flower of some shade or colour bloomed. Then there were branches held under his arms, whose protruding ends blossomed in Agueda's very face, and quite enclosed the yellow countenance of Gremo. The glossy green of the leaves surrounding each bloom so concealed Gremo that he was lost in his vari-coloured burden of loveliness. "So it is really you, Gremo! Do they smell sweet, those air-plants?" Gremo shifted from one leg to the other. One of Gremo's legs was shorter than the other. He generally settled down on the short one to argue. When he was indignant he raised himself upon his long leg and hurled defiance from the elevation. The mass of bloom seemed to exhale a delicate aroma. So evanescent was it that Gremo often said to himself, "Have they any scent after all?" And then, in a moment, a breeze blew from left to right, across the open calix of each delicate flower, and Gremo said, "How sweet they are!" "I sometimes think they are the sweetest things on God's earth," said Gremo. "That is, when the Señorita is not by," he added, remembering that his grandfather had brought some veneer from old Spain; "and then again I ask myself, is there any perfume at all?" "Oh, now I smell it, Gremo!" said Agueda, sniffing up her straight little nose. "Now I smell it! It is delicious!" "It is better than the perfume down below there," said Gremo, with a grimace. Agueda turned pale again. "And what do you do with them, Gremo?" asked she. "I take them to the Port of Entry, Señorita. I get good payment there. Sometimes a half-dollar, Mex. They stick them in the earth. They last a long, long time." "Were you going there when you called me from--from--down there?" "Si, Señorita. I was walking along the bank. I had just come from my casa"--Gremo gestured backward with a dignified wave of the hand--"when I heard El Castaño's hoofs on the hard sand there below." He turned and looked along the beach to where the noisome birds hovered. "I was too late to warn the Señor. Had I been here, I should even have laid down my plants and have run to the edge of the cliff"--Gremo jerked his head towards the humped-up pit of sand--"and called, 'Olá! Porque hace Usted eso? It is Gremo who has the kind heart, muchacho.'" "I am not a boy, Gremo," said Agueda, glancing down at her riding costume. "It is the same to me, Señorita," said Gremo, who in common with his fellows had but one gender of speech. Agueda was looking at the hand which thrust itself out from the sand of the shore. It seemed as if the fingers beckoned. She shuddered. "They should put up a sign," she said, quickly. "I shall tell the Señor Don Beltran. He will put up a notice--a warning." "Caramba, hombre! And why must you interfere? No people in this part will go that way. They all know the danger as well as the birds. I live here in this part. Why not leave it to me?" "But will you, Gremo?" "What? Put up the sign? I most certainly shall, Señorita. Some day when I have not the air-plants to gather, or the lanterna to clean, or when I am not down with the calentura, or there is no fair at Haldez, or no cock-fight at Saltona. The Señorita does not know how long I have thought of this--I, Gremo! Why, as long ago as when the Señor Don Gil bought the sand spit I had the board prepared. That is now going on four years, if I count aright. I told the Señor Don Gil that I would get a board, and I have." "He thinks it there now, I am sure," said Agueda. "Well, well! He may, he may, our Don Gil! I am not disputing it, Señorita. I am only waiting for the padre to come and put the letters on it." "Have you told him, Gremo?" said Agueda, bending forward anxiously. "Caramba, Señorita!" said Gremo, raising up on his long leg, "where do you suppose I am to find the time to tell the padre? If I should take a half-day from my work when I am at San Isidro, and walk over to the bodega, the padre might be away at the cock-fight at Saltona, or the christening at Haldez. The Don Beltran is a gentle hombre, but he would not pay me for half a day when I did not earn it. If I could know when the padre was at home, I would go, most certainly." "You must have seen him many times in the last three years," said Agueda. "I will not deny that I have seen the padre," answered Gremo, rising angrily on the tips of his knotted brown toes. "But would you have me disturb a man like our padre when he was watching the shoemaker's black cock from Troja, to see if his spurs were as long as the spurs of the cock of Corndeau?--that vagamundo!" Agueda reined Castaño round, so that his head pointed in the general direction of the bodega, as well as homeward. "I can tell the padre, Gremo," she said, and then added with determination, "It must not be left another day." Gremo settled down upon his short leg. "Now, Señorita," he said argumentatively, "do not interfere. It is I that have this matter well within my grasp. There is no one coming this way to-day--along the beach, I mean." "How do you know, Gremo?" questioned Agueda. Gremo shrugged his shoulders. "It is not likely, muchacho. Our own people never come that way, and there are so few strangers--not three in as many years. We cannot now help the Señor who lies there, can we, Señorita?" "No," said Agueda, sadly; "but we can prevent--" "Leave it to me, Señorita. I promise that I will attend to it to-morrow. I--" "And why not to-day?" "Because, you see, muchacho, I must take the air-plants to the Port of Entry. I am on my way there now. I but stopped to warn the Señorita, and I pay well for my kindness. Now I shall not be able to return to-night. As the Señorita has detained me all this long while, will she be so good as to stop at my casa and tell Marianna Romando to come over and light the lantern on the signal-staff at an early hour? This, you know, is _my_ lighthouse, little 'Gueda. This is Los Santos." "Have I come as far as Los Santos head?" asked the girl. Agueda looked upwards at the place where the red lantern hung against the staff. "How can a woman climb up there?" she said. "She will bring the ladder, the Marianna Romando," said Gremo, moving a step onwards. "I do not think I know Marianna Romando. Is she your wife, Gremo?" "Well, so, so," answered Gremo. "But she will do very well to light the lantern all the same." Agueda sat her horse, lost in thought. When she raised her eyes nothing was to be seen of Gremo. An ambulating mass of bloom, some distance along on the top of the sea bank, told her that he was well on his way toward the Port of Entry. This was the best way, Gremo considered, to put an end to discussion. Agueda did not know just where the casa of the light-keeper lay. Seeing that a well-worn path entered the bushes just there, she turned her horse's head and pushed into the tall undergrowth. After a few moments she came out upon a well-defined footway. Her path led her through acres of mompoja trees, whose great spreading spatules shaded her from the scorching sun. She had descended a little below the hill, and once out of the fresh trade breeze, began to feel the heat. She took off her hat as she rode, and fanned herself. Five or six minutes of Castaño's walking brought her to a hut; this hut was placed at a point where three paths met. It stood in a sort of hollow, where the moisture from the late rains had settled upon the clay soil. The hut was thatched with yagua. It was so small that, Agueda argued, there could be but one room. There was a stone before the doorway sunk deep in the mud. Before the opening, where the door should be, hung a curtain of bull's hide. A long ladder stood against the house. Its topmost rung was at least an entire story in height above the roof, and Agueda wondered why it was needed there. The only signs of life about the place were three or four withered hens, which ran screaming, with wobbling bodies and thin necks stretched forward, at the approach of the stranger. Their screams brought a yellow woman to the door. If Gremo looked like a withered apple, this was his feminine counterpart. Her one garment appeared to be quite out of place. It seemed as if there could be nothing improper in such a creature going about as she was created. The slits in the faded cotton gown were more suggestive than utter nakedness would have been. This person nodded at the chickens where they were disappearing in the bush. "They are as good as any watch-dog," said she. "There is no use of thieves coming here." Agueda rode close. "I am not a thief," said Agueda. "Can you tell me where is the casa of Gremo, the light-keeper?" "And where but here in this very spot?" said the piece of parchment, smiling a toothless smile and showing a fine array of gums. "But had you said the casa of Marianna Romando, you would have come nearer the truth." Agueda had not expected the casa of which Gremo spoke with such pride to look like this, or to belong to some one else. "Well, then, I have come with a message from your hus--from Gremo." "The Señorita will get off her horse and come in? What will the Señorita have? Some bread, an egg--a little _ching-ching_?" The woman smiled pleasantly all the time that she was speaking. Agueda had difficulty in understanding her, for the entire absence of teeth caused her lips to cling together, so that she articulated with difficulty. Still she smiled. Agueda shook her head at the hospitable words. "I have no time, gracias, Señora. You will see that I have been wet with the showers," she said; "and I have been delayed twice already. Gremo asked me to tell you that he would come to the Port of Entry too late to return and light the lantern. He asks that you will do it for him." For answer the woman hurriedly pulled aside the bull's-hide curtain and entered the hut. She reappeared in a moment with an old straw hat on her head. She was lifting up her skirt as she came, and tying round her waist a petticoat of some faded grey stuff. Her face had changed. She smiled no longer. "It is that fat wife of the inn-keeper at the sign of the 'Navío Mercante.'[4] She it is who takes my Gremo from me." She entered the hut again, and this time reappeared with a coarse pair of native shoes. She seated herself in the doorway, her feet on the damp stone, and busily began to put on the shoes, her tongue keeping her fingers in countenance. "As if I did not know why my Gremo goes to the Port of Entry! He will sit in the doorway all the day! She will give him of the pink rum! He will spend all the pesos he has made! His plants will wither! Oh, yes, it is that fat Posadera who has got hold of my Gremo." Agueda turned her horse's head. "How do I go on from here?" she asked. "Where is the Señorita going?" "To San Isidro, but first to El--" "_Aaaaiiiieee!_" said the woman, standing in the now laced shoes, arms akimbo. "So this is Don Beltran's little lady?" Agueda flushed. "I live with my uncle, the Señor Adan, at San Isidro." She pushed into the undergrowth. "The Señora is going wrong," said the woman. "Señorita," said Agueda, sharply, correcting the word. "Which way, then?" Getting no answer, she turned again. She now saw that the woman had gone to the side of the house and was taking the long ladder from its position against the wall. She bent her back and settled it upon her shoulders. Agueda looked on in astonishment while this frail creature fitted her back to so awkward a burden. Marianna Romando looked up sidewise from under the rungs. "I go to light the señale now," she said. "It may burn all day, for me. What cares Marianna Romando? Government must pay. Then, when it is lighted I shall hide the ladder among the mompoja trees. He did not dare to tell me that he would remain away. He knows that I do not like that fat wife of the inn-keeper. I shall lead him home by the ear at about four o'clock of the morning. There are ghosts in the mompoja patch, but they will not appear to two." All through this discourse Marianna Romando had not raised her voice. She smiled as if she considered the weaknesses of Gremo amiable ones. She started after him as a mother would go in search of a straying child; like a guardian who would protect a weak brother from himself. "I have only this to say to you, Señorita," she called after Agueda, turning so that the ladder swished through the low bushes, cutting off some of the tops of the tall weeds, both before and behind her. "Keep the Señor well in hand. When they go away like that, no one knows whom they may be going after." Agueda closed her ears. She did not wish to hear that which her senses had perforce caught. She pushed along the path that Marianna Romando had indicated, and in twenty minutes saw the white palings of Don Mateo's little plantation, El Cuco. FOOTNOTES: [3] Lad. [4] Merchant ship. IV When Raquel had given Agueda the note and the kiss, and had seen her ride rapidly away, she closed the shutter. She made the room as dark as possible. She could not bear to have the sun shine on a girl who had written to a man to come to her succour. It could mean nothing less than marriage, and it was as if she had offered it. But what else remained for her but to appeal to Don Gil? If the few words that he had spoken meant anything, they meant love. If the beating of her heart, when she caught ever so distant a glimpse of him, meant anything, it meant love. She had received a note from him only a week back. She would read it again. Her uncle had searched her room only yesterday for letters, and she was thankful that she had had the forethought to conceal Silencio's missive where he would not discover it. He had ordered old Ana to search the girl's dresses, and Ana, with moist eyes and tender words, had carried out Escobeda's instructions. She had found nothing, and so had told the Señor Escobeda. "And when does the child get a chance to receive notes from the Señores?" asked Ana, indignant that her charge should be suspected. It was the reflection upon herself, also, that galled her. "I guarded her mother; I can guard her, Señor," said the old woman, with dignity. "Do you not know that the young of our nation are fire and tow?" snarled Escobeda. "I shall put it out of her power to deceive me longer." With that he had flung out of the casa and ridden away. It was then that Raquel had beckoned to Agueda, where she loitered under the shelter of the coffee bushes. After Agueda had gone, Raquel seated herself upon a little stool which had been hers from childhood. She raised one foot to her knee, took the heel in her hand, and drew off the slipper. Some small pegs had pressed through and had made little indentations in the tender foot. But between the pegs and the stocking was a thick piece of paper, whose folds protected the skin. She had just removed it when the door opened, and Ana entered. Raquel started and seemed confused for a moment. "You frightened me, Ana," said Raquel. "I thought that you had gone to the fair. So I told--" "You told? And whom did you have to tell, Señorita?" "I told my uncle. He was here but now. Oh! dear Ana, I am so tired of this hot house. I long for the woods. When do you think that he will let me go to the forest again?" Ana drew the girl toward her. Her lips trembled. "I am as sorry as you can be, muchachita; but what can I do? What is that paper that you hold in your hand, Raquel?" Raquel blushed crimson. Fortunately Ana's eyes were fixed upon the paper. "I had it folded in my shoe," said Raquel. She threw the paper in the scrap basket as she spoke. "See, Ana." She held up the slipper. "Look at those pegs! They have pushed through, and my heel is really lame. I can hardly walk." Raquel limped round the room to show Ana what suffering was hers, keeping her back always to the scrap-basket. "If he would allow me to go to the town and buy some shoes!" said Raquel--Ana's espionage having created the deceit whose prophylactic she would be. "You had better put on your slipper," said the prudent Ana. "You will wear out your stockings else." "But how can I put on my slipper with those pegs in the heel?" asked Raquel. "You had the paper." "It was punched full of holes." "Let me see it," said Ana. "I threw it away," said Raquel. "Get me another piece of paper, for the love of God, dear Ana. My uncle does not allow me even a journal. I am indeed in prison." Ana arose. "I will take the scrap-basket with me," she said. "Not until you have brought the paper, Ana. I shall tear up some other pieces." When Ana had closed the door Raquel pounced upon the waste-basket. She took the folded paper from the top of the few scraps lying there. This she opened, pulling it apart with difficulty, for the pegs had punched the layers together, as if they had been sewn with a needle. She spread the paper upon her knee, but first ran to the door and called, "Ana, bring a piece of the cotton wool, also, I beg of you." "That will keep her longer," said Raquel, smiling. She spoke aloud as lonely creatures often do. "She must hunt for that, I know." She heard Ana pulling out bureau drawers, and sat down again to read her letter. "Dearest Señorita," it ran. "I hear that you are unhappy. What can I do? I hear that you are going away. Do not go, for the love of God, without letting me know. Your faithful servant, G." "I have let you know, Gil," she said. "I am not going away, but I am unhappy. I am a prisoner. I wonder if you will save me?" Ana's heavy tread was heard along the corridor. Raquel hastily thrust the note within the bosom of her dress. When the cotton had been adjusted and the slipper replaced, Ana took up the scrap-basket. "Dear Ana, stay a little while. I am so lonely. Don't you think he would let me sit on the veranda?" "He would let you go anywhere if you would promise not to speak to the Señor Silencio," said Ana. "I will never promise that, Ana," said Raquel, with a compression of the lips. She laid her head down on Ana's shoulder. "I am so lonely," she said. The tears welled over from the childish eyes. The lips quivered. "I wonder how it feels, Ana, to have a mother." Ana's eyes were moist, too, but she repressed any show of feeling. Had not the Señor Escobeda ordered her to do so, and was not his will her daily rule? Suddenly Raquel started--her hearing made sensitive by fear. "I hear him coming, Ana," she said. "You could not hear him, sweet; he has gone over to see the Señor Anecito Rojas." "That dreadful man!" Raquel shuddered. "Why does he wish to see the Señor Anecito Rojas?" "I do not know, Señorita." Ana shook her head pitifully. It seemed as if she might tell something if she would. Suddenly she strained her arms round the girl. "Raquel! Raquel!" she said, "promise me that you will sometimes think of me. That you will love me if we are separated. That if you can, if you have the power, you will send for me--" "Ana! Ana!" Raquel had risen to her feet and was crying. Her face was white, her lips bloodless. "Tell me what you mean. How can I send for you? Where am I going that I can send for you? Am I going away, Ana? Ana, what do you know? Tell me, Ana, dear--dear Ana, tell me!" But Ana had no time or reason to answer. There was a sound of horse's hoofs before the door, a man's heavy foot alighting upon the veranda, the throwing wide of the outer door, and Escobeda's voice within the passage. "Ana!" it shouted, "Ana!" Ana arose trembling. "I am here, Señor," she said. "Where is that girl, Raquel?" "The Señorita is also here, Señor," answered Ana. The door was flung open. "Pack her duds," said Escobeda. "She leaves this by evening." "_I--leave--here?_" Raquel had arisen, and was standing supporting herself by Ana's shoulder. "I suppose you understand your mother tongue. It is as I said; you leave here this evening." "Oh, uncle! Where--where am I to go?" "That you will find out later. Pack her duds, Ana." Ana trembled in every limb. She arose to obey. Raquel threw herself on the bare floor at Escobeda's feet. "Oh, uncle!" she said. "What have I done to be sent away? Will you not tell me where I am going?" The girl cried in terror. She wept as a little child weeps, without restraint. "I am so young, uncle. I have no home but this. Do not send me away!" Escobeda looked down at the childish figure on the ground before him, but not a ray of pity entered his soul, for between Raquel's face and his he saw that of Silencio, whose father had been his father's enemy as well as his own. He felt sure that soon or late Silencio would have the girl. He spoke his thoughts aloud. "I suppose he would even marry you to spite me," he said. "Who, uncle? Of whom do you speak?" "You know well enough; but I shall spoil his game. Get her ready, Ana; we start this afternoon." "There is a knocking at the outer door," said Ana. "I will go--" "You will pack her duds," said Escobeda, who was not quite sure of Ana. "I will answer the summons myself." As he was passing through the doorway, Raquel said, despairingly: "Uncle, wait a moment. You went to the Señor Anecito Rojas. How did you get back so soon--" "And who told you that I was going to him? Yes, I did start for the house of Rojas, but I met him on the way, so I was saved the trouble." "Are you going to send me to him, uncle?" asked Raquel. The girl's face had again become white, her eyes were staring. There was some unknown horror in store. What could it be? "Send you to him? Oh, no! Why should I send you to him? I have a better market for you than that of Rojas. He is only coming to aid me with those trusty men of his, in case your friend Silencio should attempt to take you from me. He had better not attempt it. A stray shot will dispose of him very quickly." "Am I to remain on the island, uncle?" "Yes and no," answered Escobeda. "We take the boat to-night for the government town. When we arrive, it will be as the governor says--he must see you first." Raquel understood nothing of his allusions. Ana cried silently as she took Raquel's clothes from the drawers and folded them. "I cannot see what the governor has to do with me?" said Raquel. "You will know soon enough," said Escobeda. His laugh was cruel and sneering. Raquel turned from Escobeda with an increased feeling of that revulsion which she had never been able entirely to control. She had felt as if it were wrong not to care for her uncle, but even had he been uniformly kind, his appearance was decidedly not in his favour. She glanced at his low, squat figure, bowed legs, and thick hands. She had time to wonder why he always wore earrings--something which now struck her as more grotesque than formerly. Then she thrust her hand within the bosom of her gown, raised it quickly, and slipped something within her mouth. Escobeda caught the motion of Raquel's arm as he raised his eyes. She backed toward the wall. He advanced toward her threateningly. He seized her small shoulder with one hand, and with a quick, rough motion he thrust the thick forefinger of the other between her lips, and ran it round inside her mouth, as a mother does in seeking a button or some foreign substance by which a child might be endangered. Raquel endeavoured to swallow the paper. At first she held her teeth close together, but the strength of Escobeda's finger was equal to the whole force of her little body, and after a moment's struggle Silencio's note was brought to light. He tried to open it. "It is pulp! Nothing but pulp!" he said, shaking the empty hand at her. Raquel stood outraged and pale. What was the matter with this man? He had suddenly shown himself in a new light. "How dare you treat me so?" she gasped. "You have hurt her, Señor," said Ana, reproachfully. "Does it pain you, sweet?" Ana had run to the girl, and was wiping her lips with a soft handkerchief. A tiny speck of blood showed how less than tender had been this rough man's touch. "If it pains me? Yes, all over my whole body. How dare he! Anita, how dare he!" Escobeda laughed. He seated his thick form in the wicker chair, which was Raquel's own. It trembled with his weight. He laid the paper carefully upon his knee, and tried to smooth it. "I thought you said she received no notes from gentlemen," he roared. Ana stood red-eyed and pale. "She never does, Señor," she answered, stifling her sobs. "And what is that?" asked Escobeda, in a grating voice. He slapped the paper with the back of his hand into the very face of Ana. "Do you think that I cannot read my enemy's hand--aye, and his meaning? Even were it written in invisible ink. '_Gil!_' Do you see it? '_Gil!_'" He slapped the paper again, still thrusting it under Ana's nose. "There may be more than one Gil in the world, Señor," sniffed the shaking Ana. "Do not try to prevaricate, Ana. You know there is not more than one Gil in the world," said Raquel, scornfully. Ana, in danger from the second horn of her dilemma, stood convicted of both, and gasped. "There is only one Gil in the world for me. That is Don Gil Silencio-y-Estrada. That is his note which you hold, uncle. It is a love letter. I have answered it this very day." Raquel, now that the flood of her speech had started to flow, said all that she could imagine or devise. She said that which had no foundation in fact. She made statements which, had Silencio heard them, would have lifted him to the seventh heaven of bliss. "He wants me to go away with him. He knows that I am imprisoned. He implores me to come to him. Be sure," said Raquel, her eyes flashing, "that the opportunity is all that I need." Ana stood aghast. She had never seen Escobeda defied before. All the countryside feared to anger him. What would become of the two helpless women who had been so unfortunate? Escobeda was livid. His eyes rolled with rage; they seemed to turn red. He arose from the chair, leaving it creaking in every straw. He clenched his fist, and shook it at the woman and girl alternately. His ear-rings danced and trembled. He seemed to be seized with a stuttering fit. The words would not pass the barrier of his brown teeth. He jerked and stammered. "We--we--shall see. We shall s--s--see. This--this--eve--evening." Raquel, her short spurt of courage fled, now stood with drooped head. Escobeda's anger seemed to have left him as suddenly as it had appeared. He threw Silencio's note on the floor. "Ah! bah!" he said, contemptuously. "It sounds very fine. It is like hare soup: first catch your hare. Silencio shall not catch you, my little hare. His horses are not fleet enough, nor his arm long enough." "All the same, I think that he will catch me," said Raquel, again defiant, with a fresh burst of courage. Escobeda turned on his heel. "Go to the door, Ana," he said, "and see who keeps up that thumping." When Ana had shuffled along the passage, Raquel turned to Escobeda. "It may be a messenger from the Señor Silencio," she said. "I sent him a letter some hours ago." "And by whom, pray?" "That I will not tell you. I do not betray those who are kind to me. You told me early this morning that I was to be taken away. You will see now that I, too, have a friend." Ana's steps interrupted this conversation. "Well?" asked Escobeda. "The messenger is--will you speak?" "It is the man Rotiro from Palmacristi," said Ana, in a low voice. Raquel gave a quick little draw of her breath inward. The sound made a joyous note in that cruel atmosphere. "It will do you no good," said Escobeda. "Go and tell him that I will see him presently. I will lock you up, my pretty Señorita, that you send no more notes to that truhan.[5] You have now but a few hours to make ready. Put in all your finery; though, after all, your new master can give you what he will, if you please him." FOOTNOTE: [5] Mountebank. V It was an unthrifty-looking place, El Cuco--very small, as its name implied. How Don Mateo had asked any woman to marry him with no more to give her than the small plantation of El Cuco, one could not imagine. The place was little more than a conuco, and Don Mateo, through careless ways and losses at gambling, selling a little strip of field here and some forest land there, was gradually reducing the property to the size of a native holding. The lady who had inveigled Don Mateo into marrying her sat upon the veranda, fat and hearty. Her eyes were beginning to open to the fact that Don Mateo had not been quite candid with her. He had said, "My house is not very fine, Señorita, but I have land; and if you will come there as my wife, we will begin to build a new casa as soon as the crops are in and paid for." The crops had never come in, as far as the Señora had discovered; and how could crops be paid for before they were gathered? There had grown up within the household a very fine crop of complaints, but these Don Mateo smoothed over with his ready excuses and kindliness of manner. Agueda leaned down to the small footpath gate to unfasten the latch. She found that the gate was standing a little way open and sunk in the mud, but that there was no room to pass through. "Go round to the other side," called a voice from the veranda. A half-dozen little children, of all shades, came trooping down the path. Then, as she turned to ride round the dilapidated palings, they scampered across the yard, a space covered by some sort of wild growth. They met her in a troop at the large gate, which was also sunk in the ground through the sagging of its hinges. Fortunately, it had stood so widely open now for some years that entrance was quite feasible. Agueda struck spur to Castaño's side, and he trotted round to the veranda. They stopped at the front steps, and throwing her foot over the saddle, Agueda prepared to dismount. "What do you want here?" asked a fat voice from the end of the veranda. "I should like to see Aneta, Señora," said Agueda. "May one of the peons take my horse?" "You can go round to the back, where Aneta is, then," answered the Señora, without rising. "She is washing her dishes, and it is not you who shall disturb her." Agueda looked up with astonishment. The last time that she had come to El Cuco, Aneta had sat on the veranda in the very place where the stranger was sitting now. That chair, Don Mateo had brought over from Saltona once as a present for Aneta. It was an American chair, and Aneta used to sit and rock in it by the hour and sing some happy song. Agueda remembered how Aneta had twisted some red and yellow ribbons through the wicker work. Those ribbons were replaced now by blue and pink ones. Without a word Agueda rode round the house. Arrived at the tumble-down veranda which jutted out from the servants' quarters, she heard sounds which, taken in conjunction with the Señora's words, suggested Aneta's presence. When Aneta heard the sound of horse's hoofs she came to the open shutter. Agueda saw that her eyes were red and swollen. A faint smile of welcome overspread Aneta's features, which was succeeded at once by a shamefaced look that Agueda should see her in this menial position. "Dear Agueda!" said she; "how glad I am to see you! But this is no place for you." "I wish that you could come down to the river," said Agueda. "I have so much to ask you. Who is the Señora on the veranda, Aneta?" "Do you not know then that he is married?" asked Aneta, the tears beginning to flow again. "Married!" exclaimed Agueda, aghast. "To the Señora on the veranda?" Aneta nodded her head, while the salt tears dropped down on the towel with which she was slowly wiping a large platter. Agueda was guilty of a slight bit of deceit in this. She had heard that Don Mateo was married, but it had never occurred to her that things would be so sadly changed for Aneta. Somehow she had expected to find her as she had always found her, seated on the veranda in the wicker chair, the red and yellow ribbons fluttering in the breeze, and in her lap the embroidery with which she had ever struggled. "Can you come down by the river?" asked Agueda. "I suppose that I must finish these dishes," said Aneta, through her tears. "Oh, Agueda, you have had nothing to eat, I am sure. You have come so far. Let me get you something." "Yes, I have come far, Aneta. I should like a little something." It did not occur to Agueda to decline because of the Señora's rudeness. She had never heard of any one's being refused food at any hut, rancho, or casa in the island. The stranger was always welcome to what the host possessed, poor though it might be. "I will not dismount," said Agueda. "Perhaps you can hand me a cup of coffee through the window." Agueda rode close to the opening. Aneta laid her dish down on the table, and went to the stove, from which she took the pot of the still hot coffee. She poured out a cupful, and handed it to Agueda. "Some sugar, please," said Agueda, holding the cup back again. Aneta dipped a spoon in the sugar bowl which was standing on the table in its pan of water. It was a large pan, for "there are even some ants who can swim very well," so Aneta declared. Agueda took the cup gratefully, and drained it as only a girl can who has ridden many miles with no midday meal. "I hoped that I should be asked to breakfast, Aneta," said Agueda, wistfully. She remembered the time when she had sat at the table with Aneta, and partaken of a pleasant meal. "I can hand you some cassava bread through the window, Agueda," said Aneta, with no further explanation. She took from the cupboard a large round of the cassava and handed it to Agueda. Agueda broke it eagerly and ate hungrily. "That is good, Aneta. Some more coffee, please." Aneta took up the pot to pour out a second cup. "And who told you that you might give my food away?" The voice was the fat voice of the Señora. She had exerted herself sufficiently to come to the kitchen door. "Pardon, Señora!" said Agueda. Her face expressed the astonishment that she felt. She unconsciously continued to eat the round of cassava bread. "You are still eating?" Agueda looked at the woman in astonishment. "Does the Señora mean that I shall not eat the bread?" asked she. "We do not keep a house of refreshment," said the Señora. Agueda handed the remainder of the cassava bread to Aneta. "I see you do not, Señora. Come, Aneta, come down to the river." Aneta looked hesitatingly at the Señora. "You need not mind the Señora, Aneta. She does not own you." At this Aneta looked frightened, and the Señora as angry as her double chin would allow. "If the girl leaves, she need not return," said the Señora. "My work is nearly done," said Aneta, with a fresh flood of tears. "Crying, Aneta! I am ashamed of you. Come, I will help you finish your dishes." Agueda rode around to the veranda pilotijo and dismounted. She tied Castaño there, as is the custom, taking care that she chose the pilotijo furthest removed from the main post, where several machetes were buried with a deep blade stroke. The Señora was too heavy and lazy to object to Agueda's generosity. She seated herself in the doorway and watched the process of dish-washing. When the girls had finished, the worn towels wrung dry and hung on the line, Aneta took from the veranda nail her old straw hat. "On further thought, you cannot go," said the Señora. "I need some work done in my room." Agueda put her arm round Aneta. "I bought her off," she said. "Come, Aneta, I have so little time." At these words the Señora had the spirit to rise and flap the cushion of a shuffling sole on the floor in imitation of a stamp of the foot. "You cannot go," she said. For answer the two girls strolled down toward the river, Castaño's bridle over Agueda's arm, Aneta trembling at her new-found courage. Aneta was a very pretty, pale girl, with bronze-coloured hair, although her complexion was thick and muddy, showing the faint strain of blood which made her, and would always hold her, inferior to the pure Spanish or American type. Her eyes were of a greenish cast, and though small, were sweet and modest. She was perhaps twenty-three at this time. It is sad to have lived one's life at the age of twenty-three. "I have so many years before me, Agueda," said Aneta. "Why do you stay here?" asked Agueda. "Where have I to go?" asked Aneta. "That is true," assented Agueda. "My father will not have me back. He says that I should have been smart and married Don Mateo; but I never thought of being smart, 'Gueda; I never thought of anything but how I loved him." A pang of pity pierced the heart of Agueda, all the stronger because she herself was so secure. The two girls walked down toward the shining river. Castaño followed along behind, nibbling and browsing until a jerk of the bridle caused him to raise his head and continue his march. The river was glancing along below the bank. Low and shallow, it had settled here and there into great pools, or spread out thinly over the banks of gravel which rose between. "Can we bathe, Aneta?" asked Agueda. "I suppose so," said Aneta, mournfully. "Smile, Aneta, do smile. It makes me wretched to see you so sad." Aneta shook her head. "What have I left, Agueda?" Agueda hung Castaño's bridle on a limb, and seeking a sheltered spot, the two girls undressed and plunged into the water, a pool near the shore providing a basin. One may bathe there with perfect seclusion. The ford is far below, and no one has reason to come to this lonely spot. The water was cool and delicious to Agueda's tired frame. "Agueda," said Aneta, as they were drying themselves in the sun, "will Castaño carry double?" "Why, Aneta, I suppose he will. I never tried him." "I promised El Rey to come to see him one day soon. That was weeks ago. You know that Roseta has gone. The little creature is alone. If I should go there by myself the Señora would say bad things about me. She would say that I had gone for some wrong purpose. God knows I have no wrong purpose in my heart." "Yes, I will go with you," said Agueda. "But, we must hasten. I have been away so long already. What time should you think it is, Aneta?" Aneta turned to the west and looked up to the sky with that critical eye which rural dwellers who possess no timepiece acquire. "Perhaps three o'clock, Agueda, perhaps four. Not so very late." "So that I am home by six it will do," said Agueda. She reproached herself that she should think of the happiness that awaited her at home while Aneta was so sad. When they were again dressed, Agueda mounted Castaño, and riding close to an old mahogany stump, gave her hand to Aneta, aiding her to spring up to the horse's flank. Castaño was not over-pleased at this addition to his burden, but he made no serious demonstration, and started off toward the ford. The ford crossed, Agueda guided Castaño along the bank of the stream. "Is this the Brandon place?" asked Agueda. "No," said Aneta. "It is part of the Silencio estate." Again Agueda felt the flush arise which had made her uncomfortable in the morning. "I have never been this way," said Agueda, who was following Aneta's directions. "I was there this morning, but I rode down the gran' camino." "You went there?" "Yes; to carry a note." "To the Señor?" "Am I going right, Aneta?" "Yes," said the easily diverted Aneta. "Follow the little path. They live on the river bank below the hill." In a few moments a thatched roof began to show through the trees. "There it is," said Aneta; "there is Andres' rancho." When they arrived at the rancho they found that the door was closed. Agueda rapped with her whip. "They are all away, I think," said she. "Oh! then, they are not all away," piped a little voice from the inside. "Take the key from the window, and I will let you open my door." Agueda laughed. Aneta slid off the horse, and Agueda rode to the high window, from whose ledge she took a key. "My Roseta, is that you?" called the child's voice. Aneta looked up at Agueda and shook her head with a pitying motion. The child's sorrow had effaced her own for the time. "No, El Rey," she called; "it is Aneta, and I bring Agueda, from San Isidro." "You are welcome, Señoritas," piped the little voice again. By this time Aneta had inserted the key in the lock and opened the door. A small, thin child was sitting on the edge of a low bed. He arose to greet them with a show of politeness which struggled against weariness. "Andres and Roseta are away," he said. "Andres said that he would bring her if he could find her." Agueda had heard of El Rey, but she had never seen the child before. "I should think he would surely bring her," said she in a comforting tone. She was seeing much misery to-day. She felt reproached for being so happy herself, but she looked forward to her home-coming as recompense for it all. "Would you like to come to San Isidro some time, El Rey?" she asked. "Does Roseta ever come there?" asked the child. "She has never been yet, but she may come some day," answered Agueda, with that merciful deceit which keeps hope ever springing in the breast. Aneta stooped down towards the floor. "Have you anything to play with, El Rey?" she asked. "El Rey has buttons. El Rey has a book that the Señor at Palmacristi gave him, but he is tired of those. When will Roseta come?" Agueda turned away. "I cannot bear it," she said. El Rey looked at her curiously. "Would you like to ride the pretty little horse, El Rey?" The child walked slowly to the door and peered wistfully out. "El Rey would like to ride; but Roseta might come." "We will not go far," said Agueda. "Come, let me lift you up." El Rey suffered himself to be lifted to the horse's back, but his eyes were ever searching the dim vista of the woodland for the form that did not appear. "I cannot enjoy it, Señora," said he, politely. "El Rey would enjoy the Señora's kindness if Roseta could see him ride." "I must go, Aneta," said Agueda, her eyes moist. She lifted the child down from Castaño's back. He at once entered the casa. He turned in the doorway, his thin little figure occupying small space against the dark background. "Adios, Señoritas," said the child. "Oh! will the Señoritas please put the key on the window ledge?" "We cannot lock you in, El Rey," said Agueda. "Do you mean that we are to lock you in, El Rey?" asked Aneta at the same time. "Will the Señoritas please not talk," said the child. "I cannot hear. I sit and listen all day. If the Señoritas talk I cannot hear if any one comes." "But must we lock the door?" asked Agueda. "Is that what Andres wishes?" asked Aneta. "If you please, Señorita; put the key on the window ledge." "I shall not lock him in," said Aneta. "I cannot do it. I will stay a while, El Rey," she said. Aneta sat down in the doorway, her head upon her hand. She belongs not to the detail of this story. She is only one of that majority of suffering ignorant beings with whom the world is filled, who make the dark background against which happier souls shine out. Agueda rode back to the ford. She galloped Castaño now. At the entrance of the forest she turned and threw a kiss to Aneta. The girl was still in the doorway, but El Rey was not to be seen. Agueda fancied him sitting on the low bed, his ear strained to catch the fall of a faraway footstep. VI The shadows were growing long when Agueda cantered down the path that ran alongside of the banana walk. She crossed the potrero at a slow pace, for Castaño was tired and warm. As she slowly rounded the corner of the veranda, a figure caught her eye. It was Don Beltran, cool and immaculate in his white linen suit. He was smoking, and seemed to be enjoying the sunset hour. "Ah! are you here at last, child! I was just about to send your uncle to look for you. Have you had dinner?" "Not a mouthful," laughed Agueda, at the remembrance of the Señora at El Cuco. It was cruel to laugh while Aneta wept, but it was so hard not to be happy. "Tell Juana to bring you some dinner. There was a san coche, very good, and a pilauf of chicken. Did you see Don Mateo?" "No, Señor," said Agueda, looking down. "Why will you persist in calling me Señor, Agueda? I am Beltran. Say it at once--Beltran!" "Beltran," said Agueda, with a happy smile. Poor Aneta! Poor everybody in the world who did not have a Beltran to love her! As Agueda told Beltran the history of her long day, he listened with interest. When she spoke of Aneta's changed life, "The brute!" said Beltran, "the damned brute!" While Agueda was changing her dress for the dark blue skirt and white waist, Beltran sat and thought upon the veranda. When she came out again, he spoke. "Agueda," said he, "it is time that you and I were married." Agueda blushed. "I see no cause for haste," said Agueda. "It is right," said Beltran, "and why should we wait? What is there to wait for? I want you for my wife. I have never seen any one who could take me from you, and there is no such person in all the world. All the same, you must be my wife." "I think the padre is away," said Agueda, looking down. "He will be back before long, and then, if the river is still low, we will go to Haldez some fine morning and be married. Your uncle can give you away. He will be very glad, doubtless!" Don Beltran laughed as he spoke. He was not unconscious of Uncle Adan's plans, but as they happened to fall in with his own, he took them good-naturedly. "Do you know, Agueda," he said presently, looking steadily at her, "that you are better born than I?" "What does the Señor mean?" laughed Agueda. "The Señor?" "Well, then, Señor--Beltran. What do you mean by that?" "I mean what I say, Agueda. Your grandfather, Don Estevan, is a count in his own country--in old Spain. That is where you get your pretty slim figure, child, your height, and your arched instep. You are descended from a long line of noble ladies, Agueda. I have seen many a Spanish gran' Señora darker than you, my Agueda. When shall our wedding-day be, child?" Agueda shook her head and looked down at the little garment which she was stitching. She had no wish to bind him. That was not the way to treat a noble nature like his. Agueda had no calculation in her composition. Beltran could never love her better were they fifty times married. She was happy as the day. What could make her more so? "Did the Señor enjoy his sail across the bay?" asked Agueda. "It was well enough, child. I got the draft cashed, and, strange to say, I found a letter at the post-office at Saltona." "From the coffee merchant, I suppose, Señor?" "No, not from the coffee merchant, Señora," Beltran laughed, teasingly. "Guess from whom, Agueda; but how should you be able to guess? It is from my uncle, Agueda. My mother's brother. You know that he married in the States." "I have heard the Señor say that the Señor his uncle married in the es-States," said Agueda, threading her fine needle with care, and making a tiny knot. Beltran drew his chair close. He twitched the small garment from her hands. She uttered a slight exclamation. The needle had pricked her finger. Beltran bent towards her with remorseful words, took the slender finger between his own, and put it to his lips. His other hand lay upon her shoulder. She smiled up at him with a glance of inquiry mixed with shyness. Agueda had never got over her shy little manner. The pressure of his fingers upon her shoulder thrilled her. She felt as ever that dear sense of intimacy which usage had not dulled. Beltran again consulted the letter which he held. "Uncle Nóe will arrive in a week's time," he said. "He is a very particular gentleman, is my Uncle Nóe. Quite young to be my uncle. Look at my two grey hairs, Agueda." She released her hand from his, and tried to twist her short hair into a knot. It looked much more womanly so. She must try to make it grow if a new grand Señor was coming to San Isidro. Don Beltran was still consulting the letter. "He brings his child--his little daughter. Now, Agueda, how can we amuse the little thing?" Agueda, with work dropped, finger still pressed between her small white teeth, answered, wonderingly: "A little child? Let me think, Señor." "Ah!" "Well, then, again I say Beltran, if you will. We have not much." How dear and natural the plural of the personal pronoun! "We have not much, I fear. There is the little cart that the Señora gave the Señor when he was muchachito. That is a good little plaything. I have cleaned it well since the last flood. The water washed even into the cupboard. Then there is--there is--ah, yes, the diamond cross. She will laugh, the little thing, when it flashes in the sunshine. Children love brilliant things. I remember well that the little Cristina, from the conuco, up there, used to love to see the sparkle of the jewels. But the little one will like the toy best." "That is not much, dear heart." "And then--and then--there may be rides on the bulls, and punting on the river in the flatboat, and the little chestnut--she can ride Castaño, the little thing!" "Not the chestnut; I trained him for you, Agueda, child." "And why should not the little one ride him, also? We can take her into the deep woods to gather the mamey apples, and to the bushes down in the river pasture to gather the aguacate. Only the little thing must be taught to keep away from the prickly branches, and--sometimes, Don--Beltran, we might take the child as far as Haldez, if some acrobats or circus men should arrive. We have not been there since Dondy-Jeem walked the rope that bright Sunday. Oh, yes! we shall find something to amuse her, certainly. A little child! We are to have a child in the house!" It was always a happy "we" with Agueda. "How old is the little thing?" "I have not heard from my uncle for many years. I do not know when he married; but he is a young man still, Uncle Nóe. Full of affectation, speaking French in preference to Spanish and English, which are equally his mother tongues--I might say his mother and father tongue--but with all his affectations, delightful." "A little child in the house! A little child in the house," murmured Agueda over and over to herself. Now it was all bustle at the casa. San Isidro took on a holiday air. There was no more talk of marriage. Not because Don Beltran did not think of it and wish it, but because there was no time. A room down the veranda must be beautified for the little child. She was to be placed next her father, that if she should want anything at night, he could attend her. "Where shall we put the nurse?" said Don Beltran. "I am afraid the nurse will have to sleep in the rancho, Beltran. These two rooms take all that we have." Agueda looked up wistfully. "I wonder how soon she will come," she said. "The little thing! the little thing!" VII So soon as Agueda had disappeared down the trocha which leads to the sea, Silencio called for Andres. Old Guillermina came with a halt and a shuffle. This was caused by her losing ever and anon that bit of shoe in which she thought it respectful to seek her master, or to obey his summons. She agreed with some modern authorities, although she had never heard of them or their theories, that contact with Mother Earth is more agreeable and more convenient (she did not know of the claim that it is more healthful) than encasing the foot in a piece of bull's hide or calf's skin. "Where is Andres?" asked Don Gil, impatiently. "Has the Señor forgotten that the Andres has gone to the Port of Entry?" "He has not gone there," said Silencio; "that I know, for I sent Troncha in his place. See where he is, and let me know. I need a messenger at once." As Guillermina turned her back, Don Gil bit his lip. "Then I am helpless," he said aloud, "if Andres is not here." He arose and started after Guillermina, calling impatiently: "Do not wait for Andres; get some one, any one. I must send a message at once." While Guillermina shuffled away, Silencio sat himself down at his desk and wrote. He wrote hurriedly, the pen tearing across the sheet as if for a wager. As its spluttering ceased, there was a knock at the counting-house door. "Entra!" called Silencio, rising. It was a moist day in May. The June rains were heralded by occasional showers, an earnest of the future. The dampness was all-pervading, the stillness death-like. No sound was heard but the occasional calling of the peons to the oxen far afield. The leaves of the ceiba tree hung limp and motionless; the rompe hache[6] had not stirred a leaf for two days past. No tender airs played caressingly against the nether side of the palm tufts and swayed them in fan-like motion. The gri-gri stood tall and grand, full of foliage at the top. Its numberless little leaves were precisely outlined, each one, against the sky. One might almost fear that he were looking at a painting done by one of the artists of the early Hudson River school, so distinctly was the edge of each leaf and twig drawn against its background of blue. Rotiro stood and waited. Then he knocked again. A step was heard approaching from an inner room. "Entra!" called a voice from within, but louder than before. Rotiro obeyed the permission. He entered the outer room to find Don Gil just issuing from the inner one--that holy of holies, where no profane foot of peon, shod or unshod, had ever penetrated. Rotiro touched his forelock by way of salutation, drew his machete from its yellow leathern belt, swung it over his shoulder, and brought it round and down with a horizontal cut, slashing fiercely into the post of the doorway. It sank deep, and he left it there, quivering. Silencio was moistening the flap of an envelope with his lip as Rotiro entered. After a look at Rotiro, Don Gil thought it best to light a taper, take a bit of wax from the tray and seal the note. He pressed it with the intaglio of his ring. The seal bore the crest of the Silencios. When he had finished he held the note for a moment in his hand, to dry thoroughly. As he stood, he surveyed the machete of Rotiro, which still trembled in the doorpost. The post was full of such gashes, indicating it as a common receptacle for bladed weapons. It served the purpose of an umbrella-stand at the north. Don Billy Blake had said: "We don't carry umbrellas into parlours at the No'th, and I bedam if any man, black or shaded, shall bring his machett into my shanty." Don Billy was looked upon as an arbiter of fashion. This fashion, however, antedated Don Billy's advent in the island. Rotiro unslung his shotgun from his shoulder and stepped inside the doorway. He leaned the gun against the inner wall. "Buen' dia', Seño'," he nodded. "Set that gun outside, Rotiro." "My e'copeta very good e'copeta, Seño' Don Gil. It a excellent e'copeta. It is, however, as you know, not much to be trusted; it go off sometimes with little persuasion on my part, often again without much reason." "Following the example of your tongue. Listen! Rotiro. I wish to do the talking. Attend to what I say. Here is a note. I wish you to take it up back of Troja, to the Señor Escobeda." "But, Seño', I thought--" "You thought! So peons think! On this subject you have no need to think. Take this note up to Troja, and be quick about it. I want an answer within an hour. Waste no time on thoughts or words, and above all, waste no time in going or returning. See the Señor Escobeda. Hand him the note, see what he has to say, and bring me word as soon as possible. Notice how he looks, how he speaks, what--" "But the Seño' may not--" "Still talking? Go at once! Do you remember old Amadeo, who was struck by lightning? I always believed that it was to quiet his tongue. It certainly had that effect. But for the one servant I have had who has been struck by lightning, I have had twenty who ought to have been. There was a prince in a foreign land who was driven crazy by his servants. He said, 'Words! words! words!' I wonder very much what he would have said could he have passed a week on the plantation of Palmacristi." As the Devil twists Scripture to suit his purpose, so Silencio was not behind him in his interpretation of Shakespeare, and Rotiro prepared for his journey, with a full determination to utter no unnecessary word during the rest of his life. In dead silence he withdrew his machete from its gash in the doorpost, tied the letter round his neck by its cord of red silk, swung his apology for a hat upon his head, and was off. Meanwhile Don Gil sat and waited. The hour ended as all hours, good or bad, must end. Don Gil kept his eyes fixed upon the clock. Ah! it was five minutes past the hour now. "If I find that he has delayed one minute beyond the necessary--possibly Escobeda has held him there, taken him prisoner--prisoner! In the nineteenth century! But an Escobeda is ready for anything; perhaps he has--" There was a step at the doorway. "Entra!" shouted Don Gil, before one had the time to knock, and Rotiro entered. He had no time to say a word. He had not swung his arm round his head, nor settled the machete safely in the post of the door, before Don Gil said, impatiently: "Well! well! What is it? Will the man never speak? Did you see the Señor Escobeda? Open that stupid head of yours, man! Say something--" Rotiro was breathless. He set his gun in the corner with great deliberation. At first his words would not come; then he drew a quick breath and said: "I saw the Seño' E'cobeda, Don Gil. He is a fine man, the Seño' E'cobeda. Oh! yes, he is a very fine man, the Seño'!" "Ah!" said Don Gil, dryly, "did he send me a message, this very fine man?" Rotiro thrust his hand into the perpendicular slit that did duty for a legitimate opening in his shirt. He was dripping with moisture. Great beads stood out upon his dark skin. He pulled the faded pink cotton from his wet body and brought to light a folded paper. This he handed to Don Gil. The paper was far from dry. Don Gil took the parcel. He broke the thread which secured it--the thread seemed much shorter than when he had knotted it earlier in the day--and discovered the letter which he sought. The letter was addressed to himself. Don Gil opened this missive with little difficulty. The sticky property of the flap had been impaired by its contact with the damp surroundings. Don Gil read the note with a frown. "Caramba hombre! Did you go up back of Troja for this?" Rotiro raised his shoulders and turned his palms outward. "As the Seño' see." If Rotiro had gone "up back of Troja" for nothing, it was obviously the initial occasion in the history of the island. The natives, as well as the foreigners, seemed to go "up back of Troja" for every article that they needed. They bought their palm boards back of Troja. They bought their horses back of Troja. They bought their cattle back of Troja. Back of Troja was made the best rum that was to be had in all the island. Back of Troja, for some undiscovered reason, were found the best guns, the best pistols, the sharpest "colinos," smuggled ashore at the cave, doubtless, and taken in the night through dark florestas, impenetrable to officers of the law. Many a wife, light of skin and slim of ankle, had come from back of Troja to wed with the people nearer the sea. The region back of Troja was a veritable mine, but for once the mine had refused to yield up what the would-be prospector desired. "He'll get no wife from back of Troja," thought Rotiro, whose own life partner, out of the bonds of wedlock, had enjoyed that distinction. "Whom did you see back of Troja?" "The Seño' E'cobeda, Seño'. The Seño' E'cobeda is a ver--" "Yes, yes, I know! How you natives will always persist in slipping your 's,' except when it is superfluous! How did Escobeda look?" "Much as usual, Seño'. He is a very fi--" "Was he pleasant, or did he frown?" "In truth, Seño' Don Gil, I cannot say for one, how he look. I saw but the back of the Seño' E'cobeda. He look--" "As much of a cut-throat as ever, I suppose?" "Si, Seño'. The Seño' was seated in his oficina. He had his back to me. I saw nothing but his ear-rings and the very fine white shirt that he wore." "Well, well! He read the note, and--" "He read the note, Seño', and--and--he read the note, and--he read the n--" "Well, well, well!" "And shall I tell the Seño' all, then?" "Will you continue? or shall I--" Don Gil's tone was threatening. "If the Seño' will. He laugh, Seño' Don Gil. He laugh very long and very loud, and then I hear a es-snarl. It es-sound like a dog. Once he reach toward the wall for his 'colino.' I at once put myself outside of the casa, and behind the pilotijo. When he did not advance, I put an eye to the crack, all the es-same." "And it was then that he wrote the note?" "Si, Seño'; it was then that he wrote the answer and present it to me." "And said--?" "He said, oh! I assure the Seño' it was nothing worthy to hear; the Seño' would not--" "He said--?" There was a dangerous light in Don Gil's eye. "And I must tell the Seño'? He said, 'Here! give this to that--that--'" "That--?" "'That _truhan!_' I pray the Don Gil forgive me; the Don Gil make me--" Silencio's face had flushed darkly. "Continue." Rotiro, embarrassed beyond measure, forgot what he had learned by fair means and what by foul, and blundered on. "He did not say whether the Señorit' had go to the Port of Entry; he--" "And who told you to enquire whether the Señorita had gone to the Port of Entry or not?" Rotiro perceived at once that he had made a gigantic slip. When Don Gil next spoke, Rotiro was busy watching the parjara bobo which loped along within the enclosure. The bird, stupid by name and nature alike, came so close that Rotiro could almost have touched it with his hand. "Do you hear my question?" Rotiro started at the tones of thunder. "No one inform me, Seño'. I had heard talk of it." "Two fools in one enclosure! The bird is as clever as you. Do not try to think, Rotiro. Have you never heard that peons should never try to think? Leave the vacuum which nature abhors in its natural state." Rotiro looked blankly at Don Gil, who often amused himself at the expense of the stupid. Just now he was angry, and ready to say something harsh which even a wiser peon than Rotiro could not understand. Rotiro's vacuum was working, however, as even vacuums will. "Decidedly, I have made a very grand mistake of some kind; but when a letter will not stick, it is so easy--the thing, however, is not to let him--" "Rotiro!" The peon started. Don Gil stood facing him. His eyes were blazing. Rotiro's arm twitched with the desire to reach for his machete. "If I ever find you--" Don Gil spoke slowly and impressively, his forefinger moving up and down in time with his words--"if ever I find you opening a letter of mine, either a letter that I send or one that I receive, I will send you to Saltona, and I shall ask the alcalde to put you in the army." Rotiro's knees developed a sudden weakness. He would much rather be led to the wall outside the town, turned with his face towards its cold grey stone, and have his back riddled with bullets. At least, so he thought at the moment. "The Seño' will never find me opening a letter, either now or at any other time." (_Nor will he. Does he think that I should be so stupid as to open them before his face? Or within two and a half miles of the Casa de Caoba?_) "Very well, then. Be off with you. Take your gun out of my counting-house and your colino out of my doorpost, and yourself out of my sight." "The Seño' Don Gil allow that I accommodate myself with a little ching-ching?" "Always ching-ching, Rotiro. Bieng, bieng! Tell Alfredo to give you a half-glass, not of the pink rum--that is not for such as you. You remember, perhaps, what happened the last time that I gave you a ching-ching. I should have said No." "I assure the Seño' that Garcito Romando was a worthless man. O, yes, Seño', an utterly worthless man--an entirely useless man. He could not plant the suckers, he could not plant the cacao, he could not drive four bulls at a time; there was no place for Garcito Romando either in heaven or in hell. Marianna Romando was weary of him. Purgatory was closed to him, and the blessed island was too good for him. He stole three dollars Mex. of me once. My e'copeta did, perhaps, go off a little early, but the Seño' should thank me. He has on his finca one bobo the less, and the good God knows--" Rotiro was not only fluent, he was confluent. He ran his words together in the most rapid manner. Don Gil raised his hand as if to ward off the storm of words. "He was certainly a fool to tamper with a man whose gun shoots round the corner. Come! Be off with you! Three fingers, and no more." FOOTNOTE: [6] Literally, _hatchet breaker_. VIII There are days which are crowded with events; days so bursting with happenings that a single twenty-four hours will not suffice to tell the tale. There are other days so blank and uneventful that one sighs for very weariness when one thinks of them. It is not well to wish time away, but such days are worse than useless. It is, however, of one of the former that this chapter relates. To a little community like that surrounding San Isidro and Palmacristi, to say nothing of Troja, the day on which Agueda carried the note for Raquel was full of events. When Escobeda went from Raquel's room, slamming the door after him, the terrified girl dropped on her knees before Ana. All her courage seemed to have flown. She bent her head and laid it in Ana's lap, and then tears rained down and drenched Ana's new silk apron. "Ana," she whispered, "Ana, who is there to help me?" Ana sighed and sniffed, and one or two great drops rolled off her brown nose and splashed down on the back of Raquel's dark head. "There is no one but you and God, Ana." "Holy Mother! child, do not be so irreverent." "Can you steal out into the corridor and down the two little steps, and into the rum room, Ana, and hear what is being said?" "I am too heavy; that you know, Señorita. The boards creak at the very sound of my name. I am tall, my bones are large. Such persons cannot trip lightly; they tip the scales at a goodly number of pounds. Holy Mother! If he should catch me at it!" and Ana shivered, her tears drying at once from fright. "You could very well do it if you chose. Listen, Ana. If he takes me away, I shall die. Now I tell you truly, Ana, I will never go to that government house alive; that you may as well know. Get me my mother's dagger, Ana." Ana arose and went to a bureau drawer. The drawer squeaked as she pulled at the knobs. A far door was heard opening. "What is that?" roared Escobeda. "I am packing the child's trunks, Señor. How can I pack them unless I may open the drawer?" There was a sound of retreating footsteps and the closing of the door. Raquel looked at Ana, who was kneeling upon the floor, searching in the drawer. "Ah! here it is," said Ana. "But you will not use it, sweet?" "Not unless I must," said Raquel. She sighed. "Not unless I must. I do not want to die, Ana. I love my life, but there is a great horror over there." She nodded her head in the direction of the Port of Entry. "When that horror comes very near me, then I--" Raquel made as if she would thrust the dagger within her breast. Ana shuddered. "I shall not see it," she said. "But I advise it, all the same, if you must." She drew the girl up to her, and cried helplessly upon her neck. "Can't you think a little for me, Ana? It is hard always to think for one's self." "No," said Ana, shaking her head, "I never have any fresh thoughts. I always follow." "Then, dear Ana, just tiptoe down and listen. It is the last thing that I shall ever ask of you, Ana." Ana, her eyes streaming with tears, took her slippers--those tell-tale flappers--from her feet, and went to the door. She turned the knob gently and pushed the door outward without noise. As she opened it she heard Escobeda's voice, raised in angry tones. "Go now! now! while he is scolding," whispered Raquel. "He will not hear you. I must know what he is saying to that man. Do you think it is the Señor Silencio's messenger?" Ana nodded and put her finger to her lip. She crept noiselessly along the passage. Raquel, listen as she would, heard nothing of Ana's footsteps, for Escobeda was still swearing so loudly as to drown every other sound. Raquel went to the bureau, and took from the drawer a piece of kid. She seated herself and began to polish her weapon of defence. "Of death," said Raquel to herself. "If I am forced--" She peeped out, but Ana had turned the corner, and was hidden from sight. Ah! she must be in the rum room now, where she could both peer through the cracks and hear all that was said on either side. Suddenly a far door was violently wrenched open, and Raquel heard Escobeda's steps coming along the corridor. Where was Ana, then? Raquel's heart stood still. Escobeda came on until he reached the door of Raquel's chamber. The girl did not alter her position, and but for her flushed cheeks there was no sign of agitation. She bent her head, and rubbed the shining steel with much force. "Where is that lazy Ana?" Raquel raised her innocent eyes to his. "Did you call, uncle? Well, then, she must have gone to the kitchen." "You lie," said Escobeda. Raquel's cheeks reddened still more. "Perhaps I do, uncle. At all events, she is not here." "What have you there?" Escobeda had stooped towards the girl with hand outstretched, but she had sprung to her feet in a moment, and stood at bay, the dagger held, not in a threatening attitude, but so that it could be turned towards the man at any moment. "It is my mother's dagger, uncle." "What are you doing with it?" "Polishing it for my journey, uncle." "Give it to me." "Why should I give it to you, uncle?" "Because I tell you to." Raquel's hair had fallen down; she was scantily clothed. Her cheeks were ablaze. She looked like a tigress brought to bay. "Do you remember my mother, uncle?" "I remember your mother; what of her?" "Do you know what she said to me at the last--at the last, uncle?" "I neither know nor care," said Escobeda. "Hand me the knife." "My mother told me," said Raquel, still polishing the blade and changing its direction so that the point was held towards Escobeda--"my mother told me to keep this little thing always at hand. It has always been with me. You do not know how many times I have had the thought to turn it upon you"--Escobeda started and paled--"when your cruelties have been worse than usual. Sometimes at night I have thought of creeping, creeping along the hall there, and going to the side of your bed--" "You murderess!" shouted Escobeda. "So you would do that, would you? It is time that you came under the restraint that you will find over there in the government town. Do you hear? Give me the knife. It was like that she-dev--" "I can hear quite well with it in my hand," said Raquel. "You may say whatever comes into your head, only about my mother. That I will not bear. Speak of her gently, I warn you--I warn you--" "Do you know who the man was who came to me just now?" "The Señor Silencio?" said Raquel, breathless, her eyes flashing with a thousand lights. "No, it was not the Señor Silencio." Raquel's eyelids drooped. "But it was the next thing to it. It was that villain, Rotiro. I could have bought him, as well as Silencio. A little rum and a few pesos, and he is mine body and soul. But I do not want him. I have followers in plenty--" "Those who follow you for love?" said Raquel, with sly malice in her tone. Escobeda flashed a dark and hateful look upon her. "It makes no difference why they follow me. They are all mine, body and soul, just as you are mine, body and soul." "Are you going to tell me why Rotiro came here to-day?" asked Raquel. "Yes, that is what I came to tell you. I came purposely to tell you that. The Señor Silencio sent me a letter by the villain Rotiro." "For me?" asked Raquel, breathless. "Oh, uncle! Let me see it, let me--" "No, it was to me. But I will tell you its contents. I will tell you gladly. He offers you his hand in marriage." "Oh, uncle!" The girl's eyes were dancing. She blushed and paled alternately; then drew a long sigh, and waited for Escobeda to speak further. "From your appearance, I should judge that you wish me to accept him for you." "Oh, uncle!" Again the girl drew short, quick breaths. She gazed eagerly into Escobeda's face. "Can you think anything else? Now I need not go away. Now I need not be longer a burden upon you. Now I shall have a home! Now--I--shall--be--" The girl hesitated and dropped her voice, and then it died away in a whisper. But one meaning could be drawn from Escobeda's cunning screwed-up eyes, his look of triumph, his smile of wickedness. They stood gazing at each other thus for the space of a few seconds, those seconds so fraught with dread on the one side, with malice and triumphant delight on the other. "Your mother hated me, Raquel. Perhaps she never had the kindness to tell you that. I found her when she was dying. You remember, perhaps, when she asked you, her little girl, to withdraw for a while, that she might speak with me alone?" "I remember, uncle," said Raquel, panting. "It was not to be wondered at that she preferred your father to me. She had loved me first. She was my father's ward. But when he came, with his handsome face and girlish ways, she threw me aside like a battered doll. She said that I was cruel, but she never discovered that until she fell in love with your father. She ran away with him one night when I was at the city on business for my father. The doting old man could not keep a watch upon them, but I followed their fortunes. She never knew that it was I who had him followed to the mines, where he thought he had discovered a fortune, and killed him in the cold and dark--" "Are you a devil?" asked Raquel. "His bones, you can see them now, Raquel; they were never buried--they lie up there on the floor of the old--" The dagger slipped from Raquel's fingers, and she slid to the floor. "No, I did not tell her that I should take out my vengeance upon her child. I knew my time would come. Silencio's offer is of as much value as if written in the sand down there by the river, the--" Ana came in at the doorway. Escobeda stooped and picked up the dagger. "She will hardly need this," he said, as he stuck it in his belt. When Raquel opened her eyes Ana was bending over her, as usual in floods of tears, drenching the girl alternately with warm water from her tender eyes and cold water from the perron. Raquel sat up and looked about her as one dazed. She clutched at the folds of her dress. The piece of kid lay in her hand. "Oh, Ana!" she sobbed, "he has taken it away. All that I had. My only protection." Ana arose and quietly closed the door. "Sweet," she said, "I have good news for you." "What is it?" asked Raquel, sitting up, all interest, her dull eyes brightening. "I crept along the hall," said Ana, "and when I reached the rum room I slipped in and closed the door softly, and listened through the cracks. When he came here, I slipped out to the kitchen, and there I have been ever since." "But the good news," asked Raquel. "Quick! Ana, tell me." "He was sitting at his desk, the Señor Escobeda, his back to the door, so unlike any other gentleman. If they must rage, they stand up and do it. But there he sat, swearing by all the gods at something. I saw that that man Rotiro from Palmacristi had run out of the counting-house, and was peeping in at the door; and I listened, hoping to find out something, and I have, sweet, I have." "Well! well! Ana, dear Ana, hasten! hasten!--" "I have found out that the Señor Don Gil asks your hand in marriage." Raquel sank down again in a heap on the floor. "Is that all, Ana?" she said. "All! And what more can the Señorita want than to have a gentleman, rich, handsome, devoted, offer her his hand in honourable marriage?" "I only want one thing more, Ana dear," said Raquel, sadly, "the power to accept it." "The power to accept it?" said Ana, questioningly. "Is the child mad?" "He twits me with it. He says that I shall not accept him, the Señor Don Gil. He says that I shall go in any case to the government town. He has taken away my dagger. I cannot even kill myself, Ana. Oh! what am I to do? Gil! Gil! Come and save me." At this heavy steps were heard coming along the corridor. The door was burst open with a blow of Escobeda's fist. "You need not scream or call upon your lover, or on anybody else. You have no one to aid you." "No one but God, and my dear Ana here," said Raquel. "One is about as much use as the other," said Escobeda, laughing. "Call as loud as you will, one is quite deaf and the other helpless." Raquel rose to her feet. "Will you leave my room?" she said with dignity. "I will leave your room, because I have done all that I came to do." "You have broken the child's heart, Señor," said Ana, with unwonted courage, "if that is what you came to do." "If I can break her spirit, that is all I care for," said Escobeda. "You will never break my spirit," said Raquel. She stood there so defiant, the color coming and going in her face, her splendid hair making a veil about her, that Escobeda looked upon her with the discriminating eye of fresh discovery. "By Heaven," he said, "you are more beautiful than ever your mother was! If I had not promised the Governor--" "Spare her your insults," said Ana, her indignation aroused. She pushed the door against his thick figure, and shot the bolt. They heard Escobeda's laugh as he flung it back at them. "What shall we do now?" asked Raquel. "Shall I drop from the window and run away? There must be some one who will aid me." Ana approached the closely drawn jalousies. She put her long nose to a crack and peered down. The slight movement of the screen was seen from the outside. "It is you that need not look out, Anita Maria," came up to her in Joyal's rasping voice. "This is not the front door." "He has been quick about it," said Ana. "No matter, sweet, we must pack. Some one must help us. When the Señor Silencio gets that devilish message he must do something." "What was the devilish message, Ana?" asked Raquel. "Do not ask me, child; just hateful words, that is all." Raquel put her young arms round Ana's old thin shoulders. "Promise me one thing, Ana," she said. "Promise! Who am _I_ to make promises, sweet? All that I can, I will. That you must know." "When I am gone, Ana"--Raquel looked searchingly at Ana and repeated the words solemnly--"when I am gone, promise that you will go to the Señor Silencio. Say to him--" "But how am I to get there, sweet? I should have to wear my waist that I keep for the saints' days. I--" "Get there? Do you suppose if you asked me I would not find a way? My uncle Escobeda will be gone. Remember he will be gone, Ana! There will be no one to watch you, and you talk of clothes! You will not wear them out in one afternoon, and when I am Señora"--Raquel halted in her voluble speech and blushed crimson--"he, my uncle, would be glad to have you go and say that he has taken me away. Nothing would please him better. Now, promise me that when I am gone you will go to the Señor Silencio, and tell him where he has taken me. Tell him that I accept his offer. Tell him that if he loves me, he will find a way to save me. Tell him that I sent him a note by that pretty Agueda from San Isidro--" "You should not speak to such as she--" "She seemed sweet and good. She carried my note, Ana. I must always be her friend. Tell him--" A loud thud upon the door. Escobeda had stolen up softly, and was chuckling to himself outside in the passage. "Ana has my permission to go and tell him all about how you love him, Muchacha. That will make it even more pleasant for me. I thank you for helping me carry out my plans, but for the present, Ana had better pack your things, and quickly. The sun is getting over to the west, and you must start within two hours' time." Raquel threw her arms round Ana and strained her to her childish breast. "You will go, dear Ana, you promise me, do you not? You will go?" "I will," said the weeping Ana, "even if I must go in my Sunday shoes." IX When the voluble Rotiro had vanished round the end of the counting-house, Silencio retired to his inner sanctum and closed and locked the door. The contrast between this room and the bare front office was marked. Here cretonne draped the walls, its delicate white and green relieving the plain white of the woodwork. Coming from the outer glare, the cool coloring was more than grateful to the senses. The large wicker chairs with which the room was furnished were painted white, their cushions being of the same pale green whose color pervaded the interior. The white tables, with their green silken cloths, the white desk, the mirrors with white enameled frames, the white porcelain lamps with green shades, all of the same exquisite tint, made the sanctum a symphony of delicate color, a bower of grateful shade. Pull one of the hangings aside, ever so little, and a fortress stared you in the face--a fortress known of, at the most, to but two persons in the island. It is true that the more curious of the peons had wondered somewhat why Don Gil had brought down from the es-States those large sheets of iron with clamps and screws; but the native is not inquisitive as a rule, and certainly not for long. All señors do strange things, things not to be accounted for by any known rule of life, and the Señor Don Gil was rich enough to do as he liked. What, then, was it to a hard-working peon, what a grand señor like the Don Gil took into his mahogany house? The man who had come down in the steamer with the sheets of iron had remained at Palmacristi for a month or more. He had brought two workmen, and when he sailed for Nueva Yorka no one but the owner of the Casa de Caoba and the old Guillermina knew that the inner counting-house had been completely sheathed with an iron lining, whose advent the peons had forgotten. "This is my bank," said Don Gil to Don Juan Smit'. "It may become a fort some day, who knows?" answered the Don Juan Smit', "if those rascally Spaniards come over here and create another rumpus." Strange to say, Don Gil did not resent this remark about the nation which had produced his ancestors. But, then, Don Gil was a revolutionist, and had fought side by side with the bravest generals of the ten years' Cuban war. "It is a very secure place to detain a willing captive," smiled Don Gil. "Well, I guess!" assented the Señor Don Juan Smit', with a very knowing wink of the eye, which proved that he had not understood his employer's meaning in the very slightest. Old Guillermina, who had reared Don Gil's mother, was the only person allowed within the counting-house. "A very fine place for the black spiders to hide," remarked Guillermina, as she twitched aside the green and white hangings, and exposed the iron sheathing. "There is no place they would prefer to this." When Don Gil had locked the door, he seated himself and took Escobeda's note from his pocket. He examined the flap of the envelope; it was badly soiled and creased. He was morally certain that Rotiro had possessed himself of the contents of the letter. He had told Rotiro that peons should not think, but they would think, semi-occasionally, and more than that, they would talk. When a peon was found clever enough to carry a message, he also possessed the undesirable quality of wishing to excite curiosity in others, and to make them feel what a great man he was to be trusted with the secrets of the Señor. By evening the insolence of Escobeda would be the common property of every man, woman, and child on the estate, and, what Silencio could bear least of all, the insulting news as to the ultimate destination of Raquel would be gossiped over in every palm hut and rancho far and near. All his working people would know before to-morrow the message which had been brought to him by Rotiro, and it was his own rum that would loosen Rotiro's tongue and aid materially in his undoing. His face grew red and dark. His brow knotted as he perused the vile letter for the fourth time. Escobeda's handwriting was strong, his grammar weak, his spelling not always up to par. The letter was written in Spanish, into which some native words had crept. The translation ran: "TO THE SEÑOR DON GIL SILENCIO-Y-ESTRADA. "_Señor_:--You are forbidden to set foot in my house. You are forbidden to try to see or speak to the Señorita Raquel. I do not continue the farce of saying my niece; she is not more than a distant relative of mine. But in this case, might makes right. I control her and she is forever lost to you. You refused me the trocha farm for a fair price. See now, if it would not have been better to yield. The Señorita Raquel starts for the Port of Entry this afternoon. She sails to-night for the government town. The Governor desires her services. Knowing the Governor by repute, you may imagine what those services are." Silencio struck the senseless sheet with his clenched fist. His ring tore a jagged hole in the paper, so that he had difficulty in smoothing it for re-perusal. "It pays me better to sell her to him than to give her to you." Wild thoughts flew through the brain of Silencio. He started up, and had almost ordered his horse. He was rich. He would offer all, everything that he possessed, to save Raquel from such a fate, but he sadly resumed his seat after a moment of reflection. Escobeda hated him, there had been a feud between the families since the old Don Gil had caused the arrest of the elder Escobeda, a lawless character; and the son had made it the aim of his life to annoy and insult the family of Silencio. Here was a screw that he could turn round and round in the very heart of his enemy, and already the screwing process had begun. Don Gil took up the mutilated letter and read to the end: "We start for the coast this afternoon. Do not try to rescue her. I have a force of brave men who will protect me from any number that you may bring. We have colinos and escopetes in plenty. Your case is hopeless. You dare not attack me on land; you cannot attack me on the water." Don Gil dashed the paper on the floor and ground savagely beneath his heel the signature "Rafael Escobeda." "It is true," he said, shaking his head. "It is true; I am helpless!" With a perplexed face and knitted brow he went into the outer room, closed the entrance door and took a flat bar of iron from its resting-place against the wall. This he fitted into the hasps at each side of the door, which were ready to receive it. Then he returned to the inner room, and secured the iron-sheathed door with two similar bars. After this was done, he looked somewhat ruefully at his handiwork. "The cage is secure," he said, "if I but had the bird." Silencio opened the door which connected the office with the main part of the house. He closed and locked it behind him, and proceeded along a passage so dark that no light crept in except through the narrow slits beneath the eaves. When he had traversed this passage, he opened a further door and emerged at once into the main part of the house. Here everything was open, attractive, and alluring. Here spacious apartments gave upon broad verandas, whose flower boxes held blooms rare even in this garden spot of the world. Here were beauty and colour and splendour and glowing life. Don Gil threw himself down in a hammock which stretched across a shady corner. Through the opening between the pilotijos, he could see the wooded heights in the distance, those heights beyond which Troja lay, Troja, which held his heart and soul. What to do? To-night she would set sail for the government town in the toils of Escobeda, her self-confessed betrayer and barterer--set sail for that hateful place where her worse than slavery would begin. The person to whom she was to be sold--none the less sold because the price paid did not appear on paper--was possessed of power and that might of which Escobeda had spoken in his letter--that might which makes right. He could give countenance to speculators and incorporators, he could grant concessions for an equivalent; into such keeping Escobeda, with his devil's calculation, was planning to deliver her--his Raquel, his little sweetheart. That she loved him he knew. A word and a glance are enough, and he had received many such. A note and a rose at the last _festin_, where she had been allowed to look on for a while under the eye of her old duenna! A pressure of her hand in the crowd, a trembling word of love under her breath in answer to his fierce and fiery ones! The cause for love, its object does not know nor question. The fact is all that concerns him, and so far Silencio was secure. And here was this last appeal from the helpless girl! They had started by this time perhaps. Don Gil looked at the ancient timepiece which had descended from old Don Oviedo. Yes, they had started. It was now twenty minutes past six; they needed but two hours to ride to the Port of Entry. The steamer would not sail until between nine and ten o'clock. Very shortly Escobeda's party would cross the trocha, which at that point was a public highway. It ran through the Palmacristi estate, and neared the casa on the south. Could he not rescue her when they were so near? There were not three men within the home enclosure. The others had gone direct to their huts and ranchos from their work in the fields. He could not collect them now, and if he could, of what use a skirmish in the road? Escobeda was sure to ride with a large force, and a stray shot might do injury to Raquel herself. No, no! Some other way must be thought of. Silencio arose, passed quickly through the casa and entered the patio. He ran up the stairs which ascended from the veranda to the flat roof above. He stood upon the roof, shading his eyes with his hand, and straining his vision to catch the first sight of Escobeda and his party of cut-throats. He was none too early. A cloud of dust on the near side of the cacao grove told him this, and then he heard the jingling of spurs and the sound of voices. A group of some thirty horsemen swept round the curve and came riding into full view. In their center rode a woman. She was so surrounded that by no effort of hers could she break through the determined-looking throng. One glance at those cruel faces, and Silencio's heart sank like lead. The woman was gazing with appealing eyes at the Casa de Caoba. Silencio was not near enough to distinguish her features, but her attitude was hopeless and appealing, and he knew that it was Raquel the moment that he discovered her. Suddenly she drew a handkerchief from her bosom and waved it above her head. There was something despairing and pitiable in her action. Silencio whirled his handkerchief wildly in the air. He was beside himself! Escobeda turned and struck the girl, who dropped her signal hand and drooped her head upon her breast. Silencio put his hands to his mouth and shouted: "Do not fear; I will save you!" He shook his clenched hand at Escobeda. "You shall pay for that! By God in Heaven! you shall pay for that!" Yes, pay for it, but how? How? Oh, God! how? He was so helpless. No one to aid him, no one to succour. At this defiance of Silencio's there came an order to halt. The men faced the Casa de Caoba, Escobeda placed his rifle to his shoulder, but as he fired, Raquel quickly reached out her hand and dashed the muzzle downward. A crash of glass below stairs told Silencio where the shot had found entrance. "And for that shot, also, you shall pay. Aye, for twenty thousand good glass windows." Glass windows are a luxury in the island. A burst of derisive laughter and a scattering flight of bullets were thrown back at him by the motley crew. They reined their horses to the right, turned a corner, and were lost in their own dust. Silencio descended the stairs, how he never knew. He ran through the patio and the main rooms, and out on to the veranda, from which the path led toward the gate of the enclosure. He was beside himself. He seized his gun from the rack; he cocked it as he ran. "He said that I could not reach him upon the water; I can reach him upon the land. Piombo, my horse! Do not wait to saddle him, bring him at once. No, I cannot reach him upon the water--" A sound of footsteps. A head bound in a ragged cloth appeared above the flower boxes which edged the veranda, and pushed its way between the leaves. A body followed, and then a man ascended slowly to a level with Don Gil Silencio. Over his shoulder was slung a shotgun; in his leathern belt, an old one of his master's, was thrust a machete; from his hand swung a lantern with white glass slides. This man was stupid but kindly. He pattered across the veranda with bare and callous feet, and came to a halt within a few paces of Don Gil. There he stopped and leaned against the jamb of the open door. At night Andres hung a lantern upon the _asta_ at the headland yonder, more as a star of cheer than as a warning. The red lantern on Los Santos, some miles further down the coast, was the beacon for and the warning to mariners. The ray from its one red sector illumined the channel until the morning sun came again to light the way. When the white pane changed the ray of red to one of white, the pilot shouted, "Hard over." With a wide and foaming curve, the vessel swept round and out to sea, thus avoiding the sand spit of Palmacristi. Silencio's eyes fell upon the lantern in the hand of Andres, and in that moment the puzzle of the hour was solved. So suddenly does the bread of necessity demand the rising of the yeast of invention. The expression of Don Gil's face had changed in a moment from abject gloom to radiant exultation. "_Bien venido_, Andres! _Bien venido!_" No dearest friend could have been greeted with a more joyous note of welcome. Andres raised his eyes in astonishment to the face of the young Señor. He had expected to meet with Guillermina's reproaches because he had forgotten to lower the lantern from the asta that morning, and had left it burning all the long day, so that now it must be refilled. Here was a very different reception. He had been thinking over his excuses. He had intended to say at once how ill El Rey had been all night, and how he had forgotten everything but the child; and here, instead of the scolding of the servant, he was greeted with the smiles of the master. Truly, this was a strange world; one never knew what to expect. "I come for oil for the lantern, Don Gil. It is a very good _farol de señales_, but it is a glutton! It is never satisfied! It eats, and eats!" "Like the rest of you." Don Gil laughed aloud. Andres gazed at him with astonishment. "That blessed glutton! Let us feed it, Andres! Give it plenty to eat to-night, of all nights. I will hoist it upon the headland myself to-night." At Andres's still greater look of astonishment, "Yes, yes, leave it to me. I will hoist the blessed lantern myself to-night upon my headland." "The Señor must not trouble himself. It is a dull, dark night! The Señor will find the _sendica_ rough and hard to climb." "What! that little path? Have not I played there as a child? Raced over it as a boy? I could go there blindfold. How is the little king, Andres?" Andres's face fell. "He is not so well, Señor. That is why I forgot the lantern. He was awake in the night talking to her. I have left him for barely an hour to fill the lantern and return it again to the asta. He talks to her at night. Sometimes I think she has returned. He begged me to leave the door unlocked; he thinks she may come when I am gone." Andres turned away his heavy face, and brushed his sleeve across his eyes. "You shall go home early to-night, Andres; as I said, I will hoist the lantern." The dull face of Andres lighted up with a tender smile, a smile which glorified its homely lineaments--that smile which had always been ready to appear at the bidding of El Rey. Poor little El Rey, who had never ceased to call, in all his waking hours for Roseta, Roseta who had found the charms of Dondy Jeem, with his tight-rope and his red trunk-hose and his spangles and his delightful wandering life, much more to be desired than the palm-board hut down on the edge of the river, with El Rey to care for all day, and Andres to attend when he returned at night from the sucker planting or banana cutting. "How is the sea, Andres?" "It is quiet, Señor, not a ripple." "And we shall have no moon?" "As the Señor says, not for some weeks past have we had a moon." Don Gil laughed. He could laugh now, loud and long. His heart was almost light. What better tool and confidant could he procure than a peon who knew so little of times and seasons as Andres? "And it is low tide at ten o'clock to-night?" "As the Señor says." Had Don Gil asked, "Is the sea ink?" Andres would have replied, "As the Señor says." "At about what time is the red lantern lighted on Los Santos?" "At about six o'clock, Señor. I heard old Gremo say that he lights it each evening at six o'clock." "He does not live near it now?" "As the Señor says. The old casa fell quite to pieces in the last hurricane, and now Gremo lives at the Romando cannuca." "He must start early from the conuco?" "As the Señor says. At half after five. It is a long way to carry a ladder--there and back. Gremo is afraid of the ghosts who infest the mompoja patch. If one but thrusts his head at you, you are lost. Marianna Romando says that Gremo is not much of a man, but far superior to Garcito Romando. The few pesos that he gets for lighting the lantern keep the game cock in food." "And no one can tamper with the light, I suppose?" "As the Señor says. The good God forbid! The cords by which it is lowered hang so high that no one can reach them--not even Natalio, who, as all know, is a giant." "And you could not get that ladder, Andres?" "As the Señor says, when Gremo carries it a mile away, and puts it inside the enclosure. He is a good shot, though so old. There is only one better in all the district. Besides, there are ghosts between the asta and the cannuca." Don Gil stood for a moment lost in thought. "I suppose El Rey needs you at home, Andres. I should not keep--" "That is quite true; I do, very much, Señor." The thin little voice came from behind the giant ceiba round which the circular end of the veranda had been built. "You here, El Rey?" A slight, childish figure emerged slowly from behind the giant trunk and leaned against its corrugated bark. "El Rey becomes weary staying down there in the palm hut, Señor. There is nothing to do but watch the pajara bobo, and the parrots, and listen to river, going, going, going! Always going! Has Roseta been here, Señor?" Don Gil shook his head. He gazed sadly at the child. "When do you think she will come, Señor?" "I know not, little one; perhaps to-morrow." The boy raised his hand and smoothed down his thin hair. The hand trembled like that of an old man. His cheek was sunken, his lips colourless. He lifted his large eyes to Don Gil's face. "They always tell me that. Mañana, mañana; always mañana!" He sighed patiently, looking at the Señor, as if the great gentleman could help him in his trouble. Andres turned away his head. He gazed across the valley toward the hills beyond which lay Troja. That was where they had gone to see Dondy Jeem, he and his pretty Roseta--Roseta, who had tossed her head and shaken the gold hoops in her ears when Dondy Jeem had kissed his hand to the spectators. He had turned always to the seats where Roseta and Andres, stupid Andres--he knew that now--sat. Then Roseta had given El Rey to the ever-willing arms of Andres, and fixed her eyes on Dondy Jeem and watched his graceful poise, the white satin shoes descending so easily and securely upon the swaying rope, the long pole held so lightly in the strong hands. It had been before those days that Roseta used to call the child her king. Poor El Rey! He looked a sorry enough little king to-day, a dethroned little king, with his pinched face and trembling fingers and wistful eyes, searching the world in vain for the kingdom which had been wrested from him. "How did you get out of the rancho, El Rey?" "That Señorita from El Cuco, she let me out." "You should be in bed, muchachito." "But it is lonely, Señor, in that bed. That is Roseta's bed. I turn that way and this way. It is hot. I look for Roseta. She is not there. A man look in at the door once; he frighten me. To-day a hairy beast came. He push back the shutter. When he was gone, I ran. I stumble, I fell over bajucos. I caught my foot in a root. That would not matter if I could find Roseta. I would rather be here with the Señor than at the river." El Rey pushed a confiding little hand into Don Gil's palm. Don Gil sat down and took the child between his knees. "Andres, do you shoot as well as of old?" "I shoot fairly well, Señor." The Señor laughed. He had seen Andres at only the last fair, less than a year ago, shoot, at eighty yards, a Mexican dollar from between the fingers of Dondy Jeem. The scene recurred to Andres. "Had it been but his heart!" he muttered, dully. And then, with a look at Don Gil, "There are few who cannot do one thing well, Señor." "You are far too modest, Andres." Don Gil glanced again at the lantern which Andres had set down upon the veranda rail. When he had first caught sight of that lantern in Andres's hand his difficulty had vanished like the morning mist. With a flash of thought, rather of many thoughts in one train, he had seen the proceedings of the evening to come mapped out like a plan of campaign. "Will you do something for me, Andres?" "The good God knows; anything that I can, Señor. But what I should prefer would be a night when the moon shines. He could not then see me behind the old ironwood, and I could distinguish him better when there is a little light. Is it the Señor E'cobeda, Señor?" Don Gil laughed again. He put El Rey gently from him, and arose. He walked to the corner of the veranda and back again. Andres took El Rey tenderly up in his arms, the child laid his hot head on Andres's shoulder. "When will Roseta come?" he whispered. With the unreason and trustful selfishness of childhood, he did not see that if his heart was breaking, the heart of Andres had already broken. "No, Andres; it is not Escobeda. I do not hire assassins, even for such a villain as he. But I need a servant as faithful and as dumb as if that were my custom. I want something done at once, Andres, and I truly believe that you are the only one upon all the coloñia whom I can trust. Come in here with me. No! Set the child down; he will listen and repeat." "El Rey will not listen at nothing, Señor," said the child. He clung tightly to Andres's neck. "Come in, then, both of you." Andres, with El Rey in his arms, followed Don Gil across the large living-room. Don Gil turned as he unlocked the door at the end of the passage. "I have something to say to you," he said, "which must not be overheard." Andres, the pioneer of his race, followed the Señor into the spring-like privacy of the sanctum. "Now don't worry your brain, Andres. Listen to what I shall ask of you, and go and do it. You know it has always been my theory that a peon should not try to think, and why? Simply because he has no brain, Andres." "As the Señor says," assented Andres. X When Andres issued from the counting-house of Palmacristi he was examining critically the trigger of a gun. That fine Winchester it was which had been the wonder and delight of the natives since the Señor Don Juan Smit' had brought it down from the es-States. When the Señor Silencio had asked the Señor Don Juan Smit' if the gun would shoot straight, the Señor Don Juan Smit' had laughed softly, and had answered, "Well, I guess!" and the Señor Don Juan Smit' had not exaggerated. "And El Rey?" "El Rey will go with Andres, Señor," answered the thin voice. "The muchachito will do as he chooses, Señor." The child was following close upon his father's steps. "It is too far for him, Andres. Stay with me, El Rey." The child looked wistfully up at Andres. "Andres will carry El Rey. Perhaps we shall find Roseta at the place where Andres goes to shoot." "I will carry him, Señor. His weight is nothing. Dear God! nothing!" Andres swung the child up to his hip, where he sat astride, securely held by Andres's strong arm, and descended the veranda steps. "Come and tell me when it is done," Silencio called after them. "Si, Señor. Buen' noch', Señor." "Buen' noch', Señor," echoed El Rey's piping voice. "Here, Andres." From his height on the veranda floor Don Gil tossed a key to Andres. "Open the boat-house, and run the boat out upon the southern ways. The southern ways, do you hear? Those nearest the Port of Entry." Andres looked up wonderingly. "Ah! you are trying to think. Do not try. It is useless. Obey! that is all." Blindly faithful, Andres, having caught the key, turned away with an "As the Señor says," and disappeared down the camino which led toward the ocean cliff. When he reached the headland of Palmacristi he suddenly diverged from the cliff path and ran hurriedly down the bank. The boat-house stood upon a safe eminence in the middle of the sand spit, with ways running down to the water on either side. Andres set El Rey down in the warm sand, and unlocked the boat-house door. He then pushed the boat to the end of the ways. The tide was still falling; it was nearly low water. He laid the oars ready; then he arose and looked southward along the coast. Ah! There shone the signal upon Los Santos headland. Old Gremo was at his post, then. Andres raised his shoulders to his ears, turned the palms of his hands outward, and said: "Thy labour is of no use to-night, Gremo." He then took El Rey up from his nest in the warm sand, swung the child again to his hip, and remounting the bank, proceeded on his way. So soon as Andres had departed Don Gil entered the comidor, and going to the table, struck a bell hanging above it. Jorge Toleto lounged to the doorway, against the side of which he propped himself. "Tell Piomba to go over to the bodega at once, and ask the padre to dine with me this evening. Piomba has little time. Tell him to be off at once." Jorge Toleto shuffled away, with the remnant of what in his youth had been a respectful bow. When he was gone Don Gil crossed the living-room, passed through two long passages, and entered a door at the end of the second. Here was a sort of general storeroom. When he emerged he carried in one hand a lantern, in the other he held a flat parcel. "A new lantern will burn more brightly," he said to himself. It was growing dusk now. Don Gil descended the veranda stair and followed in the footsteps of Andres. As he crossed the rough grass beyond the veranda, old Guillermina espied him from a further window. She was engaged in opening the Señor's bed for the night, searching among the snowy linen to make sure, before tucking the rose-coloured netting beneath the mattress, that no black spider had hidden itself away, to prove later an unwelcome bedfellow to her adored Don Gil. For your tarantula will ensconce itself in unexpected corners at times, and is at the best not quite a desirable sleepmate. "And for the love of the saints, where is our Don Gil departing to at this hour of the night? The dinner nearly ready, old Otivo watching the san coch' to see that it does not burn! The table laid, everything fine enough for a meal for the holy apostles! Aie! aie! for our Don Gil is one who will have it as fine for himself as for the alcade, when--pouff! off he goes, and we breaking our hearts while we wait. Ay de mi! ay de mi!" The Señor, unconscious that he had been observed, passed hurriedly along the camino, and shortly struck into the little path or sendica which Andres had traversed but a short time before. As Don Gil glanced over the cliff, he saw that the sea was still; almost calm. Even the usual ocean swell seemed but a wavelet, as it reached weakly up the beach, expending itself in a tiny whirl of pebbles and foam whose force was _nil_, and lapsed in a retreat more exhausted than its oncoming. A walk of ten minutes brought Silencio to the headland which bounded his property on the south. It was growing so dark that he could hardly distinguish the staff upon which it had been Andres's custom to hang each night his _lanterna de señales_, to send forth its white beam of cheer across the sea. When, after passing the red light of Los Santos Head, the pilot steered for the open ocean, the remark to the captain was always the same stereotyped phrase: "Ah! There is the Palmacristi lantern bidding us Godspeed." It is a sad thing when the habit of years must be changed. When a custom, fixed as the laws of the Medes, must be broken, chaos is often the result. Thus thought Silencio, as he reached the foot of the _asta_. It is, however, not necessary to say that his hand was not retarded by the thought. He groped for the cords which dangled from the top, and found them. He lighted a fusee and searched for and found the red slide, which he had laid on the ground. This was all that he wanted. By feeling, almost entirely, he removed the white pane from the lantern and replaced it by the red one, which he took from its wrapping. He then lighted the lantern, passed the cords through the metal hasps, and drew the signal to the top of the staff. The cords were so arranged as to permit of no swaying of the lantern. The light was fixed, and now from the top of the staff a red beam shone southward. When Don Gil mounted the steps of his veranda at Palmacristi a tall, thin figure arose to greet him. "Ah, padre, I am glad that Piomba succeeded in finding you. My dinners are lonely ones." The padre laughed in the cracked voice of an old man. "Better is the stalled ox where love is, than a dinner of herbs and poverty therewith." "Just enough learning to misquote," quoted Don Gil, laughing also, but in a preoccupied manner. "Perhaps it would be better to say 'just enough appetite.' My dinners are bad enough, since Plumero left me." "Better to have him leave you, even if under a guard of soldiers, padre, than to let him put you where you can eat no more dinners. What was that, padre? Did you hear anything?" "Nothing, my boy, but Jorge Toleto calling us to dinner. The willing ear, you know." Don Gil ushered the old man into the comidor. His tall figure was bent and thin. The shabby black coat, whose seams shone with a generation's wear, flapped its tails about the legs of his scant white trousers. The good priest's figure was one in which absurdity and dignity were inextricably combined. The padre showed his years. He had never quite recovered from the attack made upon him by his trusted servant Plumero, the Good--Plumero, who now languished in the cep' over at Saltona. The savory meal was ended. The night was warm and close. "Let us sit upon the veranda and enjoy our cigarillos, padre." Silencio seemed unlike himself. He was nervous, ill at ease. He had no sooner seated himself than he arose and paced the long veranda, the spark of his cigarette, only, showing his whereabouts. He looked often out to sea, and often in the direction of the _lanterna de señales_, whose ray was hidden from sight by the near hill. "Do you hear anything, padre? Anything like a cry or a--" "No, nothing! my boy. And as I was saying, there was my poor fighting cock lying in the corner, worse maltreated than he had ever been in any garito, and when I awoke--" "That was certainly a gun. You are not rising to leave, padre; why, your cigarillo is not even half finished. I expect you to stay the night. No, no! I will take no denial. Guillermina, prepare the western room for the Padre Martinez." "You know my weaknesses, muchacho mio. Very well, then, I will." But Silencio was down the steps and some feet away in the darkness, straining his ear for the sound which he knew must come. He took out his watch, and by the light of the veranda lantern noted the time. "Early yet," he muttered under his breath. "Pardon, my son, you spoke to--" "I was but saying that the moon is very late to--hark!" "You are restless, Gil." "It is this muggy weather. There! you certainly heard something?" "Nothing, Gil; nothing but the nightingale yonder." A cuculla flew into the padre's face. He brushed it gently away. It returned to wander over the long wisps of grey hair which straggled over the collar of the hot, dignified coat. The padre took the cuculla in his fingers, and placed it gently upon the leaves of the bougainvillia vine. "I certainly think that the sweetest songsters I ever heard are the nightingales in this enclosure." A footstep sounded on the graveled pathway which ran close to the veranda. "Buen' noch', Señor." Silencio started nervously. "Ah! It is you, Andres? Buenas noches." Silencio raised his hand with a warning gesture. Andres's stolid face expressed as stolid acquiescence. "Buen' noch', Señor. We did not find her at the _asta de lanterna_, Señor." "Andres, take the child home; he is weary." The tone was curt, unlike the kindly Don Gil. It was as if he had laid his hands on Andres's shoulders and were pushing him along. "I should like to remain here, Señor. Perhaps she may come to-night. Who knows? Perhaps the good God will send her. He knows that I--cannot--bear--it, I can _not_ bear--" The child's voice broke in a sob. Silencio's kindly nature was touched. "Take him round to Guillermina, Andres, and get dinner; both of you." The two disappeared in the darkness. Then Piombo brought a flaring Eastern lamp, at which Don Gil relighted his often extinguished cigarette. "How still the night! How far a sound would carry on a night like this." The padre had but just uttered these words when a long, booming sound struck upon the listening as well as the unexpectant ear. Silencio bounded from his chair. He caught up a cloak which was lying conveniently ready. "A steamer ashore!" he shouted. The old padre struggled to his feet. "Do not come. Go round to the quarters. Send the men to help. It must be at the sand spit. Follow me to the headland," and he was gone in the darkness. The padre wondered somewhat at Silencio's suspecting at once the locality of the stranded steamer, if that were the cause of the gun of distress. As he wondered, it spoke again, and gathering his wits together, he hastened round to the quarters. Silencio bounded along the camino and up the cliff pathway. His feet seemed winged. The familiar local knowledge of childhood stood him in good stead at this crucial moment. He reached the staff. It was short work to release the cord and lower the lantern, extinguish the light, replace the red slide with a white one, and hoist the darkened signal in place again. Then he turned and ran quickly down the sandy bank. "Now the light has simply gone out," he said to himself as he ran. His boat was where Andres had left it, the rising water making it just awash. A glance seaward showed to Silencio a steamer's lights. There came to him across the water bewildered shouts, the sounds of running feet, and evidences of confusion. He pushed his boat into the water, and bent to the oars. The steamer was, at the most, not more than a quarter of a mile distant. He pulled with desperation. He heard the sound of the foam as the propeller turned over, and he feared that with every revolution the vessel would back off into deep water. When he rowed alongside he was not noticed in the dark and confusion of the moment. He held his long painter in his hand, and as he climbed up over some convenient projections of the little vessel, fastened it securely. He drew himself up hurriedly to the taffrail, and slid down to deck, mixing with the crew. He looked about now for the bewitching cause of the disaster. Some dark forms were standing by the companion door, and going close he discovered her whom he sought. He laid his hand on her arm to draw her away. At first she started fearfully, but even in darkness love is not blind, and she hurriedly withdrew with him to the side of the vessel. "Stand here for a moment, Raquel," he whispered. "I am afraid that I cannot get you over the side without aid." She stood where he placed her, and he ran forward with much bustle and noise, seeking the captain, calling him by name. "Ah! the saints preserve us! Is that you, Señor Silencio? Where are we, Señor? There is no light anywhere to be seen. Where are we, for the love of God?" "I am afraid that you have run aground on my sand spit, Señor Capitan." "On your sand spit, Señor! Where, then, is Los Santos Head?" "Some miles further down the coast, Señor Capitan." "Ay de mi! I knew that pilot was no good. This is the first light that we have seen, and now that has gone out. This was a red light, Señor." "Red light? You are dreaming, Señor Capitan." The captain took this rejoinder in its literal meaning. "It is true that I was dreaming, Señor. I beg of you not to mention it at the port. I have suffered with a fearful toothache all day. The pilot said that he was competent; we have never had any trouble." Silencio cut him short. "I am here to offer my services, Señor Capitan. Can I be of any use? You may have a storm from the southward. To-day has been a weather-breeder. I think you have women on board. I could take them--" "Gracias! gracias! my kind Señor Silencio. That will help me above all things." "And if the wind does not rise, Señor Capitan, the tide will. Keep your engines backing, and there will be no harm done. I will take whom I can, and send for the others." Which proves that love, if not blind, may, however, be untruthful upon occasion. How Silencio got Raquel over the side he never knew. Some one aided him at the captain's order, but he realized at last the blessed fact that she was there beside him, and that they were gliding from the vessel's hull as fast as he could impel the boat. "Some miscreant has done this," roared the captain above the noise, as he leant over the side and strained his eyes after Silencio. "I beg you, Señor, to look for him, and when you have caught him, hand him over to me." "I shall remember your words, Señor Capitan." "I will have him shot in the market-place of the Port of Entry, and send for all the natives to see." "I will remember your words, Señor Capitan, you may be sure of that, when I catch him--" But the last words of Don Gil were lost in the renewed efforts of the engineer to back the steamer from the sand spit. No words passed at first between Raquel and her rescuer. If love is not always blind and sometimes not truthful, he is apt to be silent. Raquel needed no explanation. As the boat glided through the darkness, Silencio dropped the oars. He took her hands in his. His lips were pressed to hers. What question should she ask? What more did she crave to know? Here were life and liberty and love, in exchange for slavery, pollution, and worse than death. When he lifted her slight form from the boat, he did not release her at once, but held her in his arms for a moment. He could hardly believe that his daring act had met with the one result for which he had hoped. "Your uncle, where is he?" "Escobeda? In the cabin, ill. There is a slight swell. He is always ill. I had not noticed it, the swell, on board the steamer. But he is not my uncle, Señor." "I have proof of it in his own written words, dear heart. But uncle or not, he shall never separate us now." "When can they get the steamer off the sand spit, Señor? I heard you say that the water is rising." "They will float off by twelve o'clock to-night, Sweetheart. I hope they will forget you. But whether they do or not, they shall not have you ever again, beloved. No, never again! You are mine now." "He has none of those men with him," said Raquel. "They went back to Troja. But, Señor, he will come back from the capital, and then--Señor--then--" "We will reckon with that question when it arises, dear one. At present, let us not think of Escobeda and his crew." Half-way up the sandy slope they met the tall form of the padre descending. Silencio said shortly what he chose. Explanations were not in order, for, whatever had happened, and whatever might happen, this young girl could not remain unmarried in the house of her lover. "You must marry us this evening, padre; and we will go to the little church at Haldez to-morrow," said Don Gil, "if that will salve your conscience." "My conscience needs no salving, my son. Yours rather. Perhaps, if you have anything to confess, I had better receive your confession before--" "Ah, padre, what a tempter you are! So holy a man, too! No, let them do their worst. I have nothing to confess. I have won my stake; now let them come on." But he regarded the beautiful girl at his side with some uneasiness as he spoke. "You must let me give you a chime of bells, Padre," said Raquel. The moon was struggling forth, and Silencio noticed her shy look as she raised her eyes to his. "That is, if--if the Señor will allow. "Bribery, bribery!" said the padre in his thin old voice. Silencio put his arm round Raquel, and they stepped to the edge of the cliff. With her head pressed close to his shoulder, together they watched the dancing lights upon the steamer, and listened to the hoarse orders and shouts which, mingled with the foaming spray under the vessel's stern, came to them across the water. They had forgotten the padre, for love adds another to her many bad qualities, that of ingratitude. The padre had just promised to perform for them the greatest service that it was his to give, and they had become oblivious of him, and of everything in the world but each other. They stood so, and watched the steamer for a little space, and then Silencio gathered the girl to his breast. "Come home! dear Heart, come home!" he whispered, and she followed him down the path, her hand in his. As they neared the Casa de Caoba they saw that a man was sitting upon the veranda steps. He had a child in his arms. The man was sleeping heavily, the slumber of the labouring peon. As Raquel came up the steps of her new home, the child raised his large eyes wistfully to hers. "When El Rey saw it was a Señora, El Rey thought it might be Roseta. When will Roseta come, Señor? When? When?" Raquel stooped and lifted the boy tenderly from Andres's nerveless arms. She asked no question. With the instinct of the motherhood lying dormant within her, she knew that here was a motherless child, and that it suffered. At that moment she loved all the world. She pressed the boy close to her heart. "Stay with me, little one; I will be Roseta to you." El Rey raised his eyes to the sweet, dark face above him. "Roseta was not gran', Señora," he said--he scanned her face critically--"but she was more pretty than the Señora. The Señora will pardon me if I say that Roseta's gown was much more handsome than the one the Señora wear." At the word "señora" the young girl stooped and laid her lips upon the child's head. "It was a gown of red. It had green spots--oh, such little green spots, small, small spots. El Rey used to count them. There were some little half-spots up there on the shoulder. Roseta said it was where the sewing came. Roseta did not have shiny drops in her ears. The Señora's drops are like the bits of glass that Andres shot from the top of the _asta_ to-night. He had a gun, the gun of the Señor." Raquel looked inquiringly at Silencio. "It is true," he admitted. "At Los Santos?" "At Los Santos." "They came down in showers, Señor, like little red stars." "You are a poet, El Rey." "Rather," said Silencio, smiling down at the child, where he stood leaning against Raquel, "El Rey is a little story-teller. He promised not to say a word--" "It is a Señora who may know everything, all things. She has the good eyes." "You are right, El Rey." "The rings in Roseta's ears were round. They were big and round. She used to shake them when we went to the circus, so!" The tired head shook slowly. Andres stirred uneasily. He opened his dull, sad eyes and looked at El Rey. He had felt the touch on the wound even in his sleep. "I often put my finger round them, so! Often and often I did." Raquel took the little fingers between her own. She put them between her lips and bit them playfully. Her white teeth made tiny indentations in the tender skin. El Rey smiled faintly, a promise, Raquel hoped, of a brighter day of forgetfulness to come. Silencio stood looking on. He loved to see her so, the child leaning against her knee. Across the water came the sounds of shouts and hurried orders which disturbed no one. Raquel stroked the thin, straight hair over and over. She ran her soft fingers down the angular little face and neck. Tiny tremors of affection ran gently through the child's veins. El Rey laid his head upon the knee to which she drew him. His wasted hand shook as he laid it upon hers. "You are good," said the child. "You are beautiful, you are kind, kind to El Rey." His tone was patient and old and full of monotony. "But oh! the Señora will pardon me? You are not Roseta." There was one other person at the wedding of Don Gil and Raquel, besides the padre, who united them, and old Guillermina and Andres. "Who will give you away?" asked Silencio. "I myself," said she. Silencio laughed. "That cannot be," he said. As he spoke there was a humble knocking at the door of the salon. Raquel looked up and bounded from her seat. "Oh, you dear old thing!" she said. She was fondling and kissing the bony creature, who stood aghast before her, who in turn was crying and begging the saints to have mercy upon her. "And for the good God's sake, tell me how you got here, Señorita, and will the Señor allow me to sit down? My Sunday shoes have killed me, nearly. Is there anything that I could wear instead--" Ana stopped abashed at the sight of so fine a man as Silencio. "How did the Señor rescue you, my Sweet? Is the Señor Escobeda dead, then?" Ana looked about her as if she expected to see the bodies of Escobeda and his followers over there on the edge of the trocha. "I have been shipwrecked, Ana," said Raquel, smiling down upon the old woman. "Ship--the holy saints pres--and you are not even wet--and where, then, is the Señor Escobe--" "You seem very much worried about the Señor Escobeda, Ana," said Don Gil, who at once made Raquel's friend his own. "Do you not hear him off there now, cursing as usual?" Ana listened. She heard distant cries, and the sound of the water as it churned underneath the propeller blades. Ana shrank to the size of an ant as she answered, her face blanching: "Indeed! yes, I do hear the Señor, Señor. I have heard the Señor like that, Señor, many a time. And does the Señor think that the Señor can come here to the casa of Palmacristi?" "Not for some time, I think, Ana," said Don Gil, smiling, though a faint wrinkle was discernible on his brow. "It always seems to me as if the Señor Escobeda could get anywhere, Señor," said Ana, simply. "He has only to wish, the Señor, and the thing is done." "That would be bad for us," said Silencio. "Ana, will you give this lady to me?" "I? And what does the Señor think that I have to do with it?" "Is the Señor Escobeda a nearer relative than you are, Ana?" "Indeed, no! Señor," said Ana. "I was her mother's own cousin once removed, while the Señor Es--" "Very well!" said Silencio, "that is all that I want. Come! padre, let us prepare for the wedding." XI It was two or three days after this that Uncle Adan came in toward sunset with a fine piece of news. "The Señor knows the hacienda of Palmacristi?" began Uncle Adan, more as a preface than as a question. Don Beltran laughed. He had known the hacienda of Palmacristi as long as he had known anything; he had known the old Don Gil well, who, indeed, had been a distant relative of his own, and he had seen the young Don Gil grow up to manhood. Beltran was ten years older than Silencio. He had often envied the young fellow his independence and freedom in the way of money. He thought him hot-headed and likely to get into trouble some day, and now, from Uncle Adan's account, that day had arrived. He did not think it necessary to say this; Adan knew it as well as he. "What has he been doing now?" asked Don Beltran. "Only getting married, Señor," answered the old capitas. "I did not dream that he would do anything so sensible," said Don Beltran, with a glance at Agueda. Agueda bent her eyes low and blushed. How dear it was of him to think of her first of all, and always in that connection. But what was the haste? He loved her, of that she was sure. He would always love her. When he was ready, she would be, but it was not a pressing matter. "The Señor E'cobeda does not think it so sensible, Señor Don Beltran." "Aaaah! it was the little Señorita Raquel, then. Wise man, wise man!"--Agueda looked up suddenly--"to marry the girl of his choice. But how did he get her, Adan? It was only three weeks ago that he wrote me a line, begging that I would aid him in an effort to carry her off." "And the Señor answered--?" "I told him that I would come whenever he called upon me. I have no liking for Escobeda. He will not sell me the lowlands between the river and the sea. He is an unpleasant neighbour, he--" "He is a devil," said Adan. "I think that it must be I who made that marriage hasten as it did," said Agueda, smilingly. "The Señor remembers the day last week when I came home and found the Señor with the letter from the Señor Don Noé saying that he would make a visit at Palmacristi with the little child? It was on that day that I carried the note from the Señorita to Don Gil." "And that was the very day of the marriage," broke in Adan, willing enough to interrupt his niece, though not his master. "It was the very day. There was a shipwreck, and somehow the young Señor got the Señorita from the vessel. Como no, hombre! When one wants a thing he must have it if he is gran' Señor. The padre was there, and he married them, and now they have to reckon with the Señor E'cobeda." "Where was the precious rascal all this time?" asked Don Beltran. "Some say that he was on board the ship, Señor, and that he was carried on to the government town. They say he knew nothing of the grounding of the vessel; he was always sick with the sea, that Señor E'cobeda. Caramba! _I_ should like to see him sick with the sea, or with the bite of a black spider, or with anything else that would kill him--that Señor E'cobeda!" "I cannot see what he can do, Adan," said Don Beltran. "If she is married, he cannot change that." Adan nodded, and scratched his ankle with his machete. "Married fast enough, Señor Don Beltran. First by the padre at the hacienda, and then at the little church at Haldez. I cannot see what rights he has over the young Señora now. "None at all," said Don Beltran. "Does the lad want me over there--the Señor Silencio?" "I have heard nothing from him, Señor Don Beltran. Juan Rotiro told me many things, but the Señor knows what Juan Rotiro is when the pink rum gets into his judgment. He says that the Señor E'cobeda will soon return, and that there will be fighting, but it seems to me that the Señor Don Gil can hold his own. Como no! when he has the law on his side." "Law," Beltran laughed. "Do you suppose rascals like Escobeda care for law? Besides, he has the Governor on his side. He pays large sums for so-called concessions; that I know, and the Governor winks both eyes very fast at anything that Escobeda chooses to do. Did you hear anything about his getting that band from Troja together?" "Caramba! yes, Señor Don Beltran! It was spoken under the breath, and just from one peon to the other. They did not know much." Don Beltran arose. "I think I will ride over to Palmacristi, Agueda; get me my spur. Would you like to come, child?" Agueda shook her head, and ran into the sitting-room to hide her confusion. Her face was a dull crimson as she took the spur down from the nail. "The espuela is dusty; shall brighten it, Señor?" "Call old Juana. I will not have you soil your pretty hands, child, on my spur. The grey, Pablo," he shouted toward the rambling structure that was dignified by the name of stable. "And why not come with me, Agueda?" Agueda bent over her stitching. "I am much too busy to-day, Señor," she said. "Far too busy," she thought, "to go over there, not sure of my welcome." Things had changed at Palmacristi, and remembering the slight inflection in Silencio's tone when last she saw him, she knew that henceforth Raquel was quite out of her reach. "I was good enough to take her note for her when she was Señorita," thought Agueda, "but I am not good enough to visit her now that she is Señora." Agueda's sensitive and delicate nature had evolved this feeling out of an almost imperceptible glance, a faint, evanescent colouring of tone in the inflection of Silencio's voice, but it told her, as memory called it up, that the front door of Palmacristi would henceforth be closed to her. She would not hamper Beltran. He was thoughtless, and might suffer more from a slight to her than from one to himself; or else he might become angry and break his pleasant friendship with Silencio, a friendship which had existed between the families for generations. No, she had better remain at home. Again, when Beltran asked her, she shook her head and smiled, though a drop of water lay near the surface of her eye, but Beltran did not see, and rode away gaily, waving his hand. Arrived upon the height where stood the Casa de Caoba, he rode the grey down to the bank, because on the calm sea he had discovered Silencio and Raquel, in the little skiff in which Raquel had been rescued. He heard Silencio say, "There is Beltran; let us go in and see him." "I do not know that Don Beltran," said Raquel. "Does not the girl Agueda live there, at San Isidro?" "Yes; do you know Agueda?" As Silencio spoke he waved his hand to the horseman on the bank. "Bien venido," he shouted. And then to Raquel, "Where did you see the girl Agueda?" "I have often seen her," said Raquel. "She is very handsome. She looks like a young boy. She is really no darker than I am. Have you forgotten that she brought my note to you that day?" "No," said Silencio; "I have not forgotten it. She has perhaps more good Spanish blood in her veins than either of us," continued he, as he bent to the oars. "Such things are very sad," said Raquel. "She is so above her station. I should like to have her come here and live with us." "That would not do at all, Raquel," returned Silencio, gravely. "Is there anything wrong with her?" asked Raquel, wonderingly. "N--no, not that I know of, but she is not of your station." "And yet you say that she has better ancestry than either you or I," argued Raquel, as the boat grounded. "I am sure her uncle is a great deal more respectable than mine." Silencio waved his hand to Beltran. "We were looking to see if there was any sign of the yacht," he called. "I sent her round to Lambrozo to be repaired. We may need her now any day. Oh! I quite forgot you do not know my wife, Beltran. I must introduce you." Raquel bowed and walked onward to order refreshments for the visitor. "Let me congratulate you," said Beltran, when Silencio had thrown the painter to Andres, who was standing near and had scrambled up the bank. "I was surprised by your very charming news." "Hardly more than I was myself." "How did you manage, Gil?" "The gods were with me," answered Silencio, laughing, though Beltran noticed that his brow clouded over almost immediately. His laughter sounded false. "It is true that I have what I wished, Beltran," he continued--"the dearest blessing that any man, were he prince or noble, could ask." ("She is not half so beautiful as my Agueda," thought Beltran, while nodding acquiescence.) "I have her, she is mine; but--there is Escobeda still to be reckoned with." "Where is he?" asked Beltran. "I wish he were in hell," said Silencio, fiercely. "You are not singular in that, but the result is not always the offspring of the desire. It would indeed be a blessing to send him there, but unfortunately, my boy, there is law for him in this land, though very little of it when it comes to the wrongs that you and I suffer. The question is, where is he, and when do you expect him here?" "He went on to the government town with the steamer." Beltran threw his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, walking beside his young friend. He heard all that there was to tell. "He was very ill when the steamer ran on the sand spit that night." Silencio looked narrowly at his friend. He wished to see if his share in the decoying of the steamer had been noised abroad. Beltran listened without a flicker of the eyelash. "The doctor had given him something strong--a new thing down here, called, I believe, chloral." "Como no!" burst forth Beltran, "if they only gave him enough." "They gave him enough for my purpose," said Silencio. "He was utterly stupid. Was I going to awake him and ask permission to run away with his niece? Caramba, Beltran! I should think not! He was stupid, I imagine, all the way to the government town. When he called for the bird whose wings he thought he had clipped, behold, the little thing had flown, and with me, the dreaded enemy." Don Beltran laughed long and heartily. "You are a clever boy, Gil; but how about the future? As you say, you have that still to reckon with." The darkening of Silencio's face recalled to Beltran that antiquated simile of the sweeping of a cloud across the brightness of the sun. But not all old things have lost their uses. "I know that," said Silencio; "that is the worst of it. I have taken her from him to protect her, and now--and now--if--I--should fail--" "I rode over to-day for that very thing, Gil, to ask if I could help. I will come over with all my people if you say so, whenever you send for me. My uncle, Don Noé Legaspi, comes within a day or so, to stay with me at San Isidro. He brings his little child, a motherless little thing, with him, but I can come all the same. I think that it was never said of my house that we deserted a friend or a kinsman in trouble." "I see what you are afraid of," said Silencio. "You think he will attack me." "I do," answered Beltran; "but we can stand him off, as the Yankees say. You have the right to shoot if he attacks you, but I hope that it will be my bullet that takes him off, the double-dyed scoundrel!" "You will take some refreshment, Beltran?" "No, it is late; my breakfast is waiting. A' Dios, Gil, a' Dios." As they were about to part, Silencio called after his friend: "I will send you word as soon as I receive the news myself. You will come at once, eh, Beltran?" Don Beltran paused in mounting the grey, and turned his head to look at his friend. Silencio's fingers were nervously opening and closing around one of the fence palings. "For myself I should not care; that you know, Beltran; but for her, it would kill me to have her fall into his hands again. It would be death to me to lose her. She will die if she thinks that she can be taken from me, and by that villain. Do you know what they meant to do with her, Beltran? They meant--they meant--" Silencio's voice sank to a whisper. His face had become white, his lips bloodless. His eyes seemed to sink back in his head and emit sparks of fire. In the compression of the mouth Beltran saw the determination of certain death for Escobeda should he come within range of Silencio's weapon. Beltran was in the saddle now. He turned and surveyed his friend with some anxiety. "Be careful, Gil," he said; "don't come within reach of the villain. Discretion is much the better part in this matter. Keep yourself under cover. They will pick you off, those rascals. Send for me the night before you know that he is coming, and I will ride over with ten of my men. We can garrison at your house?" "I shall make ready for you," said Silencio. "My only fear is that I shall not have warning enough." XII Beltran rode down to the coast to meet his young uncle and the child. He started early in the morning, riding the black. The groom led the roan for Uncle Noé's use, Pablo rode the spotted bull, and those peons who could be spared from the cacao planting walked over the two miles to the boat landing, to be ready to carry the luggage that the strange Señor and the little girl would bring. As Dulgado's fin-keel neared the shore, Beltran could not distinguish the occupants, for the sail hid them from view; but when the boat rounded to alongside the company's landing, and a sprightly old gentleman got out and turned to assist a young girl to climb up to the flooring of the wharf, Beltran discovered that Time had not broken his rule by standing still. On the contrary, he had broken his record by outstripping in the race all nature's winners, for the young uncle had become a thin little old man, and the child a charming girl in a very pronounced stage of young ladyhood. "I should have known that my cousin could not be a little child," thought Beltran, as he removed his old panama, wishing that he had worn the new one. His dress was careless, if picturesque, and he regretted that he had paid so little attention to it. Notwithstanding his somewhat rough appearance, Beltran raised the perfumed mass of ruffles and lace in his strong arms. He seated the girl in the chair, fastened firmly to the straw aparejo on the back of the great bull. At Agueda's suggestion, he had provided a safe and comfortable seat for the little one, to whose coming Agueda was looking forward with such unalloyed pleasure. The girl filled it no more completely than Beltran's vision of her younger self would have done, though her billowy laces overlapped the high arms of her chair. Her feet, scarce larger than those of a child, rested upon the broad, safe footboard which Beltran had swung at the side of the straw saddle. Her delicate face was framed in masses of fair hair--pale hair, with glints here and there like spun glass. Beltran could hardly see her eyes, so shaded was her face by the broad hat, weighted down by its wealth of vari-colored roses. To many a Northern man, to whom style in a woman is a desideratum, Felisa would have looked like a garden-escape. She had a redundant sort of prettiness, but Beltran was not critical. What if her eyes were small, her nose the veriest tilted tip, her nostrils and mouth large? The fluffy hair overhung the dark eyebrows, the red lips parted to show white little squirrel teeth, the delicate shell-like bloom on cheek and chin was adorable. It brought to Beltran's memory the old farm in Vermont where he had passed some summers as a lad, and the peach trees in the orchard. His environment had not provided him with a strictly critical taste. How fair she was! What a contrast to all the women to whom he had been accustomed! There was nothing like her in that swarthy land of dingy beauties. Her light and airy apparel was a revelation. Unconsciously Beltran compared it with the plain, straight skirts and blouse waists which he saw daily, and to its sudden and undeniable advantage. He was expecting to greet a little child, and all at once there appeared upon his near horizon a goddess full-blown. He had seen nothing in his experience by which he could gauge her. She passed as the purest of coin in this land of debased currency. Her father, Uncle Noé, bestrode the roan which Eduardo Juan had brought over for him. When Don Noé was seated, Eduardo Juan gave him the bridle, and took his own place among the carriers of the luggage, which was greater in quantity than Don Beltran had expected. Eduardo Juan disappeared with a sulky scowl in answer to Pablo's contented grin, which said, "I have only to walk home, guide the bull, and see that the Señorita does not slip, while you--" Pablo waited with patient servility, rope in hand, until the Señorita was safely seated in her chair. There was a good deal of sprightly conversation among the Señores. There was more tightening of girths and questions as to the comfort of his guests by Don Beltran. Then the cavalcade started, Pablo leading the bull, which followed him docilely, with long strides. The animal, ignorant as are the creatures of the four-footed race, with regard to his power over its enemy, man, was obedient to the slightest twitch of the rope, to which his better judgment made him amenable. The long rope was fastened to the ring in his pink and dripping nostrils. He stretched his thick legs in long and steady strides, avoiding knowingly the deeper pools which he had heretofore aided his kind to fashion in the plastic clay of the forest path. Beltran rode as near his cousin as the path would allow. It was seldom, however, that they could ride abreast. It was the southern spring, and flowers were beginning to bloom, but Felisa looked in vain for the tropical varieties which one ever associates with that region. The bull almost brushed his great sides against the tree trunks which outlined the sendica. When she was close enough Felisa stretched out her hand and plucked the blackened remains of a flower from the center of a tall plant. It had been scorched and dried by the sun of the summer that was passed. She thrust the withered stems into the bull's coarse hair, turned to Beltran, and laughed. "If I remain long enough, there will be flowers of all colors, will there not, cousin? Flowers of blue and red and orange." "You will remain, I hope, long after they have bloomed and died again," answered Beltran, gallantly. They had not been riding long before Felisa sent forth from her lips an apprehensive scream. Beltran spurred his horse nearer. "What is it, cousin? Is the _silla_ slipping?" Felisa looked up from under her cloud of spun silk, and answered: "No, I am wondering how I am to get round that great tree." Beltran, to whom the path was as well known as his own veranda at San Isidro, had no cause to turn his eyes from the charming face at his side. "Oh! the trunk of the old mahogany? That has lain across the path for years. Do not be afraid, little cousin. Roncador has surmounted that difficulty more times than I can remember." They were now close upon the fallen trunk. Felisa closed her eyes and clutched at the bull's shaggy neck. She screamed faintly. Pablo turned to the right and pulled at the leading rope, but the bull, with no apparent effort, stubborn only when he knew that he was in the right, turned to the left, and Pablo perforce followed. It was a case of the leader led. When Roncador had reached the point for which he had started, a bare place entirely denuded of branches, he lifted one thick foreleg over, then the other. The hind legs followed as easily, a slight humping of the great flanks, and the tree was left behind. Suddenly Felisa found that they were in the path again. "Ze bull haave ze raight," commented Pablo. "Ah endeavo' taike de Señorit' roun' de tre'. Bull ain' come. He know de bes' nor me." Don Beltran leaped his horse over the tree trunk, and Don Noé was taken over pale and trembling, whether or no, the roan following Don Beltran's lead. Beltran smiled openly at Pablo's discomfiture, and somewhat secretly at Uncle Noé's fear. "A good little animal, that roan, Uncle Noé. How does he suit you?" Uncle Noé looked up and endeavoured to appear at ease, releasing his too tight clutch on the bridle. "Il est rigolo, bien rigolo!" said Don Noé, gaily, between jerks occasioned by the liveliness of the roan. He glanced sidewise at his nephew to see if the Paris argot which he had just imported had had any effect upon him. He owed Beltran something for his superior horsemanship. Beltran never having heard the new word, was, however, not willing to give Don Noé a modicum even of triumph. He was bending over, securing a buckle on his bridle. Without raising his figure, he answered, "C'est vrai, mon oncle, c'est tout à fait vrai, il est très, très rigolo." "Très ha ha!" added Don Noé. "Bien ha ha!" nodded Don Beltran, not to be left behind. "What wretched French Beltran speaks!" said Don Noé to his daughter, later. Uncle Noé belonged to that vast majority, the great army of the unemployed. He loved the gaieties of the world, the enjoyments that cities bring in their train. But sometimes nature calls a halt. Nature had whispered her warning in Don Noé's ear, and he at once had thought of the plantation of San Isidro as the place to rest from a too lavish expenditure of various sorts. He had come to this remote place for a purpose, but he yawned as they rode along. Beltran, proud of the beauties of San Isidro, pointed out its chief features as they proceeded. He turned, and said, still in French, to please Uncle Noé, and perhaps to show him that even at San Isidro all were not savages: "There is much to be proud of, Uncle Noé. It is not a small place, when one knows it all." "C'est vrai," again acquiesced Uncle Noé. "A la campagne il y a toujours beaucoup d'espace, beaucoup de tranquillité, beaucoup de verdure, et--" The rest of the sentence was lost on Beltran, but was whispered in the pink ear of Felisa, who laughed merrily. "At what is my cousin laughing?" asked Beltran, turning, with a pleased smile. Uncle Noé did not answer. The words with which he had finished his sentence were, "_et beaucoup d'ennui_." "You wanted to come," said Felisa, still laughing. "Did you ever see such a God-forsaken place?" returned her father. "I had really forgotten how bad it was. Look at those ragged grooms. Imagine them in the Champs Elysées!" "There can be no question of the Champs Elysées. How stupid you are, papa." "And down in this valley! Just think of putting a house--I say, Beltran, who ever thought of putting your house down here in the valley?" "It was my mother's wish," said Beltran. "I suppose that it was a mistake, but the river was further away in those days. It has changed its course somewhat, and encroached upon the casa, but we have never had any serious trouble from it. I shall build a house on the hill next year. The foundations are already laid." Don Beltran had said this for some years past. "Not that I think that I shall ever need it. When we have floods, the water makes but a shallow lake. It is soon gone." As they entered the broad camino, Felisa saw a man coming toward them. He was mounted upon a fine stallion; the glossy coat of the animal shone in the sun. The rider wore an apology for a hunting costume, which was old and frayed with use. The gun, slung carelessly across his shoulder, had the appearance of a friend who could be depended upon at short notice, and who had spent a long life in the service of his owner. The stock was indented and scratched, but polished as we polish with loving hands the mahogany table which belonged to our great-grandmother. The barrel shone with the faithfulness of excellent steel whose good qualities have been appreciated and cared for. The man was short and dark. As he passed he removed his old panama with a sweep. Beltran gave him a surly half-nod of recognition, so curt as to awaken surprise in the mind of Felisa. The contrast between the greetings of the two men was so great that her slits of eyes noticed and compared them. "Who is that man, cousin?" "Don Matéo Geredo." "Why do you not speak to him?" "I nodded," said Beltran. "You did not return his salute. I am sure it was a very gracious one, cousin. Why did you not return his--" "Because he is a brute," said Beltran, shortly. Felisa had not been oblivious of the glance of admiration observable in the man's eyes as he passed her by. "Jealous so soon," she thought, with that vanity which is ever the food of small minds. Aloud she said, "He seems to have a pleasant face, cousin." "So others have thought," said Beltran, with an air which said that the subject was quite worn out, threadbare. Then, changing his tone, "See, there is the casa! Welcome to the plantation, my little cousin." And thus chatting, they drew up at the steps of San Isidro. Agueda came joyfully out to meet them. Ah! what was this? Where was the little child of whom she and Beltran had talked so much? Agueda had carefully dusted the little red cart. She had fastened a yellow ribbon in the place from which the tongue had long ago been wrenched by Beltran himself. The cart stood ready in the corner of the veranda, but Agueda did not bring it forward. She caught sight of a glitter of bracelets and rings against a snow-white skin, as Felisa was lifted down from the aparejo in her cousin's arms. Her lips moved unconsciously. "The diamonds, not the playthings," was her verdict. As Agueda came forward, the surprise that she felt was shown in her eyes. She bowed gravely to the Señorita, who condescended to her graciously. "Shall I show the Señorita to her room?" asked Agueda of Beltran. With that wonderful adaptability which is the inalienable inheritance of the American woman, Agueda had accepted in a moment the change from the expected child to the present Señorita. It is true that Agueda's mother, Nada, had been but a pretty, delicate octoroon, but Agueda's father had been a white gentleman (God save the mark!) from a northern state, and Nada's father a titled gentleman of old Spain. From these proud progenitors and the delicate women of their families had Agueda inherited the natural reserve, the refinement and delicacy which were so obvious to all with whom she came in contact. She inherited them just as certainly as if Nada had been a white woman of the purest descent, just as certainly as if the gentle Nada had been united in wedlock to the despoiler of her love and youth and life, George Waldon, for there ran in Agueda's veins a heritage of good old blood, which had made the daughters of the house of Waldon famous as pure and beautiful types of womanhood. As Agueda asked her hospitable question, Beltran's square shoulders were turned toward her. He was busying himself with the strap of the aparejo. Agueda, who knew him as her own soul, perceived an embarrassed air, even in the turn of his head. "If you please," said Beltran, without looking toward her. The Señorita loitered. She asked Don Beltran for her bag. He lifted the small silver-mounted thing from the pommel of his saddle and handed it to Felisa with a smile. He seemed to look down at her indulgently, as if humouring a child. Agueda noticed the glittering monogram as it flashed In the sun. Beltran's hand touched Felisa's. A gentle pink suffused her features. Agueda caught the sudden glance which shot from Beltran's eyes to those of his cousin. A sickening throb pulsed upward in her throat. She shivered as if a cold wind--something that she had seldom felt in that tropic land--had blown across her shoulders. Suddenly Aneta came into her thoughts, Aneta of El Cuco. Her lips grew white and thin. It is moments like these, with their premonitions, which streak the hair with grey. Agueda did not look at Beltran again. She drew her breath sharply, and said: "If the Señorita permit, I will show her the way." "In a moment, my good girl," said Felisa, carelessly, and lingered behind, bending above the flower boxes which lined the veranda's edge, flowers which Agueda had planted and tended. "What a pretty servant you have, cousin," said Felisa. Beltran started. "Servant? Oh, you mean Agueda. She--she--is scarcely a servant, Agueda; she keeps my house for me." Felisa turned and gazed after Agueda. The girl had walked the length of the broad veranda and stood waiting opposite a door, lithe and upright. She looked back, her face grave and serious. She was taller by several inches than Felisa. Her figure, slender as Felisa's own, was clothed in a pale blue cotton gown, fresh and clean, though faded with frequent washings, a spotless collar and cuffs setting off the statuesque throat and the shapely hands. Felisa tick-tacked down the long veranda, her ruffles and billowy laces bouncing with her important little body. She uttered a subdued scream of surprise as she reached the open doorway and caught sight of the fresh, cool-looking room, with its white furniture and bare floors, its general air of luxurious simplicity. The wooden shutter in the wall opposite the door was flung wide, and one was conscious of a tender tone of yellow green, caused by the rays of sunlight shining through and over the broad banana leaves. Great lilac and yellow pods hung from the shafts of greenery; some of the large oval leaves had fallen upon the veranda. Felisa noted them when she crossed the room to inquire further into her surroundings. A ragged black was sitting on the veranda edge, swinging his legs over the six feet of space. "Hand me that leaf," said Felisa. The boy arose at once, and picking up the lilac leaf of the banana flower, held it out to her with a bow and the words in Spanish, "As the Señorita wishes." Felisa took the leaf, but threw it down at once. She had expected to find a soft thing which would crumple in her hand. The leaf was hard and tough as leather. She could no more crush or break it with her small fingers than if it had been made of india-rubber, which, but for its color, it strongly resembled. She turned and looked at Agueda. "And do you have no curtains at the windows?" "We have no curtains, and windows we do not have, either," answered Agueda. "The Señorita can see that there are wooden shutters at the windows. No one has windows on this side of the island." The tone was perhaps slightly defiant. It was as if Agueda had said, "What! Finding fault so soon?" "Eet haave glaass obe' at dé ceety; Ah see eet w'en Ah obe' deyah." Felisa started. The voice came from the corner of the room, which was concealed by the open door. She peered into the shadow, and faced the shriveled bit of brown flesh known as Juana. Felisa laughed, as much at the words as at the speaker. "Señ'it' t'ink Ah don' haave--yaas-been aat de ceety. Ah been aat ceety. Eet haave, yaas, peepul." The tone implied millions. Felisa was standing in front of the dressing-table, taking the second long silver pin out of her hat. "What does she say?" she asked through the hatpin which she held horizontally between her teeth. She removed the open straw, and ran the pins, one after the other, through the crown. "She says that they have the glass--that is, the windows--at the city." Still staring at Juana, Felisa seated herself upon the small white bed. Agueda pushed back the rose-coloured netting which hung balloon-like from the ceiling. A freshly knotted ribbon gathered its folds and held them together, thus keeping the interior free from the intrusion of annoying or dangerous insects. Felisa reached down with one plump hand, and drew the ruffled skirt upward, disclosing a short little foot, which she held out toward Agueda. Agueda did not move. She looked at Felisa with a slight arch of the eyebrows, and moved toward the door. Juana hobbled up. "De li'l laidy wan' shoe off? Ole Juana taake. Dat ain' 'Gueda business. Don Be'tra' don' laike haave 'Gueda do de waak." "And why not, I should like to know?" Juana chuckled down in the confines of her black and wrinkled throat. Agueda went out to the veranda. She stood looking over toward the river, her arm round the pilotijo, her head leant against it. Her thoughts were apprehensive ones. She paid no heed to Juana's words. "She Don Be'tra' li'l laidy, 'Gueda is. She ain' no suvvan,[7] ain' 'Gueda. She 'ousekeep', 'Gueda." By this time Juana, with stiff and knotted fingers, had unlaced the low shoes. She took the small feet in her hand, and twisted them round, and Felisa with them, to a lying posture upon the low couch. FOOTNOTE: [7] Servant. XIII The casa at San Isidro had verandas running on either side of its long row of rooms. This row began with the kitchen, store and sleeping rooms, and ended with the comidor and sitting-room. The verandas ran the entire ninety feet in a straight line until they reached the comidor. There they turned at right angles, making thus an outer and an inner corner. These angles enclosed the dining and living rooms. The inner veranda was a sheltered nook when the rain swept up from the savannas down by the sea, the outer one a haven of delightful coolness when the sun glowed in the west and threw its scorching beams, hot and melting, into the inner corner. Here were the steps leading down the very slight incline into the yard and flower garden. Here, to this inner corner, were the bulls and horses driven or led, for mounting or dismounting; here the trunks and boxes of visitors were carried up and into the house; and this was what was happening now. Agueda looked on listlessly as Felisa's large trunk and basket trunk and Don Noé's various boxes and portmanteaus were deposited with reproachful thumps upon the floor. The peons who had carried them, shining with moisture, dripping streams of water, wiped their brows with hardened forefingers, and snapped the drops from nature's laboratory off on to the ground. They had carried the luggage slung upon poles across country. For this duty six or eight of them were required, for there was no cart road the way that they must come, as the broad camino ran neither to the boat landing, nor extended to the plantation of San Isidro. The men stood awkwardly about. One could see that they were expectant of a few centavos in payment for this unusual labour. Don Noé kept himself religiously secluded upon the corner of the outer veranda. He well knew that the luggage had arrived. The struggle up the steps, the shuffle of men's feet, the scraping sort of hobble from callous soles, reached his ear. The heavy setting down of boxes shook the uncarpeted bare house, but Don Noé was consciously oblivious of all this. He had come to pay a long visit, and thus redeem a depleted bank account. Should he begin at the first hour to throw away money among these shiftless peons? Beltran had doubtless plenty of them. Such menial work came within the rule of the general demand. To be sure, he had brought many small boxes and portmanteaus. Don Noé thought it a sure sign of a gentleman to travel with all the small pieces that he and a porter or two could carry between them. A good-sized trunk would easily have held Don Noé's wardrobe, but there was a certain amount of style in staggering out of a car or off a steamer, loaded down with a parcel of canes, fishing-rods, and a gun-case, while the weary servant, who did not care a fig for glory, stumbled along behind with portmanteaus, bags, and hat boxes. It is quite true, as Felisa sometimes reminded Don Noé, that he had never caught a fish or shot a bird. Style, however, is a _sine qua non_, and reputation, however falsely obtained, if the methods are not exposed, stands by a man his whole life long. Self-valuation had Uncle Noé. From his own account, he was a very remarkable man. And as he usually talked to those who knew nothing of his past, they accepted his statements, perforce, as the truth. The dripping peons hung about the steps. Their shirts clung to their shoulders, but those the sun would dry. Don Noé sat quiet as a mouse upon the angle of the outer veranda. Agueda came toward the lingerers. "It is you that need not wait, Eduardo Juan, nor you, Garcia Garcito. The Don Beltran will see that you get some reward." "A ching-ching?" suggested the foremost, slyly. "I suppose so," said Agueda, wearily. She retraced her steps along the veranda, the men trooping after. Past all the long length of the sleeping-rooms went Agueda, until she reached the storeroom. The door of this she opened with a key which hung with the bunch at her waist. She entered, and beckoned to Garcia Garcito to follow. "Lift down the demijohn, you, Garcia Garcito, and you, Trompa, go to Juana for a glass." Garcia Garcito entered, and raising his brawny arms to the shelf overhead, grasped the demijohn and set it upon the table. Trompa returned with the glass. Agueda measured out a drink of the rum for each as the glass was emptied by his predecessor. The men took it gratefully. Each as his turn came, approached the filter standing in the comer, watered his dram, and drank it off, some with a "Bieng," others--those of the better class--with a bow to Agueda, and a "Gracia." Eduardo Juan, more careless than the rest, snapped the drops from his drained glass upon the spotless floor, instead of from the edge of the veranda to the grass, as the others had done. "Eduardo Juan, you know very well that that rudeness is not allowed here. Go and ask Juana for a cloth that is damp, that you may wipe those spots." Eduardo Juan smiled sheepishly, and loped off to the wash-house. He returned with the damp cloth, got down upon his knees, and rubbed the floor vigorously. "De Señora 'Gueda maake de Eduardo Juan pay well for his impertinences," laughed the peons. "Bastante! Bastante!" said Agueda. Eduardo Juan obeyed as if Agueda were the house mistress. Such had been Don Beltran's wish, and the peons were aware of it. Then Eduardo Juan jumped to the ground, and followed the other peons where they had disappeared in the direction of the stables. When he no longer heard the scuffle of feet, Don Noé tiptoed down the veranda, and entered the room which had been assigned to him. He aroused Felisa from a waking doze on that borderland where she hovered between dreams and actuality. She was again seated upon the aparejo. The bull was plunging through the forest, or with long strides crossing some prone giant of the woods. Beltran was near; his kind eyes gazed into hers. His arm was outstretched to steady her shaking chair. His voice was saying in protecting tones, "Do not be afraid, little cousin; you are quite safe." A pleasurable languor stole through Felisa's frame, a supreme happiness pervaded her being. She felt that she had reached a safe haven, one of security and rest. Her father had never troubled himself very much about her wishes. She had been routed out of this town, that city, according to his whims and the shortness or length of his purse. A dreamy thought floated through her brain that he could not easily leave this place, so difficult of access, more difficult of egress; so hospitable, so free! The sound of Don Noé's short feet stamping about in the adjoining room aroused Felisa from her lethargy. The absence of a carpet made itself obvious, even when an intruder tried to conceal the knowledge of his presence. Felisa now heard, in addition to the noise of tramping feet, the voice of Don Noé, fiercely swearing, and scarcely under his breath. "Ten thousand damns," was what he said, and then emphasized it with the sentence, "Ten thousand double damns." This being repeated several times, the number mounted rapidly into the billions. Ah! This was delightful! Don Noé discomfited! She would, like a dutiful daughter, discover the reason. Felisa sprang from her bed, a plump little figure, and ran quickly to the partition which separated her father's room from her own. This partition did not run up all the way to the roof. It stopped short at the eaves, so that through the open angle between the tops of the partition boards and the peak of the roof one heard every sound made in an adjoining room. She placed her eye to a crack, of which there were many. The boards had sprung apart in some places, and numerous peep-holes were thus accorded to the investigating. A scene of confusion met Felisa's gaze. All of Don Noé's portmanteaus were open and gaping wide. They were strewn about the floor, alternately with his three hat boxes, the covers of which had been unstrapped and thrown back. From each one shaking masses of bright and vari-colored flowers revealed themselves. "That dam' girl!" said Don Noé, under his breath. Felisa chuckled. Her only wonder was that by replacing her father's belongings with her own, and transporting her numerous gay shade hats thus sumptuously, her methods had not been discovered before. At each change of consequence, from boat to train, from horseback to carriage, Don Noé had suggested unpacking a change of headgear for himself. Felisa had, with much prudent forethought, flattened an old panama and laid within it a travelling cap. These, with filial care, she had placed in the top of her own small steamer trunk. With one excuse or another, she had beguiled Don Noé into using them during the entire trip. At Tampa it had been a secret joy to her to see the poor man struggling out of the train laden with the hat boxes in which her own gorgeous plumage reposed uninjured. In crossing to the island, in taking the train to the little town where the small steamer was waiting to carry them to their goal, and again, during their debarkation and stowing away in the little schooner which carried them across the bay to the spot where Don Beltran was to meet them, she had seen with supreme satisfaction the care with which her millinery was looked after, while Don Noé's assortment of hats was crowded into a small space in her own Saratoga. "I knew it, I knew it," whispered the chuckling Felisa. And then, aloud, "What's the matter, Dad?" Don Noé answered not. He was impatiently and without discrimination hauling and jerking the clothes from an open portmanteau. Each shirt, pair of trousers, necktie, or waistcoat was raised in air, and slapped fiercely down on the floor with an oath. Don Noé was not a nice old man, and his daughter relished his discomfiture. "Oh, damn!" he said, for the twentieth time, as he failed of jerking a garment from the confines of a tray, and sat down with precision in an open hat box. Some pretty pink roses thrust their heads reproachfully upward between his knees. There was discernible, from the front, a wicked look of triumph in Don Noé's small eyes. He revelled in the feeling that he was sinking, sinking down upon a bed of soft and yielding straw. "So I say," concurred Felisa, as the last exclamation left Don Noé's lips. She sprang away from the partition and flew out of the doorway, along the veranda, and into her father's room. "Get up at once!" she said. "Dad, do you hear? Get up at once. That is my very best, my fascinator! Get up! Do you hear me?" She stamped her stockinged foot upon the bare floor. The pain of it made her the more angry. Don Noé sank still further, smiling and helpless. "Get up at once!" Two of the peons had returned along the outer veranda. They still hoped to receive a reward for their work of the morning. They lounged in at the shutter opening, and looked on with a pleased grin. The disordered room spoke loudly of Don Noé's rage; the crushed flowers and the stamp of the foot, of the Señorita's fury. Felisa raised her eyes to the ebony faces framed between the lintels. She could not help but note their picturesque background, the yellow green of the great banana spatules, through which the tropic sunshine filtered. "Come in here, you wretches, both of you! How dare you laugh!" Eduardo Juan thrust a bony hand inside and unbuttoned the lower half door. He pushed through, and Paladrez followed him. They entered with a shuffle, and stood gazing at Don Noé. He, in turn, grinned at them. He was paying Felisa double--aye, treble-fold--for packing his hats in some close quarter, where, as yet, he knew not. Perhaps she had left them behind. A crack of the hat box! He was sinking lower. "If you don't care for my best hat, Dad, I should think you would not wish to ruin your own hat box." Then, turning to Eduardo Juan, "Pull him out at once!" Don Noé, certain that he had done all the damage possible, stretched out appealing hands. The men seized upon those aristocratic members with their grimy paws, and pulled and tugged his arms nearly out of their sockets. They got him partly to his feet, the box and flowers rising with him. Felisa saw that there was no chance of resurrection for the hat, the ludicrous side of the situation overcame her, and she laughed unrestrainedly. "Knock it off, confound you!" screamed Don Noé, in a sudden access of rage. Felisa's return of good temper made him furious. She danced round him, taunting and jibing. "The biter bit," she sang, "the biter bit." "Take something, anything, knock it off!" shouted Don Noé again. Palandrez, with a wrench, tore off the cover of the hat box and released the prisoner. "You've ruined my hat!" "You've ruined my hat box!" screamed father and daughter in unison. He shook his fist in her face. "Get out of my room, every man jack of you!" The gentle peons fled, a shower of garments, boots, and brushes following them. The room looked like the wreck of all propriety and reserve. "Don't you think you've made spectacle enough of yourself?" asked Felisa, and with this parting fling she flew from her father's presence, and fell almost into the arms of Don Beltran, chance having thus favoured him. He held her close for a moment before he released her. She was pink and panting from these two contrasting experiences. "He is often like that." She spoke fast to cover her embarrassment. "Did you ever know him before, cousin? If you did, I wonder that you asked us here." Beltran smiled. He did not say that the visit had been self-proposed on Don Noé's part. His smile contracted somewhat as a heavy walking-shoe flew out through the open doorway and knocked the panama from his head. As Beltran stooped and recovered the hat, Felisa glanced at him shamefacedly. She noticed the wet rings of hair, streaked faintly with early grey, which the panama had pressed close to his forehead. "I remember hearing that Uncle Noé was a young man with a temper," he said. "The family called it moods." He recalled this word from the vanishing point of the dim vista which memory flashed back to him at the moment. As Beltran spoke he glanced apprehensively at the open square in the palm-board exterior of the casa. "Let us run away," he said, smiling down at the girl. "Until he is sane again," agreed Felisa. She plunged into her room and caught up the discarded shoes; then springing from veranda to the short turf below, she ran with Beltran gaily toward the river. A bottle of ink shot out through the opening, and broke upon the place where they had stood. "He is a lunatic at times," said Felisa, with a heightened colour. There was a drop upon her eyelash which Beltran suddenly wished that he dared have the courage to kiss away. "I shall hurt my feet," she said, stopping suddenly. She dropped the shoes upon the ground, thrust her feet into them, and started again to run, her hand in Beltran's. The sun was scorching. He took his broad panama from his head and placed it upon hers. It fell to her pretty pink ears. She laughed, his laughter chimed with hers, and thus, like two happy children, they disappeared within the grove which fringed the river bank. Agueda saw them as they crossed the hot, white trocha. She saw them as they entered the grove. "And that is the little child," she said aloud, "the little child." Then, with a sudden painful tightening at the heart, "I wonder if he knew." So quickly does the appearance of deceit excite distrust which has no foundation to build upon. Beltran had known no more certainly than Agueda herself the age of this unknown cousin. He was guiltless of all premeditation, but to say that he was not conscious of an unmistakable joy when he found this charming young girl at the landing, and knew that she would live under the same roof with him for an indefinite period, would be to say that which is not true. Beltran was a victim of circumstances. He had not desired a change. He had not asked for it, yet when it came he accepted it, welcomed it perhaps. Had the choice between the known and the imagined been given him, he would have sought nothing better than his, until now, happy environment. "It is fate," thought Beltran. When the cousins reached the river, Beltran parted the branches for Felisa, and she slipped out of the white heat into a soft-toned viridescence of shade. A path ran downward to the river shore. It was cut parallel with the water's flow. The path was overshadowed by thick branches. Mangoes, mamey trees, and mahoganies were there. The tall palm crowned all in its stately way. The young palms spread and pushed fan-like across the path, in intimate relation now with human kind. The time would come when no one would be able to lay a finger tip upon their stiff and glossy sprays, when their lofty tufts would look down from a vantage point of eighty or a hundred feet upon the heads of succeeding generations. Felisa ran down the sloping path and seated herself, all fluff and laces, upon the slope of the bank. She sank into a bed of dry leaves, through which the fresh green of new-born plants was springing. "Not there, not there!" cried Beltran, sharply. "You never know what is underneath those foot-deep leaves. Come down here, little cousin. I have a bench at the washing-stone." They descended still lower. Her hand was still in the one by which he had raised her from the bank. "You have closed the bench quite off from the river, cousin, with those hateful wires. I cannot get at the water or even at the broad stone there." Felisa spoke petulantly. Beltran gazed down into the pretty face. The eyes, though not large, held the dancing light of youth. The upturned little nose and the broad mouth would not serve to make a handsome older woman, but the red lips pouted over white and even teeth, a rose flush tinted the ear and cheek, colourless curly tendrils escaped from under the large hat. Felisa's clothes, that most important factor in a man's first attraction toward a woman, were new and strange, and of a fashion that Beltran knew must be a symptom of modernity. He was utterly unconscious that a certain fascination lay in those wonderful great figures of colour sprawling over a gauzy ground of white. He would have denied that the ribbon knot at the waist, and its counterpart upon the left shoulder, had any particular charm for him, or that the delicate aroma of the lavender of an old-fashioned bureau, which emanated from those filmy ruffles with every motion of the restless little body, had anything to do with his being so drawn toward her. Felisa seated herself and stretched out her feet, encased in a black silk mystery of open work and embroidery. He knelt and tied the silken laces. When he had finished this absorbing task he bent suddenly lower and pressed his lips to the instep above. Felisa withdrew it quickly, blushing. She knew nothing of such vigourous love-making as this. The northern birds were more wary. "My hat," she said, "please get me one." Beltran turned and ran up the path. "I did not dream that I should like him so much," said Felisa softly, as she gazed after him. Beltran ran swiftly to the casa and bounded up on to the veranda. Felisa's door reached, he hesitated. Agueda stood within the room, holding a hand-glass before her face. She was gazing at her reflection. At the well-known step she started. What hopes arose within her breast! He was coming back, the first moment that he was free, to tell her that she must not mind his attentions to his cousin, that they were necessary. She would meet him with a smile, she would convince him that that hateful jealousy, which had been tearing at her vitals for the past hour or two, had no part within her being. Ah! after all her suspicion of him, she was still his first thought! She started and dropped the glass. She turned toward him, a smile of welcome parting her lips. Beltran hardly looked at Agueda. "A hat! a bonnet, anything!" he said. "Give me something quickly!" She took from the table the gay hat in which Felisa had arrived, and placed it in his outstretched hand, but she did not look at him again. He almost snatched it from her. Was not Felisa waiting bareheaded down there by the river? He sprang to the ground and hastened across the trocha. After he had entered the grove, he buried his face among the flowers, which exhaled that faint, evanescent fragrance which already spoke to him of her. Agueda sighed and placed the silver-backed mirror upon the table. Had one asked her what she had been searching for in its honest depths, she could hardly have told. Perhaps she had been wondering whether with such aids to beauty as Felisa had, she would not be as attractive. Perhaps looking to see if she had grown less sweet, less lovable in these few short hours. "Juana," she called. "Juana!" The old crone hobbled forth quickly from the kitchen at Agueda's sharp tone. It was new to her. "Make this room tidy," ordered Agueda. Juana wondered at the harsh note in Agueda's voice. The girl herself was unconscious that she had spoken differently than she had been wont to do, but she was filled with a defiant feeling, a fear that now the others would not treat her with the respect which Don Beltran had always demanded of them. That new pain was accountable. At the sharp note in her voice, Juana had looked inquiringly, but Agueda raised a haughty head and passed along the veranda to her own room. Felisa heard Beltran returning. Her quick ear noted every movement, from the hurried run across the potrero and the trocha to his pushing back with impatient hand the low-sweeping branches and his hasty footfall down the path. She wondered if this new blossoming in her heart were love? She had never felt so since those first early days of adolescence, when as a young girl her trust had been deceived, ensnared, entrapped, and left fluttering with wounded wings. Should she love him? Was it worth her while? Her first word was a complaint. Experience had taught her that complaisance is a girl's worst enemy. "Why did you place those wires there, cousin?" For answer Beltran came close and looked down upon her shining head. Suddenly he took her in his arms and kissed her. She struggled, for she was really somewhat indignant. "And may not cousins kiss?" asked Beltran. "Those wires were placed there to prevent the little child whom we--I--expected from falling into the river. You are scarce larger than the little child--whom we--I--pictured, but oh! how infinitely more sweet!" He twisted one long brown finger in the ring of hair which strayed downward nearly to her eyes. Felisa withdrew her head with a quick motion. She was experiencing a mixture of feelings. She had come here to San Isidro with a purpose, and now, within two short hours of her arrival, she found that her purpose marched with her desires. Don Noé had said, "Felisa, do you remember your Cousin Beltran, your mother's nephew?" "No, papa, how could I remember him? I never saw him. I have seldom heard of him." "Ah, yes, I know," returned Don Noé, with the sudden awakening of the semi-centenarian to the fact that he is communing with a second generation. "Well, that wretched old grandfather of yours, old Balatrez, cut your mother off because she married _me_!" "Had he seen the hat boxes?" asked Felisa, who had a humour of her own. "Don't be impertinent. All that fine property has gone to Beltran, just because your mother married _me_! She was sister to Beltran's mother, your aunt, as you know. Now, Felisa, I intend to have that fortune back." "How, papa? Do you intend to call upon my cousin to stand and deliver?" "I intend you to do that, Felisa." "I am tired of being poor, too, papa." Felisa considered a shrinkage from eighteen to eight new gowns a summer a distinct sign of poverty. When Don Noé drew in his horns as to expenditures, the young foreign attaché who had all but proposed to him for the hand of Felisa relaxed his attentions. Felisa had hoped to be a countess, but a title is no guarantee of perennial or even annual bread and butter, and those indispensable articles some one must provide. At the close of Don Noé's remarks, which were too extended to be repeated, Felisa had said, "I am quite ready for your cousin-hunt, papa." A feeling akin to shame swept through her as she sat there and recalled this conversation, and realized what this new intimacy with Beltran meant to her--what it might mean in the days to come, for that he loved her at once and irrevocably her vanity gave her no chance to doubt, and she knew now that she was beginning to find this impetuous lover more than attractive. One who knew Felisa thoroughly would have said that she was beginning to care for him as much as it was in her nature to care for any one but herself. XIV Agueda saw all the plans which they had made together for the coming of the little child carried out by Beltran alone. She could not accompany Don Beltran and his cousin upon their different expeditions; she could not go as an equal, she would not go as an inferior. Besides which, there was never any question as to her joining them. The bull rides, the search for mamey apples, the gathering of the aguacate pears, all of which she had suggested, were taken part in by two only; so was the lingering upon the river, until Agueda shuddered to think of the miasmata which arise after nightfall and envelop the unwary in their unseen though no less deadly clutches. The walks in the moonlight, ending in a lingering beneath the old mahogany tree for a few last confidences before the return to the home-light of the casa, left no place for a third member, because of the close intimacy which naturally was part and parcel of the whole. All had come about as Agueda had planned, with the exception that she herself was missing from plain, hill, and river. She had heard Beltran say: "Yes, I will take you down to the potrero, little girl, to gather the aguacates, but you must not approach the bushes, for the thorns would sting your tender hands." Agueda recalled the day when she had suggested this as one of the cautious pleasures open to the little thing for whom they two were looking; but she, Agueda, who was to have been the central figure, she, the one to whose forethought had been entrusted the planning and carrying out of these small amusements, was excluded. As the days passed by, Beltran and Agueda seldom met, except in the presence of others. She addressed him now in the third person, as "If the Don Beltran allow," or "If the Don Beltran wishes." When by chance the two stumbled upon one another, neither could get out of the way quickly enough. It was on a day when she was forced to speak to him as to the disposition of some furniture, that her utter dejection and spiritless tone appealed to him. As he glanced at her, he noticed for the first time how large her eyes were, what hollows showed beneath them, how shrunken and thin was her cheek. "What is it, Agueda? You treat me as a culprit." "No, oh, no!" She shook her head sadly; then threw off the feeling apparently with a quick turn of the head. "The Señor is within his rights." Beltran's heart was touched. He drew near to her, and laid his arm about her shoulder, as he had not done now for a long time. She stooped her fine height, and drew her shoulder out from under his arm. She had no right now to feel that answering thrill; he was hers no longer. A sob, which she had tried to smother in her throat, struck him remorsefully. "They will soon be gone, Agueda; then all will be as before." "Nothing can ever be as before, Señor. I see it now, either for you or for me." The wall within which she had encased herself, that dignity which silence under wrong gives to the oppressed, once broken, the flood of her words poured forth. The terrible sense of injustice overwhelmed and broke down her well-maintained reserve. She looked up at Beltran with reproach in her eyes, interrogation shining from their depths. "Why could you not have told me, warned me, cautioned me? Ah, Nada! Nada knew." Her helplessness overcame her. Beltran had been her salvation, her teacher, her reliance. She felt wrecked, lost; she was drifting rudderless upon an ocean whose shores she could not discern. Where could she turn? Her only prop and stay withdrawn, what was there to count upon? "I do not know the world, Beltran. My people never know the world. I have never known any world but this--but this." She stretched out her despairing arms to the grey square which she had called home. "Ah! Nada, dear Nada, you knew, you knew! I never dreamt that she meant you, Beltran, you!" Hark! It was Felisa's voice calling to him. Soon she would be here. She would see them; she would suspect. Beltran shrugged his shoulders, he pursed out his lips. The Agueda whom he had known was ever smiling, ever ready to be bent to his will. This girl was complaining, reproachful; besides which, her looks were going. How could he ever have thought her even pretty? He contrasted her in a flash with the little white thing, all soft filmy lawn and laces, and turned away to rejoin that other sweeter creature who had never given him a discontented look. It had come to this then! Her misery could wring from him nothing more than a careless shrug of the shoulders! She stood gazing afar off at the hillside, where the bulls were toiling upward with their loads of suckers for the planting. Some fields were yet being cleared, and the thin lines of smoke arose and poured straight upward in the still atmosphere. A faint odor of burning bark filled the air. Near by the banana leaves drooped motionless. There were no sounds except the occasional stamp of a hoof in the stable. The silence was phenomenal. Suddenly a shrill voice broke the stillness. "Cousin, are you coming?" A welcome summons! He would go to the hills with Felisa, as he had promised. She should see the fields "avita"-ed. He would forget Agueda's reproaches in the light of Felisa's smiles. He shook his tall frame, as if to throw off something which had settled like a cloud upon him; he hurried along the veranda with a quick stride. The excursion to-day was to be to the palm grove upon the hill. Uncle Noé was to be one of the party. The peons were to burn the great comahen nest, for in this remote quarter of the world such simple duties made amusement for the chance guest at the coloñia. Agueda had prepared a dainty basket over-night. The old indented spoons, the forks with twisted and bent tines, but bearing the glory and pride of the Balatrez family in the crest upon the handle, were laid in the bottom of the basket. Nothing was forgotten, from the old Señora's silver coffee pot, carefully wrapped in a soft cloth, to the worn napkins on the top with the crest in the corner, which was wearing thin and pulling away from the foundation linen. The coffee, planted, raised, picked, dried, roasted, and ground upon the plantation of San Isidro, was ready for the making; the cassava bread was toasted ready for heating at the woodland fire; the thick cream into which it was to be dipped was poured into the well-scoured can; the fresh-laid eggs were safely packed in a small basket; the mamey apples and the guavas would be picked by the peons upon the ground, and the san-coche was still bubbling in the oven. Juana, like one of Shakespeare's witches, bent over the fragrant stew, and ever, when no one was looking, she put the pewter spoon to her withered and critical lips. Where is the cook who does not taste in secret? Palandrez would start an hour hence, taking the fast little roan, to get to the hill in time to serve the san-coche hot and savory. Castaño, the horse which it had been Don Beltran's pleasure to break for Agueda, stood at the foot of the veranda steps. Agueda's saddle was upon its back; no other would fit Castaño. Indeed, there was no other. But there was no sentiment to Agueda about the lady's saddle. She had always ridden like the boy that she looked. Agueda walked with dragging step to her solitary chamber; she would not remain to witness Felisa's hateful affectations. She could bear it no longer; she could be neither generous nor charitable. She had seen and heard so much of Felisa's clinging to Beltran's arm, her little cries of fear, Beltran's soothing responses, that her heart was sick. She closed her door to shut out the sounds, and threw herself into her low sewing chair by the window. They would be gone presently, and then she would wander forth in an opposite direction, down by the river perhaps, or over to--where? Where could she go? A large pile of linen lay in the basket. She had not touched it of late. Ah, no! There was no one now to make the duty a pastime, no one to come in with ringing step, and lay upon the welcoming shoulder a kindly hand--no one to twitch the tiresome sewing impatiently from her grasp, and bid her come away, to the river or to the potrero; no one to stoop and kiss the roughened finger. It was as if she had emerged into a strange and horrible land, a land of dreams whose name is nightmare, and had left behind her in that other dim world all that had been most dear. She could not awake, no matter how hard she tried. She sat looking dully out to where the flecks of sunshine touched here and there the tropic shadows. She saw nothing. Nature was no longer a book whose every leaf held some new beauty, each page printed with ink from the great mother's alembic, telling a tale of joy that never palls. Suddenly Agueda turned from the scene and clasped her hands over her eyes, for into her landscape had passed two figures. She had thought that they would go by the river path, but they were passing along the winding way which ran through the banana walk, one seated delicate and graceful upon the accustomed chestnut, shrinking somewhat and swaying a little as if in fear, the other bent close to her and gazing into her eyes as if he could never look his fill. The old story, her story, the part of heroine played by a fresher, newer actress, the leading personality unchanged. They made a picture as they rode, one which an artist would love to paint; the flanks of the brave grey side by side with the little chestnut, the handsome lover leaning toward the pretty bundle of summer draperies, the red parasol held in his hand and shading her form from the sun making the one bit of brilliant colour in the picture. It was worthy of Vibert, but Agueda had never heard of Vibert, and the picturesqueness of the scene did not appeal to her. "This way?" questioned the high voice. "It is the longest way, cousin, so you said this morning." "Yes," was Beltran's answer. How plainly she heard it as the breeze blew toward the casa. "The longest way to others, but--" He bent his head and spoke lower. One had to imagine the rest. Agueda closed the shutter and threw herself upon the bed, as if she could as easily forget the picture as she could shut out the shrill voice of Felisa. The day passed, as such days do, like an eternity. At noon-time a stranger rode down the hill toward the casa. He brought a letter for Don Beltran. "The Señor is up in the woods," said Agueda. "I will give it to him when he returns." "It is from the Señor Silencio. He hopes that the Señor will read it at once. The message admits of no delay." "Do you know the palm grove up on the far hill, on the other side of the grand camino?" "I think that I might find it," said Andres, for it was he, "but I have matters of importance at home. My little boy--El Rey--" Andres turned away his head. Stupid Andres! Only one thing could make him turn away his head. "Are you, then, the father of that little El Rey?" Andres nodded. "Give me the letter," said Agueda. "I will send it to the palm grove." Not waiting to see Andres depart, Agueda hurried to the home potrero. There Uncle Adan was keeping tally at the sucker pile. "Uncle Adan," she said, "is there a man who can take a message to the Señor?" "I cannot spare another peon, Agueda--that the good God knows. What with Garcia Garcito and the Palandrez off all the morning at the palm grove, and Eduardo Juan hurrying away but a half-hour ago with the san-coche, I am very short of hands. What is it that you want? Do not load the little white bull so heavily, Anito; it is these heavy weights that take the life out of them. What is it that you want, Agueda, child?" "It is a message for the Señor, Uncle Adan. It comes from the Señor Silencio. It may be of importance." "Very well, then; it is I who cannot go. The Señor should be at home sometimes, like other Señors. Since these visitors came I cannot get a word with him." "The Señor is not always away, Uncle Adan," protested Agueda, faintly. "It is true that he is not always away," said Uncle Adan, tossing a sprouted sucker into a waste pile, "but his head is, and that is as bad. He seems to take no interest in the coloñia nowadays, and I am doing much for which I have no warrant." Agueda recalled the many times when she had seen her uncle approach Beltran with some request to make, or project to unfold, and his shrug of the shoulders, and the answer, "Don't bother me now, Adan, there's a good fellow; some other time--some other time." Agueda stood with her eyes downcast. She knew it all but too well. Every word of Uncle Adan's struck at her heart like a knife. "But the Señor must have the letter, Uncle Adan," she persisted. "Very well, then, child, carry it yourself. There is no one else to go." "Is there anything that I can ride, Uncle Adan?" "Caramba! muchacha! Castaño, certainly. Can you saddle him your--or, no! I forgot. No, Agueda; there is nothing." "The brown bull? The letter may be important." "The brown bull has gone to the Port of Entry for tobacco for the Señor Don Noé. No, there is nothing, child; you must walk if you will go. For me, I would leave the letter on the table in the Señor's room. That would be best." Agueda went quickly back to the house. She took the old straw from its peg in her closet, put it upon her head without one glance at the little mirror on the wall, and ran quickly down the veranda steps. The way seemed long to her. She was not feeling strong; an unaccustomed weight dragged upon her health and spirits. All at once she saw, as if a picture had been held up to her view, that future which must be hers, toward which she was so quickly hastening. A few months--ah, God! Was it, then, to be with her as with all those others whom she had held in partial contempt--a pitying contempt, it is true, but none the less contempt. The distance seemed long to her. Time had been when she would have thought a run over to the palm grove a mere nothing, but now every step was a penance to both body and mind. When Agueda reached the hill, she walked slowly. The day was hot, as tropical days in the valley are apt to be. She moved languidly up the hill. Arrived at the top, there was nothing to reward her gaze but the form of Don Noé, asleep under a tree; Palandrez sitting by, waving a large palm branch to keep the insects away. At a little distance the dying embers of the picnic fire paled in the sun. The place was otherwise bare of people or servants. Under the shade of some coffee bushes stood the grey and the chestnut, but of their riders nothing was to be seen. When Palandrez saw Agueda coming he put his finger on his lip. She approached him and held out the letter. He made a half motion to rise, but did not spring to his feet, as he formerly would have done at the approach of the house mistress. "I have a letter for the Señor, Palandrez," said Agueda. "I wish that you take it to him at once." "It is I that would oblige the Señorita," answered Palandrez, sinking back hastily into his lounging attitude, when he saw that action was required of him, "but I was ordered by the Señor Don Beltran to stay here, and not leave the Don Noé, unless, indeed, an earthquake should come." "But it is a letter of importance," urged Agueda. "You must take it for me, Palandrez." "And am I to obey the Señor or the Señorita?" asked Palandrez, in a half-defiant, half-impudent tone. For answer Agueda turned away. She had thought of offering to keep the buzzing insects from Don Noé's bald head, but her spirit revolted at the thought of this menial service, and perhaps a slight curiosity as to where the main actors in the drama had gone, and how they were employing themselves, caused her to resolve to find Beltran herself. "Where is the Don Beltran?" she asked of Palandrez. "I have not seen them this half-hour, Señorita. When the feast was over the old Don laid himself down to sleep, and the Don Beltran and the new Señorita disappeared very suddenly. They went down there, in the direction of the little brook." Palandrez waved his hand toward the further slope of the hill, and again returned to the duty of keeping Don Noé asleep, so long as he himself could remain awake. As Agueda began to descend the slope she heard a complaining voice. She turned. Palandrez had stolen away to the edge of the hill. He had left Don Noé sleeping with the branch stuck upright beside him in the soft earth of the hilltop. The breeze waved the branch. "So," had thought Palandrez, "it will do as well as if I was there fanning El Viejo." But all in a moment the branch had fallen across Don Noé's face, and he had awakened with a start. He belaboured Palandrez well with his sharp old tongue. "I will tell your master, the Señor. Yes, I will tell him the very moment that I see him." Palandrez bowed his tattered form and scraped his horny sole upon the ground, and exclaimed, with volubility: "It was but muchachado,[8] Señor. I have the honour to assure the Señor that it was but muchachado, no more, no less." Palandrez, in fear of what his own particular Señor would say of his treatment of the Señorita Felisa's father, returned hurriedly to his fanning, and Don Noé, pretending to sleep, and weary with resting, kept one eye open, so to speak, to catch him again at his muchachado. Agueda descended the hill. When she came to the brook, she saw an old log across which some one must have lately travelled, for it was splashed with wet, and there were footmarks in the clay on the shore. She crossed, and walked quickly along the further plain, and soon heard the distant sound of voices, Felisa's high treble mingled with Don Beltran's deeper, pleasant tones. The beauty of his voice had never been so marked as now, when the thin soprano of Felisa set it off by contrast. Following the sound of the voices, Agueda again ascended a slight rise, and before long saw in the distance the light frills of Felisa's gown showing through the trees. She knew the pastime well enough, the pastime which caused Felisa to sit upon a level with Agueda's head, and to wave up and down as if in a swing or high-poised American chair. She knew well, before she came near them, that Beltran had given Felisa the pleasure that had often been hers; that he had bent an elastic young tree over to the ground; that among its branches he had made a safe seat for Felisa, and that he was letting it spring upward, and again pressing it back to earth with regular motion, so that Felisa might ride the tree in semblance of Castaño's back; only Beltran was closer to her than he could be were they on horseback, and Felisa's nervous little screams and cries gave him reason to hold her securely and to reassure her in that ever kind and musical voice. When Felisa saw Agueda coming along the path bordered with young palms, she said, "Here comes that girl of yours, cousin, that Agueda! What can she want?" Beltran turned with some surprise. Agueda had never dogged his footsteps before. She had left him to work his own will, independent of her claims--claims which had no foundation, in fact. All at once he remembered those claims imagined, and he wondered if at last she had come to denounce him before Felisa. As Agueda came onward, hurrying toward them, Beltran ceased his motion of the tree, and leaned against its trunk, touching Felisa familiarly as he did so. It was as if he arrayed himself with her against Agueda. The two seemed one in spirit. Beltran's voice, as he questioned Agueda, showed some irritation, but its musical note, a physical thing, which he could not control if he would, was still there. "Why have you come here? What do you want with me?" He did not use her name. Agueda stopped and leaned against a tree. She put her hand within the bosom of her dress, brought forth the letter in its double paper, tied round with a little green cord, and held it out to Beltran. She did not speak. "Very well, bring it to me," he said. He could not let go his hold on the tree, for fear of harm coming to Felisa, and he saw no reason why Agueda, having come thus far, should not cover the few steps that remained between himself and her. She pushed herself away from the tree with her hand, as if she needed such impetus, and walking unevenly, she came near to Beltran and laid the letter in his hand. "The messenger said that it was important. It was Andres who brought it," said Agueda. "Ah! from Silencio," said Beltran, awkwardly breaking the seal, because of the necessity of holding the tree in place. He perused the short note in silence. When he raised his eyes from the page, Agueda had turned and was walking away through the vista of young palms. Her weary and dispirited air struck him somewhat with remorse. "Agueda," he called, "stop at the hill yonder and get some coffee and rest yourself." His words did not stay her. She turned her head, shook it gravely, and then walked onward. FOOTNOTE: [8] A boyish trick. XV Don Gil Silencio and the Señora sat within the shady corner of the veranda. In front of the Señora stood a small wicker table. Upon the table was an old silver teapot, battered in the side, whose lid had difficulty in shutting. This relic of the past had been brought from England by the old Señora when she returned from the refuge she had obtained there, in one of her periodical escapes from old Don Oviedo. The old Señora had brought back with her the fashion of afternoon tea; also some of the leaves from which that decoction is made. The teapot, as well as the traditionary fashion of tea at five o'clock, had been left as legacies to her grandson, but of the good English tea there remained not the smallest grain of dust. The old Señora had been prodigal of her tea. She had on great occasions used more than a saltspoonful of the precious leaves at a drawing, and every one knows that at that rate even two pounds of tea will not last forever. They had been married now for two weeks, the Señor Don Gil and the Señora, and for the first time in her young life the Señora was happy. Sad to have reached the age of seventeen and not to have passed one happy day, hardly a happy hour! Now the girl was like a bird let loose, but the Señor, for a bridegroom, seemed somewhat distrait and dejected. As he sipped his weak decoction he often raised his eyes to the wooded heights beyond which Troja lay. "What is the matter, Gil? Is not the tea good?" "As good as the hay from the old potrera, dear Heart. And cold? One would imagine that we possessed our own ice-machine." The Señora looked at Don Gil questioningly. His face was serious. She smiled. These were virtues, then! The Señora did not know much about the English decoction. "Be careful, Raquel. That aged lizard will fall into the teapot else; he might get a chill. Chills are fatal to lizards." Don Gil was smiling now. Raquel closed the lid with a loud bang. The lizard scampered up the allemanda vine, where it hid behind one of the yellow velvet flowers. "But you seem so absent in mind, Gil. What is it all about? You look so often up the broad camino. Do you expect any--any one--Gil?" Don Gil dropped over his eyes those long and purling lashes which, since his adolescence, had been the pride and despair of every belle within the radius of twenty miles. "You do expect some one, Gil; no welcome guest. That I can see. Oh! Gil. It is my un--it is Escobeda whom you expect." Don Gil did not look up. "I think it is quite likely that he will come," he said. "I may as well tell you, Raquel; the steamer arrived this morning. He must have waited there over a steamer." Had Silencio voiced his conviction, he would have added, "Escobeda's vengeance may be slow, but it is sure as well." The Señora's face was colourless, her frightened eyes were raised anxiously to his. Her lips hardly formed the word that told him of her fear. "When?" she asked. "Any day now. But do not look so worried, dear Heart. I think that we need not fear Escobeda." "But he will kill us, Gil. He will burn the casa." "No. He might try to crush some poor and defenceless peon, but hardly the owner of Palmacristi. Still, all things are possible, all cruelties and barbarities, with a man like Escobeda. His followers are a lawless set of rascals." "And he will dare to attack us here, in our home?" The Señora's hands trembled as she moved the cups here and there upon the table. "An Englishman says, 'My house is my castle.' If I cannot say that; I can say, 'My house is my fort.' I will try to show you that it is, when the time comes, but look up! Raquel. Smile! dear one. I know that my wife is not a coward." With an assumption of carelessness, the Señora took a lump of sugar from the bowl and held it out to the penitent lizard. It came haltingly down the stem of the vine, stretching out its pointed nose to see what new and unaccustomed dainties were to be offered it. "He has sent you a message, Gil?" "Who, Escobeda? Yes, child. He sent me a letter under a flag of truce, as it were. The letter was written at the government town." "And he sent it--" "Back by the last steamer, Raquel. His people are not allowed to enter our home enclosure, as you know. I allowed one of the peons to take the letter. He brought it to the trocha. Any one can come there. It is public land." Raquel dropped the sugar; it rolled away. "Gil, Gil!" she said, "you terrify me. What shall we do?" She arose and went close to him and laid her hands upon his shoulders. "Escobeda! with his cruel ways, and more cruel followers--" "He is Spanish." "So are we, Gil, we are Spanish, too." "Yes, child, with the leaven of the west intermingled in our veins, its customs, and its manners." "Gil, dearest, I can never tell you what I suffered in that house. What fear! What overpowering dread! Whenever one of those lawless men so much as looked at me I trembled for the moment to come. And no one knows, Gil, what would have hap--happened unless he--had been reserving--me for--for a fate--worse than--" Her face was dyed with shame; she broke off, and threw herself upon her husband's breast. Her words became incoherent in a flood of tears. Silencio held his young wife close to his heart, he pressed his lips upon her wet eyelids, upon her disordered hair. He soothed her as a brave man must, forgetting his own anxiety in her terror. "My peons are armed, Raquel. They are well instructed. They are, I think, faithful, as much so, at least, as good treatment can make them. Even must they be bribed, they shall be. I have more money than Escobeda, Raquel. Even were you his daughter, you are still my wife. He could not touch you. As it is, he has no claim upon you. I am not afraid of him. He may do his worst, I am secure." "And I?" "Child! Are not you the first with me? But for you I should go out single-handed and try to shoot the coward down. But should I fail--and he is as good a shot as the island boasts--Raquel, who would care for you? I have thought it all out, child. My bullets are as good as Escobeda's; they shoot as straight, but I hope I have a better way; I have been preparing for your coming a long time, dear Heart, and my grandfather before me." Raquel looked up from her hiding-place on his breast. "Your grandfather, Gil, for me?" Silencio smiled down upon the upraised eyes. "Yes, for you, Raquel, had he but known it. Come! child, come! Dry your tears! Rest easy! You are safe." As Silencio spoke he shivered. "Your tea has gone to my nerves." He took the pretty pink teacup from the veranda rail, where he had placed it, and set it upon the table. He looked critically at the remains of the pale yellow decoction. "Really, Raquel, if you continue to give me such strong drinks, I shall have to eschew tea altogether." "I am so sorry. I put in very little, Gil." Silencio had brought a smile to her face. There is bravery in success of this kind, bringing a smile to the face of a beloved and helpless creature when a man's heart is failing him for fear. "Let us walk round to the counting-house," he said. He laid his arm about her shoulder, and together they strolled slowly to the side veranda, traversed its lengths, and descended the steps. They walked along the narrow path which led to the counting-house, and turned in at the enclosure. At the door they halted. Silencio took a heavy key from his pocket. Contrary to custom, he had kept the outer door locked for the past fortnight. "Our Don Gil is getting very grand with his lockings up, and his lockings up," grumbled Anicito Juan. "There were no lockings up, the good God knows, in the days of the old Señor." "And the good God also knows there were no lazy peons in the days of the old Señor to pry and to talk and to forget what they owe the family. When did the peon see meat in the days of the old Señor? When, I ask? When did you see fowl in a pot, except for the Señores? And now the best of sugar, and bull for the san-coche twice a week. And peons of the most useless can complain of such a master! Oh! Ta-la!" A storm of words from the family champion, Guillermina, fell as heavily upon the complainant as a volley of blows from a man. Anicito Juan ducked his head as if a hurricane were upon him, and rushed away to cover. Silencio tapped with his key upon the trunk of the dead palm tree which arose grand and straight opposite its mate at the side of the doorway. "Now watch, Raquel," he said. The tall trunk had sent back an answering echo from its hollow tube. Then there was a strange stir within the tree. Raquel looked upward. Numberless black beaks and heads protruded from the holes which penetrated the sides of the tall stem from the bottom to the top, as if to say, "Here is an inquisitive stranger. Let us look out, and see if we wish to be at home." Raquel laughed gleefully. She took the key from her husband's fingers, crossed the path, and tapped violently upon the barkless trunk of the second palm tree. As many more heads were thrust outward as in the first instance. Some of the birds left their nests in the dead tree, flew a little way off, and alighted upon living branches, to watch for further developments about the shell where they had made their homes. Others cried and chattered as they flew round and round the palm, fearing they knew not what. Raquel watched them until they were quiet, then tapped the tree again. As often as she knocked upon the trunk the birds repeated their manoeuvres. She laughed with delight at the result of each recurring invasion of the domestic quiet of the carpenter birds. So engaged was Raquel that she did not perceive the entrance of a man into the small enclosure of the counting-house, nor did she see Silencio walk to the gate with the stranger. The two stood there talking hurriedly, the sound of their voices quite drowned by the cries of the birds. As Raquel wearied of teasing the birds, she dropped her eyes to earth to seek some other amusement. A man was just disappearing round the corner of the paling. Silencio had turned and was coming back to her along the path which led from the gate to the door of the counting-house. She met him with smiles, her lips parted, her face flushed. "Who was that, Gil--that man? I did not see him come." "You have seen him go, dear Heart. Is not that enough?" Silencio spoke with an effort. His face was paler than it had been; Raquel's face grew serious. His anxiety was reflected in her face, as the sign of a storm in the sky is mirrored in the calm surface of a pool. "Tell me the truth, Gil. You have had a message from Escobeda?" "Not exactly a message, Raquel. That was one of my men. A spy, we should call him in warfare." "And he brings you news?" "Yes, he brings me news." "What news, Gil? What news? I am horribly afraid. If he should take me, Gil! Oh! my God! Gil, dear Gil! do not let him take me!" She threw herself against his breast, white and trembling. This was a horror too deep for tears. Silencio smiled, though the arm which surrounded her trembled. "He shall never take you from me, never! I am not afraid of that. But your fears unman me! Try to believe what I say, child. He shall never take you from me. Come! let us go in." He took the key from her hand, and unlocked and opened the outer door of the counting-house. He pushed her gently into the room, and followed her, closing and locking the door behind him. Then he opened the door of the second room, and ushered her into this safe retreat. While he was fastening the door of this room, Raquel was gazing about her with astonishment. Her colour had returned; Silencio's positive words had entirely reassured her. "I never knew of this pretty room, Gil. Why did you never tell me of it?" "I have hardly become accustomed to your being here, Raquel. There is much yet to learn about Palmacristi. Wait until I show you--" Silencio broke off with a gay laugh. "What! What will you show me, Gil? Ah! that delicate shade of green against this fresh, pure white! A little boudoir for me! How good you are to me! You have kept it as a surprise?" Silencio laughed again as she ran hither and thither examining this cool retreat. He wondered if she would discover the real nature of those walls. But the delicacy of Raquel prevented her from touching the hangings, or examining the articles in the room except with her eyes. "I spoke to you of my fortress, dear Heart." "Oh! Are you going to show me your fortress? Come! come! Let us go!" She took him by the arm and urged him to the further door. "We need not go to seek it, child; it is here." Silencio drew back the innocent-looking hangings and disclosed the steel plates which the Señor Don Juan Smit' had brought down from the es-States and had set in place. Silencio tapped the wall with his finger. "It is bullet-proof," he said. At the sight of this formidable-looking wall Raquel's colour vanished, as if it were a menace and not a protection, but not for long. Her cheek flushed again. She laughed aloud, her eyes sparkled. She was like a little child with a new toy, as she ran about and examined into the secrets of this innocent-looking fortress. "Gil! Gil!" she cried, "what a charming prison! How delightful it will be to hear Escobeda's bullets rattling on the outside while we sit calmly here drinking our tea." "Perhaps we can find something even more attractive in the way of refreshment." Silencio had not forgotten the cup which had neither inebriated nor cheered. "I see now that you have no windows. At first I wondered. How long should we be safe here? Could he break in the door?" Silencio bit his lip. "Not the outer door. And the door leading into the house--well, even Escobeda would hardly--I may as well tell you the truth, Raquel. Sit down there, child, and listen." The young wife perched herself upon the tall stool that stood before the white desk, her lips parted in a delicious smile. The rose behind her ear fell forward. She took it in her fingers, kissed it, and leaping lightly from her seat, ran to Silencio and thrust it through the buttonhole of his coat. Then she ran back and perched herself again upon her stool. "Go on," she said, "I am ready." And then, womanlike, not waiting for him to speak, she asked the question, "Is he coming to-night, Gil?" "I only wish that he would, for the darkness is our best friend. Escobeda expects an ambush, and my men are ready for it, but he will be here bright and early to-morrow. But be tranquil, I have sent for Beltran, Raquel. He will surely come. He never deserted a friend yet." "How many men can he muster, Gil?" anxiously asked Raquel. "Ten or twelve, perhaps. The fact that we are the attacked party, the men to hold the fortress, is in our favour. I still hope that the Coco will arrive in time. I hardly think that Escobeda will dare to use absolute violence--certainly not when he sees the force that I can gather at Palmacristi, and recognises the moral force of Beltran's being on my side." "Oh, Gil! Why did you not send for the yacht before this?" Raquel descended from her perch and crossed the floor to where Silencio stood. "Child! I had sent her away to Lambroso to prepare for just such a moment as this. It was the very day that your note came. She should be repaired by now. I cannot think what keeps her. I am sure that the repairs were not so very formidable." "Do you think that Escobeda could have stopped the Coco, delayed her--?" "No, hardly, though he may have seen the yacht over there. But after all, Raquel, we may as well go to the root of the matter now as later. It may be as well that the yacht is not here. If we should run away, we might have the fight to make all over again. However, we must act for the best when the time comes. Have no fear, Raquel, have no fear." But as Don Gil looked down at the little creature at his side, a horrible fear surged up within his own heart, and rose to his throat and nearly choked him. She still raised her eyes anxiously to his. "And your friend, your relative, that Don Beltran. You are sure that we may trust him, Gil?" "Beltran?" Silencio laughed. "I wish that I were as sure of Heaven as of Beltran's faithfulness. He will be here, never fear. He never deserted a friend yet. If you awake in the night at the sound of horses' hoofs, that will be Beltran coming over the hill; do not think of Escobeda. Go to sleep, and rest in perfect security. If you must think at all, let your thoughts be of my perfect faith in my friend, who will arrive before it is light. I wish that I were as sure of Heaven." XVI When Felisa had seen Agueda disappear below the hillside she turned to Beltran. "What is it, cousin?" asked Felisa, leaning heavily upon his shoulder. He put his arm round her. "You must get down, little lady. I have a summons from a friend; I must go home at once." "But if I choose not to go home?" said Felisa, pouting. "All the same, we must go," said Beltran. "But if I will not go?" "Then I shall have to carry you. You must go, Felisa, and I must, at once." For answer Felisa leant over and looked into the eyes that were so near her own. She laid her arm round Beltran's shoulders, the faint fragrance that had no name, but was rather a memory of carefully cared for _lingerie_, was wafted across his nostrils for the hundredth time. One could not imagine Felisa without that evanescent thing that was part of her and yet had no place in her contrivance, hardly any place in her consciousness. Beltran took her in his arms and lifted her to the ground. The tree, released, sprang in air. "Ah! there goes my stirrup. You must get it for me, Beltran." The gay scarf, having been utilized as a stirrup, had been left to shake and shiver high above them, with the tremors of the tree, which was endeavouring to straighten its bent bark and wood to their normal upright position. "I can send for that; we must not wait," said Beltran. "Send for it, indeed! Do you know that I got the scarf in Naples, cousin?--that a Princess Pallavicini gave it to me? Send for it, indeed! Do you think that I would have one of your grimy peons lay his black finger upon that scarf? You pulled the tree down before, bend it down again." For answer, Beltran leaped in air, trying to seize the scarf. He failed to reach it. Then he climbed the tree, and soon his weight had bent the slight young sapling to earth again. Felisa sat underneath a ceiba, watching Beltran's efforts. At each failure she laughed aloud. She was obviously regretful when finally he released the scarf and handed it to her. Beltran urged haste with Felisa, but by one pretext or another she delayed him. "Sit down under this tree, and tell me what is in that letter, cousin." Beltran stood before her. "It is from my old friend, Silencio; he needs me--" "I cannot hear, cousin; that mocking-bird sings so loud. Sit down here and tell me--" "It is from my friend, Silen--" "I cannot hear, cousin. You must sit here by me, and tell me all about it." Beltran threw himself upon the ground with a sigh. She forced his head to her knee, and played with the rings of his hair. "Now tell me, cousin, and then I shall decide the question for you." Beltran lay in bliss. Delilah had him within her grasp; still there was firmness in the tone which said: "I have already decided the question, Sweet. I promised him that I would go to him when he should need me. The time has come, and I must go to-night." "And leave me?" said Felisa, her delicate face clouding under this news. "And what shall I do if we are attacked while you are away?" "There is no question of your being attacked, little cousin. Silencio has an enemy, Escobeda, who, he thinks, will attack him to-morrow at daylight. In fact, Felisa, you may as well hear the entire story. Then you will understand why I must go. Silencio is a sort of cousin of mine. He has married the niece of as great a villain as ever went unhung, and he, the uncle, Escobeda, will attack Silencio to recover his niece. He is clearly without the law, for Silencio is married as fast as the padre can make him. But there may be sharp work; there is no time to get government aid, and I doubt if under the circumstances it would be forthcoming. So I must go to Silencio's help." Beltran made a motion as if to rise. Felisa now clasped her fingers round his throat. It was the first time that she had voluntarily made such a demonstration, and Beltran's pulses quickened under her touch. He relaxed his efforts, turned his face over in her lap, and kissed the folds of her dress. "Vida mia, vida mia! you will not keep me," he murmured through a mass of lace and muslin. "Indeed, that will I! Do you suppose that I am going to remain at that lonely casa of yours, quaking in every limb, dreading the sound of each footstep, while you are away protecting some one else? No, indeed! You had no right to ask us here, if you meant to go away and leave us to your cut-throat peons. I will not stay without you." "But my peons are not cut-throats, Felisa. They will guard you as their own lives, if I tell them that I must be gone." "Do you mean to go alone?" "No, I mean to take half a dozen good men with me, and leave the rest at San Isidro. There is no cause to protect you, Felisa, little cousin; but should you need protection, you shall have it." "I shall not need it, for I will not let you leave me, Beltran. Suppose that dreadful man, Escobeda, as you call him, becomes angry at seeing you on the side of your friend, and starts without your knowledge, and comes to San Isidro. He might take me away in the place of that niece of his, to force you to get the Señor Silencio to give his niece back to him." "What nonsense are you conjuring up, Felisa, child! That is too absurd! Escobeda's quarrel is with Silencio, not with me. Do not fear, little one." "And did I not hear you say that this Señor Escobeda hated your father, and also hated you?" "Yes, I did say that," admitted Beltran, reluctantly, as he struggled to rise without hurting her; "but he will be very careful how he quarrels openly with me. My friends in the government are as powerful as his own." "Well, you cannot go," said Felisa, decisively, "and let that end the matter." They went homeward slowly, much as they had come, Felisa delaying Beltran by some new pretext at every step. She kept a watchful eye upon him, to see that he did not drop her bridle rein and canter away at the cross roads. When they reached the picnic ground they found that Uncle Noé had departed, and Beltran must, perforce, see his cousin safely within the precincts of San Isidro. She did not leave the veranda after dismounting, but seated herself upon the top step, which was now shaded from the sun, and watched every movement of master and servants. Beltran had disappeared within doors, but he could not leave the place on foot. After a while he emerged from his room; behind him hobbled old Juana, carrying a small portmanteau. As he came toward the steps, Felisa arose and stood in his way. "Why do you go to-night?" she said. "Because he needs me at daybreak." "I need you more." Felisa looked out from under the fringe of pale sunshine. "You will not leave me, Beltran--cousin?" "It is only for a few hours, dear child." "Is this Silencio more to you than I am, then, Beltran?" "Good God! No, child, but I shall return before you have had your dip in the river." "I do not like to be left here alone, cousin. I want you--" "I _must_ go, and at once, Felisa. Silencio depends upon me. Good by, good by! You will see me at breakfast." Felisa arose. The time for pleading was past. "You shall _not_ go," said she, holding his sleeve with her small fingers. "I must!" He pulled the sleeve gently away. She clasped it again persistently. Then she said, resolutely and with emphasis, "So sure as you do, I take the first steamer for home." "You would not do that?" "That is my firm intention." "But Silencio needs me." "I need you more." Felisa withdrew her small hands from his sleeve and started down the veranda, toward her room. Her little shoes tick-tacked as she walked. He called after her, "Where are you going?" "To pack my trunks," said Felisa, "if you can spare that girl of yours--that Agueda--to help me." A throb of joy flew upward in the heart of Agueda, whose nervous ear was awake now to all sounds. "Do you really mean it, Felisa?" "I certainly do mean it," answered Felisa. "If you go away from me now, I will take the first steamer home. To-morrow, if one sails." "And suppose that I refuse you the horses, the conveyance, the servants--" Felisa turned and looked scornfully at Beltran. "I suppose that you are a gentleman first of all," she said. "You could not refuse." "No, I could not." "And you will remain?" Beltran dropped his head on his breast. "I will remain," he said. Beltran drew his breath sharply inward. "It is the first time," he added. "The first time?" She looked at him questioningly. "Did I speak aloud? Yes, the first time, Felisa, that I was ever false to a friend. He counts on me; I promised--" "Men friends, I suppose. What about women? I count on you, you have promised _me_--" Agueda threw herself face downward on her bed and stopped her ears with deep buried fingers. XVII Silencio passed the night in wakeful watching and planning. Raquel slept the innocent sleep of a careless child. Gil had promised that all would come out well. She trusted him. Very early in the morning the scouts whom Silencio had placed along the boundaries of his estate were called in, and collected within the patio of the casa. The outer shutters of the windows were closed and bolted; the two or three glass windows, which spoke of the innovation which civilization brings in its train, were protected by their heavy squares of plank. The doors were locked, and the casa at Palmacristi was made ready for a siege. Silencio awakened Raquel as the first streak of dawn crept up from the horizon. Over there to the eastward trembled and paled that opalescent harbinger which told her that day was breaking. She looked up with a child's questioning eyes. "It is time, sweetheart. Now listen, Raquel. Pack a little bag, and be ready for a journey." Raquel pouted. "Cannot Guillermina pack my bag?" "No, not even Guillermina may pack your bag. When it is ready, set it just inside your door. If you do not need it, so much the better. You may open your windows toward the sea, but not those that look toward Troja." Silencio flung wide the heavy shutter as he spoke. Raquel glanced out to sea. "Oh, Gil! where is the Coco?" "I wish I knew. She should be here." "Are we to go on board, Gil?" "Unfortunately, even should she arrive now, she is a half-hour too late. Now hasten, I will give you fifteen minutes, no more." "We might have gone out in the boat, Gil. Oh! why did you not call me?" Silencio pointed along the path to the right. Some of Escobeda's men, armed with machetes and shotguns, stood just at the edge of the forest, where at any moment they could seek protection behind the trees. They looked like ghosts in the early dawn. "And where is your friend, Beltran?" Silencio shook his head. "He cannot have received my message," he said. "And are the men of Palmacristi too great cowards to fight those wretches?" Silencio started as if he had been struck. He did not answer for a moment; then he said slowly: "Raquel, do you know what we should be doing were you not here?--I and my men?" He spoke coldly. Raquel had never heard these tones before. "We should be out there hunting those rascals to the death, no matter how they outnumber us; but I dare not trust you between this and the shore. My scouts tell me that they have kept up picket duty all night. Escobeda expected the Coco back this morning; at all events, he was ready for our escape in that way. The orders of those men are to take you at any cost. Should I be killed, your protection would be gone. I am a coward, but for you only, Raquel, for you only." The young wife looked down. The colour mounted to her eyes. She drew closer to her husband, but for once he did not respond readily to her advances. He was hurt to the core. "Get yourself ready at once," he said. "I will give you fifteen minutes, no more. We have wasted much time already." Raquel hardly waited for Silencio to close the door. She began to dress at once, her trembling fingers refusing to tie strings or push the buttons through the proper holes. As she hurriedly put on her everyday costume, she glanced out of the window to see if in the offing she could discover the Coco. The little yacht was at that very moment hastening with all speed toward her master, but a point of land on the north hid her completely from Raquel's view. "Although he will not own it, he evidently intends to carry me away in the yacht." Raquel smiled. "So much the better; it will be another honeymoon." When Silencio left Raquel, he ran out to the patio. On the way thither he met old Guillermina with a tray on which was her mistress's coffee. Upon the table in the patio veranda--that used by the servants--a hasty meal was laid. Silencio broke a piece of cassava bread and drank the cup of coffee which was poured out for him, and as he drank he glanced upward. Andres was standing on the low roof, on the inner side of the chimney of stone which carried off the kitchen smoke. He turned and looked down at Don Gil. "The Señor Escobeda approaches along the gran' camino, Señor." Silencio set down his cup and ran up the escalera. He walked out to the edge of the roof, and shaded his eyes with his hand. "Yes, Andres; it is true. And I see that he has some gentlemen with him." He turned and called down to the patio. "Ask Guillermina if her mistress has had her coffee." As he faced about a shot rang out. The bullet whistled near his head. "Go down, Señor, for the love of God!" said Andres. The company of horsemen were riding at a quick pace, and were now within hearing. Silencio waved his arm defiantly. "Ah! then it is you, Señor Escobeda! I see whom you have with you. Is that you, Pedro Geredo? Is that you, Marcoz Absalon? You two will have something to answer for when I report this outrage at the government town." Escobeda had ridden near to the enclosure. His head was shaking with rage. His earrings glittered in the morning sun, his bloodshot eyes flashed fire. He raised his rifle and aimed it at Silencio. "You know what I have come for, Señor. Send my niece out to me, and we shall retire at once." "How dare you take that name upon your lips?" Silencio was livid with rage. Another shot was fired. This time it ploughed its way through Silencio's sleeve. "Shall I kill him, Señor?" Andres brought his escopeta to his shoulder; he aimed directly at Escobeda. "I can kill him without trouble, Señor, and avoid further argument. It is as the Señor says!" Silencio looked anxiously seaward. No sign of the Coco! "Not until I give the word, Andres." And then to Escobeda, "I defy you! I defy you!" Shots began to fall upon the casa from the guns of Escobeda's impudent followers. Escobeda leaped his horse into the enclosure; his men followed suit. Silencio saw them ride in lawless insolence along the side of the building, and then heard the hollow ring of the horses' hoofs upon the veranda. He ran down the escalera. The mob were battering at the front door with the butt ends of their muskets. Raquel appeared in the patio, pale and terrified. "Gil! Gil!" she cried, "they are coming in! They will take me!" "Coward! Come out and fight," was the cry from the outside. "I am a coward for you, dear." He seized her wrists. "To the counting-house!" he whispered, "to the counting-house!" As they ran she asked, "Is there any sign of the Coco?" "None," answered Silencio; "but we could not reach her now." Together they flew through the hallways, across the chambers, where the blows were sounding loud upon the wooden wall of the house, upon the shutters, and the doors. They ran down the far passage and reached the counting-house door. Silencio stumbled over something near the sill. "Ah! your bag," he said. "I told Guillermina to set it there." He opened the door with the key held ready, and together they entered. Silencio tore the rug from the middle of the room, and disclosed to Raquel's amazed eyes a door sunken in the floor. He raised it by its heavy ring. A cold blast of air flowed upward into the warm interior. Raquel had thought the room cool before; now she shivered as if with a chill. Silencio pushed her gently toward the opening. "Go down," he said. Raquel gazed downward at the black depths. "I cannot go alone, Gil." She shuddered. "Turn round, dear Heart; put your feet on the rungs of the ladder, so! Ah! what was that?" Silencio glanced anxiously toward the open doorway. A heavy cracking of the stout house-door showed to what lengths Escobeda and his followers were prepared to venture. "Go, go! At the bottom is a lantern; light it if you can, while I close the trap-door." Raquel shrank at the mouth of this black opening, which seemed to yawn for them. The damp smell of mould, the cold, the gloom, were sudden and dreadful reminders of the tomb which this might become. She imagined it a charnel house. She dreaded to descend for fear that she should place her feet upon a corpse, or lay her fingers on the fleshless bones of a skeleton. "Courage, my Heart! Courage! Go down! Do not delay." At the kindness of his tone, Raquel, taking courage, began to descend. Terrible thoughts filled her mind. What if Escobeda and his men should discover their retreat, and cut off escape at their destination? What that destination was she knew not. Her eyes tried vainly to pierce the mysterious gloom. It was as if she looked into the blackness of a cavern. She turned and gazed for a moment back into the homelike interior which she was leaving, perhaps for all time. The loud blows upon the house-door were the accompaniment of her terrified thoughts. Raquel descended nervously, her trembling limbs almost refusing to support her. She reached the bottom of the ladder, and by the aid of the dim light from above, she found the lantern and the matches, which Silencio's thoughtful premonition had placed there, ready for her coming. As she lighted the lantern she heard a terrific crash. Silencio, with a last glance at the open door of the counting-house, which he had forgotten to close, now lowered the trap-door, and joined Raquel in the dark passage. He stood and listened for a moment. He heard a footstep on the floor above, and taking Raquel's hand in his, together they sped along the path which he hoped would lead her to safety. "Oh, child!" he said, in sharp, panting words, as they breathlessly pursued the obscure way, "for the first time I have given you proof of my love." Raquel turned to look at him. She saw his dark face revealed fitfully by the flashes of the lantern swinging from his hand. "Here am I flying from that villain, when I ache to seize him by the throat and choke the very breath of life out of him. Here am I running away, _running away!_--do you hear me, Raquel?--while they, behind there, are calling me coward. But should he take you--" Raquel stumbled and almost fell at these dreadful words. "Gil, Gil, dearest! do not speak of it; perhaps he is coming even now behind us." At the dreadful suspicion she fell against the wall, dragging him with her. She clung to him in terror, impeding his progress. "This is not the time to give way, Raquel." Silencio spoke sternly. "Call all your will to your aid now. Run ahead of me, while I stand a moment here." Raquel gathered all her resolution, and without further question fled again upon her way. Silencio waited a moment, facing the steps which they had just descended, and listened intently. But all that he heard was the sound of Raquel's flying feet. When he was convinced that no one was following them, he turned again and ran quickly after Raquel. He easily gained upon her. "I hear nothing, Raquel. Do not be so frightened." At these words the changeable child again regained confidence. "You have heard of a man building better than he knew," he said. He waved the lantern toward the sides of the tunnel. "There were wild tales of smuggling in the old days--" The colour had returned to Raquel's cheek. She laughed a little as she asked: "Did your grandfather smuggle, Gil?" "He was no better and no worse than other men; who knows what--we will talk later of that. Come!" He took her hand in his, and again together they fled along the passage. As no sound of pursuing feet came to their ears, confidence began to return. They were like two children running a race. Silencio laughed aloud, and as they got further from the entrance to the passage he whistled, he sang, he shouted! The sound of his laughter chilled the heart of Raquel with fear. "Gil," she pleaded, "they will hear you. They will know where we have gone." She laid her fingers on his lips as they ran, and he playfully bit them, as he had seen her close her teeth upon El Rey's. The passage was a long one. Raquel thought that it would never end. "Have we come more than two miles, Gil?" she asked. Raquel was not used to breathless flights in the dark. Silencio laughed. "Poor little girl! Does it seem so long, then? When we have reached the further end we shall have come just three hundred feet." At last, at last! the further door was reached. Silencio unlocked it and pushed it open. This was rendered somewhat difficult by the sand which had been blown about the entrance since last he had brushed it away. A little patient work, and the two squeezed themselves through the narrow opening. "Hark! I hear footsteps," whispered Raquel, her face pale with renewed terror. Silencio stood still and listened. "You are right," he said; "they are behind us. Take the lantern and hold it for me close to the keyhole." He began pushing the door into place. She took the light from him and held it as he directed. "Hold it steady, child. Steady!--Do not tremble so! I must see! I _must!_ steady!" Raquel's hand shook as if with a palsy. The footsteps came nearer. To her they sounded from out the darkness like the approach of death. "Hasten!" she whispered, "hasten!" She held the lantern against the frame of the solid door and pressed her shoulder against it, that her nervousness should not agitate the flame, whispering "Hasten!" the while to Silencio, whose trembling fingers almost refused to do this most necessary work. At last, with a bang and a sharp twist of the key, the heavy door was closed and locked. "Do you see an iron bar anywhere, Raquel, in the bushes there on the left?" She ran to the side of the tunnel, which still arched above them here. Silencio was close to her, and at once laid his hand upon the strong piece of metal. He sprang back to the door, and slipped the bar into the rust-worn but still faithful hasps. Then he turned, seized her hand again, and led her hurriedly along between the high banks. It was still dark where they stood, so overgrown was the deep cut, but Silencio knew the way. He took the lantern from Raquel's hand, extinguished it, and set it upon the ground. "We shall need this no more," he said. The trees and vines growing from the embankment, which nearly closed overhead, were interwoven like a green basket-work, and almost shut out the daylight. Silencio took Raquel's hand in his and led her along the narrow path. The light became stronger with every step. Suddenly Raquel stopped short. "What was that, Gil?" "What, dearest?" "That! Do you not hear it? It sounds like a knocking behind us." Silencio stood still for a moment, listening to the sounds. "Yes," he said at last, "I do hear it. It is some of those villains pursuing us. Hasten, Raquel. When they find the door is closed, they will return to the casa to cut off our retreat." Raquel found time to say: "And the poor servants left behind, will they--" "They are safe, child. You are the quarry they seek. Escobeda does not exchange shots to no purpose." A few more steps, and Silencio parted the thicket ahead. Raquel passed through in obedience to his commanding nod, and emerged into the blinding glare of a tropical morning. Beneath her feet was the hot, fine sand of the seashore. A few yards away a small boat was resting, her stern just washed by the ripples. Raquel turned and looked backward. The mass of trees and vines hid the bank from view, the bank in its turn concealed the casa. As she stood thus she heard again a slow knocking, but much fainter than before. It was like the distant sound of heavy blows. "Thank God! they are knocking still," said Silencio. "Run to the boat, child, quickly." Raquel shrank with fear. "They will see me from the house," she said. "You cannot see the beach from the casa; have you forgotten? Run, run! For the boat! the boat!" Obeying him, she sped across the sand to the little skiff. "The middle seat!" he cried. He followed her as swiftly, and with all his strength pushed the light weight out from the shore, springing in as the bow parted with the beach. The thrust outward brought them within sight of the house. For a moment they were not discovered, and he had shipped the oars and was rowing rapidly toward the open sea before they were seen. It required a moment for the miscreants to appreciate the fact that the two whom they had thought hidden in the house had escaped in some unknown way. Then a cry of rage went up from many throats, and one man raised his rifle to his shoulder, but the peon next him threw up the muzzle, and the shot flew harmless in the air. It is one thing to fire at the bidding of a master, on whose shoulders will rest all the blame, and quite another to aim deliberately at a person who is quite within his rights--you peon, he gran' Señor. Escobeda was nowhere to be seen. There was no one to give an order, to take responsibility. The force was demoralized. The men formed in a small group, and watched the little skiff as it shot out to sea, impelled by the powerful arm and will of Silencio. As he rowed Silencio strained his eyes northward, and perceived what was not as yet visible from the shore. He saw the Coco just rounding the further point--distant, it is true, but safety for Raquel lay in her black and shining hull. When old Guillermina saw Don Gil and the Señora retreat from the patio and cross the large chamber, she knew at once their errand. Had she not lived here since the days of the old Don Oviedo? What tales could she not have told of the secret passage to the sea! But her lips were sealed. Pride of family, the family of her master, was the padlock which kept them silent. How many lips have been glued loyally together for that same reason! As Guillermina crossed the large chamber she heard the blows raining upon the outer shutters and the large door. She heard Escobeda's voice calling, "Open! open!" as he pounded the stout planking with the butt end of his rifle. The firing had ceased. Even had it not, Guillermina knew well that the shots were not aimed at her. She had withstood a siege in the old Don Oviedo's time, and again in the time of the old Don Gil, and from the moment that Silencio had brought his young wife home she had expected a third raid upon the casa. Guillermina walked in a leisurely manner. She passed through the intervening passages, and found the counting-house door open. This she had hardly expected. She joyously entered the room and closed the door. Then her native lassitude gave way to a haste to which her unaccustomed members almost refused their service. She quickly drew the rug over the sunken trap-door, smoothed the edges, and rearranged the room, so that it appeared as if it had not lately been entered. It was her step overhead which Don Gil and Raquel had heard at first, and which had caused them so much uneasiness. As Guillermina turned to leave the room, she heard a crash. Escobeda, having failed to break in the great entrance door, had, with the aid of some of his men, pried off a shutter. The band came pouring into the house and ran through all the rooms, seeking for the flown birds. As Guillermina opened the door of the counting-house to come out, key in hand, she met Escobeda upon the threshold. His face was livid. He held his machete over his head as if to strike. "So this is their hiding-place," he screamed in her ear. He rushed past her, and entered the counting-house. Its quiet seclusion and peaceful appearance filled him with astonishment, and caused him to stop short. But he was not deceived for long. He tore away the green hangings, hoping to find a door. Instead a wall of iron stared him in the face. He ran all round the room, feeling of the panels or plates, but nowhere could he discover the opening which he sought. Each plate was firmly screwed and riveted to its neighbour. He turned and shook his fist in Guillermina's face. "You shall tell me where they have gone," he howled, in fury, and then poured forth a volley of oaths and obscenities, such as no one but a Spaniard could have combined in so few sentences. Guillermina faced him, her hands on her fat hips. "The Señor should not excite himself. It is bad to excite oneself. There was the woodcutter over at La Floresta--" "To hell with the woodcutter! Where is that Truhan?" Then Escobeda began to curse Guillermina. He cursed her until he foamed at the mouth, his gold earrings shaking in his ears, his eyes bloodshot, his lips sending flecks of foam upon her gown. He cursed her father and her mother, her grandfather and her grandmother, her great-grandfather and great-grandmother, which was quite a superfluity in the way of cursing, as Guillermina had no proof positive that she had ever possessed more than one parent. He cursed her brothers and sisters, her aunts, her uncles, her cousins, her nephews and nieces. "The Señor wastes some very good breath," remarked Guillermina in a perfectly imperturbable manner. "I have none of those people." Escobeda turned on her in renewed frenzy. The vile words rolled out of his mouth like a stream over high rocks. He took a fresh breath and cursed anew. As he had begun with her ancestors, so he continued with her descendants, the children whom she had borne, and those whom she was likely to bear. "The good God save us!" ejaculated old Guillermina. And still Escobeda cursed on, his fury now falling upon her relationships in all their ramifications, and in all their branches. "Ay de mi! The gracious Señor wastes his time. If the gracious Señor should rest a little, he could start with a fresh breath." As Guillermina spoke, she rearranged the curtain folds, smoothed and shook the silken pillows, and laid them straight and in place. She kept her station as near the middle of the sunken door as possible. Again he thundered at her the question as to where the fugitives had found refuge. Guillermina, brave outwardly, was trembling inwardly for the safety of her beloved Don Gil. The young Señora was all very well, she might grow to care for her in time, but her little Gil, whom she had taken from the doctor's arms, whom she had nursed on her knee with her own little Antonio, who lay under the trees on the hillside yonder--she must gain time. "Does not the Señor know that the Señor Don Gil Silencio-y-Estrada and the little Señora have gone to heaven?" Escobeda stopped short in his vituperation. "Dead? He was afraid, then! He killed her." Escobeda laughed cruelly. "If I have lost her, so has he." "Ay, ay, they have flown away, flown to heaven, the Señores. The good God cares for his own. I wonder now who cares for the Señor Escobeda!" With the scream of a wild beast he flew at her, and she, fearing positive injury, sprang aside. Escobeda's spur caught in the rug and tore it from its place on the floor. He stumbled and fell, pulling the green and white carpet after him. Concealment was no longer possible; the trap-door was laid bare. With a fiendish cry of delight he flew at the ring in the sunken door. "To hell! to hell!" he shouted. "That is where they have gone; not to heaven, but to hell." Escobeda had heard rumours all his life of the secret passage to the sea--the passage which had never been located by the curious. At last the mystery was solved. He raised the door, and without a word to Guillermina, plunged into the black depths. The absence of a light was lost sight of by him in his unreasoning rage. Almost before his fingers had disappeared from view, Guillermina had lowered the trap-door into its place in the most gentle manner. If one is performing a good action, it is best to make as little noise about it as possible. As she fitted the great iron bar across the opening, there came a knocking upon the under side of the iron square. "Give me a light! A light! you she-devil! A light, I say." Guillermina went softly to the door of the counting-house and closed it to prevent intrusion. She could hear Escobeda's followers running riotously all over the casa. Her time would be short, that she knew. She knelt down on the floor and put her lips close to the crack in the trap-door. "And he would curse my mother, would the Señor! And my little Antonio, who lies buried on the hill yonder." "A light!" he shouted, "a light! she-devil, a light, I say!" "May the Señor see no light till he sees the flames of hell," answered Guillermina. "The Señor must pardon me, but that is my respectful wish." She smoothed the innocent-looking carpet in place, replaced the chairs, and went out, locking the door after her. "Let us hope," said she quietly, "that my muchacho has barred the door at the further end of the passage." Looking for a wide crack, she found it, and dropped the key through it. This is why the disused passage is always called Escobeda's Walk. Sometimes, when Don Gil and the little Señora sit and sip the straw-coloured tea at five o'clock of an afternoon, the teapot, grown more battered and dingy, the lid fitting less securely than of yore, the Señora sets down her cup, and taking little Raquel upon her knee, holds her close to her heart, and says: "Do you hear that knocking, Gil? There is certainly a rapping on the counting-house floor." "I hear nothing," answers Silencio, as he gives a large lump of sugar to the grandson of the brown lizard. And for that matter, there is an ancient proverb which says that "None are so deaf as those who will not hear." XVIII Uncle Adan had been taken ill. He was suffering from the exhalations of the swamp land through which he must travel to clear the river field. He had that and the cacao patch both on his mind. There was a general air of carelessness about the plantation of San Isidro which had never obtained before since Agueda's memory of the place. The peons and workmen lounged about the outhouses and stables, lazily doing the work that was absolutely needed, but there was no one to give orders, and there was no one who seemed to long for them. It appeared to be a general holiday. Uncle Adan lay and groaned in his bed at the further end of the veranda, and wondered if the cacao seed had spoiled, or if it would hold good for another day. When Agueda begged him to get some sleep, or to take his quinine in preparation for the chill that must come, he only turned his face to the wall and groaned that the place was going to rack and ruin since those northerners had come down to the island. "I have seen the Señor plant the cacao," said Agueda. "He had the Palandrez and the Troncha and the Garcia-Garcito with him. He ordered, and they worked. I went with them sometimes." Agueda sighed as she remembered those happy days. Uncle Adan turned his aching bones over, so that he could raise his weary eyes to Agueda's. "That is all true," he said. "The Señor can plant, no Colono better. But one cannot plant the cacao and play the guitar at one and the same time." Agueda hung her head as if the blame of right belonged to her. "You act as if I blamed you, and I do," said Uncle Adan, shivering in the preliminary throes of his hourly chill. "You who have influence over the Señor! You should exert it at once. The place is going to rack and ruin, I tell you!" Agueda turned and went out of the door. She was tired of the subject. There was no use in arguing with Uncle Adan, either with regard to the quinine or the visitors. She went to her own room, and took her hat from the peg. When again she came out upon the veranda, she had a long stick in one hand and a pail in the other. Then she visited the kitchen. "Juana," she said, "fill this pail with water and tell Pablo and Eduardo Juan that I need them at once." She waited while this message was sent to the recalcitrant peons, who lounged lazily toward the House at her summons. "De Señorit' send fo' me?" asked Pablo. "I sent for both of you," said Agueda. "Why have you done no cacao planting to-day?" "Ain' got no messages," replied Pablo, who seemed to have taken upon himself the rôle of general responder. "You know very well that it is the messages that make no difference. Bring your machetes, both of you," ordered Agueda, "and come with me to the hill patch." For answer the peons drew their machetes lazily from their sheaths. "I knew that you had them, of course. Come, then! I am going to the field. Where is the cacao, Pablo?" "Wheah Ah leff 'em," answered Pablo. "And where is that?" "In de hill patch, Seño'it'." "And did some one, perhaps, mix the wood ashes with them?" Pablo turned to Eduardo Juan, open-mouthed, as if to say, "Did you?" Agueda also turned to Eduardo Juan. "Well! well!" she exclaimed impatiently, "were the wood ashes mixed, then, with the cacao seeds?" Eduardo Juan shifted from one foot to the other, looked away at the river, and said, "Ah did not ogsarve." "You did not observe. Oh, dear! oh, dear! Why can you never do as the Señor tells you? What will become of the plantation if you do not obey what the Señor tells you?" "Seño' ain' say nuttin'," said Eduardo Juan, with a sly smile. Agueda looked away. "I am not speaking of the Señor. I mean the Señor Adan," said she. "You know that he has charge of all; that he had charge long before--come, then! let us go." As Agueda descended the steps of the veranda, she heard Beltran's voice calling to her. She turned and looked back. Don Beltran was standing in the open door of the salon. His pleasant smile seemed to say that he had just been indulging in agreeable words, agreeable thoughts. "Agueda," said Beltran, "bring my mother's cross here, will you? I want to show it to my cousin." Agueda turned and came slowly up the steps again. She went at once to her own room and opened the drawer where the diamonds lay in their ancient case of velvet and leather. The key which opened this drawer hung with the household bunch at her waist. The drawer had not been opened for some time, and the key grated rustily in the lock. Agueda opened the drawer, took the familiar thing in her hand, and returning along the veranda, handed it to Beltran. Then she ran quickly down the steps to join the waiting peons. But Felisa's appreciative scream as the case was opened reached her, as well as the words which followed. "And you let that girl take charge of such a magnificent thing as that! Why, cousin, it must mean a fortune." "Who? Agueda?" said Beltran. "I would trust Agueda with all that I possess. Agueda knew my mother. She was here in my mother's time." The motherly instinct, which is in the ascendant with most women, arose within the heart of Agueda. "Come, Palandrez, come, Eduardo Juan," said she. They could hardly keep pace with her. If there was no one else to work for him while he dallied with his pretty cousin, she would see that his interests did not suffer. "Why, then, do you not go up there in the cool of the evening, Palandrez? You could get an hour's work done easily after the sun goes behind the little rancho hill." "It is scairt up deyah," said Palandrez. "De ghos' ob de ole Señora waak an' he waak. Ain' no one offer deyah suvvices up on de hill when it git 'long 'bout daak." Agueda went swiftly toward the hill patch, the peons sulkily following her. They did not wish to obey, but they did not dare to rebel. Arrived at her destination, she turned to Pablo, who was in advance of Eduardo Juan. "Where, then, is the pail of seed, Pablo?" Pablo, without answer, began to send his eyes roaming over and across the field. Eduardo Juan, preferring to think that it was no business of his, leaned against a tree-trunk and let his eyes rest on the ground at his feet. As these two broken reeds seemed of no practical use, Agueda began to skirt the field, and soon she came upon the pail, hidden behind a stump. "Here it is, Eduardo Juan," she called. "Begin to dig your holes, you and Pablo, and I will--_oh!_" This despairing exclamation closed the sentence, and ended all hope of work for the day. Agueda saw, as she spoke, that the pail swarmed with ants. She pushed her stick down among the shiny brown seed, and discovered no preventive in the form of the necessary wood ashes. The seed was spoiled. "It is no use, Pablo," she said. "Come and see these ants, you that take no interest in the good of the Señor." She turned and walked dejectedly down the hill. Pablo turned to Eduardo Juan. He laughed under his breath. "De Seño' taike no intrus' in hees own good." "Seed come from Palmacristi; mighty hard git seed dis time o' yeah," answered Eduardo Juan, with a hopeful chuckle. If no more seed were to be had, then no more planting could be done. Later in the evening, as Agueda went toward the kitchen, she passed by Felisa's doorway. A glimpse was forced upon her of the interior of the pretty room and its occupant. Felisa was seated before the mirror. She had donned a gown the like of which Agueda had never seen. The waist did not come all the way up to the throat, but was cut out in a sort of hollow, before and behind, for Agueda saw the shoulders which were toward her, quite bare of covering, and in the mirror she caught the reflection of maidenly charms which in her small world were not a part of daily exhibit. Agueda stopped suddenly. "Oh, Señorita!" she exclaimed under her breath. "Does the Señorita know that her door is open? Let me close it, and the shutter on the other side. I will run round there in a minute. Some one might see the Señorita; people may be passing along the veranda at any moment." Felisa gave a shrill and merry laugh. "People might see! Why, my good girl, don't you know that is just why we wear such gowns, that people may see? Come and fasten this thing. Isn't it lovely against my neck?" Agueda could not but admit to her secret soul that it was lovely against Felisa's neck. But she coloured as she entered and closed the door carefully behind her. She had seen nothing like this, except in those abandoned picture papers that came sometimes from the States, or from France, to Don Beltran, and then, as often as not, she hid them that she might not see him looking at them. She could not bear to have him look at them. She felt-- "Open the door, that's a good girl! There! Are you sure that the catch is secure? These beauties were my aunt's. See how they become me. I would not lose them for the world. Oh! had I only had them before." "Are--are--they--has the Señor given them perhaps--to--to--" "Well, not exactly, Agueda, good girl; but some day, who knows--there!" Felisa made a pirouette and sank in a low curtsey on the bare floor, showing just the point of a pink satin toe. "See how they glitter, even in the light of these candles. Imagine them in a ball-room--Agueda, and me in them! Now I must go and show my cousin. Open the door. Do you not hear--open the--" "The Señorita is never going to show herself to the Señor in such a gown as that! What will the Señor say? The Señorita will never--" But Felisa had pushed past Agueda, and was half-way down the veranda. The thoughts that flashed through Agueda's mind were natural ones. She had honestly done her best to keep the Señorita from disgracing herself in the Señor's eyes, but she would have her way. She had gone to her own destruction. There was a quickening of Agueda's pulses. Ah! Now he would turn to her again. He could not bear any sign of immodesty in a woman. He had often said to Agueda that that was her chief charm, her modesty. He had called her "Little Prude," and laughed when she blushed. Was it to be wondered at that Agueda rejoiced at Felisa's coming defeat, at her imminent discomfiture, the moment that Beltran should see her? She stood in the doorway of Felisa's room, watching the fairy-like figure as it lightly danced like a will-o'-the-wisp down the dark veranda's length, flashing out like a firefly as it passed an opening where there was a light within, going out in the darkness between the doors, still keeping up its resemblance to the _ignis fatuus_. Before Felisa reached the salon Beltran came out to discover why his charmer had absented herself for so long a time. Agueda caught the look in his eyes, as he stood, almost aghast at the meretricious loveliness of the little creature before him. He gazed and gazed at her. Was it in disgust? Alas! no. Poor Agueda! Rapture shone from his eyes. He opened his arms. But Felisa eluded him and danced round the corner of the veranda. "You pretty thing! You pretty, you lovely, you adorable thing!" she heard Beltran exclaim, as utterly fascinated, he followed the small siren in her tantalizing flight. XIX That succession of events designated as Time passed rapidly or slowly, as was the fate of the beneficiary or the sufferer from its flight or its delay. In some cases the milestones seemed leagues apart, in others but a short foot of space separated them. To Beltran the hours of the night dragged slowly by, when, as was often the case, he lay half awake in a delirious dream of joy, longing for dawn to break the gloom that he might come again within the magic of that presence which had changed the entire world for him. To Agueda the hours of the night flew on wings. As she heard the crowing of the near and distant cocks answering each other from coloñia or river patch, or conuco, she sighed to herself. "It is nearly four o'clock, soon it will be five, then six, and the next stroke, oh, God! seven!" For then would the cheery voice which could no longer wait call from the veranda, "How are you this morning, little cousin?" and the answer from that dainty interior would be, "Quite well, Cousin Beltran, if the cocks could be persuaded not to roost directly under the floor of my room, and keep me awake half the night." Then Agueda must attend to the early breakfast. Trays must be sent to the rooms of the visitors, and for two hours would the Señor impatiently pace the veranda or the home enclosure, awaiting the reappearance of his goddess. There was no sign of the wearing effect of sleeplessness on the shell-like face when that important little lady appeared upon the veranda, clothed in some wonderful arrangement of diaphanous material, which was to Beltran's vision as the stage manager's dream of the unattainable in costume. With the joyous greeting there was offered a jasmine or allemanda flower or bougainvellia bracht for the girdle bouquet, which often Beltran assisted in arranging, as was a cousin's right; and in return, if Felisa was very good-natured, there followed the placing of a corresponding bud or blossom in Beltran's buttonhole by those small, plump fingers, loaded down with their wealth of shining rings. It was at this time that Agueda received a shock which, as a preliminary to her final fate, more than all conveyed to her mind how things were going. It was early morning. Juana had brought to Agueda's room the fresh linen piled high in the old yellow basket. Together they laid the articles on chairs and table, selecting from the pile those that needed a few stitches. Agueda sat herself down by the window to mend. She took up her needle and threaded it, then let her hands fall in her lap, as had become her custom of late. Her head was turned to the grove outside, and her gaze rested among the leaves and penetrated their vistas without perceiving anything in grove or trocha. She had heard Beltran moving about in his room, but he had thrown the door wide and gone whistling down the veranda toward that latest goal of his hopes. She heard the gay greeting, and the distant faint response, then a laugh at some sally of fun. Agueda looked wearily at the pile of starched cleanliness, and took up her work again. How hateful the drudgery seemed! Before this--in other days--time was--when-- It was a homely bit of sewing, a shirt of the Señor's, which needed buttons. This recalled to Agueda that the last week's linen had been neglected by her. It had been put away as it came from Juana's hands. With sudden decision she determined now to face the inevitable, to accept the world as it had become to her, all in a moment, as it were. Agueda arose and dropped the linen from her lap to the floor. She had never been taught careful ways. All that she knew of such things had come to her by intuition, and her action showed the dominant strain of her blood--not the exactness of a trained servant, but the carelessness of a petted child of fortune. She stepped over the white mass at her feet and went to the door that led from her room to Beltran's. She walked as one who has come to a sudden determination. Of late she had not been there, except to perform some such service as the present moment demanded. She seized the knob in her hand, and turned it round, pressing the weight of her young body against the door. Instead of bursting hurriedly into the room, as was her wont, she found the door unyielding. Again she tried it, twisting the knob this way and that. She was about to call upon one of the men to come to her aid, as the door had stuck fast, when suddenly she stopped, standing where the exertion had left her. Her colour fled, her lips grew bloodless, she leaned dizzy and sick against the door. On the floor, at her feet, she had caught sight of a small shaving that had pushed itself through the crack underneath. She put her hand to her side as if a physical pain had seized her. She ran to the door of her room which opened upon the outer and more secluded veranda. Passing through this, she walked with trembling steps to the doorway of Beltran's room. She could hear his gay badinage down at the end of the house, where she knew that Felisa was sipping her chocolate inside her room, while he called impatiently to know when she would be ready for the excursion of the day. Agueda entered Beltran's room and walked swiftly to the communicating door. Ah! it was as she had feared. Some shavings upon the floor, and a new bolt, put there she knew not when, perhaps when she was up in the field on the previous day, attested to the verity of her suspicion. What did Beltran fear? That, remembering the old-time love and confidence, she should take advantage of it and of her near proximity, and when all the coloñia slept, go to him and endeavour to recall those past days, try to rekindle the love so nearly dead? Nearly dead! It must be quite so, when he could remind her thus cruelly, if silently, that a new order of things now reigned at San Isidro. Agueda appreciated, now perhaps for the first time fully, that her life had changed, that she had become now as the Nadas and the Anetas of this world. She closed her lips firmly as this thought came to her. Well, if it were so, she must bear it. Like Aneta, she had not been "smart," but unlike the Anetas of this life, she would learn something from her misfortune, and be henceforth self-respecting, so far as this great and overwhelming blow would allow. Never again should Beltran feel that he had the right to bestow upon her a touch or a caress, however delicate, however gentle. They were separated now for good and all. She saw it as she had never seen it before. All along she had been hoping against hope. She had constantly remembered Beltran's words that first week of Felisa's stay: "They will be going home soon, and then all will be as before." She saw now that Beltran had deceived himself, even while he was deceiving her. He could not turn them out, as he had once said to her, but he had now no wish to turn them out, nor did they wish to go. He was lost to her, but even so, with the memory of what had been, Beltran should respect her. He should find that, as she was not his chattel, she would not be his plaything while he made love to that other respectable girl, who would tolerate no advances which were not preceded by a ceremony and the blessing of the church. Foolish, foolish Agueda! Had she been "smart," she might have welcomed Felisa as her cousin, instead of appearing as the slighted thing she now felt herself to be. And then, again, her soul rebelled at such a view of the case. His wife! What humiliation were hers to be Beltran's wife, and see what she saw now every day, the proof of his love for this fair-haired cousin of his, while she, his wife, looked on helpless. Then, indeed, would she have been in his power. Now she was free--free from him, free to respect herself, even in her shame. As Felisa has been likened to a garden escape in point of looks, so might one liken Agueda to a garden escape in point of what people designate as morals. Agueda had never heard of morals as such. She had had no teaching, only the one warning which Nada had given her, and that, she considered, she had followed to the letter. Agueda had stood intrenched within a garden whose soil was virtue. She did not gaze with curiosity, nor did she care to look, over the palings into the lane which ran just outside. She stood tall and splendid as a young hollyhock, welcoming the sun and the dew that Heaven sent down upon her proud young head. But though fate had surrounded her with this environment, whose security she had never questioned, her inheritance had placed her near the palings. Those other great white flowers that stood in the middle of the garden could never come to disaster. But Agueda, unwittingly, had been thrust to the wall. Love's hand had pushed itself between the palings of the fence that surrounded her garden and had bent the proud stalk and drawn it through into the outer lane. While Beltran showed his love for her, she did not feel that she had escaped from her secure stand inside. Her roots were strong and embedded in the soil of virtue, and wanton love would never find a place within her thoughts or feelings. She did not realise the loss of dignity. "All for love," had been her text and creed. The remedy, if remedy were needed, had been close at hand. It had been offered her. She had only to stretch out her hand and take it, and draw back within her garden, showing no bruise or wound, but happy in that she could still rear herself straight and proud among the company of uninjured stalks. But though the remedy had been at hand, Agueda had not grasped it with due haste. Unmindful of self, she had allowed the opportunity to escape her, and now she could not spring back among those other blooms whose freshness had never been tarnished. Alas! She found herself still in the muddy lane. She had been plucked and worn and tossed down into the rut along the roadside, where she must forever lie, limp and faded. What boots it to dwell upon the sufferings of a breaking heart? Hearts must ache and break, just as souls must be born and die, for thus fate plans, and the world goes on the same. Things went on the same at the plantation of San Isidro. Don Noé made no motion to leave it, and Felisa was happier than she had ever been, and so for once was in accord with her father. Beltran dreaded from day to day the signal for their departure, but it did not come. Uncle Adan moved among all these happenings with a soul not above cacao seed and banana suckers. He kept tally at the wagon-train or in the field, and if he thought of Agueda at all it was with a shrug of the shoulders and the passing reflection: "She is as the women of her race have been. It is their fate." For she was surely of that race, though only tradition and not appearance was witness to the fact. As for Agueda, no one about her could say what she felt or thought. She remained by herself. What she must see, that she saw. That which she could keep from knowing, she dulled her mind to receive, and refused to understand or to accept. She endeavoured to become callous to all impressions. One would have said that she did not care, that her passing fancy for Beltran, as well as his for her, had died a natural death. And yet, so contradictory is woman's nature, when placed in such straits as those which now overwhelmed her, that sometimes a fierce curiosity awoke within her, and then she would pass, to all appearance on some household errand bent, within the near neighbourhood of Beltran and his cousin. They, grown careless, as custom encourages, always gave her something to weep over. Then for a time she avoided them, only to return again to her foolish habit of inquiry. Agueda grew deathly in pallor, and thin and weary looking. Her face had lost its brightness. Gaze where she would, she saw nothing upon her horizon but dark and lowering clouds. Sometimes she opened her drawer to look for a moment at the sewing, discarded now these many weeks, but she did no more than glance at it. "It will not be needed," she said to herself, with prophetic determination. She might have said with Mildred: "I was so young. I loved him so. I had no mother. God forgot me, and I fell." As for pardon, Agueda did not think of that. Consciously she had committed no sin. Not that she ever argued the matter out with herself. She would never have thought of continuing Mildred's plaint, and saying, "There may be pardon yet," although she felt, if she did not give expression to the feeling in words, "All's doubt beyond. Surely, the bitterness of death is past." There could be no "blot on the escutcheon" of Agueda. She had no escutcheon, as had Browning's heroine, though perhaps some drops of blood as proud coursed through her veins. She was not introspective. She did not reason nor argue with herself about Beltran's treatment of her. It was only that suddenly the light had become darkness, the sun had grown black and cold. There was no more joy in life, everything had finished for her. Truly, the bitterness of death was past. XX There came an evening when there were mutterings up among the hills. The lightning pranked gayly about the low-hanging clouds. Occasionally a report among the far-distant peaks broke the phenomenal stillness. Felisa lounged within the hammock which swung across the veranda corner. It was very dark, the only lights being those gratuitous ones displayed by the cucullas as they flew or walked about by twos or threes. At each succeeding flash of lightning Felisa showed increased nervousness. Her hand sought Beltran's, and he took it in his and held it close. "See, Felisa! I will get the guitar, and we will sing. We have not sung of late." Felisa clasped her hands across her eyes and burst into tears. Beltran was kneeling at her feet in an instant. "What is it, my Heart? What is it? Do not sob so." "I am afraid, afraid!" sobbed Felisa. "All is so mysterious. There are queer noises in the ground! Hear those hissing, rushing sounds! Cousin! cousin! What is it?" "You are nervous, little one. We often have such storms in the mountains. It may not come this way at all. See, here is the guitar." He patted the small fingers lying within his own, then stretched out his hand for the guitar, hanging near. He swept his fingers across the strings. "What shall we sing?" he asked, with a smile in his voice. Volatile as a child, believing that which she wished to believe, Felisa sat upright at the first strain of music. She laughed, though the drops still stood upon her cheeks, and hummed the first line of "La Verbena de la Paloma." "I will be Susana," she said, "and you shall be Julian. Come now, begin! 'Y á los toros de carabanchel,'" she hummed. The faint light from the lantern hanging in the comidor showed to Felisa the look in Beltran's eyes as he bent toward her. "I do not like you, my little Susana," he said, bending close to her shoulder, "because you flout me, and flirt with me, and break my poor heart all to little bits. Still, we will sing together once more." "Once more? Why do you say once more, cousin?" asked Felisa, apprehensively. A shadow had settled again over her face. "Did I? I do not know. Come now, begin." His voice was lowered almost to a whisper, as he sang the first lines of the seductive, monotonous little Spanish air. The accompaniment thrilled softly from the well-tuned strings. "Donde vas con mantón manila, Donde vas con vestido chiné," he sang. Her high soprano answered him: "A lucirme y á ver la verbena, Y á meterme en la cama después." Beltran resumed: "Porqué no has venido conmigo Cuando tanto te lo supliqué." "'Lo sup--li--que,'" he repeated, with slow emphasis. Felisa laughed, shook her head coquettishly, and answered as the song goes. Then, "'Quien es ese chico tan guapo,'" sang Julian. "Who is he, little Felisa? Is there any whom I need fear?" He dropped his hand from the strings, and seized the small one so near his own. "I know a great many young men, cousin, but I will not own that there is a guapo among them. And this I tell you now, that I shall go to la Verbena with whom I will, if ever I return to Sunny Spain." "Y a los toros de carabanchel," she sang again defiantly, her thin head-notes rising high and clear. Was there no memory in Beltran's mind for the contralto voice which had sung the song so often on that very spot--a voice so incomparably sweeter that he who had heard the one must wonder how Beltran could tolerate the other. Agueda was seated half-way down the veranda alone. She could not sit with them, nor did she wish to, nor was she accustomed to companionship with the serving class. She endeavoured to deafen her ears to the sound of their voices. She would have gone to her own room and closed the door, but it was nearer their seclusion than where she sat at present, and then--the air of the room was stifling on this sultry night. She glanced down toward the river, where the dark water rolled on through savannas to the great bay--a sea in itself. She could distinguish nothing; all was black in that blackest of nights. She dared not go forth, for she felt that the storm must soon burst. She sat, her head drooped dejectedly, her hands lying idly in her lap. Uncle Adan joined her, the lantern in his hand showing her dimly his short, dark form. The manager looked sourly at his niece, and cast an angry glance in the direction of the two at the corner of the casa. He had suddenly awakened to the fact that Agueda's kingdom was slipping from her grasp, and if from hers, then from his also. Should this northern Señorita come to be mistress here at San Isidro, what hold had he, or even Agueda herself, over its master? He spoke almost roughly to Agueda. "Go you and join them," he said. "Go where by right you belong." Agueda did not look at him. She shook her head, and drooped it on her breast. A sudden flash of lightning made the place as bright as day. Uncle Adan caught a glimpse of that at the further corner which made him rage inwardly. "Did you see that?" he whispered. "No," said Agueda. "I see nothing." "I have no patience with you," said Uncle Adan. He could have shaken her, he was so angry. "Had you remained with them, as is your right, some things would not have happened." He left her and went hurriedly toward the stables. Presently he returned. Agueda was aware of his presence only when he touched her. "The storm will be here before long," he said. "Can you get him away without her? Anything to be rid of those northern interlopers." "What do you mean?" "Call him away, draw him off. Tell him to come to the rancho--that I wish to see him about preparations as to their safety. Get him away on any pretext. Leave the others here with no one to--" "It is not necessarily a flood," said the girl, with a strange, new, wicked hope springing up within her heart. "It will be a flood," said Uncle Adan. "It is breaking even now at Point Galizza." For answer Agueda arose. "Good girl! You are going, then, to tell him--" "Yes, to tell him--" "Call him away! I will saddle the horses. I will have the grey at the back steps in five minutes. Tell him that Don Silencio has need of him." "If the Don Silencio's own letter would not--" "The grey can carry double. You can ride with him. I will go ahead. The flood is coming. It is near. I know the signs." Agueda drew away from the hand which Uncle Adan laid upon her wrist. "Let me go, uncle," she said. Uncle Adan released her. "The flood will last but a day or two," he whispered in her ear, "but it will be a deep one. All the signs point to that. We have never had such a one; but after--Agueda, after--there will be no one to interfere with you--with me, if--" Agueda allowed him to push her on toward the end of the veranda, where the two were still singing in a desultory way. "I shall warn them," she said. "Him!" said Uncle Adan, in a tone of dictation. "I shall warn them," again said Agueda, as if she had not spoken before. "Fool!" shouted Uncle Adan, as he dashed down the veranda steps and ran toward the stables. "And the forest answered 'fool!'" Agueda heard hurrying footsteps from the inner side of the veranda. Men were running toward the stables. She drew near to Beltran. The faint light of the lantern in the comidor told her where the two forms still sat, though it showed her little else. She laid her hand upon his shoulder, but she laid it also upon a smaller, softer one than her own. The hand was suddenly withdrawn, as Felisa gave an apprehensive little scream. "What do you want?" asked Beltran impatiently, who felt the warring of two souls through those antagonistic fingers. "You must come at once," said Agueda, with decision. "The storm will soon burst." "Nonsense! We have had many sultry nights like this. Where do you get your information?" "My uncle Adan says that the storm will soon burst. He has gone to saddle the horses." Felisa gave a cry of fear. Beltran turned with rage upon Agueda. A flash of lightning showed her the anger blazing in his eyes. It also disclosed to her gaze Felisa cowering close to him. "How dare you come here frightening the child? Your uncle has his reasons, doubtless, for what he says. As for me, I am perfectly convinced that there will be no storm--that is, no flood." "I beg of you, come!" urged Agueda. "Oh, cousin! What will become of us? Why does that girl fear the storm so?" "There will be no storm, vida mia, and if there is, has not the casa stood these many years? Agueda knows that as well as I." Agueda withdrew a little, she stood irresolute. She heard the sound of horses' feet, she heard Uncle Adan calling to her. She heard Don Noé calling to Eduardo Juan to bring a light, and not be so damned long about it. Old Juana called, "'Gueda, 'Gueda, honey! come! Deyse deat' in de air! 'Gueda!" There was a sudden rush of hoofs across the potrero, and then the despairing wail from Palandrez, "Dey has stampeded!" She heard without hearing. She remembered afterward, during that last night that she was to inhabit the casa, that all these sounds had passed across almost unheeding ears. She ran again to Don Beltran. "Come! Come, Beltran, dear Beltran," she said. "The river is upon us!" She wrung her hands helplessly. It seemed to her as if Beltran had lost his power of reasoning. "How dare she call you Beltran?" said Felisa. There came a crash which almost drowned the sound of her voice, then a scream from Felisa, intense and shrill. Agueda heard Beltran's voice, first in anger, then soothing the terrified girl again, shouting for horses, and above it all, she heard the water topple over the embankment, and the swash of the waves against the foundations of the casa. She ran hurriedly and brought the lantern which hung within the comidor. When Felisa opened her eyes, and looked around her at the waste of waters, she shrieked again. "How dare you bring that light? Put it out!" ordered Beltran. "We must see to get to the roof," answered Agueda, with determination. "The roof! The water is not deep. See, Felisa, it is only a foot deep. The grey can carry you and me with safety." "Does not the Señor know that the horses have stampeded?" said Agueda. "Our only hope of safety now lies upon the roof. We must get to the roof. See how the water is already getting deeper." And now, Agueda, her listlessness gone, ran into the casa and seized upon what she knew was necessary for a night in the open air. Beltran followed her into the hall. He laid his hand upon her shoulder, and shook her angrily. His judgment seemed to have deserted him. "Why did you not warn us?" he said. "Was it a part of your plan to--to--" "My plan!" said Agueda. "Have I not begged you? I could have gone--Uncle Adan told me--" Beltran seized the lantern and ran out and along the veranda to where Felisa stood clinging to the pilotijo. She was crying wildly. As Beltran approached, the light of his lantern revealed to Felisa more fully the horror of her surroundings. A fierce wind had arisen in a moment, and was beating and threshing the trees, flail-like, downward upon the encroaching river. Felisa turned upon Beltran in fury. She pointed with tragic earnestness to the waters which now surrounded the casa, and which had assumed the proportions of a lake. A thin stream was reaching, reaching over from the edge of the veranda; its searching point wetted her shoe. "You should have told me that such things happen in this barbarous place! You pretend to love me, and to keep me with you, you keep me ignorant of my danger, and now I must die. I must be drowned far away from my home in a savage land, all because you pretend that you love me! Oh, God! I am so young to die! So young to die!" Beltran enfolded the girl in his arms. "You shall not die. There is no danger of dying. We will go up on the roof. See! here are the steps. You will behold a wonderful sight to-night. You will laugh at your fears to-morrow." Beltran urged her toward the ladder as he spoke. "Agueda and I have spent more than one night up there, have we not, Agueda? She will tell you that there is nothing to fear. Agueda, tell my cousin that there is nothing to fear." "I did not know what there was to fear," said Agueda in a low voice. Felisa was crying bitterly, as Beltran aided her up the lower steps of the ladder. Agueda followed Beltran and Felisa. She carried some heavy wraps, and struggled up the steep incline unaided. Arrived upon the roof, she found the cousins standing together, Beltran's arm cast protectingly round the trembling girl, her eyes hid against his breast. "My cousin is nervous," said he, in a half apologetic tone; for though his intimacy with Felisa had passed the highest water-mark, where cousinship ends and love begins, he had not obtruded his actions or words upon Agueda's notice. But now as he felt the shaking of Felisa's young form against his own, suddenly he seemed to throw off all reserve. "Vida mia!" he said. "Vida mia! look up, speak to me. Do look. See that faint light in the east! The moon will soon rise. It is a beautiful sight. The Water will go down in a few hours. You will laugh at your fears to-morrow, child. These floods do not last long, do they, Agueda? When was the last one? Do you remember, Agueda?" "Yes, I remember," answered Agueda. "Come, then, and tell her. You can comfort her if you tell her how little there is to fear." "I do not think that I shall comfort her," said Agueda. She glanced at the refuge behind the chimney, and then back at Beltran. "It was one long year ago," she said. He turned away. "Come, Felisa," he said. "There is shelter from this wind behind the old chiminea." He guided her along the slight slope of the roof. The wind was rising higher with every moment. It howled down from the hills; it bent and slashed at the treetops; it caught Felisa's filmy gauzes and whirled them upward and about her head. Beltran half turned to Agueda. "Give me the cloak," he said. He took it from her and enveloped Felisa in it, then led her to the safe shelter of the broad old chimney. Behind it was a figure upon his knees. It was Don Noé. He was praying with the fervour of the death-bed repenter. Felisa, with a return of her flippant manner, laughed shrilly. "The truly pious are also unselfish, papa. Give us a little shelter from this searching wind." "Oh, do not! Do not! If I move, I shall fall! You will push me off!" and Don Noé continued petitioning Heaven in his own behalf. Agueda was left standing in the centre of the roof. Palandrez and Eduardo Juan, who had followed the Señores to this their only refuge, were lying flat upon their faces. They held a lantern between them--a doubtful blessing, in that it illumined with faint ray the gloom and horror below, but it told so little that the possibility seemed more dreadful than the reality was at the moment. "Lay down, Seño'it' 'Gueda," called Eduardo Juan. "Lay yo' body down." A sudden gust of wind forced Agueda to run. She guided herself to the chimney, and was held against it. Her garments fluttered round its corners, striking Beltran in the face with sharp slaps and cracks. She could not intrude upon that shelter. Her place was now upon the hither side. She threw herself flat upon her face, as Palandrez had suggested, her head above the ridge pole, her feet extended down the slight incline, and clutched at a staple in the roof, placed securely there for just such a night as this. There were no stars; there was no moon. Yet it must rise soon. Suddenly the lantern was overturned and its light extinguished, making more ominous the sound of water rising, rising, rising! It lapped and played about the pilotijos. It must be half-way up the veranda posts by now. It eddied round the corners of the casa. It forced its way through the weak places. One could hear it tearing and ripping at unstable portions of the house, as it flowed through the interior. Grinding noises were heard, as great roots and trunks of trees were borne and swayed by the flood against the walls. They piled themselves up at the southern end, remaining thus for a short, unsteady moment, and then, overpowered by the rush and force of water, they parted company, some to hasten along on one side of the casa, and some on the other. XXI Suddenly Agueda was conscious of something creeping against her foot. It was cold! Good God! It was wet! The sole of her shoe was soaked; the river had reached even there. She heard the licking of those hungry lips which were ready to drink in the helpless souls stranded at their mercy. This was indeed a sudden rising! Then there was no hope. She wondered how long it would be before Beltran would learn the fact, and what he would do when the truth came to him. She drew herself up by the iron staple and curled her body half way round the chimney. Her ear touched the ruffles of Felisa's gown. She heard a tender voice speaking much as it had to her a year ago. "Come closer," it said. "Do not fear. I am here." "Beltran!" she called. "Beltran!" "Who calls me?" came his voice from out the blackness. "You, Agueda?" "Yes, it is I, Agueda. The river is rising very high. It has come up quickly. I felt it against my foot. Can you not try to catch some tree or branch?" "Oh, God! Oh, God! Save me!" It was Felisa's voice. "Why did I ever come to this accursed island? Why, oh, why? How dared you tell me that I was safe! Safe with you? Oh, my God! Safe with you! Are you greater than God? If He cannot save me, can you?" As Felisa shrieked these words, which were almost drowned by the sound of the swiftly rushing waters, she raised her small fist and struck at Beltran. The jewels on her fingers cut his lip. His musical voice, patient and still tender, answered as if to a naughty child. "Careful! you will throw yourself off! Agueda, why must you come here frightening my cousin? When the moon rises she will see the falseness of your story." As if to convict him out of his own mouth, the moon suddenly shone through a rift in the black clouds which edged the horizon. It discovered to Agueda Felisa clasped to a resting-place that was her own by right. It showed her Beltran holding the little form in his arms, as once he had held her own. It showed her Beltran covering the blonde head with passionate kisses, as once he had covered her darker one. Agueda clutched the chimney for support. Death was no worse than this. Felisa opened her trembling lids and gazed abroad on the expanse of waters. Wail after wail issued from her white lips and mingled with the wind that blew wantonly the tendrils of her hair. She struck Beltran in the face again, she pushed him from her with the fury of a maniac. Great trees and branches were pounding against the roof. The peons had climbed to the highest point, and now, as a trunk came tearing down toward them, with a pitying glance at those they left behind, and a chuckle at their own presence of mind, they caught at it, and were whirled away to death or to succour. Don Noé, ever on the watch, with face thin and fierce, with nostrils extended and eyes wild and staring, peered round the chimney where he hung in prayerful terror. His resolution was made in one of those sudden moments of decision that come to the weakest. Watching his chance, he sprang and clutched at the giant as it came bobbing and wobbling by, and in company with Palandrez and Eduardo Juan, he floated away from his late companions. Agueda, left alone upon her side of the roof, crouched, looking ever toward the south, searching for a cask, a boat, a tree, a plank, a piece of household furniture, anything by which she might hold and save her life and Beltran's. Not Felisa's; that she could not do, even though Beltran loved her. Until now Agueda had thought that she longed for death; but the instinct of self-preservation is strong, and she could hardly comprehend her newly awakened desire to seize upon some sort of floating thing which might mean safety for herself. She stood gazing over the broad expanse of water. It had become a sea. The face of nature was changed. The position of the river bank was discernible only from the waving line of branches which testified where their trunks stood. There were one or two oases whose tops showed still above the surface of the stretching, reaching flood. Agueda thought that she could discern some one in a treetop near the hill rancho. She wondered if it could be Uncle Adan. She thought that she heard a shout. She tried to answer, but the weak sound of her voice was forced back into her throat. It would not carry against the force of the wind. No other land nearer than the heights of Palmacristi was to be seen. The horses and cattle must have perished. It had indeed become, as Uncle Adan had warned her, a greater flood than the country had ever known. To add to the unspeakable gloom of the scene, the clouds parted wider and allowed the moon to sparkle more fully upon the boiling water below and the trees and branches as they rolled and hastened onward. As Agueda stood and gazed up the stream, suddenly, from out the perspective of the moon-flecked tide, a little craft came sailing down--a tiny thing that seemed to have been set upon the waste of waters by some pitying hand. She watched it with eager eyes, as it floated onward. Her body swayed unconsciously with each change in its course or pointing of its bow to right, to left, as if she feared that it would escape her anxious hand. Fate drifted it exactly across the thatch at the south end of the roof. On it came, and was driven to her very feet. Here was succour! Here was help! She could save herself, unwatched, unknown, of those others behind the shelter there, and float away to the chance of rescue. Agueda stepped ankle-deep in the water, and stooping, held in frenzied clutch this gift of the gods. "The little duck boat of Felipe," she exclaimed, as she drew it toward her. "The little duck boat of Felipe!" Beltran had arisen as he heard the boat grate against the roof. He stepped cautiously out from behind the chimney, Felisa leaning upon him. Agueda raised her eyes to them. She shook as if with a chill. She was drawing the boat nearer, and battling with the flood to keep her treasure in hand. "Agueda," called Beltran. "Take her with you. Her weight is slight." Felisa raised her head from his shoulder, and cast a terrified look about her. Beltran looked at Agueda, and then down at Felisa. "She will save you," he said. "I will not go without you, Beltran," sobbed Felisa. "I dare not go without you. Oh! come with me! That girl of yours, that Agueda, I dare not go with her! She hates me! She will kill me!" When Beltran had said, "She will save you," Agueda had begun to draw the skiff nearer to him. She moved with great care, that the flood might not wrench from her this treasure trove. "It is true that I hate you," said Agueda, in a hard, cold voice, as she brought the boat to Felisa's feet, "but I will not kill you." She pushed the tiny craft nearer to Felisa. "Take your place," said she. "I will hold it steady." "I will not go without you," again shrieked Felisa, turning to Beltran. "I dare not go without you. Oh, Agueda! dear Agueda! You do not care to live. What have you to live for? While I--" "True," said Agueda. "Will the Señorita take her place?" Felisa still held to Beltran's hand. "I will not go alone," she said. "Come with me, dear love! Come with me; I cannot live without you." "There is not room for all," said Beltran, glancing, as he spoke, at Agueda. "At least, Felisa, we can die together." Ever changeable, and suddenly angered at this, Felisa again struck at Beltran, and tried with her small strength to thrust him aside, so that his footing was imperilled. Agueda turned pale as she saw his danger. Beltran laughed nervously, and seized with firmer grasp the staple buried in the mortar. "And do you think that will compensate me?" screamed Felisa. "Do you think that I shall welcome death because I may die in your company? I tell you, I will not die. I love all the pleasant things of life--I love myself, my pretty self. I am meant for life and love and warmth, not cold and death. There is not a human being who could reconcile me to death. Oh, my God! and such a death!" Felisa screamed hysterically. She sobbed and choked, and amid her shrieks were heard the disjointed words, "I--will--_not_--die!" In her frenzy the fastening at her throat gave way, and Agueda caught sight of the diamond pendant at her neck. Agueda, with her eyes on Beltran, nodded her head toward the boat, as if to say, "Do as she asks." When she spoke, she said: "I will hold it steady, as steady as I can." Felisa cast another horrified look around her upon the moonlit, shoreless sea. "Oh, God!" she sobbed, as holding frantically to Beltran's hand, she stepped into the boat. She drew him toward her, so that he could with difficulty resist the impelling of her hand. Beltran tried to release his fingers from the grasp of Felisa. He turned to Agueda, and motioned toward the one hope of succour. She shook her head. "I cannot hold it long," she said. "Beltran! Beltran!" sobbed Felisa. The boat pulled and jerked like a race horse. Even Felisa's slight weight made a marked difference in its buoyancy. Agueda's position was made the more unstable by her skirt, which fluttered in the wind. "I can hold it but a second more," she said. She was still stooping, holding the boat in as firm a grasp as her footing would allow. Beltran stood irresolute, wavering. "I cannot leave you here, Agueda, to die perhaps--for--her--for me." "I died long weeks ago," she muttered, more to herself than to him, and motioned again with her head toward the boat. The water was rushing past them. It was ankle-deep now. Agueda steadied herself more firmly against the chimney. Felisa, shivering with fright, stretched out her arms appealingly to Beltran, her cheeks streaming with tears. Beltran glanced at Agueda, with a look that was half beseeching, half apologetic, as if to forestall the contempt which he knew that she must feel for him, and--stepped into the boat. His weight tore it from Agueda's grasp. It began to float away, but before it had passed a span from where Agueda stood alone, he turned and shouted, "Come! Agueda, come! Throw yourself in, I can save you!" Ah! that was all that she cared to hear. It was the old voice. It sank into her heart and gave her peace. For in that flash of sudden and overwhelming remorse which is stronger than death, Beltran had seen that which he had not noticed before, the sad change in her girlish figure. Felisa clung to him, threatening to upset the skiff. He thrust her from him. "Come!" again he shouted, "Come!" He stretched out his arms to Agueda, but as the words left his lips he was whirled from her presence. In that supreme moment Beltran caught the motion of her lips. "My love!" they seemed to say, and still holding to the staple with one hand, she raised the other toward him, in good-by perhaps--perhaps in blessing. Agueda kept her gaze fixed upon the little speck, shrinking involuntarily when she saw some great trunk endanger its buoyancy. The boat was drifting swiftly along in the waters now, and in that mad rush to the sea Beltran strained his eyes ever backward to catch the faint motion of that fluttering garment in its wave of farewell. PRINTED BY R. R. DONNELLEY AND SONS COMPANY AT THE LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO, ILL.